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LI B RAR.Y 

OF THE 

UN IVERSITY 
Of ILLINOIS 



84SS94- 
OjE 



v-3 




THE PROSPECT OF HAPPINESS. 



Vol. III. P. .T"< 



London : ('hauinan and Hall. February I, 1840. 



THE 



WANDERING JEW 



BY 



EUGENE SUE, 

AUTHOR OF " THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS," ETC. ETC. 



0> 7 E HUNDRED AND FOUR ENGRAVINGS, 

DRAWN ON WOOD BY M. VALENTIN, 

AND EXECUTED BY THE MOST EMINENT ENGLISH ENGRAVERS, UNDER THE 
SUPERINTENDENCE OF 

MR. CHARLES HEATH. 



IN THREE VOLUMES. 



VOL. III. 



LONDON: 
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 STRAND. 



MDCCCXLVI. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED BY GEORGE BARCLAY, CASTLE STREET, 
LEICESTER SQUARE. 



CONTENTS 



THE THIRD VOLUME. 



PAKT XL THE CHOLERA. 

Page 

Chap. I. The Front of Notre Dame 1 

n. The Masquerade of the Cholera 8 

IfL The Singular Contest 12 

IV. Brandy to the Rescue ! 17 

V. Recollections 22 

VL The Poisoner 28 

VTL The Cathedral 34 

VIE. The Murderers 38 

LX. The Promenade 46 

X. The Patient 53 

XL The Snare 60 

XIL The Good News 65 

XHL The Secret Note : 70 

XTV. The Operation 72 

XV. The Torture 78 

XVI. Vice and Virtue 83 

XVLL Suicide 89 

XVHL Confessions 97 

XIX. The Rivals 108 

XX. The Conversation 113 

XXI. Consolations 120 

XXLL The Two Carriages 127 

XXIH. The Rendezvous 134 

XXTV. Expectation 140 

XXV. Adrienne and Djalma 142 

XXVL The " Imitation" 148 

XXVTL The Visit 155 

XXVni. Agricola Baudoin 162 

XXIX. The Hiding-Place 169 



IT CONTENTS OF THB THIRD VOLUMK. 

Page 

Chap. XXX. A Christian Priest 171 

XXXI. The Confession 176 

X XXII. The Visit 181 

XXXIIL Prayer 185 

XXXIV. A Retrospective Glance 193 

XXXV. Jocrisse 197 

XXXVI. The Anonymous Correspondents 201 

XXXVH. The Golden City 209 

XXXVm. The Wounded Lion 215 

XXXIX. The Test 221 

XL. The Ruins of the Abbey of Saint John the 

Decapitated 228 

XLL The Calvary 230 

XLII. Resume .. . 234 



PART XII. 

XLm. The Council 244 

XLIV. Happiness 251 

XL V. Duty t . 257 

XLVL The Collection 263 

XLVH. The Temporary Hospital 272 

XLVHL Hydrophobia 278 

XLIX. The Guardian Angel 283 

L. Ruin : 289 

LI. Recollections 295 

LTL The Trial 301 

LIT!. Ambition 305 

LIV Set a Thief to Catch a Thief 311 

LV. Madame de la Sainte-Colombe 313 

LVI. Faringhea's Amour 317 

LVTL An Evening at Madame de la Sainte-Colombe's . . 323 

LVD!. The Nuptial Couch < . 331 

LIX. A Rencontre 339 

LX. The Message 346 

LXL The First of June 347 

EPII/OGUB. 

LXII. Four Years afterwards 359 

LXm. Pardon 365 

LXIV. Conclusion . 369 



THE 



WANDERING JEW. 



PART XL 

THE CHOLERA. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE FRONT OF NOTRE-DAME. 

EIGHT days have elapsed since Rodin was smitten with the cholera, 
whose ravages continued to increase most alarmingly. 

What a terrible period it was ! A veil of mourning was spread 
over Paris, formerly so joyous. Yet never was the weather more 
delightful, the sky more blue and unchanging ; never did the sun 
shine with greater radiance. 

This inexorable serenity of nature, during the ravages of a deadly 
scourge, offered a strange and mysterious contrast. 

The dazzling light of a brilliant sun rendered yet more visible the 
change of features caused by the thousand agonies of fear; for every 
one was aghast some for themselves, some for beloved connexions ; 
countenances betrayed an expression of disquiet, amaze, and feverish- 
ness ; steps were hasty, as if by walking faster they had a chance of 
escaping the peril ; and then, too, they were hurried, in order the more 
quickly to reach home. They left life, health, and happiness, in their 
dwellings, and two hours afterwards, on returning, they but too fre- 
quently found agony, despair, death. 

At each moment new and sinister events struck the sight. Now 
there passed along the streets carts laden with coffins symmetrically 
piled up. They stopped at every door where men dressed in grey 
and black were standing; they extended their arms, and conveyed 
a coffin perhaps two often three and four, into the same house, 
until the carts were exhausted: and yet all the dead were not sup- 
plied. 

In almost all the houses from top to bottom, from bottom to top 
there was a noise of hammers at work ; they were nailing up the 
biers, and they nailed, and nailed, and nailed on, until at intervals the 

56 B 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

nailer- .-t>|ijteil from exhaustion. Tlien, too, were heard all sorts of 
riff, plaintive jjn>an>, ami desperate imprecations there, when 
the men in grey and black had placed some in the biers. 

Thus were" they incessantly filling the biers, and nailing them 
down day and night rather by day than by night; for, from tin- 
time of twilight, from want of sufficient hearses, there arrived a fn>\ 
train of mortuary coaches, hastily prepared for the occasion, such as 
tumbrils, carts, vans, hackney-coaches, cars, in order to make up the 
funereal ceremonies ; and, in contrast to the other vehicles, which ar- 
rived full and went away empty, they came empty and drove away 
full. 

During this time the windows of the houses were lighted up; and 
the lights were kept on frequently during the day. It was the ball 
season : and these lights greatly resembled the luminous rays of the gay 
nights of festivities, only that consecrated candles filled the places of 
the wax-lights, and the psalmody of the prayers for the dead the 
joyous murmurs and echoes of the ball. Then, in the streets, in- 
stead of the transparent buffooneries of the better sort of masquerade 
dresses, there were suspended at distances lanterns with glasses of a 
blood-red colour, on which was inscribed, in black letters, " Succour 
for persons attacked by cholera." 

Where there was really a. fete was in the cemeteries during the 
night: there they were gay indeed ! They, usually so dull, so mute, 
at the nocturnal hours, those silent hours, when the slightest sound 
of the cypress, moved by the night wind, is heard ! they, who never 
looked gay, but, perchance, when the pale rays of the moon played 
on the marble of the tombs ! they, so solitary, that no human foot- 
step dared, during the night season, to disturb their funeral silence 
they had suddenly become animated, noisy, full of bustle, and bright 
with light. 

By the smoky glare of torches, which cast great red beams on the 
Mack firs and white stones of the sepulchres, a great number of grave- 
diggers worked, humming as they toiled. This dangerous and rude 
trade was then recompensed almost at the price of gold. They 
required so many of these good fellows, that it was requisite after all 
to take care of them. If they drank often, they drank much ; if 
they always sang, they sang loud ; and that in order to keep up their 
strength and good-humour, powerful auxiliaries in this rough toil. 
If some of them did not by misadventure complete the commenced 
grave, obliging companions finished it for them (that was the word), 
and laid them in it in all friendly feeling. 

To the joyous strains of the grave-diggers were added other 
distant sounds. Public-houses had sprung up in the environs of the 
cemeteries ; and the drivers of the dead, when t/icy /tad once set 
down their jmssengers at their address, as they wittily and profession- 
ally said, those hearse-drivers, rich by the excessive payments now made 
to them, banqueted, feasted, like lords, and the dawn frequently sur- 
prised them with the glass in their hand and the obscene song on 
their lips. How strange is human nature ! With these men of 
hearses and coffins, living in the very bowels of this scourge, mortal- 
ity was almost a nullity ! 

In the dark and infected quarters of the city, where in the midst of 



THE FRONT OF NOTRE-DAME. 3 

a morbid atmosphere abide crowds of individuals already exhausted 
by the most severe privations, and, as they said emphatically (tout 
mdches), all predisposed for the cholera, it was no longer a question 
of individuals, but of entire families carried off in a few hours. Yet 
.sometimes, by providential clemency, one or two young children re- 
mained alone in the cold and miserable chamber, after the father, 
mother, brother, and sister, had gone away in their coffins. 

Then they were often compelled to close, for want of lodgers, 
many of these houses, miserable hives of hard-working labourers, 
completely emptied in one day by the scourge, from the cellar (in 
which, according to immemorial custom, the little chimney-sweeps 
slept in straw) to the garrets, in which, half starved and half naked, 
was stretched on the ice-cold floor some unhappy wretch, without 
work and without bread. 

Of all the quarters of Paris that which, during the period of the 
increase of the cholera, offered what was, perhaps, the most fearful 
spectacle, was the Quartier de la Cite ; and, in the Cite, the facade of 
Notre-Dame was almost every day the theatre of terrible scenes, as 
the majority of the sick of the neighbouring streets, whom they were 
conveying to the Hotel Dieu, were brought to this spot. 

The cholera had not one physiognomy it had a thousand. 
Thus, eight days after Rodin had been suddenly attacked, several 
events in which the horrible mingled with the strange took place in 
the front of Notre-Dame. 

Instead of the Rue d'Arcole, which now leads direct to this place, 
it was reached on one side by a squalid alley, like all the streets in 
the Cite, which was terminated by a dark and dilapidated arch. On 
entering into the square of the facade there was, on the left, the 
entrance of the vast cathedral, and in front, the building of the 
Hotel Dieu. A little further on, an opening allowed the parapet of 
the Quai Notre-Dame to be seen. 

On the black and cracked wall of the arcade might be read a 
placard recently put up, on which were traced, by means of colour 
rubbed over letters cut in brass, * 

" Vengeance ! vengeance ! The people wJio are conveyed to the 
hospitals are poisoned there, because tliey find the numbers of sick too 
many. Every night boats filled icith dead carcases go doion the 
Seine ! Vengeance and death to the murderers of the people ! " 

Two men, dressed in cloaks, and half hidden in the shade of the 
arch, listened with eager curiosity to a noise which grew more and 
more threatening, in the midst of a mob tumultuously assembled 
about the Hotel Dieu. 

Soon these cries, "Death to the Doctors ! Vengeance!" reached 
the ears of the men who were thus ensconced beneath the arcade. 

" The placards do their work," said one of them ; " the powder 

* It is well known that during the cholera similar placards were profusely put 
up in Paris, and at various times ascribed to various persons ; amongst others, to the 
priests, as several bishops had published orders, or had declared in the churches 
of their dioceses, that Ic Bon Dieu had sent the cholera to punish Frauce for having 
driven away her legitimate kings, and assimilated the Catholic worship to other 
worships. 



4 THE WANDERING JEW. 

i- in a bla/e. ( )nco rouse the populace, and \vc way direct them 
against whom we will." 

" I sa\," saul tin- other man, " look down then- ! That Hercules, 
wlic.se enormous stature lists aliove all the rest of the mob, is not 
he one of those wild furies who was most active during the destruc- 
tion of M. Hardy's factory ?" 

" Pardicti / yes ; I recognise him. Whenever there is any mis- 
chief to be done, you find scoundrels of his kidney." 

"My advice is, then, that we do not remain any longer," said tin- 
other man. " The wind is icy cold ; and although 1 am eased in 
flannel " 

" You arc right ; the cholera is infernally brutal. Besides, all is 
well arranged on this side, and I am assured that a Republican cinculc 
will burst out en masse in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. It grows 
hotter and hotter, and works as we would wish it; and the holy eau-i 
of religion will triumph in spite of the revolutionary impiety. Let 
us go and join the Pere d'Aigrigny I" 

" When- shall we, find him ? " 

" Here close at hand. Come come !" 

And the two individuals hastily disappeared. 

The sun was beginning to set, and threw his golden beams on the 
black sculpture of the portal of Notre-Damc and the imposing mass 
of its two towers, which rose in the midst of a perfectly blue sky ; 
and, for many days, a north-easterly wind, dry and chill, had swept 
away every appearance of a cloud. 

A very dense mob had clustered, as we have said, in front of the 
Hotel Dieu, close to the railing with which the peristyle of the hospital 
is surrounded, and behind which there was a picket of infantry drawn 
up, for the cries of "Death to the Doctors!" had become still more 
threatening. 

Those who made this clamour belonged to an idle, vagabond, 
corrupted class, the very dregs of Paris ; and thus (and it was fearful) 
the poor creatures who were being carried to the hospital, being 
necessarily obliged to have the way forced through these hideous 
groups, entered the Hotel Dieu amidst these sinister clamours and 
the cries of death. 

At every moment litters and hand-barrows brought fresh victims. 
The litters, frequently covered with cotton curtains, concealed the sick ; 
but those which had no coverings, from time to time the convulsive 
movements of the agonised sufferer removed the counterpane, and 
disclosed the cadaverous countenance. 

Such sights, instead of frightening the wretches assembled in 
front of the hospital, only became the signal for brutal jests or atro- 
cious predictions as to the fate of these unhappy creatures, when 
once in the doctor's power. 

The quarrier and Ciboule, accompanied by many of these acolytes, 
were in the thickest of the crowd. 

After the destruction of M. Hardy's factory, the quarrier, formally 
expelled from the companionship of the Loups, who would no longer 
have any connexion with such a scoundrel the quarrier, from that 
moment, plunging into the lowest recesses of degrading infamy, and 



THE FRONT OF NOTRE-DAME. 5 

speculating on his herculean strength, had become for pay the ostensible 
defender of Ciboule, and such as she. 

Except some passers-by led by chance to the square of Notre- 
Dame, the ragged mob which filled it consisted of the vilest portion of 
the Parisian population, wretches less to pity than blame, for misery, 
ignorance, and idleness, most fatally engender vice and crime. With 
these savage outcasts of society there was neither pity, instruction, nor 
affright, in the terrible pictures with which they were at each instant 
surrounded, regardless of a life which they every day struggled for 
against hunger and temptations to crime ; and they braved the terrible 
scourge with infernal audacity, or succumbed to it with blasphemy on 
their lips. 

The tall stature of the quarrier overtopped all others, as, with 
bloodshot eye and infuriated countenance, he vociferated, with all his 
might, 

" Death to the Carabins !" (a nickname for the medical students ;) 
" they poison the people ! " 

" It is easier than to feed them ! " chimed in Ciboule. 

Then turning to an old man in mortal throes, whom two men with 
difficulty conveyed through the dense mob in a chair, the beldame 
added, 

" Don't go in there, I say, old Kick-the-bucket ; but die here in 
the open air, instead of rotting in that hole, poisoned like an old 
rat ! " 

" Yes," added the quarrier*; " and they will fling you into the 
water to regale the bleak that you will never taste again, old chap ! " 

At this disgusting ribaldry the old man turned his wandering eyes 
and uttered several groans. Ciboule was desirous of stopping the 
progress of the bearers, who, with much difficulty, got away from the 
cursed hag. The number of cholera patients carried to the Hotel 
Dieu increased every moment, and the usual means of conveyance 
failing for want of litters and hand-barrows, they were carried in 
people's arms. 

In places frightful episodes bore testimony to the terrible rapidity 
of the scourge. 

Two men carried a litter covered with a cloth stained with blood. 
One of them felt himself seized suddenly, and stopped short; his fail- 
ing arms let go the litter ; he turned pale, staggered, and half fell on 
the patient he had been conveying, becoming as livid as he himself. 
The other bearer, alarmed, fled with horror, leaving his companion and 
the dying man in the midst of the throng. Some retreated with hor- 
ror, whilst others burst into a fit of savage laughter. 

" The horses have taken fright," said the quarrier, " and left the 
carriage behind them." 

"Help!" exclaimed the dying man, in a dolorous tone. "For 
mercy's sake, convey me to the hospital ! " 

" The pit is full," said some brutal jester. 

"And you cannot walk up to the gallery" (paradis), added 
another. 

The dying man made an effort to raise himself, but his strength was 
unequal to the task, and he fell exhausted on his mattrass ; suddenly 
the multitude pressed backwards, violently overturned the litter, and 



6 THE WANDERING JEW. 

the hearer and the dying man were trampled under foot, their groans 
being drowned in shouts of " Death to the Cnrabins /" 

Tin 1 howling* were resumed with intense fury. The savage band 
which, in their ferocious madness, respected nothing, were yet com- 
pelled to open its ranks before several workmen who vigorously forced 
a passage for two of their comrades, carrying in their united anus a 
workman still young, whose head, borne down and already livid, was 
leaning on the shoulder of one of his companions, a little child sob- 
bing bitterly, and clinging to the blouse of one of the workmen. 

For some moments there had been heard in the distance in the 
crooked streets of the Cite the sonorous and regular noise of several 
drums. They were beating the rapjtely for the i'ljietih had broken out 
in the Faubourg Saint-Autoine. The drummers, coming by the vaulted 
arcade, crossed the square in front of Notre-Daine. One of thoe 
soldiers, a veteran with grey moustache, suddenly paused from the 
sonorous rolling of his drum, and remained a step behind ; his com- 
panions turned round in surprise he was green : his legs bent under 
him, he stammered some unintelligible words, and fell, as if struck by 
lightning, on the pavement, before the drums of the first rank had 
ceased beating. The rapidity of this attack for a moment alarmed the 
boldest ; and, surprised at the sudden interruption of the rappcl, some 
of the crowd ran, full of curiosity, toward the drummers. 

At the sight of the dying soldier, whom two of his companions 
supported in their arms, one of the two men who, under the arch we 
have alluded to, had been present at the outbreak of the popular com- 
motion, said to the other drummer, 

" Perhaps your comrade has been drinking at some fountain ?" 

" Yes, sir," replied the soldier; " he was dying with thirst, and 
swallowed two inouthfuls at the Place du Chatelet." 

" Then he has been poisoned," said the man. 

" Poisoned !" exclaimed several voices. 

" There is nothing astonishing in that," added the man, with a 
mysterious air. " They are poisoning all the public fountains. This 
morning they killed a man in the Rue Beaubourg, whom they de- 
tected in emptying a paper of arsenic into the great jug of a wine- 
dealer." * 

And, having said this, the man mingled with the crowd, and was 

This report, no less unfounded than the report which was rife with 
respect to the poisoning of the sick in the Hotel Dieu, was hailed by 
an explosion of indignant cries. Five or six fellows, in rags, regular 
ruflians, seized the body of the dying drummer, raised it on their 
-boulders, and, carrying this sinister trophy, bore it round the square, 
preceded by the quarrier and Ciboule, exclaiming, as they went, 
" Room for the corpse ! This is the way they poison the people !" 
Another impulse was given to the mob by the arrival of a travelling- 
carriage, drawn by four horses, which, unable to pass by the Quai 
Napoleon, then partly unpaved, had ventured on threading the mazy 
streets of the Cite, in order to reach the other bank of the Seine by the 
square of Notre-Dame. 

* It is well known that at this epoch several persons were murdered under a 
false pretence of poisoning-. 



THE FRONT OF NOTBE-DAME. 7 

Like many others, these travellers were flying from Paris to escape 
the scourge which was decimating it. A man and woman-servant 
were seated in the rumble, and gave a glance of fear as they passed 
before the Hotel Dieu, whilst a young man inside, sitting in the front 
seat, lowered the glass, desiring the postilions to go forward slowly 
for fear of an accident, as the crowd was so dense. This young man 
was M. de Mernival, and in the back seats were M. de Montbron 
and his niece, Madame de Mernival. The pallor and altered features 
of the young lady betokened her alarm, and M. de Montbron, in spite 
of his strength of mind, seemed very uneasy, and smelt every minute, 
as well as his niece, a bottle filled with camphor. 

For some minutes the carriage advanced slowly, the postilions con- 
ducting the horses very cautiously. Suddenly there was a noise which, 
at first dull and distant, increased as it approached, and then were dis- 
tinctly heard the peculiar sounds of chains and iron-work, which belong 
to the artillery masons. It was, in fact, one of these vehicles which, 
coming in an opposite direction to the travelling-carriage, must soon 
meet it. 

It was very strange that, compact as was the crowd, the progress 
of the wagon was rapid, and, at the approach of the vehicle, the dense 
multitude made a space for it as if by enchantment. 

This wonder was soon explained by the words repeated from mouth 
to mouth : 

" The dead-wagon ! The dead-wagon I" 

The service of the funeral-earriage not being adequate to the con- 
veyance required, a number of artillery-wagons had been put in requi- 
sition, in which they piled the coffins in heaps. Whilst the majority 
of by-standers looked at this ill-omened vehicle with dread, the quarrier 
and his band redoubled their brutal jests. 

" Room for the cold-meat omnibus!" said Ciboule. 

" In this omnibus there is no fear of the passengers treading on 
each other's toes," exclaimed the quarrier. 

" They are very nice people those inside passengers !" 

" They never ask to get out, at least !" 

" See, there is only one soldier for postilion !" 

" Yes, the leaders are driven by a man in a blouse." 

" Perhaps the other soldier was a little tired, poor dear, and has got 
inside the cold-meat omnibus with the others, and they'll all get out at 
the big hole." 

" Head forwards as usual." 

" Yes, they lay down their heads in a chalk bed." 

" Where they lie on the floor, as they say." 

" Ah, one could follow the cold meat with eyes shut it is worse 
than Montfaucon." 

" True, the meat does not smell over fresh," added the quarrier, 
alluding to the foul and infecting reek which this funereal wagon left 
behind it. 

" Good !" continued the hag Ciboule ; " see, the death-cart will 
run foul of this fine, dashing carriage. So much the better. Let the 
rich have a smell of death." 

And in fact the wagou was close upon the carriage at this moment, 



8 THE WANDERING JEW. 

and a nmn in a blouse and wooden shoes rode the leaders, whilst a 
soldier of the train was on the wheeler. 

The coffins were piled so high, and there were so many in the wagon, 
that its semicircular covering was but half-closed, so that, at each jok 
of the vehicle, which, going fast, was much shaken over the irregular 
pavement, the biers might be seen jumbling against each other. 

By the glowing eyes of the man in the blouse and his inflamed 
cheeks, it was easy to see that he was half drunk, and urging his 
horses with his heels and whip, in spite of the useless admonitions of 
the soldier, who, hardly able to restrain his horses, followed in spite of 
himself the reckless pace which the fellow gave to the vehicle. Thus, 
the drunkard swerving from the straight line, came right upon the 
carriage and struck it violently. 

At the shock the lid of the wagon fell back, and, impelled forvards 
by the sudden blow, one of the coffins, after having driven violently 
against one of the panels of the berline, fell on the ground with a dull, 
heavy sound. 

The fall disjointed the deal boards nailed hastily together, and, in 
the midst of the fragments of the coffin, there rolled out a blue and 
livid carcase, half wrapped in a shroud. 

At this horrible sight, Madame de Mernival, who had mechanically 
advanced her head out of the window, uttered a loud shriek and fainted. 

The mob receded with horror. The postilions of the carriage, no 
less frightened, took advantage of the space made before them by 
the rapid retreat of the multitude, to favour the advance of the wagon, 
and, flogging their horses, the carriage advanced towards the quay. 

At the moment when the berline disappeared behind the Hotel 
Dieu there were heard the noisy sounds of joyous music, and repeated 
cries, as it advanced, of" The cholera masquerade !" 

These words bespoke one of those episodes half-buffoon, half-ter- 
rible, yet scarcely credible, which marked the progress of this scourge. 

In truth, if contemporary testimony was not completely accordant 
with the details of the public papers on the subject of this masquerade, 
we should say, that instead of an actual fact, it was the invention of 
some demented brain. The masquerade of the cholera came into the 
square of Notre-Dame at the moment when the carriage of M. de 
Mernival disappeared on the other side, after having been run against 
by the dead-wagon. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE MASQUERADE OF THE CHOLERA.* 

A CROWD of persons preceding the masquerade came suddenly 
by the vault of the square with great noise and turbulence ; boys 

" lit the" Constitutionnel " of Saturday, March 31, 1832, we read : 
" The Parisians conform to that part of the general order as to the cholera, 
which, amongst other preservative receipts, prescribes that all fear of the malady 
was to be discouraged, that persons were to recreate themselves, &c. The pleasures 
of Midlent were as brilliant and frolicsome as those of the Carnival itself. There had 
not been for a long time at this period of the year so many balls. Even the cholera 
itself was the subject of au ambulatory caricature." 



THE MASQUERADE OF THE CHOLERA. 9 

blowing horns, others hollaing, others whistling and hooting, as they 
appeared. 

The quarrier, Ciboule, and their band, attracted by this new sight, 
rushed precipitately in a body towards the arched passage. 

Instead of the two traiteurs which are on each side of the Rue 
d'Arcole, there was then only one, which was on the left hand of the 
arcade, and greatly renowned in the joyous world of the students for 
the excellence of its wines and cookery. 

At the first sound of the blasts blown by the running footmen who 
preceded the masquerade, the windows of the great saloon of the 
cookshop opened, and several waiters, with napkins under their arms, 
leaned out of the windows, impatient to see the arrival of the strange 
guests whom they were expecting. 

At length the grotesque procession appeared, in the midst of im- 
mense uproar. 

The masquerade was composed of a four-wheel car, escorted by 
men and women on horseback ; cavaliers and amazons wore fancy 
costumes, equally rich and elegant, the majority of masks belonging to 
the middle class, in easy circumstances. 

There had been a rumour that a masquerade had been organised 
with the intention of bullying (narguer~) the Cholera, and, by a merry 
display, raise the spirits of the frightened populace ; and thus artists, 
young men of fashion, students, clerks, &c., had answered the appeal, 
and, although up to this period unknown to each other, they fraternised 
immediately. Many of them, to complete the fete, brought their 
lady-loves. A subscription had covered the expenses of the fete, and 
on the morning, after a splendid breakfast at the further end of Paris, 
the joyous group had started bravely on their way to conclude the day 
by a dinner in the square of Notre-Dame. 

We say bravely, because it required in the young females a singu- 
lar strength of mind, an unusual firmness of character, in order thus 
to traverse this great city, plunged in consternation and amazement, 
to cross at every turn litters charged with the dying, and vehicles 
loaded with the dead, in order to attack, by the strangest pleasantry, 
the scourge that was decimating Paris. 

Moreover, in Paris only, and only in a certain portion of its popu- 
lation, could such an idea be formed and realised. 

Two men, grotesquely attired as postilions of funereal ceremonies 
ornamented with formidable false noses, wearing weepers of pink 
crape, and in their button-holes large bouquets of roses and bows of 
crape, conducted the car. 

On the platform of this vehicle were groups of allegorical person- 
ages, representing Wine, Folly, Love, Gaming. 

These symbolical personages had, as their providential mission, 
to make, by their "quips, and nods, and wreathed smiles," their jests, 
sarcasms, and mockeries, the life of the " bon homme Cholera" exceed- 
ingly hard and unpleasant to him, a funereal and burlesque cere- 
mony which they joked and merry-andrewed over in a thousand dif- 
ferent ways. 

Th moral of this thing was this : 

To brave the cholera with assurance it was requisite to drink, 
laugh, play, and make love. 



10 THE PANDERING JEW. 



had for its representation a gross Silenus, punch-bellied, 
broad-< h* sted, thickset and horned, wearing a wreath of ivy round 
)ii> bn r.vs, a panther's sLin over his shoulders, and in his hand a large 
cup, gilt and surrounded by \\o\\ 

Nun-- other than Nini-.Moulin, the moral and religious writer, 
could oli'rr to the astonished and delighted spectators an ear more 
scarlet, an abdomen more majestic, a physiognomy more triumphant 
and beaming. 

At each moment Nini-Moulin affected to empty his cup, after 
which he burst out into a fit of insolent laughter in the face of tin 
I>OH honnni' ( '/to/era. 

The bun hommc. Cholera, the cadaverous old man, was half dressed 
in a shroud, his mask of greenish pasteboard ; his red and hollow eyes 
seemed at each moment to grimace death in a most joyous manner. 
Under his wig, with three rows of curls, powdered carefully, and 
surmounted by a high-peaked cotton night-cap, his neck and one 
ai in were seen from beneath the shroud, tinged of a bright green 
colour ; his skinny hand, continually tremulous with a feverish tremor 
(not affected, but real), M'as leaning on a crutch-handled stick; and he 
wore, as becomes all old gentlemen of the stage, red stockings, with 
buckles to his garters, and high-heeled shoes of black beaver. 

This grotesque representation of the cholera was Couche-tout-Nu. 

In spite of a slow and dangerous fever, caused by the abuse of 
brandy and debauchery a fever which was silently, but surely, un- 
dermining his health, Jacques had been induced by Morok to make 
one in this masquerade. 

The tamer of beasts, dressed as the king of clubs, represented 
gaming. 

His forehead, encircled with a diadem of gilt pasteboard, his 
countenance immovable and pallid, with a long yellow beard which 
fell down the front of his gown, formed of bright colours, Morok 
looked his part to perfection. From time to time, with an air of 
serene mockery, he shook in the very eyes of bon homme Cholera a 
large bag filled with rattling counters, and on which was painted all 
sorts of playing cards. A stiffness in the motion of his right arm an- 
nounced that the brute-tamer still felt something of the wound which 
the black panther had inflicted on him before she was destroyed by 
Djalnia. 

Folly, symbolising Laughter, shook with classic air, in the ears of 
Goodman Cholera, her bauble with its gilt and sounding bells. 
Folly was a pretty, active, and lively girl, wearing on her fine head of 
hair a Phrygian cap of scarlet. She was Couche-tout-Nu's substitute 
for the poor Queen-Bacchanal, who would not have failed at such a 
high festival she, so bold and gay she who but awhile since had 
borne a prominent part in a masquerade, less philosophical, perhaps, 
in its designs, but quite as amusing. 

Another very lovely creature, Mademoiselle Modeste Borniehoux, 
who was the model for a renowned artist (one of the cavaliers of the 
procession), represented Lore, and most charmingly; for Love could 
not have had a more beautiful countenance nor a more perfect figure. 
Dressed in a blue-bespangled tunic, wearing a blue and silver bandeau 
over her chestnut locks, and two transparent wings behind her white 



THE MASQUERADE OP THE CHOLERA. 11 

shoulders Love, crossing the forefinger of her right hand over the 
forefinger of her left hand, from time to time (the triviality of the re- 
mark will be excused us) Love made very graceful but impertinent 
gestures to Goodman Cholera. 

Around the principal groups were other masks, moi'e or less 
whimsical, who waved banners, on which were written such Anacre- 
ontic inscriptions as these : 

" Bury the CMera /" 
" Short and sweet ! " 
. " Let those laugh now ivho never laughed before ! 

And those who ahoays laughed now laugh the more /" 

" The l knowing ones ' will do the Cholera ! " 

11 Vive I' Amour /" 

Vivele Vin!" 

" Love and wine ! " 

" Come tf you dare, ill-conditioned scourge /" 
There was, indeed, so much audacity in this gay masquerade, that 
the majority of the spectators, at the moment when it defiled into the 
square to go to the restaurateur's where the dinner awaited them, ap- 
plauded most lustily ; but this admiration, always inspired by courage, 
however foolhardy or blind it may be, appeared to some of the 
lookers-on (but few it is true) a sort of defiance thrown at the anger 
of Heaven, and they hailed the cortege with murmurs of discontent. 

This extraordinary spectacle, and the different impressions which 
it caused, were too uncommon to be justly appreciated, and it is diffi- 
cult to decide whether this courageous bravado deserves praise or 
blame. 

Besides, the appearance of those scourges which, from ages to ages, 
decimate populations, has almost always been attended by a sort of 
moral over-excitement, which none have escaped whom the contagion 
has spared, a feverish and strange vertigo which sometimes calls 
into play the most stupid passions, the most ferocious passions, some- 
times, on the contrary, inspires the most intense devotion, the most 
courageous actions, and creates in some the fear of death, even to the 
most weak terrors, whilst with others the disdain of life is manifested 
by the most audacious bravado. 

Reflecting little on the praise or blame which it might deserve, the 
masquerade reached the door of the restaurateur, and entered amidst 
universal acclamations. 

All seemed to conspire to complete this whimsical device by the 
most striking contrasts. 

Thus the tavern at which this singular Bacchanalia was about to 
take place being precisely situated close to the antique cathedral and 
the sinister hospital, the religious choir of the old church, the cries of 
the dying, and the bacchic shoutings, would drown each other and be 
heard in turns. 

The maskers having descended from carriage and horseback, went 
to take their places at the banquet that awaited them. 

* * * * * 

The actors of the masquerade were seated at table in a large 
room, joyous, noisy, riotous ; and yet their joy, their noise, and their 
rioting, were of a strange character. 



12 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Sometimes the most audacious remembered involuntarily that it 
was their life they staked in this foolhardy and daring struggle with 
the scourge. This gloomy thought was as rapid as the feverish 
shudder which chills the frame to ice in a moment, and, from time to 
time, sudden silence, lasting but a second, betrayed these passing 
sensations, soon effaced by fresh bursts of joy, for each said, " No 
weakiir-> ; my companions, my mistress, are looking at me !" 

And each laughed and drank with lively air, speaking familiarly to 
his neighbour, and drinking by choice from the glass of his lady 
neighbour. 

Couche-tout-Nu had laid aside the mask and wig of Goodman 
Cholera. The meagreness of his shrunken features, their unhealthy 
pallor, the gloomy brightness of his hollow eyes, all told the rapid 
and incessant strides of the malady which slowly consumed him, ar- 
riving as he had done by excesses to the last stage of exhaustion. 
Yet though he felt a slow fire consume his entrails, -he concealed his 
agony beneath a forced and nervous laugh. 

On the left of Jacques was Morok, whose fatal contest went on in- 
creasing ; and on his right, the young girl disguised as Folly. Her 
name was Mariette, and on the other side of her Nini-Moulin spread 
himself out like a peacock's tail, in all the pride of his majestic 
embonpoint, frequently pretending to seek his napkin under the 
table that he might squeeze the knees of his other neighbour, Madem- 
oiselle Modeste, who represented Love. 

The majority of the guests were grouped according to their tastes, 
each beside his lady. The single men, who had no wives with them, 
sitting where they could. They had entered on the second course, 
and the excellence of the wines, the good cheer, the gay conversation, 
and the very singularity of their position, had strangely excited all 
the guests, as may be supposed, by the extraordinary incidents of the 
following scene. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE SINGULAR CONTEST. 

TWICE or thrice one of the waiters had come in, and, without 
being remarked by the guests, had spoken in a low voice to his com- 
rades, pointing significantly to the ceiling of the festive hall ; but his 
companions had taken no heed of his observations or his fears, being 
probably unwilling to derange the company, whose headlong mirth 
continued even faster and more furiously. 

" Who will now venture to doubt the superiority of our mode of 
treating this impertinent Cholera? Has he dared to lay a finger on 
our sacred battalion ? " asked a magnificent Turkish juggler, one of 
the banner-bearers of the masquerade. 

" This is the mystery," replied another ; " and very simple it is : 
laugh in the teeth of the Goodman Scourge, and he turns his back 
forthwith." 

" And very right of him, when he does so many rascally things," 



THE SINGULAR CONTEST. 13 

added a pretty little Pierrette, as she emptied her glass with a grace- 
ful air. 

" You are right, lovey-dovey, it is rascally and ultra-rascally," 
responded the Pierrat of the Pierrette ; " for one moment there you 
are quiet enough, enjoying the good things of this life, and the next, 
after an atrocious grimace, you die. Well, what then ? Isn't it 
malicious isn't it odd ? I should like to know what it all means." 

" It means," replied a celebrated romantic painter, disguised as a 
Horn an of the school of David "it means that the Cholera is a 
miserable colourist, for his palette has but one hue a bad green. The 
fellow has evidently studied under that horrible artist Jacobus, the 
king of classic painters, the scourge of another description." 

" Still, master," added a pupil of the great master very respect- 
fully, " I have seen cholera patients whose convulsions had a very 
considerable turn in them, and whose death-throes were not deficient 
in expression." 

" Gentlemen," exclaimed a sculptor, not less famous, " let us in- 
vestigate the question. The Cholera is a detestable colourist, but a 
rigorous designer. He will anatomise you an outline in a rough 
fashion. How he picks in the flesh ! After him Michael Angelo is 
but a scholar." 

" Decidedly," cried every body ; " the Cholera is a detestable co- 
lourist but a rigorous designer." 

" Besides, sirs," added Nini-Moulin, with comic gravity, " there is 
in this scourge a kind of a sort of providential lesson, as the great 
Bossuet says." 

" The lesson ! the lesson I " 

" Yes, sirs, I seem to hear a voice from above, which says, ' Drink 
of the best, empty your purse, and keep the pretty girl next to you ; 
for, perhaps, your hours are numbered, ye unhappy wretches ! ' " 

So saying, the orthodox Silenus profited for a moment by the 
absence of mind of Mademoiselle Modeste, his neighbour, to cull 
from the flowery cheek of Love a hearty and resounding kiss. 

The example was contagious, and a smacking of lips mingled 
with fresh shouts of laughter. 

" Tubleii, vertebleu, veiitrebleu ! " exclaimed the great painter, 
gaily, menacing Nini-Moulin ; " you are very happy, although, per- 
haps, to-morrow is the end of the world. Were it not so, 1 would 
quarrel with you for having embraced the Love who is my love." 

" Which proves to you, oh, Rubens 1 oh, Raphael ! that you have 
the thousand advantages of the cholera, which I proclaim to be es- 
sentially sociable and endearing." 

" And philanthropic, too," said a guest ; " for, thanks to him, 
creditors take care of the health of their debtors. This morning an 
usurer, who is particularly interested in my existence, brings me all 
sorts of anti-choloric drugs, of which he entreats me to make use." 

" And as for me," said the pupil of the eminent painter, " my 
tailor wished to compel me to wear a flannel waistcoat next my skin, 
because I owe him some thousand crowns. I replied to him, ' Oh, 
tailor ! give me a receipt in full and I will enflannel myself, in order 
to insure you my custom, since you seem so anxious about it' " 

" Oh, Cholera I to thee I drink," replied Nini-Moulin, with much 



14 THE WANDERING JEW. 

grotesqucness of manner ; "tinman not drspaii : (jutte t'other! thou 
\iiilioli- t hope yea, hope. How many husbands, ho\v many 
\\i\- rlynua number a chance, alas! too uncertain in the 

lottery of widowhood! Thou appearcst. and their hopes renew; 
thanks to tine, oli. complaisant scourg* ! for in thec they see their 
chances of liberty revived a luiiidn d-f'nld. ' 

" And then tliink of heirs-at-law ; imagine their gratitude ! .\ 
chill, a spasm, a nothing, a pshaw, and in an hour an uncle, or 
some kinsman, becomes forthwith a venerated benefaetor." 

" And then those individuals who arc always on the look-out for 
the places of others, what a glorious coadjutor they tiud in the 
cholera I " 

*' And then how many oaths of constancy are made true ! " said Ma- 
demoiselle Modeste, with an air of sentimentality ; " how many gay de- 
c< ivcrs have sworn to a weak and trusting woman to love her for life, 
and did not expect, the Bedouins ! to be so faithful to their words." 

" Sirs," exclaimed Nini-Moulin, " since, perhaps, we arc at the 
eve of the world's ending, as the celebrated painter has said, I propose 
that we begin to play at the world turned upside down ; I desire that 
these ladies toy with us, that they are impertinent to us, that they 
coquet with us, that they steal from us delicate kisses, and take every 
liberty they please with us, and yet I dare say we shall not die 
thereof. I really desire that they shall insult us ; yes, I declare I will 
allow myself to be insulted : I court their insults. Thus, then, Love, 
you may favour me with the worst insult that can be inflicted on a 
virtuous and bashful bachelor," added the religious writer, bending 
towards Mademoiselle Modeste, who repulsed him, laughing at the 
same time immoderately. 

A burst of unanimous hilarity hailed the whimsical proposition of 
Nini-Moulin, and the orgies continued with fresh impetus. 

In the midst of this brawling tumult, the waiter, who had already 
entered several times speaking in a whisper and with a disturbed air 
to his comrades, whilst pointing to the ceiling, reappeared with a pale 
and agitated countenance, and coming up to the man who was ful- 
filling the office of maitre-d' hotel, he said to him, in a low and agitated 
voice, 

" They have just come in." 

"Who?" 

" You know well enough for the room overhead," and he 
pointed to the ceiling. 

"Ah!" said the mailrc-t/'holcl, becoming serious, "and where 
are they ? " 

" Going up-stairs ; they arc there by this time," added the waiter, 
bhaking his head with a frightened air, " they are there." 

" What does master say ? " 

" Oh, he is much distressed in consequence of " And the 

waiter gave a glance at the guests ; " he does not know what to do ; 
he sent me to you." 

" And what the devil am I to do ? " said the other, wiping his 
brow. " It was to be expected, there was no chance of escaping 
from it." 

" I sha'n't stay here auy longer, for it's going to begin." 




THE SINGULAR CONTEST. 
Vol. III. P. IV 



THE SINGULAR CONTEST. 15 

" You'll do well; for with your disturbed look you will excite 
every body's attention ; so be oft', and say to master that we must 
await the event." 

This incident passed almost unperceived in the midst of the in- 
creasing tumult of the joyous meeting. 

Yet there was one amongst the guests who did not laugh nor 
drink, it was Couche-tout-Nu ; his gloomy and fixed eye gazed on 
vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy 
creature was thinking of the Queen-Bacchanal, who would have been 
so brilliant, so gay in such Saturnalia. The remembrance of her 
whom he still loved with extravagant love was the sole thought which 
came, from time to time, to break in upon his brutalised condition. 

Strange ! Jacques had only consented to play a part in this 
masquerade, because this mad day recalled to him the last fete he had 
passed with Cephyse, that reveille-matin which followed the night of 
the bal masque, that joyous repast in the midst whereof the Queen- 
Bacchanal, by a singular presentiment, had given that disheartening 
toast in reference to the scourge which they said then was approaching 
France. " To the cholera !" Cephyse said; "may it spare those ivho 
desire to live, and kill those in company who do not desire to live 
separate ! " 

At this moment Jacques was deeply absorbed, reflecting on these 
painful words; Morok, remarking his abstraction, said to him aloud, 

" What ! don't you drink, Jacques ? Had wine enough ? Want 
some brandy ? I'll ask for some for you." 

" I want neither wine nor brandy," answered Jacques, sullenly ; 
and he fell again into his gloomy reverie. 

" Ah, you are right ! '"' continued Morok, with a sarcastic tone, 
and raising his voice, " you are right to take care of yourself ; I was a 
fool to talk of brandy, according to the times in which we are, there 
would be as much rashness in facing a bottle of brandy as in looking* 
down the barrel of a loaded pistol." 

When Couche-tout-Nu heard his courage as a drinker called in 
question, he looked at Morok with an irritated air. 

" Do you mean to say that it is from cowardice that I dare not 
drink brandy?" exclaimed the wretched man, whose understanding, 
half extinct, was aroused to defend what he called his diynity, " do 
you mean to say it's cowardice, eh, Morok ? " 

" Come, come, my brave lad, as we all are to-day we have given 
proofs," said one of the guests to Jacques, " and you particularly, who, 
being an invalid, had the courage to accept the character of the Bon- 
homme Cholera." 

" Messieurs," replied Morok, observing the general attention fixed 
n him and Couche-tout-Nu, " I was jesting, for if my comrade," 
pointing to Jacques, " had had the imprudence to accept my offer, he 
would have been, not courageous, but mad. Fortunately he has had 
the wisdom to renounce such boasting, so dangerous at such a time, 
and I " 

" Waiter ! " said Couche-tout-Nu, interrupting Morok with angry 
impatience, " two bottles of brandy and two glasses." 

" What are you going to do ? " said Morok, feigning uneasy sur- 
prise. " What do you want with two bottles of brandy ? " 



16 THE WANDERING JBW. 

" For a duel," said Jacques, in a cold and resolute tone. 

" A duel I" said every body with surpri- . 

" Yes," said Jacques, " a duel with brandy ; you say there is as 
much danger in placing one's self before a bottle of brandy as before 
t!ir muzzle of a loaded pistol : let us two take each a full bottle, and 
we shall thru > which will give up first." 

This extravagant proposition of Couche-tout-Nu was hailed by 
some with shouts of mirth, by others with serious inquietude. 

" Bravo, the Champions of the Bottle }" cried the former. 

" No, no ! there would be too great danger in such a contest," 
said the latter. 

" Such a challenge, as times are, is as serious as a duel to the 
death," added another. 

" You undeistand," said Morok with a fiendish smile, "you un- 
derstand, Jacques? Let us now sec if you recoil before danger." 

At these word*, which recalled to him again the peril to which he 
was about to expose himself, Jacques started as if a sudden idea had 
come into his mind, raised his head indignantly, whilst his cheeks 
coloured slightly, and his sunken eye shone with a sort of gloomy 
satisfaction, and he called out in a firm voice, 

" Waiter! are you deaf? didn't you hear me ask for two bottles 
of brandy ? " 

" Yes, sir," said the waiter, going out almost frightened at what 
would be the progress and result of this bacchic contest. 

Yet the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques Avas applauded by 
the majority. Nini-Moulin wriggled about iti his chair, stamping with 
his feet, and exclaiming in a tremendous voice, 

" Bacchus and my thirst I my glass and my pint ! Throats are 
open ! Brandy to the rescue ! Largess, largess ! " and he embraced 
Mademoiselle Modeste, like a real champion of the tournament, 
adding, as an excuse for the liberty, " Love, you shall be the Queen 
of Beauty, I was merely experimenting on the happiness of the 
conqueror." 

" Brandy to the rescue ! " repeated the chorus ; " largess ! " 

" Sirs," added Nini-Moulin with enthusiasm, " shall we remain 
indifferent to the noble example which Goodman Cholera," he pointed 
to Jacques, " gives us ? He has loudly called for cognac ; let us reply to 
him gloriously, Punch ! " 

" Yes, yes punch ! " 

" Punch to the rescue I " 

" Waiter ! " cried the religious writer, in a Stentor's voice, " waiter, 
have you any bowl, caldron, basin, any something immense, in 
which one can brew a monster punch ? " 

" A Babylonian punch ! " 

" A punch-lake ! " 

" A punch ocean ! " 

Was the daring crescendo which followed Nini-Moulin's proposition. 

" Sir," replied the waiter, with a triumphant mien, " we have such 
a brass saucepan, fresh tinned; it has never been used, and will hold 
nearly thirty bottles." 

" Bring hither the aforesaid," said Nini-Moulin, with majesty. 

" The saucepan for ever I " cried the chorus. 



BRANDY TO THE RESCOB I 17 

" Put therein twenty bottles of kirch, six loaves of sugar, twelve 
lemons, a pound of cinnamon, and then light it, light it ! " exclaimed 
the pious penman, uttering superhuman cries. 

" Yes, light it ! let it blaze I " exclaimed the chorus. 

Nini-Moulin's proposal gave a new impetus to the general gaiety ; 
the most absurd propositions were heard mingling with the pleasant 
sound of sudden kisses, given with the excuse that perhaps there was 
no morrow for them, that they must resign themselves to Fate, &c. &c. 

Suddenly, in the midst of one of those momentary lulls which 
occur in the midst of the noisiest tumults, there were heard several 
dull and measured blows overhead of the festive apartment. 

Every one was silent and listened. 



CHAPTER IV. 

BRANDY TO THE RESCUE ! 

AT the end of a few seconds, the singular noise which had so 
greatly surprised the party assembled was repeated, but this time the 
noise was greater and lasted longer. 

" I say, waiter," exclaimed one of the guests, " what the devil are 
they about overhead ? " 

The man, exchanging a rapid and uneasy glance with the other 
waiters attending in the room, stammered forth, 

" What are they doing, sir ? Oh, it is " 

" No doubt some brute beast of a sulky fellow lodging up there," 
said Nini-Moulin, "who gives us a hint, by thumping against the 
ceiling, not to sing quite so loud." 

" The general rule upon such occasions," interposed the pupil of 
the great painter, in a formal and sententious manner, " being (accord- 
ing to traditionary account), that whenever a landlord, or lodger, 
demands silence after this manner, he shall be immediately replied to 
by a charivari resembling a concert of devils, and calculated to put an 
effectual stop to the claimant's power of being annoyed through the 
medium of his hearing for the rest of his life. Such, at least," added 
the antiquary, in a modest tone, " are the relative modes of communi- 
cation I have myself always seen practised between the high and 
celestial powers." 

This somewhat hazardous doctrine was received by all the party 
with universal cheers and loud, uproarious mirth. During the tumult 
which prevailed, Morok contrived to question one of the waiters, and, 
having received his answer, exclaimed in a loud, piercing tone, 
capable of being heard in the midst of all the din of voices, 

" I demand to be heard ! " 

" By all manner of means," answered a mirthful guest ; " let the 
gentleman clear his throat and speak up." 

During the silence which immediately followed these words, the 
noise overhead was renewed, but this time the blows seemed more 
hastily struck. 

57 C 



18 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" The lodger above stairs is innocent of any desire to repress your 
gaiety," said Morok, with a sarcastic grin ; " having neither the will nor 
the power to offer the slightest interruption to the pleasures of this 
meeting." 

" Then what the deuce does he keep thumping away for, as though 
he were not only deaf himself, but intended to render us all so?" 
a>ki (1 Nini-Moulin, tos>ing oft' a bumper of wine. 

"Pattering and pattering like a blind man who has dropped his 
stick," added the pedantic antiquarian painter. 

" It is not the lodger you hear," replied Morok, in a dry, cutting 
tone; "it is the noise of men closing his coffin I " 

A gloomy and sudden silence followed these words. 

" His coffin ! " resumed Morok ; " stay, I am wrong. I should 
more properly say their coffin, for, being pressed for time, the child 
has been laid in the same receptacle as the mother." 

" A woman I " exclaimed La Folie, addressing the waiter ; " is it, 
then, a female who is dead ? " 

" Oh, yes, madam I it is indeed a poor young creature scarcely 
twenty years of age," replied the \vaiter, sorrowfully ; " and the babe 
she nursed at her bosom died almost immediately after her, both 
mother and child being taken off in less than two hours. Our master 
is extremely sorry your comfort should in any way be interfered with, 
but it was quite impossible to foresee this misfortune, for yesterday 
morning my mistress was in perfect health, and she was fresh as a rose, 
and laughed and sung the merriest of any person in the house." 

At this account, a dark funereal gloom seemed to fall on the 
hitherto joyous party ; the mirthful, laughing countenances were 
quickly overspread by a feeling of awe and approaching danger, and 
no voice was found bold enough to utter a jesting allusion to the life- 
less bodies of the young mother and her child, who were being closed 
up in the same coffin. 

So unbroken was the silence which reigned, that the very respira- 
tion of the more terrified part of the company could be distinctly 
heard ; while the last sound of the undertaker's hammer seemed to 
re-echo on their own hearts, and it seemed as though the crowd of 
painful and gloomy ideas, so long refused admission in their breasts, 
rushed back with redoubled force to replace the false excitement and 
noisy mirth which had hitherto actuated their wild, thoughtless 
conduct. 

It was a decisive moment, and it became necessary to strike, on 
the very instant, some important blow, by which the flagging spirits of 
the party should be raised to their former factitious elevation ; for 
already several rosy checks had assumed the pallor of marble, and 
many rubicund visages had changed to a cadaverous, cowardly white. 
Among the latter number was Nini-Mouliu ; while Couche-tout-Nu, 
redoubling his energy and boldness, and drawing up his form, already 
bending beneath the enervating effects of constant dissipation, cried 
out, while a bright feverish glow tinged his features, 

" Why, waiter I what the devil are you about not to bring cither 
the brandy or punch that was ordered ? Confound it all ! are the 
doad to make the living shiver and shake in the midst of their 
enjoyments?" 



BRANDY TO THE RESCUE ! 

"Ah, to be sure! hang melancholy! Come, come, 1 he punch !" 
cried several of the guests, powerfully aware of the necessity of 
finding some restorative for their cast-down joyousness. 

" Now, then, bring forward the punch punch for ever ! " 

" Hang care 1 " 

" Long live mirth and jollity I " 

" Gentlemen !" said the waiter, opening the door, " I beg pardon 
for being so long here is the punch ! " 

The arrival of the flaming beverage, to which so many looked as 
the certain means of fortifying their diminished courage, was received 
with an almost frenzied applause. 

The sun had just set, and the spacious apartment in which the 
entertainment was served was but dimly lighted by a few narrow 
windows, almost hid by the quantity of red cotton draperies with 
which they were festooned by way of curtains, and although not, 
strictly speaking, night, the more distant part of the vast chamber was 
plunged in almost total darkness. 

Two waiters carried in between them the monster punch-bowl, by 
means of a bar of iron passed through the handle of an immense 
brazen caldron, bright as burnished gold, from the summit of which 
issued forth a wreathing pyramid of many-coloured flames. 

" Now, then," said Couche-tout-Nu to Morok, in a tone of defiance, 
" while we are waiting for the punch to burn itself out, let us have our 
mortal encounter, and let the surrounding spectators sit as judges ! " 
Then, pointing out the two bottles of brandy just set down by the 
waiter, Jacques added, addressing his adversary, " Choose your 
weapons ! " 

" Choose them yourself," replied Morok. 

"Very well here is your bottle and glass; Nini- Moulin shall 
judge of the draughts we drink." 

" Certainly ; I do not object to act as judge of thtflists," replied the 
religious and political writer : " only one thing I must warn you of, my 
friend, and that is, you are playing a high stake, and that, at such a 
time as the present (as a gentleman in the room observed just now), to 
place the neck of a bottle of brandy between your teeth, is, perhaps, 
more dangerous than to introduce the muzzle of a loaded pistol into 
your mouth, and " 

" Come, don't preach, old boy," said Jacques, interrupting Nini- 
Moulin's well-meant endeavours to reason him out of so rash an 
attempt upon his life, " but give the word to begin, or I shall do it 
myself." 

" Well, since you are resolved, so be it" 

"And remember, the first who gites in is conquered," added 
Jacques. 

" Agreed ! " replied Morok. 

" Now, then, gentlemen, attention, and let us see what you can do," 
cried Nini-Moulin ; " but first let us see whether there is any difference 
in the size of the bottles, in all such cases equality of weapons is a first- 
rate consideration." 

A profound silence reigned in the apartment while these prepara- 
tions were going on; the courage of many present, although tern- 



THE WANDERING JBW. 

porarily stimulated by the arrival of the punch, soon sunk again under 
the influence of the heavy presentiments which assailed them, and a 
vague dread hung over the minds of all that much danger was 
involved in the challenge given by Morok to Jacques : this impression, 
joined to the painful reflections awakened by the nailing down of the 
coffin overhead, overshadowed every countenance, either more or less, 
with an air of depression and sadness. Some of the guests, struggling 
with'their fast-growing fears, exerted themselves, by various attempts at 
mirth, to shake oft' the gloom which oppressed them but all in vain ! 
their noisy flushes of forced gaiety fell upon cold and unadmiring ears, 
and were quickly extinguished in the dead chill of their silent recep- 
tion. Aftor certain circumstances have developed themselves, the most 
trifling events have frequently a powerful influence in directing the 
after-course of things. 

We have already said, that after sunset a portion of the vast apart- 
ment occupied by the masqueraders was perfectly dark : thus such of 
the company as were seated at the far end were soon involved in utter 
obscurity, except such light as was afforded by the flickering flame of 
the still-burning punch, the spirituous flame arising from which cast a 
pale, bluish tint on every face within its influence, and a strange and, 
fearful spectacle was afforded by the sight of a numerous party of 
guests, illumined only by these sepulchral hues, in proportion as they 
were seated farther from or nearer to the windows. 

The painter, whose professional eye was quickly caught by the 
effect of this fantastic mode of lighting a table, suddenly called out, 

" Pray observe us here at the end of the table ; we seem to have 
raised a banquet to Cholera, and to have turned blue and green while 
partaking of it." 

This attempt at wit was very coolly received; but the loud, 
sonorous voice of Nini-Moulin, calling for " attention," came just in 
time to prevent any further manifestation of displeasure. 

" The lists are opened !" cried the religious writer, more sincerely 
alarmed and uneasy than he chose to appear. " Are you ready, brave 
champions ? " added he. 

" We are," answered both Morok and Jacques. 

" Then on and fire !" cried Nini-Moulin, clapping his hands. 

At which signal the two drinkers immediately emptied at one 
draught an ordinary-sized tumbler of brandy. 

Not a muscle of Morok's hard, iron features moved/and with a firm 
hand he replaced his glass on the table. But, as Jacques followed his 
example, he was unable to repress a slight convulsive tremor, caused by 
severe internal pain. 

"Well done, and well drank! "cried Nini-Moulin; "to swallow 
off the fourth part of a bottle of brandy at one gulp is to triumph 
indeed. No person here present could perform such a feat, I feel 
quite assured ; and, if you will take my advice, you will go no 
further." 

"Give the word!" replied Couche-tout-Nu, intrepidly, while with 
his feverish, trembling hand he seized the bottle ; but, all at once, 
instead of pouring forth into his glass, he said to Morok, " Let's have 
done with glasses! What say you, do you dare drink from the 



BRANDY TO THE RESCUE ! 21 

bottle? it is more of a thing to do more of a deed to set men 
wondering." 

Morok's only reply was to shrug his shoulders and to carry the 
bottle to his lips. Jacques instantly followed his example. The 
thin yellow glass of which the bottles were composed rendering 
it easy for the spectators to observe the rapid diminution of their 
contents. 

The stony, impassive features of Morok, as well as the thin,' pale 
countenance of Jacques, down which streams of cold perspiration 
were stealing their clammy way, were, at that moment, as well as the 
faces of the other persons near them, lighted up by the blue flame of 
the punch, while every eye was fixed on Morok and Jacques with that 
intense though barbarous curiosity inspired almost involuntarily by 
cruel spectacles. 

As Jacques drank he held the bottle in his left hand ; suddenly he 
closed and tightly clenched the fingers of his right hand under an 
uncontrollable paroxysm of agony, his hair became damp and glued 
against his icy forehead, while a sharp spasm contracted his features. 
Still he continued to drink ; only once, he, without removing his lips 
from the bottle, let it fall a little as though he were endeavouring to- 
take breath. At this instant Jacques encountered the sardonic glance 
of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed imperturbability, 
and, believing that he read the expression of an insulting triumph in 
the look bestowed on him by Morok, Jacques abruptly raised his arm, 
and drank more eagerly than before ; but his powers were exhausted, 
an unquenchable fire preyed upon his vitals, his sufferings became too 
acute for further endurance. He could resist no longer, his head fell 
back, his jaws closed convulsively on the neck of the bottle, which was 
broken by the grinding of his teeth ; his throat stiffened, violent spasms 
distorted his limbs, and he lost nearly all consciousness. 

" Jacques, my lad I come hold up ! " cried Morok, whose features 
were lighted up by fiendish joy. " Never mind this little attack it is 
nothing to be afraid of." 

Then, replacing his bottle on the table, he rose to assist Nini- 
Moulin, who was striving in vain to hold Couche-tout-Nu. 

Although this sudden attack presented none of the usual 
symptoms of cholera, yet a panic seized upon all present. One of the 
females fell into hysterics, and uttered the most piercing shrieks, while 
others fell fainting from their chairs. 

Leaving Jacques in the care of Morok, Nini-Moulin was hastening 
to the door to call for help, when that door was hastily thrown open, 
and the religious writer started back in speechles astonishment at the 
unexpected sight of the personage who met his view. 



22 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER V. 

BECOLLBCTIONS. 

THE person whose appearance had so greatly astonished Nini- 
Moulin was no other than the Queen-Bacchanal. Pale and haggard, 
her hair dishevelled, her cheeks hollow, and her eyes sunk in her head, 
the once joyous heroine of so many extravagant follies presented but 
the mere shadow of her former loveliness ; while the squalid rags which 
barely covered her shrunken form bore mournful testimony to that 
want and misery which had withered her bright and glowing beauty. 

Scarcely had the unhappy girl entered the room than she paused, 
and with uneasy and gloomy looks seemed endeavouring to penetrate 
the obscurity of the indifferently lighted apartment, as though in search 
of some one she anxiously sought. 

All at once she started, and a piercing cry escaped her lips the 
eager eye of Cephyse had just recognised the group seated around the 
table, while, by the blue light proceeding from the huge vessel of punch, 
she descried Jacques writhing in fearful convulsions, with Morok and 
some of the persons present striving in vain to hold him. 

At this appalling spectacle, the first impulse of the wretched 
Cphyse was to do what on many a wild frolic she had mirthfully done 
under the excitement of her exuberant spirits ; light and agile as a bird, 
with one spring she cleared the table, passing safely over the bottles 
and glasses which covered it, and, thinking only of avoiding the loss of 
time required to pass round the room, she vaulted quickly over, and 
threw herself on the neck of her lover, wholly unheeding the tamer of 
beasts, who was standing beside him, exclaiming, " Jacques ! 
Jacques ! ! look up, 'tis I Cephyse ! ! " 

The well-known voice, with the cry of distracting agony wrung 
from the very soul itself, seemed to call back the wandering senses of 
Couche-tout-Nu, who mechanically turned his head, although without 
opening his eyes, to the direction from which it proceeded. A deep 
sigh heaved his chest his stiffened limbs regained their suppleness 
a slight tremor succeeded to the fearful convulsions which had racked 
his frame, and shortly after, the eyelids being painfully raised, displayed 
his glazed and vacant orbs. 

A feeling of deep curiosity, not unmingled with fear, kept all pre- 
sent in a state of almost breathless astonishment and silence ; while 
Cephyse, kneeling before her unconscious lover, and covering his hands 
with tears and kisses, cried, in a voice almost stifled by sobs, 

" Jacques, dearest Jacques, look upon poor Cephyse, who has 
found you at last ! Ah, believe me, I was not to blame for quitting 
you. Forgive me forgive me, I implore you ! " 

" Wretched woman ! " exclaimed Morok, irritated at a meeting so 
calculated to frustrate all his plans, " do you wish to kill him ? In a state 
so dangerous as that in which he now is, any powerful excitement may 
be fatal. Leave us ! " 

And, with these words, he grasped Ct'physe by the arm, as if about 
to put her forcibly out of the room, when Jacques, as though awaken- 




MIRTH AND MISERY. 
Vol. III. p. 2*. 



London : Chapman arid Hall. December \r. 



RECOLLECTIONS, 23 

ing from an uneasy dream, began to be cognisant of what was passing 
around him. 

" You ! you here ?" cried the Queen-Bachanal, becoming, in utter 
amazement, aware of the presence of Morok ; - " you who separated 

me from Jacques " But here she stopped, for the glassy eyes of 

Couche-tout-Nu, fixing their gaze on her, appeared to sparkle with 
returning animation. 

" Cephyse !" murmured Jacques, "is that you?" 

" Yes, yes," eagerly replied the poor girl, in tones of deep affec- 
tion, " yes, Jacques, 'tis 1 C6physe come to tell you " 

But, unable to proceed, she convulsively clasped her hands together, 
while the despairing agony impressed on her pale, grief-worn features 
abundantly testified her surprise and sorrow at the fearful alteration 
which had taken place in the countenance of Jacques, who, readily 
interpreting the expression of her face, and the mute sorrow conveyed 
by her speechless gaze, in his turn contemplated the wasted form and 
sickly Itkok of Cephyse, saying, 

" And you, too, my poor girl, have tasted deeply of misery and 
want. I did not recollect you at first for you are altered as 
well as myself." 

" Alas," murmured Cephyse, " I have, indeed, suffered want and 
misery ! and oh !" added she, shuddering, while a deep blush suffused 
her pale countenance, " worse far .worse than that ! " 

" Worse than want and wretchedness ? " cried Jacques, much ex- 
cited, " what mean you, Cephyse ? " 

" But 'tis you, dear Jacques, who have endured the most," inter- 
rupted Cephyse, without venturing to reply to her lover's question. 

" Ay, indeed," replied Jacques ; " and a few minutes ago my 
troubles were well-nigh over ; but your voice recalled me and I 
returned for an instant to tell you that we must part, Cephyse for 
here," continued he, laying his hand over his chest, " here is a sure 
monitor to bid me have no further thoughts of living but it matters 
not I shall die happy since I have seen you once more !" 

" Don't talk of dying, Jacques. See, here 1 am beside you, never 
to leave you more ! " 

" Listen to me, my poor girl ; were there a brasier of burning 
coals within me, I could not suffer a more devouring flame scorch up 
my very vitals. I have been now for more than a month daily con- 
suming before a slow fire. And this person," added he, pointing to 
Morok, "has kindly taken upon him the office of first kindling the fire, 
and afterwards keeping it well supplied with materials not that I 
regret my life, far from it I had totally lost the habit of employing 
myself, and acquired a taste for nothing but dissipation. So I must 
have sunk down into a destitute beggar ; and, to prevent that, I let my 
friend here amuse himself by heaping burning coals upon the brasier 
kindled within me ; and since the drink I lately took, I feel persuaded 
that my inside burns and flames like that bowl of punch there !" 

" You are an ungrateful fool I " cried Morok, shrugging up his 
shoulders; "you held out your glass, and I filled it. But come, no 
more of this nonsense I tell you we shall drink many a cup together 
yet, and laugh at all these foolish fancies in merry days we have yet 
to see ! " 



24 THE WANDERING JEW. 

For several minutes Ct-physe had never taken her eyes off Morok. 

" I tell you," said Jacques, addressing the beast- conqueror in a 
feeble voice, " that for some time past you have kept the fire burning 
which has devoured my very vitals don't let it be reported that I 
died of the cholera, or that I was afraid of the part given me to play 
neither take it as a reproach to yourself, my tender friend," continued 
he, with a sarcastic smile, " if I say you have dressed my grave out as 
gaily as you could. Sometimes, I own, that when I have seen the 
dark, yawning pit you had taken such pains to dig for me, I have 
drawn back and wished to escape falling into it but you, careful and 
tender of my interests, which you understood better than I did for- 
cibly urged me on to the very brink, saying, ' In with you, vagabond! 
in with you !' and so I allowed myself to be pushed nearer and nearer 
to the slippery edge and now I have reached my journey's end ! " 

And here Couche-tout-Nu burst into such a wild and unnatural 
laugh as appeared to freeze all present with horror, while increasing 
astonishment at the singular scene kept all silent. " Come, come, my 
lad !" said Morok, sternly, "let's have no more of this wild talk listen 
to me, and take my advice." 

" Thank you ! No, no ; I know but too well what your advice 
leads to ; and, instead of wasting the few precious moments you have 
left me in listening to YOU, I would rather say a few words to my poor 
Cephyse, and, ere I lie down in the narrow home you have provided 
for me, unburthen my heart of all its thoughts to one who sincerely 
loves me." 

" Talk not so, Jacques, I beseech you. You know not the pain 
you cause me," replied Cephyse. " Have I not said you must not 
shall not die ? " 

" Then, my dearest Cephyse, it must be to you I shall owe the 
preservation of my life," answered Jacques, in a tone of deep emotion, 
which greatly affected all present ; " but," continued Couche- 
tout-Nu, "when I saw you return to me so meanly clad I seemed 
to feel comfort spring up within my heart shall I tell you why? 
because I said to myself, That poor girl has nobly and courageously 
kept her word ; she has preferred labour, suffering, and privations, 
rather than accept another lover, who would have bestowed on her 
what I gave as long as I had the means ; and the very thoughts 
of your firmness and constancy, Cephyse, seemed to cool and refresh 
my very soul ; and, indeed, I needed some such comfort, for I was 
burning, and still I burn," continued he, his hands clenched in agony : 
" but that thought seemed to take away all my suffering, and to pro- 
mise peace and happiness after all my sufferings ; this blessed hope I 
owe to you, my good, my noble Cephyse; blessings on you, for 
your steady adherence to your word. In preserving your faith, you 
have, perhaps, saved poor Jacques's life ; but, my brave and true- 
hearted girl, take this for your reward I have never loved any thing 
in the world but yourself; and if, in my past days of brutalised pleasure, 
I had one idea above the degradation in which I was plunged one 
regret at not being a better and more respectable character than I had 
become, it was always when I thought of you, my beloved Cephyse. 
Again and again, then, let me thank you, my poor girl," said Jacques, 
whose burning eyes were moistened with tears of fond affection ; " let 



RECOLLECTIONS. 25 

me thank and bless you, my first and only love, for the noble proof you 
have given of your steady affection, and if I die," added he, extending 
his already icy hand to Cephyse "I shall die happy ; and, if I live, I 

will strive to make amends for every tear you have shed for me Give 

me your hand, my Cepbyse your hand my faithful, true-hearted 
girl ! " 

But, instead of taking the hand so affectionately proffered, Cephyse, 
still kneeling beside Jacques, bent down her head, and durst not so 
much as look at her lover. 

" Cephyse ! " articulated Jacques, with difficulty, " what is the 
meaning of this? You do not answer me neither do you take my 
hand !" 

But, bowed down with a crushing sense of her own shame, the 
unfortunate girl could only reply by stifled sobs, while the humility of 
her supplicating attitude brought her forehead almost level with her 
lover's feet. 

Struck with indefinable uneasiness at the conduct and silence of the 
Queen-Bacchanal, Jacques gazed on her with rapidly increasing sur- 
prise ; then as a rapid spasm played over his deathlike features, and 
his pale lips trembled, he said, almost gaspingly, 

" Cephyse, I know you too well not to be sure that if you do not 

take my hand it is because " Then, his voice utterly failing him, 

he paused for several minutes; after which, in a low, hoarse tone, he 
said, " When I was put in prison, six weeks ago you said to me, 
' Jacques, I vow to you, by all we hold dear, that I will earn my bread 
by honest labour, whatever want or misery I may experience I swear 
to you to keep myself from all harm,' you promised me this. Now, 
you have never deceived me in your life and if you say you have 
kept your promise I will believe you." 

Cephyse could reply only by a heart-broken sob, while she convul- 
sively pressed the knees of Jacques to her throbbing bosom. 

Strange inconsistency, yet more common than may be supposed, 
this man, brutalised by drunkenness and excess who, since his com- 
ing out of prison had, from one species of debauch to another, blindly 
accepted all the murderous invitations of Morok, now felt his death-blow 
in learning, from the mute confession of Cephyse, the infidelity of the 
being he had so passionately loved, spite of the former degradation of 
her life, which she had by no means concealed from him ! 

The first impulse of Jacques was terrible ; spite of his pains and 
weakness, he managed to raise himself on his feet, then, with a face 
contracted by rage and despair, he threw himself forward, so as to seize 
a knife from the table, and aim it at Cephyse ; but, just as about to 
strike, his better feelings returned, and, shrinking from the thoughts of 
murder, he threw the knife away, and falling back, perfectly exhausted, 
into his chair, he covered his face with his hands. 

At the cry of Nini-Moulin, who somewhat tardily had sprung for- 
ward to wrest the knife from Couche-tout-Nu, Cephyse raised her 
head : the heart-stricken suffering depicted in the countenance of her 
lover smote her to the heart, and, rising, she threw herself, spite of 
Jacques's resistance, on his shoulder, sobbing forth in bitter distress, 

" Jacques, if you but knew, if you only knew all I could tell you ! 
Listen to me, dearest Jacques ; do not condemn me without hearing 



26 THE WANDERING JEW. 

me I will tell you all yes, on my word, the whole truth ; and that 
mail," continued she, pointing to Morok, " will not dare contradict 
what I say. He came to me, and said, Have courage to " 

" I reproach you not I have no right to do so let me die in 
peace? - that is all I ask of you now," murmured Jacques, 
in a voice more and more feeble, as he still repulsed C6physe ; th-n 
added, with a bitter, cutting smile, " fortunately I have what I played 
for I knew ut 11 wliat I was about when I accepted the duel A\ith 
brand;/." 

" No, no," cried Clphyse, wildly, " you shall not die you shall 
hear my justification, and every one else shall hear it it Mill then be 
seen whether it is my fault, or whether I deserve to be pitied will it 
not ?" continued she, almost frantically addressing herself to the curious 
and really sympathising spectators, "and you kind, good people, will 
implore Jacques to pardon me, if urged by starvation, and unable to 
obtain work, I have been obliged to sell myself, not for luxuries oh, 
no you see the rags I wear but to provide a shelter and a morsel of 
bread for my poor sick sister my sister, dying for want, and even more 
wretched than myself surely, surely I deserve pity for being thus 
driven to misery though some will say, perhaps," continued the girl, 
bursting into a wild and frenzied laugh " that there is a pleasure in 
selling one's self for money." Then, shuddering with horror, she conti- 
nued, in an almost inaudible voice, " Oh, if you could but know, 
Jacques, all the infamy, the loathing disgust of thus stooping to disho- 
nour for vile pay, you would pity me. I would rather a thousand times 
die, than return to such a life. I was going to drown myself when I 

learned that you were here " Then, perceiving Jacques, who was 

rapidly sinking, and obliged to be supported by Nini-Moulin, mourn- 
fully shake his head, without attempting to make her any reply, she 
clasped her supplicating hands, and cried, 

" Jacques for mercy's sake one word of pity and forgiveness 
oh, pardon pardon I" 

" Gentlemen, for goodness' sake, drive this woman out of the 
room!" exclaimed Morok; "the sight of her most painfully agitates 
my poor friend here." 

" Come, my good girl, be persuaded," said several of the party, 
deeply affected with all they had witnessed, and trying to remove 
Cephyse ; " leave the poor fellow alone I Come away with us ; he is 
in no sort of danger." 

"Gentlemen ! kind-hearted gentlemen !" cried the miserable being, 
raising her imploring hands in earnest supplication, " only listen to 
me only permit me to tell you ! I will do whatever you wish me ; 
I will go away ; but, for the love of Heaven, send for assistance do 
not let him die in this way. See, see ! gracious God, what tortures 
he suffers ! his convulsions are most dreadful." 

" She is right," said one of the party, hastening towards the door ; 
" he must have instant help ; let us send off foi a doctor." 

" There is no probability of finding any medical man at home," 
replied another : " they are all so much occupied now." 

" Then I'll tell you what we will do," said a third person : " the 
Hotel Dieu is just opposite ; let us carry the poor fellow there ; he 
will then receive the best possible attendance. One of the flaps from 



RECOLLECTIONS. 27 

this table will serve to carry him on, and the table-cloth will do instead 
of a sheet to cover him." 

" The very thing !" shouted several voices ; " let us carry him there, 
and then quit this Ul-fated house." 

Jacques, internally destroyed by the immense quantities of brandy 
he had lately taken, and utterly overpowered by his distressing inter- 
view with Cephyso, had fallen back into a violent nervous attack : he 
writhed in the most direful agonies, and it was necessary to tie him on 
to the part of the table which served him as a litter by means of the 
table-cloth,, and in that pitiable condition he was borne by two of the 
late guests to the Hotel Dieu. 

Cephyse, who had wildly prayed as a last favour to be allowed to 
accompany Jacques to the hospital, was permitted to walk beside the 
dying man. 

No sooner had this mournful party quitted the restaurant's, than 
there was a general scramble among the remaining guests, both male 
and female, to wrap themselves up in their cloaks so as to conceal 
their costumes, and hurry to their respective vehicles, which, having 
been ordered against the return of the masqueraders, were fortunately 
in waiting. The defiance had been fully carried out, and, the audacious 
bravado accomplished, all concerned in it were at liberty to march out 
with all the honours of war. 

While some of the party still remained in the supper-room at the 
restaurant's, a clamour, at first distant, but which drew rapidly nearer, 
resounded from the parvis Notre-Dame with incredible fury. 

Jacques having been carried down to the outer door of the tavern, 
Morok and Nini-Moulin preceded the hastily arranged litter for the 
purpose of endeavouring to open a passage through the crowd ; but 
quickly a violent reflux of the moving mass there assembled obliged 
them to halt, while a redoubled wild and furious clamour resounded 
from the other extremity of the square, at the corner of the church. 

" What has happened ?" inquired Nini-Moulin of a mean, ill-looking 
man, who was indulging in various jumps and skips, as though exult- 
ing in some great triumph ; " what is the meaning of those cries ? 
can you tell me ?" 

" Oh, they've caught a poisoner, and they are serving him out, as 
they did the one whose body they have just flung into the water," 
replied the man. " If you want to see the fun, follow me," continued 
he, "and work your elbows well, or you'll never get through this 
crowd." 

Scarcely had the unfeeling wretch uttered these words, than a wild, 
distracting cry was heard even above all the uproar of the crowd, 
which was penetrated with much difficulty by those who bore the 
litter on which lay stretched poor Jacques. This broken-hearted 
wail had burst from the lips of Cephyse. Jacques, one of the seven 
heirs of the Rennepont family, had just expired in her arms I 

Singular coincidence at the very instant when the distracting 
shriek of Cephyse announced the death of Jacques, another scream, 
another cry of agony, arose from the neighbourhood of the parvis 
Notre-Darae, where the populace were putting to death a poisoner of 
the waters ! 

This latter and more distant cry, which expressed all the palpitating 



28 THE WANDERING JEW. 

horror of a man struggling for life or death in the hands of his mur- 
derers, beneath whose blows he finally expires, froze Morok (who had 
been walking before the litter of Couche-tout-Nu) with terror in the 
midst of the horrible triumph he M r as then exulting in. 

" Hell and the devil !" exclaimed the expert assassin, who had 
employed as his homicidal weapons the legal arms of drunkenness and 
debauch " hell and all its fiends I that is the voice of the Abbe 
d'Aigrigny whom the people are massacring!" 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE POISONER. 

A FEW words are requisite in order to bring the narrative up to 
the point where the cry of distress uttered by the Abbe d'Aigrigny had 
made so forcible an impression on Morok at the very moment when 
Jacques llennepont had just breathed his last 

The scenes we are about to depict are atrocious. If we could ven- 
ture to hope that they would ever convey instruction, this frightful 
sketch would tend, by the horror which it may perchance inspire, to 
prevent those excesses of a monstrous barbarity to which sometimes 
an ignorant and blind mob is impelled, when, imbued with the most 
fatal misconceptions, it allows itself to be impelled headlong by the 
most inexcusable ferocity. 

We have already said that the most absurd and alarming reports 
were circulating in Paris. Not only were there rumours of poisoning 
the sick and the public fountains, but it was also asserted that wretches 
had been detected in throwing arsenic into the pitchers which the 
wine-merchants usually employ and keep filled and ready on their 
counters. 

Goliath was coming to meet Morok, after having carried a message 
to P. d'Aigrigny, who awaited him in a house in the Place de 1'Arche- 



Goliath had gone into a wine-shop in the Rue de la Calandre to 
get some refreshment, and, after having drank two glasses of M'ine, 
tendered his money in payment. 

Whilst the woman in the shop was looking for the change due to 
him, Goliath leaned his hand mechanically and very innocently over 
the mouth of a pitcher that was close to him. 

The large stature of this man, his repulsive appearance, his savage 
look, had already made the woman uneasy, alarmed and anxious as 
she had been rendered at the general rumours as to the poisoners ; and 
when she saw Goliath place his hand over the top of one of her 
pitchers she exclaimed, with terror, " Ah ! why you have put some- 
thing in the pitcher !" 

At these words, spoken loudly and in a frightened tone, two or 
three persons who had been drinking at a table rose suddenly, ran to 
the counter, and one of them exclaimed incautiously, 

" He is a poisoner !" 



THE POISONER. 29 

Goliath, ignorant of the sinister reports spread in the vicinity, could 
not at first comprehend the charge laid against him, the drinkers 
raising their voices still more loudly whilst they attacked him ; and he, 
relying on his strength, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and in 
brutal tones asked for his change from the woman, who, pale and 
agitated, did not think about giving it to him. 

" Villain !" exclaimed one of the men with so much violence that 
several passers-by stopped, " you shall have your money when you say 
what you have put into the pitcher." 

"What! has he thrown something into a pitcher?" asked a spec- 
tator. 

" Perhaps he is a poisoner !" said another. 

" He should be apprehended," added a third. 

" Yes, yes," said the party who had been drinking very worthy 
fellows perhaps, but at this moment under the influence of the general 
panic " yes, he should be apprehended ; he has been surprised whilst 
throwing poison into a pitcher on the counter." 

The words, "He is a poisoner /" circulated rapidly amongst the 
crowd, which, at first formed of three or four persons, increased every 
moment at the wine-shop door. Low and threatening clamours com- 
menced. The man Avho had made the accusation, seeing his fears 
thus participated in and almost justified, believed that he was doing the 
duty of a good and bold citizen when, he seized Goliath by the collar 
and said, 

"You villain ! come and account for your conduct at the guard- 
house." 

The giant, already very much irritated at the attacks, of whose real 
meaning he was ignorant, was exasperated at this sudden attack, and, 
giving way to his natural brutality, he flung his adversary on the 
counter and began to pommel him. 

During this fray several bottles and two or three squares of glass 
were broken with much noise ; whilst the woman of the shop, more 
and more alarmed, cried with all her might, 

" Help ! the poisoner ! the villain ! Guard !" 

At the loud noise of the broken glasses and cries of distress, the 
passers-by all stopped and increased the mob, many of whom gave full 
credence to the poisoners, and many of them rushed into the shop to 
aid the men who had assailed Goliath. Thanks to his herculean 
strength, after a short struggle against seven or eight persons, he had 
thrown down the most desperate two of them, scattered the others, 
and going up to the counter he gave himself a vigorous impetus, and 
then rushed head foremost like a bull, fighting against the crowd at 
the door ; then, completing the passage by aid of his enormous shoul- 
ders and athletic arms, he cleared a way through the mob, and ran 
with all his strength towards the facade of Notre-Dame, with his 
clothes torn, his head uncovered, and his countenance ghastly and 
enraged. 

A number of the persons who formed the crowd instantly com- 
menced the pursuit of Goliath, and a hundred voices exclaimed, 

" Stop him ! stop him ! stop the poisoner !" 

At the sound of these cries and the sight of a man rushing along 



30 THE WANDERING JEW. 

with wild looks and formidable appearance, a butcher's lad who chanced 
to be passing with a large empty tray threw it exactly between the legs 
of Goliath, who stumbled over the unexpected obstacle, and fell to 
the ground ; while the butcher, believing himself engaged in an action 
as meritorious as would have been the slaying of a mad dog, threw 
himself on his fallen foe and rolled with him into the street, crying 
out, 

" Help, help ! here is a poisoner ! help I" 

All this occurred at a short distance from the cathedral, but far 
from the crowd collected at the door of the Hotel Dieu and the house 
of the restaurant, into which the masquerade of the cholera had entered 
about the close of the day. 

The loud summons of the butcher was answered by a rush of 
persons, among whom were Ciboule and the quarrier, towards the 
scene of strife ; while the various groups who had pursued the pre- 
tended poisoner from the Rue de la Calandre came up at this moment 
to the place where the object of their wrath lay struggling with his 
opponent. 

At the sight of this formidable crowd all rushing towards him. 
Goliath, while seeking to defend himself against his assailant, who 
clung to him with the tenacity of a bull-dog, felt that his destruction 
was certain, unless he contrived to free himself from his adversary ; 
with one furious blow of his fist he smashed the jaw-bone of the 
butcher, who happened at that instant to be uppermost, and thus, 
freeing himself from his strong gripe, rose, and, still sick and giddy, 
hurried onwards. But suddenly he paused further flight was 
impossible the infuriated mob had hemmed him in on all sides. 

Behind him rose the walls of the cathedral around gleamed 
the threatening countenances of a hostile multitude ; while the rage 
of the assembled crowd was still further excited by the agonising 
shrieks of the unfortunate butcher, who had just been raised bleeding 
from the ground. 

This was a terrible moment for Goliath, who found himself standing 
alone in a space each second rendered smaller and smaller, and saw 
around him an angry host thirsting for vengeance on his imaginary 
crime, and loudly denouncing death as his inevitable punishment. 

Thus a wild-boar, when at bay, will turn and turn again, as though 
undecided whether to make a stand against the savage pack by whom 
he is beset. So Goliath, breathless with fear, ran here and there in a 
wild, uncertain manner; but quickly perceiviig at once the utter 
impossibility of flight, or the hopelessness of finding either pity or 
mercy from an enraged mob carried away by a blind and deaf fury 
the, more unrelenting as it was believed to be legitimate vengeance 
determined at least to sell his life as dearly as possible, Goliath felt 
in his pocket for his knife, but, not finding it, he bent his left leg in 
an attitude for wrestling, extended before him his brawny arms, hard 
and rigid as iron, and, planting his foot firmly on the ground, he reso- 
lutely awaited the attack. 

The first person who approached him was Ciboule, who, panting 
with eagerness and out of breath with the rapid pace she had run, 
instead of at once springing at him, stopped, and, stooping down, took 



THE POISONER. 31 

off one of her heavy wooden shoes, and threw it so vigorously and 
skilfully at the head of the giant, that it took aim at his eye, which 
it forced, bleeding, nearly from its socket. 

Uttering a cry of intense agony, Goliath put up his hands to his 
injured countenance. 

"Well, I've spoiled his beauty !" bawled Ciboule, bursting into a 
loud fit of savage laughter ; " he'll squint for life, and no mistake !" 

Rendered furious by the torture he endured, instead of waiting 
the commencement of the attack from his assailants, who, intimidated 
by his herculean strength, seemed reluctant to begin (the quarrier, 
who alone would have an equal match for him, having been drawn 
back by a movement of the crowd), Goliath in his rage threw himself 
on all those near him. 

The combat was, however, too unequal to last long ; but, despair 
redoubling the strength of the giant, the conflict was for a time most 
dreadful : the unhappy wretch held out with incredible courage and 
resolution at times wholly lost beneath the swarm of bloodthirsty foes 
by whom he was assailed then, exhibiting one of his ponderous arras 
lifted high in air, and falling again with all the strength of a smith's 
hammer on the skulls and faces of his antagonists. 

In a brief space of time his pale, bleeding, and enormous head 
would tower above the host of vindictive foes, to be pulled back by 
some daring combatant, who contrived to reach him by seizing a 
handful of the thick, frizzly hair which ornamented his huge coun- 
tenance. 

Continual movements, rapid jostling, trampling, and swaying to 
and fro of the frenzied mob, gave evidence of the indomitable energy 
with which Goliath conducted his defence ; but, the quarrier having 
now come up, he was overpowered and thrown down. A wild, pro* 
longed shout of savage triumph announced the giant's destruction- 
for, in such circumstances, to fall is to die. 

Scarcely had the cry ceased, than it was replaced by one universal 
clamour of, 

" Death, death to the wretch who has tried to poison us ! kill 
him! kill him!" And then commenced one of those scenes of mas- 
sacre and torture worthy of cannibalism itself, attended with horrors 
so much the more incredible as they had for spectators, either passive 
or active, men among whom were many ordinarily humane and just 
towards each other, but who, led away either by ignorant or ill-founded 
opinions or prejudices, allowed themselves to be mixed up with the 
commission of the most frightful barbarities, under the impression 
that they were merely performing an act of justice. 

And, acting under these impulses, the sight of the blood which 
streamed in torrents from Goliath's numerous injuries served but to 
increase the savage fury of the maddened crowd, and to excite them 
to the unflinching discharge of their sanguinary -task, which they 
considered as just retribution. 

A hundred arms were raised against him, he was trampled under 
feet, his features beaten in, his breast stamped on and torn ; and 
amid the loud and brutal yelk of " Kill the poisoner I shew him no 
mercy I" might be distinguished heavy blows, followed by deep groans. 
Then commenced an indiscriminate onslaught: each person present, 



3:2 THE WANDERING JEW. 

as though seized with a murderous craving, pressed forward to doal 
some blow, or to tear wider the bleeding, gaping wounds ; even females 
yes, women mothers with their infants at their breast, struggled 
and disputed for the opportunity of cutting or gashing the huge body 
of the expiring giant, as it lay in a pool of blood. Men and women, 
as though influenced by some demoniac fury, threw themselves with 
insatiate rage on the mutilated frame. 

A terrible moment followed. Goliath, his face bruised, battered, 
and covered with mud, his garments in rags, his breast naked, torn, 
and bleeding profiting by a momentary pause on the part of his 
executioners, who believed they had finished him managed, during 
one of those convulsive starts so frequent during the last parting agony 
of body and soul, to raise himself for a few seconds on his feet; but, 
blinded by his wounds, he continued wildly to throw his arms about, 
as though parrying blows which were no longer aimed at him ; and, as 
the blood poured in streams from his pallid lips, he managed faintly 
to murmur, 

" Mercy I mercy ! I am no poisoner ! mercy !" 

This unexpected resurrection produced so electric an effect on the 
crowd, that for an instant it drew back with affright; the fierce cla- 
mours ceased, and a small space was left around their victim ; some 
even began to commiserate him, when the quarrier, perceiving Goliath, 
blinded by blood, stretch forth his hands in all directions, exclaimed, 
in allusion to a well-known game played by the workmen of Paris, 
" Casse cou" (break neck) ; then, striking the unfortunate man a 
violent blow with his foot in the stomach, he threw him down again 
with, such violence, that his head rebounded twice on the pavement. 
At the moment when the giant fell heavily, a voice in the crowd called 
out, 

" "Tis Goliath ! Stop ! the man is innocent !" 

Pe"re d'Aigrigny (it was he), yielding to a generous sentiment, 
made violent efforts to reach the first rank of the actors in this scene ; 
and having attained it, he said, pale, indignant, and menacing, 

"You are cowards assassins! This man is innocent; I know 
him. You shall answer for his life I" 

A loud clamour hailed these vehement words of Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" You know this poisoner I" exclaimed the quarrier, seizing the 
Jesuit by the collar ; " then perhaps you are a poisoner yourself." 

" Wretch I" exclaimed Pere d'Aigrigny, trying to release himself 
from the quarrier's gripe, " dare you lay hands on me ?" 

" Yes, I dare any thing !" replied the quarrier. 

" He knows him then he is a poisoner too, like the other I" they 
exclaimed in the crowd, which was pressing around the two adversaries ; 
whilst Goliath, who in his fall had fractured his skull, uttered a dying 
groan of agony. 

At a sudden jerk by which Pere d'Aigrigny had shaken off the 
quarrier, a tolerably large glass bottle, very thick, of a peculiar form, 
and filled with a dark-greenish liquor, fell from his pocket, and rolled 
close to the dead body of Goliath. 

At the sight of this bottle, several voices cried out, 

" It is poison ! look there 1 See I he carries the poison about 
with him I" 



THE POISONER. 33 

At this accusation the cries redoubled ; and they began to press 
so closely on the Abbe d'Aigrigny, that he exclaimed, 

" Do not touch me do not come so close upon me." 

" If he is a poisoner," said the voice, " there's no more alloM-ance 
for him than for the other." 

"la poisoner !" exclaimed the abbe, aghast at the accusation. 

Ciboule had picked up the bottle ; the quarrier seized it, took out 
the cork, and said to Pere d'Aigrigny, holding it towards him, 

"Ah! what is in it?" 

" That is not poison," exclaimed Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" Then drink it !" replied the quarrier. 

"Yes, yes, make him drink it !" exclaimed the mob. 

"Never!" said Pere d'Aigrigny, with alarm ^ and he retreated, 
pushing the bottle from him with his hand. 

" You see it's poison he dare not drink it," they said, and, pressed 
upon and hemmed in on all sides, Pere d'Aigrigny stumbled over 
Goliath's body. 

" My friends," exclaimed the Jesuit, who, without being a poisoner, 
still found himself in a terrible alternative, for his bottle contained some 
salts of great pungency, as dangerous to drink as poison, " my worthy 
friends, you mistake in our Lord's name I swear to you !" 

" If it is not poison, drink it !" said the quarrier, again presenting 
the bottle to the Jesuit. 

" If you don't drink it, you shall die like your comrade, since, like 
him, you poison the people." 

" Yes, death to him ! death !" 

"But, wretches," cried Pere d'Aigrigny, his hair bristling with 
terror, " would you then assassinate me ?" 

" What do you think of all those whom you and your comrade 
have poisoned, you villains ?" 

" That is not true, and " 

"Drink, then!" repeated the inflexible quarrier; "for the last 
time, will you or won't you ?" 

"Drink that! why, it would be death !"* exclaimed Pere 
d Aigrigny. 

" Ah ! do you hear the scoundrel ?" replied the crowd, which 
became even more dense ; " he owns it he owns it !" 
" He has betrayed himself!" 
" He said, < Drink it ! why, it is death !' " 
< But hear me ! " exclaimed the abb, clasping' his hands ; it 

Furious cries interrupted Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" Ciboule ! finish that one !" exclaimed the quarrier, kicking Go- 
hath ; " 1 11 begin with this one !" And he seized Pere d'Aigrignv bv 
the throat. 

At these words two groups were formed : one, headed by Ciboule, 

'finished" Goliath with kicks, stones, blows of wooden shoes, &c., 

until very speedily the body was nothing but a horrible, mutilated, 

This is an historical fact : a man was massacred because they found on him a 
bottle filled with ammonia. On his refusal to drink it, the populace, persuaded that 
it was poison, rent the unhappy man limb from limb. 

58 D 



34 THE WANDERING JEW. 

nameless, shapeless thing an inert mass, covered with mud, and but 
a heap of bruised and pulpy flesh. 

Ciboule gave her shawl, which they tied to one of the broken legs 
of the carcass, and then dragged it to the parapet on the Quai ; and 
there, amidst cries of savage ferocity, they cast the mangled and bleed- 
ing remains into the river. 

One shudders to think that in a time of popular commotion a word 
suffices a single word incautiously uttered by a honest man, without 
any premeditated malice to excite such a horrible murder. 

" Perhaps he is a poisoner /" 

This was what the man said in the wine-shop in the Rue de la 
Calandre no more -and Goliath was ruthlessly murdered! 

What imperious reasons why instruction and information should 
spread to the deepest darkness of the million, and thus place many 
ignorant persons in a position to defend themselves from so many 
stupid prejudices, so many fatal superstitions, so many implacable fana- 
ticisms ! How can we expect calmness, reflection, self-control, a sense 
of justice, from abandoned creatures whom ignorance has brutalised, 
misery depraved, suffering enraged, and for whom society only con- 
cerns itself when it is a question of chaining them at the galleys, or 
binding them for the executioner? 

****** 

The terrible cry which had alarmed Morok was that uttered by 
the Abbe d'Aigrigny when the quarrier had laid his heavy hand on 
him, and said to Ciboule, as he pointed to the expiring Goliath, " You 
finish that one ! I'll begin with this one!" 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE CATHEDRAL. 

THE night had nearly arrived when the mutilated carcass of Goliath 
Was precipitated into the river. 

The agitation of the crowd had impelled, towards the streets which 
run down by the left side of the Cathedral, the party in whose power 
the Fere d'Aigrigny was retained. He had contrived to disengage 
himself from the strong gripe of the quarrier, but was still surrounded 
and pressed upon by the multitude, which hemmed him in and cried 
" Death to the poisoner /" Whilst he was retreating step by step, and 
endeavouring to parry the blows aimed at him, by dint of self- 
possession, address, and courage summoning, too, his former military 
energy, he had contrived to resist and remain on his feet, knowing, 
from the fatal example of Goliath, that to fall was to die. 

Although he had but very faint hopes of being heard, the abbe 
called out with all his might for help, yielding the ground inch by inch, 
and manoeuvring so as to draw near one of the lateral walls of the 
church, he contrived to reach a corner formed by the projection of a 
pillar which was close to a small door. 

This position was so far favourable to the Pere d'Aigrigny, that 
finding himself with his back to the wall, he Mas partially sheltered 



THE CATHEDRAL. 35 

from the attacks made upon him. But the quarrier, determined to 
deprive him of even this last chance of safety, rushed upon him in 
order to grasp and drag him into the midst of the mob, where he would 
be inevitably trampled under foot ; but the terror of death gave an 
extraordinary strength to Pere d'Aigrigny, and he still was able to 
resist with effect the attempts of the quarrier, and remain protected by 
the angle in which he had ensconced himself. 

The resistance of the victim redoubled the rage of the assailants, 
and cries of death resounded with resumed violence. 

The quarrier again darted on the Pere d'Aigrigny, exclaiming, 

" Help, my lads ! This has lasted too long already. Let's end 
this !" 

Pere d'Aigrigny saw that he was lost. 

His strength was exhausted, and he felt himself becoming weaker 
and weaker. His legs trembled under him, a mist came over his eyes, 
and the sounds of the howling of these furious wretches were beginning 
to sound but faintly in his ears. The pain of several violent contu- 
sions, received during the struggle on his head and his chest particu- 
larly, now became most poignant, and twice or thrice an effusion of 
blood stained his lips. His position was, indeed, desperate. 

" To die I Struck down by these brutes, after having escaped 
death so often in the field of war !" 

Such was the Abbe d'Aigrigny's thought as the quarrier dashed 
upon him. 

Suddenly, and at the moment when the abbe, yielding to the in- 
stinct of self-preservation, called again for help in a tone of deepest 
agony, the door against which he leaned opened behind him, a strong 
hand grasped him and drew him suddenly into the church. 

Owing to this movement, effected with the rapidity of lightning, 
the quarrier, who had rushed forwards to seize on the Pere d'Aig- 
rigny, could not check his impetus, and thus found himself face to 
face with the personage who had, as it were, come to substitute himself 
for the victim. 

The quarrier checked himself suddenly, then receded a couple of 
paces, amazed, like the rest of the crowd, at this sudden apparition, 
and, like the crowd, smitten with a vague feeling of admiration and 
respect at the sight of him who had so miraculously arrived to succour 
the Pere d'Aigrigny. 

It was Gabriel. 

The young missionary remained standing erect at the threshold 
of the door. 

His long black cassock formed a strong outline in the deep shade 
formed by the dim twilight of the cathedral, whilst his archangelic 
face, encompassed by long and fair hair, pale and agitated with pity 
and grief, was softly lighted up by the last rays of the departing day. 

His features were resplendent with such divine beauty expressed 
such touching and tender compassion that the multitude felt moved 
when Gabriel, with his large blue eyes, humid with tears, and his 
hands upraised, exclaimed, in a full and tremulous voice, 

" Mercy, my brothers! Be humane, be just I" 

Recovering from his first movement of surprise and his involuntary 
emotion, the quarrier advanced a step towards Gabriel, crying, 



36 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" No mercy to a poisoner ! We want him, so let's have him, or 
we'll fetch him ourselves." 

" Can you think of such a thing, my brethren ?" answered Gabriel ; 
" in this church a sacred place a place of refuge for all who are 
persecuted 1" 

" We will lay hands on the poisoner even at the very foot of the 
altar," replied the quarrier, brutally. " So give him up !" 

" My friends, listen to me," said Gabriel, stretching fortli his 
arms. 

" Down with the shaveling !" exclaimed the quarrier; "the poi- 
soner is hiding himself in the church. Let's go in." 

" Yes, yes," shouted the mob, again excited by the violence of this 
wretch. " Down with the monk !" 

" They understand each other !" 

" Down with the monks !" 

" Let's enter here as we did at the archbishop's !" 

" As at Saint-Germain 1'Auxerrois !" 

" W r hat do we care about a church I" 

" If the shavelings defend the poisoners, then let's fling the shave- 
lings into the river ! " 

" Yes, yes !" 

" I'll shew you the way !" 

So saying, the quarrier, followed by Ciboule and a considerable 
number of resolute fellows, advanced towards Gabriel. 

The missionary observing, for some moments, the reviving ferocity 
of the crowd, had foreseen this movement, and retreating suddenly 
within the church, he contrived, in despite of the efforts of his assail- 
ants, to keep the door almost closed, and barricaded it as well as he 
could by means of a wooden bar, one end of which he placed on the 
floor, and the other under the projection of one of the transverse 
planks, and, thanks to this kind of buttress, the door might resist for 
some minutes. 

Whilst Gabriel defended the entry thus, he called out to Pore 
d'Aigrigny, 

" Fly, father, fly by the sacristy all the other issues are closed." 

The Jesuit, half-dead, covered with bruises, bathed in cold 
perspiration, feeling his strength leave him rapidly, and believing him- 
self in safety, had thrown himself into a chair almost senseless. 

At Gabriel's voice the abbe rose with difficulty, and with a stag- 
gering step endeavoured to reach the choir, separated by a grating 
from the rest of the church. 

" Quick, father I " added Gabriel with affright, and keeping closed, 
with all his might, the door so vigorously besieged ; " make haste I 
Oh, make haste ! or in a minute or two it will be too late." Then the 
missionary added, with despair, " And to be alone, alone to check the 
progress of these infuriated beings ! " 

And he was indeed alone. 

At the first noise of the attack, three or four sacristans, and other 
persons employed in the fabric, were in the church, but these fellows 
becoming alarmed, when they recollected the sack of the archbishop's 
at Saint-Germain 1'Auxerrois, had instantly taken flight ; some con- 
cealing themselves in the organ-lofts, to which they rapidly ascended, 



THE CATHEDRAL. 37 

others escaping by the sacristy, the doors of which they fastened 
inside, thus cutting off all means of retreat from Gabriel and the Pere 
d'Aigrigny. 

The latter, bent double with pain, on hearing the urgent entreaties 
of the missionary, made vain endeavours, by means of the chairs which 
he found in his way, to reach the grate of the choir. After a few 
steps, overcome by emotion and suffering, he staggered, reeled, and 
fell on the stones entirely bereft of sense. 

At the same moment, Gabriel, in spite of the incredible energy 
with which the desire of saving the Pere d'Aigrigny had inspired him, 
felt the door at length giving way before a desperate effort to burst it 
open, and on the point of being forced. 

Then turning his head to convince himself that the Jesuit had 
been enabled to quit the church, Gabriel was aghast when he saw him 
extended and motionless a few paces from the choir. 

To leave the half-broken door, run to Pere d'Aigrigny, raise him 
up, and drag him within the grating of the choir, was for Gabriel an 
action as rapid as thought, and he closed the grating at the very instant 
when the quarrier and his band, after having burst in the door, 
precipitated themselves headlong into the church. 

Erect, and inside the choir, his hands folded over his breast, 
Gabriel awaited, calm and intrepid, for this mob, exasperated as it 
was by an unexpected resistance. 

The door was driven in, the assailants poured in violently, but 
hardly had they entered the church than a singular scene occurred. 

Night had come. A few silver lamps threw their faint light into 
the centre of the sanctuary, of which the aisles were lost in the 
deepening shadows. 

After their sudden entry into this immense, sombre, silent, and 
deserted cathedral, the boldest was suddenly overcome, almost afraid, 
in presence of the imposing grandeur of this solitude of stone. 

Cries and menaces expired on the lips of the most ferocious, and it 
seemed as though they were fearful of awakening the echoes of those 
enormous vaults those black arches, which gave out a sepulchral 
moisture, which chilled their anger-inflamed brows, and fell on them 
with the heaviness of lead. 

Religious tradition, custom, the habits or remembrances of infancy, 
have such influence on men, that scarcely had most of the quarrier's 
companions entered than they respectfully took off their hats, bowed 
their bare heads, and moved with precaution in order to deaden, as 
much as possible, their footsteps on the sounding pavement. 

Then some exchanged a few words in a low and frightened tone. 
Others, looking timidly up to the immeasurable height of the top 
beams of this gigantic structure, then all but lost in obscurity, felt 
almost alarmed at seeing themselves so small in the midst of this im- 
mensity thus filled with darkness. 

But at the first rude jest of the quarrier, who broke this respectful 
silence, the feeling soon passed away. 

" Ah, ah, thousand thunders ! " he exclaimed ; " what, are we 
waiting for breath to chant vespers ? If there was but some wine in 
the holy-water trough, that would be the thing." 

Some bursts of brutal laughter hailed these words, 



38 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" During this time that scoundrel has escaped us," said one. 

" And we are cheated," added Ciboule. 

" One would think there were cowards here, and that they were 
afraid of the sacristans," continued the quarrier. 

" Never ! " exclaimed a burst of voices. " No, no, we are not 
afraid of any body." 

" Forward ! " 

" Yes ! forward, forward I" was the reply on all sides. 

And the animation, which had grown calm for a moment, redoubled 
in the midst of the renewed tumult. 

A few moments afterwards, the eyes of the assailants, grown accus- 
tomed to this gloom, distinguished in the midst of the pale rays of 
light projected by a silver lamp the imposing figure of Gabriel, erect, 
and standing without the grate of the choir. 

" The poisoner is hid in some corner here," cried the quarrier. 
" We must make the curate give the vagabond up to us." 

" He shall answer for him." 

" It was he who enabled him to take refuge in the church." 

" He shall pay for both if we do not find the other." 

In proportion as the first impression of involuntary respect felt by 
the crowd was dissipated, voices grew louder, and countenances 
became fiercer and more menacing as each began to be ashamed of his 
moment's hesitation and weakness. 

" Yes, yes ! " exclaimed many voices trembling with anger, " we 
will have the life of one or the other." 

" Or of both." 

" So much the \rorse ; why does this shaven-crown hinder us 
from finishing our poisoner? " 

" Death ! death ! " 

At this burst of savage shouts, which resounded fearfully in the 
midst of the vast vaults of the cathedral, the mob, drunk with rage, 
rushed towards the grating of the choir, at the entrance to which 
Gabriel stood. 

The young missionary, who. hung on a cross by the savages of the 
Rocky Mountains, still prayed the Lord to forgive his executioners, 
had too much right courage, too much charity, not to risk his life a 
thousand times to save Pcre d'Aigrigny that man who had deceived 
him with such base, such cruel hypocrisy. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE MURDERERS. 



THE quarrier, followed by his band, rushed towards Gabriel, who 
had advanced still more in the front of the grating of the choir, 
exclaiming, with eyes sparkling with rage, 

" Where is the poisoner? we must and will have him !" 
"And who told you he was a poisoner, my brothers?" replied 
Gabriel, in his penetrating and finely modulated voice; "where are 



THE MURDERERS. 39 

the proofs the witnesses of his guilt where the victims of his 
crime ? " 

" Enough of talking," answered the quarrier brutally, and walking 
towards Gabriel with a threatening air ; " we did not come here to 
confess. Give us up the man we want; he must and he shall come 
out of his hiding-place, or you shall pay for him ! " 

" Yes, yes ! " exclaimed a loud burst of voices ; " that will be but 
fair." 

" Ah ! they are accomplices, no doubt," cried others. 

" Well, then, we'll have one or other ! " 

" Then, behold me ready to resign myself into your hands ! " said 
Gabriel, raising his head, and advancing with a calmness mingled with 
resignation and majesty. " Him or me ! you care not which? You 
only desire to shed blood take mine ! and with it my free pardon ; 
for, oh, my brethren, a fearful delirium troubles your reason." 

These words, the courage displayed by Gabriel, the noble grace of 
his attitude, with the extreme beauty of his countenance, made a 
lively impression on several of the assailants, when suddenly a voice 
cried out, 

" Come on, couie on, comrades, the poisoner is there hid behind 
the grating." 

" Where, where ? " screamed a full chorus of exulting voices. 

" There ! there ! don't you see ? stretched full length on the floor." 

At this announcement, the persons composing the formidable party, 
evidently acting under the control of the quarrier, and which had 
hitherto remained in dense masses on either side of the aisle where the 
chairs are usually placed, began now to disperse themselves rapidly, so 
as to find a means of entering into the choir, the last and only defence 
of the Abbe d'Aigrigny. 

While this was going on, the quarrier, Ciboule, and several others, 
advanced towards Gabriel, saying, with brutal triumph, 

"Ha, ha! we have got him this time ! Death to the poisoner! " 

To save the life of D'Aigrigny, Gabriel would have allowed him- 
self to be massacred where he stood, but farther on the grating, which 
was there scarcely four feet in height, might be scaled in an instant 
by these desperate men, or even torn down in their mad fury. 

All hope, therefore, of preserving the Jesuit from a violent death 
faded from the mind of the young missionary ; still, as a last effort, he 
exclaimed, 

" Stop, rash and unthinking men ! " throwing himself, as he spoke, 
with extended hands before the insensate crowd. 

His voice, his gesture, and the expression of his countenance, 
displayed at once an authority' so tender and brotherlike that a 
momentary hesitation appeared to seize the different actors in this 
wild outrage; it was, however, but a temporary lull of their angry 
passions, and was quickly succeeded by cries and yells of even a more 
threatening character, 

" Let him die ! kill him ! no mercy for a poisoner ! " 

"You have resolved upon his death?" said Gabriel, becoming 
ghastly pale. 

We have ! we have ! " 



40 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Well, then," cried the missionary, seized with a sudden inspira- 
tion, " let him die ! die on the instant ! " 

The astonished crowd gazed with mute wonder on the young 
priest as he pronounced these words, and for several instants the 
tierce set of men, by whom he was surrounded, remained silent 
and motionless, as thought, paralysed with exceeding and stupefying 
surprise. 

" The man you say is guilty," continued the young missionary, in 
a voice trembling with emotion ; " true, you have adjudged him so, 
without either proofs or witnesses; but still you doom him to death. 
You accuse him of being a poisoner where are his victims? You 
know not. But what matters, since you have already decided upon his 
fate ? You refuse even to grant him the privilege of pleading his 
innocence, and of clearing himself of these odious charges. Still, it 
could do him no good, since you have pronounced sentence of death 
upon him making yourselves at once his accusers, judges, and execu- 
tioners. So be it. Remember, the individual whose blood you wish 
to shed is wholly unknown to you. You have never even seen him. 
He has never done you the least harm ; for aught you know, he may 
not have injured others more than he has done yourselves, and yet, in 
the presence of your fellow- creatures, you take upon yourselves the 
fearful responsibility of putting him to death to death ! You must 
not forget the awful consequences involved in that word, my brethren ! 
If, then, your consciences absolve you of all blame, let it be as you 
will. I would fain hope, for your souls' sake, this man's blood may 
never rise against you. He is condemned by you to die, and that 
dreadful deed will be accomplished by you even before God's holy 
altar the sanctity even of the temple of the Lord will not preserve him 
from your rage ? " 

" No, no ! " exclaimed several voices, with savage determination. 

" And so," continued Gabriel, with increasing energy, " you will 
sprinkle the very stones of the house of your God with the blood of 
your victim ! You arrogate to yourselves the right of sullying the 
tabernacle of the Most High with the sight of a murder committed in 
cold blood. You assert that you are actuated by just motives, and are 
merely taking this man's life as a punishment for his crimes, and to 
serve as a warning for the prevention of others of a similar kind. Be 
it so. But, even then, what need is there for so many strong and 
powerful arms being upraised against one poor expiring creature? 
what occasion for all these furious cries this violence ? Is it thus the 
decrees of public justice are executed ? Is it thus a generous and 
equitable people punish such as have transgressed their laws ? No ! 
when the awful penalty must be paid, and the guilty wretch receive his 
doom, it is awarded calmly and deliberately by the judge, who pities 
while he sentences, and scrupulously abides by the dictates of an 
impartial conscience in pronouncing the terrible decree which bids a 
fellow-man expiate his offences with his life. Justice is not administered 
by wild and furious men, uttering savage yells and fierce cries, as 
though seeking to stupefy with terror some unhappy object of horrible 
and cowardly assassination. This, then, cannot be the fitting mode of 
accomplishing the fearful right with which you have invested your- 




THE MURDKRRRS 



Vol. III. P. 41. 



THE MURDERERS. 41 

selves, and which you are uow waiting to execute, for you are still in 
the same mind, my brethren, as regards the unfortunate man you 
came hither to seek ? " 

" We are ! we insist upon his life !" exclaimed the quarryman ; 
" we have a right to kill this person as he has killed others he is a 
public poisoner ! " 

And with these words the infuriated ruffian advanced, with glaring 
eyes and inflamed countenance, at the head of a determined band, and, 
marching fiercely on, appeared as though intending to force Gabriel 
from the position he occupied before the gate leading to the choir. 

But, instead of seeking to avoid the miscreant, the missionary went 
two or three steps forward to meet him, and taking him by the arm, 
cried, with a loud, firm voice, 

" Come ! " and in a manner dragging the astonished quarrier after 
him, whom his thunderstruck companions did not at first venture to 
follow, Gabriel rapidly traversed the space that divided them from the 
choir, opened the gate, and still holding the gigantic quarryman by 
the arm, exclaimed, pointing to the body of the Father d'Aigrigny, 
which lay still extended lifeless on the ground, " There is your victim ! 
you have condemned him ! Strike !" 

" I ? " cried the quarrier, drawing back. " What, alone ? " 

" Oh ! " answered Gabriel, with bitterness ; " there is no danger ! it 
will be an easy task ! See, he is exhausted by terror and ill-treatment, 
and scarcely retains a spark of life. He will make no resistance be 
not afraid, then, of carrying out your purpose ! " 

The quarryman stood motionless ; while the crowd, deeply touched 
by this novel incident, by degrees drew nearer and nearer to the open 
gate, without, however, venturing to cross its threshold. 

" Strike, I say ! " resumed Gabriel, pointing with solemn gesture 
to the assembled crowd ; " there are the judges, and you are the 
executioner." 

" No, no ! " cried the quarryman, drawing back, and turning away 
his eyes, " I am no executioner any more than others ! " 

The crowd remained still and motionless, and for several instants 
not a word or a sound broke the deep silence which reigned through- 
out the spacious cathedral. 

In the imminent danger in which the life of D'Aigrigny was 
placed, Gabriel had acted with a piofound knowledge of human 
nature. When a multitude, led away by blind rage, precipitates itself 
on a victim, and, amid the cries of an infuriated mob, each man deals 
his blow, this species of horrible murder appears less revolting, because 
undertaken in common the savage excitement of the murderers is 
still further kept up by the screams, the groans, and the sight of their 
victim's blood nay, his desperate, though futile efforts to defend 
himself, serve but as fresh incentives to the ferocity of these madmen; 
but let a single individual be selected from among these merciless 
homicides, and let him be placed before a weak and unresisting 
creature, who might have been previously the object of all this furious 
violence, and then let him be bid to strike : in nine cases out of ten, 
that man's courage would fail him, and his hand refuse to deal the 
blow. So it was with the quarrier, the miserable being recoiled at 



42 THE WANDERING JEW. 

the idea of committing a deliberate murder, alone, unaided, and in cold 
blood ! 

The preceding scene had passed very rapidly. Among such of 
the quarrier's companions as were nearest to the gate, many were 
incapable of comprehending the nature of the check his ""gp^f"" 
appeared to have sustained, although they themselves would have felt 
the very same as their hardened leader, had they, like him, been 
desired to perform the office of the executioner ! 

Several of the Jf-rty then proceeded from murmuring at the delay 
to inveighing bittetiy against the pusillanimity of their captain. 

"Why, he seems afraid of knocking the poisoner on the head !" 
said one. 

" The coward ! " 

" He is actually frightened !" 

" See, lie shrinks away instead of striking ! " 

As these exclamations reached the quarryman's ears, he ran to the 
gate, and holding it open, cried out, 

" If there is a man among you bolder than myself, let him come in 
and finish him who lies here. Let us see who chooses to turn public 
executioner ! " 

At this proposition the cries and murmurs sunk into perfect silence 
a still calm again filled the vast cathedral, while the rough, rude 
countenances clustered round the grating of the choir, exchanged the 
wrathful, vindictive expression, which had erewhile lighted them up, 
for a gloomy, half-confused, and frightened look ; in fact, the misguided 
crowd became, for the first time, impressed with the consciousness of 
the vile and cowardly action they were about to commit. 

No one stirred from among the dense crowd none had sufficient 
courage to undertake the deliberate act of slaughtering a fellow- 
creature with his single arm. 

All at once Father d'Aigrigny uttered a faint cry of pain, raised, 
by a violent convulsive effort, his head and one arm from the 
pavement, and instantly fell back again, as a person who had just 
expired. 

With a shriek of agony, Gabriel threw himself on his knees beside 
D'Aigrigny, exclaiming, 

" God of mercy he is dead ! " 

The mind of a multitude is frequently as easily impressed by 
incentives to good as evil. At the sudden and distracting outcry of 
Gabriel, those very men, who not many instants before had been loudly 
clamouring for the destruction of the person who now excited their 
sympathy, shuddered as the young priest, raising with one hand the 
heavy head of D'Aigrigny, tried with the other to find if still a pulse 
beat beneath the icy covering. Deep pity filled those very breaths so 
recently animated by the most deadly rage, as, with a subdued voice, 
they whispered from one to another, 

" He is dead ! " 

"M. le Cure," said the quarryman, leaning over Gabriel, "is he 
indeed no more ? can nothing be done for him ?" 

A profound silence followed these words, while the crowd waited 
in breathless suspense for the reply of Gabriel. 



THE MURDERERS. 43 

" Praise be to God ! " exclaimed Gabriel, at length, " he lives his 
heart still beats ! " 

"His heart beats he lives!" repeated the quarrier, turning 
towards the crowd to convey to them this joyful intelligence, while 
the words, " he lives !" were rapidly and exultingly passed from mouth 
mouth. 

" Yes, my friends," continued Gabriel, with a look of inexpressible 
happiness, " we shall yet be enabled to save him ! " 

"We shall save him!" repeated the quarrier, mechanically; and 
again the crowd softly whispered the good news to each other. 

" Quick, quick ! " said Gabriel, addressing the quarrier ; " assist me, 
brother, to convey him to a neighbouring house, where he will receive 
every attention and the most skilful treatment." 

The quarrier eagerly responded to the call, and while the mis- 
sionary raised D'Aigrigny by the arms, he supported the almost 
inanimate body, and so between them they carried it from the choir. 

At the aspect of their redoubtable leader thus aiding the young 
priest to bear in safety the man whom he so lately pursued with 
such unrelenting rage, fresh compassion moved the multitude ; who, 
melting under the influence of the words of Gabriel, as well as swayed 
by his noble example, gave full indulgence to the pity and remorse 
which now reproached them for their former violence, and each vied 
with the other in tendering their assistance to Gabriel. 

" M. le Cure," suggested the Ciboule, " the poor man would be 
much better carried on a chair ! " 

" Or shall I run to the Hotel Dieu for a litter ? " inquired a second 
voice. 

" Here, let me take your place, M. le Cure," cried a third ; " the 
body is too heavy for you I " 

" Pray allow me I " cried a strong, able-bodied young man, 
approaching the missionary with respect. " I can carry him quite well 
without any one's help." 

"Suppose I cut off after a coach, eh, M. le Cure?" inquired a 
regular-looking scamp, taking off his Greek cap. 

" Ah, to be sure ! " replied the quarrier ; " you've hit it, my ticket, 
quick's the word off with you !" 

" But ask M. le Cure, first, if he approves of your fetching a 
coach," interposed Ciboule, arresting the progress of the impatient 
messenger; " you mustn't do any thing but just what M. le Cure thinks 
proper." 

" Quite right," answered a spectator ; " we must not forget that we 
are in a church, and that M. le Cure is in his own house, and there- 
fore the only person who has power to command here ! " 

" Then, hasten, my good lad ! " said Gabriel, to the wild youth, 
whose desire to make himself useful had drawn down the rebuke of the 
two last speakers, " and make all the speed you can." 

As the lad was making his way through the crowd, a voice was 
heard, saying, 

" I have got a little wicker bottle containing brandy, would that 
be of any use ? " 

" Most assuredly !" answered Gabriel ; " let me have it, I beg ; it is 



44 THE WANDERING JBW. 

constantly employed to bathe the temples of sick persons, and also for 
them to smell." 

" Pass the bottle ! " cried Ciboule ; " and don't stop to take a gulp 
by the way I " 

The bottle, carefully passed from hand to hand, reached Gabriel in 
perfect safety. 

Whilst awaiting the arrival of a vehicle, D'Aigrigny had been 
temporarily placed in a chair, and, while many unsolicited hands were 
eagerly stretched out to support the Jesuit, the missionary caused him 
to inspire the brandy contained in the bottle; and so poweiful was the 
effect of the spirituous odour thus inhaled, that, after the lapse of a 
few seconds, D'Aigrigny made some slight movements, whilst a deep, 
convulsive sigh heaved his oppressed bosom. 

" He is saved he will live ! " exclaimed Gabriel, in an exulting 
voice. " Brothers, share in my joy, his life is safe !" 

" So much the better, so much the better ! " responded a burst of 
voices. 

" So much the better, indeed, brethren," continued Gabriel ; " for, 
instead of being overwhelmed by remorse for a crime, you will only 
have to dwell on the delightful reflection of a charitable and just 
action. Let us bless God that he has changed your blind fury into a 
sentiment of compassion and sympathy. Let us beseech Him, that 
neither yourselves, nor those dearest to you, may ever incur the 
fearful dangers this unfortunate individual has just escaped. Oh, my 
brethren ! " added Gabriel, pointing to a large figure of the crucifixion, 
with an emotion rendered still more touching and effective by the 
beauty of his heavenly countenance ; " my dear brethren, let us never 
forget that He who died on that cross to save all who were in misery 
or sorely troulSled, who was once poor and needy as we may be, has 
left us these tender, these encouraging words, ' Lore ye one another, 
even as God Himself has loved you /' Let us never forget them, never 
cease to remember who it was spoke them ; but let us love, aid, and 
cherish others, poor and lowly though we be : we shall thereby 
become happier, better, and more just. Let us love each other, my 
brethren, with love as tender and unselfish as was felt by Him who 
died upon the cross ; and let us humbly prostrate ourselves before the 
Christ, the Saviour of every weak, suffering, and oppressed being in 
this world of tears and sorrow ! " 

So saying, Gabriel knelt down, followed by the respectful multi- 
tude, so deeply had his mild, yet energetic language changed their 
hearts. 

At this moment, a singular incident added to the sublimity of the 
scene. 

As we have already said, shortly before the incursion of the quar- 
rier and his party into the church, several individuals, who chanced to 
be there, had made a hasty retreat ; two among the number seeking 
refuge in the organ-loft, from whence, though concealed from obser- 
vation, they had witnessed all the preceding scene. One of the 
persons was a young man employed in taking care of the organ, and a 
sufficiently good musician to be able to perform on it. Profoundly 
affected by the unexpected termination of a scene, which at first 



THE MURDEKERS. 45 

threatened such tragical results, and, yielding to his own musical 
inspiration, this young man, at the moment when he perceived Gabriel 
place himself on his knees, surrounded by all the people, could not 
refrain from seating himself at the instrument. 

At first a sort of harmonious, and almost inaudible sigh, appeared 
to float upon the bosom of the vast cathedral, like a breath from 
heaven ; then, as soft and sweet as angels' whispers, the aerial sounds 
spread through the lofty domes like the rich odours of the ascending 
incense: by degrees these mild and dulcet notes changed their sub- 
dued sweetness into an inexpressibly touching melody, at once melan- 
choly, tender, and religious, rising in perfect harmony to heaven as 
one burst of grateful voices, chanting forth their exceeding love 
and gratitude to the great Giver of all, with deep rejoicings in the 
mercy of a Saviour, who died that all might live. 

These strains were at first so low, so subdued, and so touching, 
that the kneeling multitude felt no sudden surprise, but were in a 
manner carried away almost unconsciously beneath the irresistible in- 
fluence of heavenly harmony ; and many an eye until then dry and 
stern became humid with gentle tears many a heart hardened against 
good beat as it had done in innocent days, when, kneeling beside 
their mother's knee, they had prayed for forgiveness, as they also 
hoped to be forgiven; and many a strong nature melted before the 
words so tenderly pronounced by Gabriel, " Love ye one another" 

It was at this precise moment that D'Aigrigny regained his con- 
sciousness and opened his eyes ; at first he believed himself under the 
influence of a dream. 

He had lost his senses at the sight of an infuriated populace, who, 
with imprecations and threats on their lips, had pursued him with cries 
of death, even to the holy sanctuary of the Lord's house; but when (the 
Jesuit reopened his eyes he beheld, by the pale light of the silver 
lamps burning in the sacred edifice, the before angry, vengeful, and 
implacable multitude kneeling in silent humility, and as though awe 
struck by the full religious sounds of the swelling organ, bending in 
earnest supplication before the throne of God, and prostrating them- 
selves in devout adoration before the sanctity of the holy temple of 
God. 

***** 

A few minutes after this, Gabriel, borne almost in triumph on the 
shoulders of the multitude, ascended the vehicle into which D'Aigrigny, 
who had now perfectly recovered his senses, had been previously 
placed. 

This carriage, by order of the Jesuit, stopped before the door of a 
house in the Rue Vangirard; whither he summoned sufficient strength 
and courage to enter alone ; Gabriel not being invited to accompany 
him to this dwelling, we shall at once conduct the reader thither. 



46 f THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PROMENADE. 

AT the extremity of the Rue de Vangirard there was a very high 
wall, in the entire length of which there was only one small wicket 
gate. When that door was opened, a court-yard was crossed sur- 
rounded by iron-barred windows covered with Venetian blinds, which 
precluded all possibility of seeing any thing through the bars then 
a large and beautiful garden was entered, planted with care and the 
utmost symmetry, at the farther end of which was a building two 
stories high, of a most comfortable appearance, constructed without 
any attempt at grandeur, but with that well- devised simplicity which 
is the evident token of well-regulated opulence. 

A few days have passed since Pere d'Aigrigny had been so boldly 
and nobly snatched by Gabriel from the infuriated populace. Three 
ecclesiastics wearing black gowns, white collars, and square caps, 
were walking in the garden with slow and measured pace. The 
youngest of the three priests seemed about thirty years of age, his 
countenance was pale, wrinkled, and marked with ascetic asperity. 
His two companions, aged from fifty to sixty, had, on the contrary, 
physiognomies at the same time devout and cunning : their cheeks, red 
and plump, shone in the sunshine, whilst their three chins like dewlaps 
gently reposed in the fine cambric of their collars. According to the 
rules of the order (they belonged to the society of Jesus), which for- 
bids them from walking only two together, these three congregationists 
did not leave each other for a single moment. 

"I very much fear," said one of the two, continuing a conversation 
begun, 'and speaking of one absent person, "I very much fear that 
the continued excitement to which the reverend father has been a 
prey since he was smitten by the cholera has exhausted his strength, 
and caused the dangerous relapse, which causes so much alarm for 
his life." 

" Never, as they tell me," said the other reverend father, " was 
agony seen like his." 

"Yes," said the youngest priest with bitterness, "it is painful to 
think that his reverence the Pere Rodin has been a subject of scandal, 
inasmuch as he has obstinately refused the day before yesterday to 
make a public confession, when his condition appeared so desperate, 
that between two of the paroxysms that attacked him it was deemed 
proper to offer him the last sacrament." 

" His reverence declared that he was not so ill as be was supposed 
to be," added one of the fathers, " and that he would go through his 
final duties when he felt the necessity for so doing." 

" The fact is, that for ten days, ever since he was brought here in 
a dying state, his life has only been, as we may say, one protracted, 
agonising struggle, and still he keeps alive." 

" I watched over him for the first three days of his illness, with 
M. Rousselet, Dr. Baleinier's pupil," said the young priest ; " and he 
had hardly one conscious interval ; and when the Lord accorded him 



THE PROMENADE. 47 

a few moments of lucidity, he employed them in detestable exclama- 
tions against the fate which nailed him to the bed." 

" It is asserted," said another reverend father, " that the Pere Rodin 
replied to Monseigneur the Cardinal Malipieri, who had come to urge 
him to make an exemplary end one worthy a son of Loyola, our holy 
founder" (at these words, the three Jesuits bowed simultaneously, as if 
they were each moved by one common spring), "it is asserted, I 
say, that Pere Rodin replied to his eminence, '/ have no need to confess 

publicly, 1 WISH TO LIVE,AND SHALL LIVE.'" 

" I was not present at that time ; but if the Pere Rodin has dared 
to utter such words," said the young priest, with an air of indignation ; 
" it is " 

Then reflection coming, no doubt, very apropos to his aid, he 
threw a look askance at his two mute companions, and added, 

" It is a great misfortune for his soul ; but I am certain they have 
calumniated his reverence." 

" It was but as a calumnious report that I alluded to these words," 
said the other priest, exchanging a look with his companion. 

A long silence followed. 

Whilst they had been conversing, the three congregationists had 
traversed a long walk, which ended at a clump of trees. 

In the centre of the point whence other walks radiated, there was 
a large round stone table. A man, also clothed in ecclesiastical attire, 
was kneeling on this tafcle, having on his back and breast two tablets 
suspended. 

On one was written in large characters, 
"REBELLIOUS." 

On the other, 

CARNAL." 

The reverend father, who, according to rules, was undergoing, at 
the hour of the promenade, this absurd, humiliating, and school-boy 
punishment, was a man of forty, with a frame of Hercules, bull-necked, 
with black curly hair, and swarthy visage. Although, according to 
custom, he continually and humbly kept his eyes lowered, it was easy to 
see, by the coarse and constant contraction of his shaggy eyebrows, that 
his internal resentment by no means tallied with his external resigna- 
tion, especially when he saw the reverend fathers approach who, in 
numbers of two and three, or alone, walked up and down in the paths 
which surrounded the circular spot where he was exposed. When they 
passed this vigorous penitent, the three reverend fathers, of whom we 
have spoken, obeying an impulse of admirable regularity and sympathy, 
simultaneously raised their eyes to heaven, as if to ask pardon for the 
abominations and sorrow of which one of their order was the cause ; 
then, with a second look, no less mechanical than the first, they all 
together darted a look of thunder and lightning on the poor placarded 
devil, stout fellow as he was ; and seeming to unite in his proper 
person all possible rights and titles to be Rebellious and Carnal. 
After which, heaving, like one man, three deep sighs of holy indigna- 
tion, exactly similar, the reverend fathers resumed their promenade 
with the precision of automata. 

Amongst the other reverend fathers, who were thus promenading 



48 THE WANDERING JEW. 

in the garden, there were here and there several laymen ; and for this 
reason : 

The reverend fathers had a neighbouring house, separated only from 
their own by a hedge, and to this house a good number of devotees 
came at certain periods to place themselves as ^ boarders, in order to 
effect what in their jargon is called retraises. 

This was charming. They found here combined the delights of 
succulent cookery and a lovely little chapel, a new and happy com- 
bination of the confessional and furnished apartment, the tnble-d'hutc 
and sermon. 

It was a delicate imagination that thus incorporated the holy hos- 
telry where corporeal and spiritual aliments were as appetisingly as 
delicately chosen and served up, where soul and body were alike re- 
freshed at so much a-head, and where they might eat meat on a Friday 
in all security of conscience, provided there was duly paid for a dis- 
pensation from Pome, piously marked down in the bill immediately 
following the coffee and glass of brandy. Thus, let us say it to the 
honour and glory of the profound financial skill of the reverend fathers 
and their insinuating dexterity, they had an immensity of custom. 
And how could it be otherwise ? The game was cooked to a turn , 
having been hung till the precise moment the way to Paradise was 
made so exquisitely smooth ; the sea-fish was so fresh, the rugged path 
of salvation so swept of thorns, and so deliciously sprinkled with sand, 
rose-colour and sifted, the newly-tapped wine was so abundant, the 
penitences so slight, to say nothing of the glorious sausages from Italy, 
and the indulgences of the holy father, which came direct from Rome, 
and first hand and first choice. What tables-d 'hote on earth could 
stand against such competition ? These were in this calm, oily, and 
opulent retreat, so many arrangements for the road to heaven ! For 
many persons, rich and pious, timid and meek, who, whilst they are 
horribly afraid of the devil's horns, cannot all at once renounce a mul- 
titude of very small and dearly beloved sins, the complaisant guidance 
and elastic morality of the reverend fathers were inappreciable. 

In fact, what deep and lasting gratitude ought not a corrupt, selfish, 
and cowardly old man to feel towards a priesthood who thus assured 
him against the prongs of Beelzebub's fork, and guaranteed to him 
eternal beatitude, and all without asking of him the sacrifice of one 
of his vitiated appetites, his depraved tastes, or those feelings of grossest 
egotism which had become the habit and the delight of his existence ! 
Thus, how could he recompense, adequately, those confessors so delight- 
fully indulgent those spiritual guides, whose complaisance was un- 
bounded ? Alas ! that was all to be paid for holily by the future gift 
of good and productive estates, of bright crowns all full weight, all to 
the loss and detriment of heirs-at-law and by blood, often poor, 
honest, industrious, and thus piously defrauded by the reverend 
fathers. 

One of the old monks of whom we have spoken, making allusion 
to the presence of the laymen in the garden of the house, and no doubt 
desirous of breaking a silence that had become embarrassing, said to the 
young monk with the gloomy and fanatic countenance, 

" The last boarder but one they brought in wounded to our house 



THE PROMENADE. 49 

of retreat continues, no doubt, as wild as ever, for I do not see him 
with our other boarders." 

" Perhaps," said the other monk, " he prefers to walk alone in the 
garden of the new building." 

" I do not think, since this man has been in our house of retreat, 
he has ever entered the little parterre contiguous to the detached pa- 
vilion which he occupies at the lower end of our establishment. Pere 
d'Aigrigny, who alone communicates with him, was complaining lately 
of the gloomy apathy of this boarder, whom we have not yet seen once 
in chapel," added the young father, with severity. 

" Perhaps he is not in a state to go there," said another of the reve- 
rend fathers. 

" Yes, he is," replied the other ; " for I heard Dr. Baleinier say, 
that exercise would be very salutary for this boarder, who was now con- 
valescent, but obstinately refuses to quit his chamber." 

" He could easily be carried to the chapel," remarked the young 
father, in a harsh tone ; and then, becoming silent, he continued to walk 
beside his two companions, who conversed as they went on. 
" Do you know this boarder's name ?" 

During the fortnight 1 know he has been here, I have never heard 
h m called otherwise than Monsieur du Pavilion." 

" One of our servants, who is waiting on him, and calls him thus, 
told me he was a man of extreme mildness, who appeared overwhelmed 
with some deep grief; he rarely speaks, and often passes whole hours 
with his face buried in his two hands. He appears quite contented 
with the house, but, strange to say, prefers a twilight darkness to day- 
light ; and, by another singularity, the blaze of a fire causes him such 
intense uneasiness, that, notwithstanding the cold of the last days in 
March, he would not allow a fire to be lighted in his apartment." 
" Perhaps he is a lunatic?" 

" No, on the contrary, the servant told me, that Monsieur du Pa- 
vilion was in perfect possession of his senses, but that the flame of the 
fire probably reminded him of some painful event." 

" Pere d'Aigrigny must know better than any one else all about 
Monsieur du Pavilion, if such be his name, for he spends hours every- 
day in long conference with him." 

" Pere d'Aigrigny has, however, for the last three days broken off 
these conferences, for he has not left his own chamber since he was 
brought here the other evening in a hackney-coach, dangerously ill, as 
they tell me." 

" True; but to return to what our dear brother just now said, 
replied the other, looking towards the young father, who was walking 
with downcast eyes, as if counting the grains of sand in the walk, " it 
is singular that the convalescent, the unknown, has not yet appeared 
,in chapel? Our other boarders come here especially to make their 
retreats with a redoubling of religious fervour ; and how is it, then, that 
this Monsieur du Pavilion does not participate in their zeal ?" 

" Why else should he have chosen our house in preference to any 

other ?" . 

" Perhaps it is a conversion ; or, perhaps, he has come to be in- 
structed in our holy religion." 

And the three priests continued their promenade. 

59 E 



60 Till: WANDERING JEW. 

To listen to this empty, puerile, gossiping conversation on third 
persons (all of whom are important to this history), these three reve- 
rend fathers might well be taken for men of middling or mean capaci- 
ties : but that would have been a serious mistake ; each of them, ac- 
cording to the character he was called upon to play in the devout 
troop, possessed high and decided merit, attended with that bold and 
insinuating, sly and firm, flexible and dissimulating spirit which is 
peculiar to the majority of the members of this society. Thanks to 
the obligation of mutual espionage imposed on each and all thanks 
to the detestable distrust which resulted therefrom, and in the midst of 
which these priests lived, they never exchanged with each other but 
those commonplaces which were free from all suspicion, reserving 
all the resources, all the powers of their mind, in order to execute 
passively the will of their chief, that, uniting in the accomplishment of 
the order, they might receive the most absolute, most blind obedience, 
as to extent, and the most perfect, most diabolical dexterity as to the 
form. 

Thus it would be difficult to enumerate the rich inheritances, the 
princely gifts which the two reverend fathers, with faces so jolly and 
rubicund, had caused to flow into the purse (always open, always in- 
satiable, always covetous) of the congregation, employing to effect 
their crafty ends, played off on weak minds, the sick or the dying, 
sometimes sanctified persuasion, cunning trickery, promises of nice 
small berths in Paradise, &c. ; sometimes slander, threats, and alarm. 

The youngest of the reverends, so fitly gifted with a pale and sallow 
complexion, a gloomy and fanatic look, and a harsh, intolerant voice, 
was a sort of ascetic prospectus, a kind of living sample which the 
company sent on ahead, in certain cases, when it was necessary to 
persuade the simple, that nothing could be more severe, more austere 
than the sons of Loyola, and that, by dint of abstinences and mortifica- 
tions, they became bony and transparent like anchorites, a belief which 
the fathers, with " fair round bellies," and well-plumped cheeks, would 
have found some difficulties in propagating: in a word, as in every 
company of old actors, they endeavoured as much as possible that each 
character should be performed by him whose corporeal constitution 
was most suited to it. 

Whilst discoursing as we have said, the reverend fathers had 
reached a building contiguous to the principal habitation, and arranged 
like a large warehouse. The communication at this spot was effected 
by a private entrance, which a tolerably high wall concealed. Through 
an open and barred window there was heard the incessant metallic 
clink of money, and sometimes there was a rushing sound, as if they 
had emptied them from a bag on to the table ; sometimes they gave 
out that harsh noise which piles of money give out when they are put 
in heaps. 

In this building was the commercial treasury, where payment was 
made for the loan of books, engravings, rosaries, &c. &c., made by 
the congregation, and profusely spread over France by the assistance 
of the church books, almost always stupid, singular, and licentious,* 

* In proof, we need only refer to one small work sold in the month of Marie, in 
which are the most revolting details of the accouchement of the Virgin ; and this 
volume is intended for young ladies. 



THE PROMENADE. o 1 

or else false, detestable productions, in which every thing that is great, 
noble, illustrious, in the glorious history of our immortal republic, is 
travestied, or told in language that would disgrace a fish-market. As 
to the engravings representing modern miracles, they are executed in 
a style of burlesque effrontery, which transcends most of the placards 
full of buffoonery, as they are exhibited by mountebanks at a fair. 

After having complacently listened to the metallic ring of the 
crown-pieces, one of the reverends said, with a smile, 

" To-day is only the small pay-day. The manager said lately, 
that the profits of the first quarter were 83,000 francs." (3500/.) 

" At least," said the young father, with emphasis, " it is so many 
resources and means of doing evil withdrawn from the hands of the 
impious." 

" It is in vain for the impious to rebel, the pious are with us," 
added the other reverend father ; " we have only to see, in spite of 
the anxious cares excited by the cholera, how rapidly the tickets for 
our pious lottery have gone off; and every day they bring us new 
lots. Yesterday the contributions were excellent. 1st. A small copy 
of the Venus Callipyges, in white marble (another gift might have 
been more modest, but the end justifies the means). 2d. A piece of 
the cord which was used to bind that infamous wretch Robespierre on 
the scaffold, and which is still marked with his accursed blood. 3d. 
A canine tooth of Saint-Fructueux, inlaid in a small gold reliquary. 
4th. A box of rouge of the time of the regency, in magnificent Coro- 
mandel ware, set round with fine pearls." 

" This morning," continued the other, " they brought a splendid 
lot. Only imagine, my dear brothers, a magnificent poniard, with 
silver-gilt hilt : the blade, very broad, is hollow ; and, by means of a 
really wonderful mechanism, as soon as the blade is plunged into any 
body, the very force of the blow causes a quantity of small transverse 
blades to dart forth, exceedingly sharp, so that, in penetrating the flesh, 
they render it completely impossible to withdraw the motJier-blade, if 
we may use such an expression. I do not think it possible to devise 
a more murderous weapon, of which the scabbard is of velvet, elabo- 
rately adorned with plates of sculptured silver-gilt." 

u Oh, oh I that is a lot which will create a deal of competition." 

" Unquestionably," replied the reverend father ; " and so it has been 
put with the Venus and the box of rouge amongst the great lots, for 
the drawing of the Virgin." 

" What do you mean ? " cried the other, with astonishment ; " what 
is the drawing of the Virgin ? " 

" What ! don't you know?" 

" Certainly not." 

" It is a charming invention of Mother Sainte-Perpetue. Imagine, 
my dear brother, that the principal lots will be drawn by a small figure 
of the Virgin, by means of a spring placed under her gown, and wound 
up with a watch-key, which then gives the figure a circular motion for 
some instants, so that the number at which the Holy Mother of the 
Lord Jesus pauses is the winning one." * 

* This ingenious parody of the games of roulette and biribi applied to an image of 
the Virgin took place at the drawing of a religious lottery six weeks since, in a 



UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 



52 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Oh, it is really charming ! " said the other father, " the idea is 
as apt as delightful ! I had not heard of it. But do you know how 
much the osteiisoir will cost, the expenses of which, it is intended, this 
lottery shall defray?" 

"The pere procureur told me, that the ostensoir, with the gems in- 
cluded, could not cost less than 35,000 francs (1400/.), exclusive of 
the old one, which will be only taken for old gold, and is estimated at 
about 9000 francs." (360/.) 

' f <The lottery will bring us in 40,000 francs (1600/.) ; so we shall be 
quite right in that respect," added the other reverend father; "and, 
at least, our chapel will not be eclipsed by the insolent extravagance 
of that of the Lazaristes." 

" They, on the contrary, will now envy us, for their fine ostensoir 
of massive gold, of which they were so proud, is not worth one-half 
what our lottery will produce us; since ours will be not only the 
larger, but covered with precious stones." 

This interesting conversation was unfortunately interrupted. It 
was so touching to see priests of a religion all poverty and humility, of 
submission and charity, having recourse to games of chance prohibited 
by law, and extending their hand to the public, to adorn their altars 
with revolting luxury, whilst thousands of their brethren were dying 
of hunger and misery at the doors of their glittering chapels ! a mi- 
serable rivalry of relics having no source but a vulgar and low feeling 
of envy, there was no contention as to who first should succour the 
poor, but who should display most riches on the table of the altar.* 

female convent. For believers, this must be monstrous sacrilege ; and for those wbo 
are indifferent it is deplorable ridicule ; for, of all traditions, that of Marie is one of 
the most touching and respected. 

* These lines were written when there came to our knowledge, if not a fact, at 
least a hope, in which we rejoice with all good persons. It is of a lottery devoted to 
the rebuilding of the organ of Saint-Eustacbe, a lottery which at this moment oc- 
cupies all Paris, and for the tickets of which a disgraceful premium is asked. 
A person, well informed, has assured us, that the Archbishop of Paris, moved by 
a decidedly Christian scruple, in which we beg most sincerely to join, has begged 
the cure of Saint-Eustache to give a nobly useful, generous, and charitable destina- 
tion to the enormous sum arising from this lottery, a sum amounting to 250,000 
francs (10,000*.), and originally intended for the rebuilding of the organ of the 
parish of Saint-Eustache. 

If we are well informed, the archbishop proposes: That the 250,000 francs in- 
vested in the funds will produce an annual revenue of about 10,000 francs. With 
this income every year, there can be effectual succour offered to at least twenty or 
thirty distressed families, giving each from 300 francs to 500 francs ; and, according 
to the intentions of the archbishop, the cure of Saint-Eustache will have an under- 
standing with the mayor and members of the Bureau de Charite of his division as to 
the just and legitimate distribution of this unlooked-for succour. 

After the drawing of the lottery, a kind of bill of indemnity relative to the change 
in the destination of the funds shall be demanded of the Assembly by the cur of 
Saint-Eustache, with the warm eloquence which has never failed him, and which cer- 
tainly will never have been inspired by a more Christian motive. 

No doubt but the majority of givers and subscribers will joyfully consent to this 
proposal we should say gratefully when M. le Curt, in tones full of emotion and 
couviction, shall have pointed out to them the ineffable happiness they must experience, 
when they reflect that, instead of having contributed to the useless erection of so 
costly, and, at least, misplaced a superfluity, in a church of one of the poorest quar- 
ters of Paris, where so much misery is rife, they will henceforth have assured in per- 
petuity an annual succour to so many interesting unfortunates ; for, in ten years only, 
three or four hundred families may be thus snatched from most desperate miser}'. 

We applaud most warmly this wise and charitable determination on the part of the 



THE PATIENT. 53 

One of the doors of the garden gate opened, and one of the three 
reverend fathers said, at the sight of a new person who entered, 

" Oh, here is his Eminence the Cardinal Malipieri come to visit 
Pere Rodin." 

" May this visit of his eminence," said the young father, witli a 
satirical air, "be more profitable to Pere Rodin than the last !" 

At this moment Cardinal Malipieri passed through the end of 
the garden on his way to the apartment occupied by Rodin. 



CHAPTER X. 

THE PATIENT. 

CARDINAL MALIPIERI (whom the reader will recognise as one of 
the personages present at the sort of conclave held by the Princess St. 
Dizier) repaired forthwith to the chamber of Rodin. His eminence 
was dressed as a layman ; he wore a large dressing-gown, of puce- 
coloured satin, from which exhaled a powerful smell of camphor : for 
the prelate had not neglected providing himself with any of the re- 
storatives which were then believed anti-choleric. 

Arrived at one of the landings belonging to the second floor, he 
stopped before a door painted grey : no one replied to the cardinal's 
knock ; his eminence, therefore, waited for no further ceremony, but at 
once went in, as a sort of privileged person ; he traversed a species 
of anteroom, and arrived in a small chamber, on one side of which- 
stood a truckle-bed, and on the other a dark wooden table, covered 
with empty phials. 

The physiognomy of the prelate was stamped with an expression 
of uneasiness and gloom ; his complexion evinced a more than ordinary 
bilious hue, while the dark halos that usually encircled his black, 
squinting eyes seemed broader and blacker than ever. 

Suddenly stopping, the cardinal looked around him almost fear- 
fully, then several times strongly inspired the odour of an anti- 
cholera phial he carried in his hand ; then, finding himself alone, he 
approached a looking-glass placed over the chimney, and minutely in- 
spected the colour of his tongue, and seeming, after a most rigid 
examination, thoroughly satisfied with the result, he next drew forth 
a small gold box containing preservation lozenges; two or three of 

Archbisbop of Paris, with whom the cure of Saint-Eustache is so worthy to be associ- 
ated ; and we think with them, that the blessings of the families succoured by this 
timely and sensible almsgiving will be for God a concert more agreeable than the 
sounds of a colossal piece of music costing 250,000 francs. 

It is useless to add, that an indemnity will probably be awarded to the workmen 
who were to have made this organ, and who would not necessarily be thrown out of 
work in case the lottery in question had not been thought of. 

This note not being submitted to the interdict which hangs over our work as to 
rppuhlisbing, we shall be happy to see our friends repeat it in the journals they write, 
in order to give every possible publicity to a resolution so honourable to those from 
whom it emanated. EUGENE SUE. 



54 THE WANDERING JEW. 

these lie placed in his mouth, closing his eyes with great earnestness 
while they dissolved upon his palate. 

These sanitary precautions taken, and the bottle of aromatic 
essence again pressed to his nostrils, the cardinal was preparing to 
enter the adjoining room, but bearing, through the slight partition 
which divided him from it, a somewhat unusual noise, he paused to 
listen, for so thin was the division between the room he stood in and 
that occupied by the patient, that not a sound escaped him. 

" I tell you I insist upon getting up," said a feeble, but abrupt and 
imperious voice. 

" You must not think of it, reverend father," replied a voice, in a 
stronger key ; " it is perfectly impossible I " 

" We shall see whether it be possible or no," returned the first 
speaker. 

" But, reverend father, do you wish to kill yourself? You are 
absolutely unable to rise ! You would certainly bring on a dangerous 
relapse were you to attempt such a thing. I cannot, and I will not 
consent to it." These words were followed by a fresh noise, as if of 
some feeble struggle, mingled with groans more of anger than sorrow, 
and then the last voice resumed, " No, no, father ; and, for better pro- 
viding against accidents, I will remove your clothes out of your reach. 
It is now the hour you should take your draught. I will go and 
prepare it." 

And, a door almost immediately opening, the prelate saw a young 
man, of about twenty-five years of age, enter, bearing on his arm an 
old olive-coloured great-coat, with an equally shabby threadbare pair 
of black pantaloons ; these two articles he threw upon the nearest 
chair. 

This individual was M. Ange Modeste Rousselet, Dr. Baleinier's 
head pupil. The countenance of the young practitioner expressed 
humility, mildness, and reserve, while his hair, which was cut almost 
close to his forehead, floated long and loosely down his neck and 
shoulders. He made a slight movement of surprise at the sight of the 
cardinal, whom he profoundly saluted, by bowing twice, without, 
however, once venturing to lift his eyes towards the face of his 
visitor. 

" In the first place," said the prelate, with his strong Italian accent, 
and still keeping the phial of anti-contagious salts tightly glued to his 
nostrils, " tell me, have the cholera symptoms returned? " 

" They have not, my lord ; but the malignant fever, which suc- 
ceeded the cholera, is running its usual course." 

" That is well ! But it seems the reverend father will not listen to 
reason. What was that noise I heard just now ?" 

" My lord, his reverence positively insisted upon rising and dress- 
ing himself, when, from his extreme weakness, he was incapable of 
standing on his feet. He is devoured by impatience, and we are very 
apprehensive, lest this continual agitation of mind should bring upon 
him a relapse, which must inevitably prove fatal." 

" Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning ? " 

"He has just left, my lord ! " 

" And what is his opinion of the patient ?" 



THE PATIENT. 55 

" He considers him to be in a most alarming state, my lord. He 
passed so bad a night last night, that M. Baleinier was very uneasy 
indeed this morning. The reverend father is now in one of those 
critical stages of his disease, in which a great and important crisis 
must speedily decide his life or death. M. Baleinier has now gone to 
procure what is requisite for the performance of a most painful, though 
re-active operation, and he will shortly return to perform this operation 
himself." 

" Has Father d'Aigrigny been apprised of this ? " 

" The reverend father is himself suffering under illness, as your 
eminence is doubtless aware ; it is now three days since he has been 
able to leave his bed." 

"I inquired after him as I came up-stairs," replied the prelate, 
" and I purpose paying him a visit shortly. But, to return to Father 
Rodin, has his confessor been sent for, since he lies in an almost 
hopeless state, and is on the point of undergoing so serious an 
operation ? " 

" M. de Baleinier did venture to say two or three words on the 
subject, as well as respecting the last sacraments for the dying ; but 
Father Rodin angrily declared that he was not allowed a moment's 
rest, but was being worried and harassed into his grave, that the safety 
of his soul was of as great importance to him as it could possibly be to 
any one else, and that " 

" Per Bacco ! he is not the person most concerned in the matter ! " 
exclaimed the cardinal, interrupting, with this pagan ejaculation, the 
further progress of M. Ange Modeste Rousselet, and elevating his 
voice even beyond its naturally sharp, shrill pitch ; " he is not the 
person to be considered, but the interests of the Company of Jesus. 
It is of paramount importance that the reverend father should receive 
the holy sacraments with the most startling and imposing effect, and 
that he should make not merely a Christian departure from this world, 
but that his end should be one talked of with wonder and admiration. 
It will be requisite to invite, not only the whole of the persons 
belonging to this house, but also strangers from all parts to witness 
the spectacle, that his edifying death may produce the most beneficial 
results." 

"Precisely what the reverend fathers Grison and Brunet have 
already endeavoured to impress on his reverence, my lord ; but your 
eminence is aware with how much displeasure Father Rodin received 
these suggestions, and, in the fear of bringing on a dangerous, perhaps 
fatal crisis, Dr. Baleinier has not ventured to persist in pressing them 
on the reverend father." 

'*Then it shall be my task to do so ; for, in these times of revo- 
lutionary impiety, the solemn end of a Christian such as Father Rodin 
cannot fail of producing a most salutary effect on the public mind. It 
would be more desirable that the reverend father should be embalmed 
after death ; he might then be offered for several days for public 
inspection in an illuminated chapel, according to the custom of the 
Romish faith. My secretary will furnish the design for the funeral 
car, which shall be of the most splendid and imposing description. 
Indeed, the high position of the reverend father in our community 



56 THE WAXDEBING JEW. 

entitles him to the most sumptuous style of funeral obsequies. He 
should have at least six hundred waxen tapers or candles, with about a 
dozen silver lamps boning with spirits of wine, and so placed over 
him as to throw a soft, yet brilliant light on the corpse. That will 
produce a charming effect ; and to heighten the impression, persons, 
suitably attired in deep mourning, shall be employed to distribute 
among the admiring spectators small slips of paper, containing passages 
relative to the pious and self-denying life of the reverend deceased. 
After that, there should be " 



ringing, made like that produced by throwing a metallic 
violently on the ground, proceeded from the adjoining 
chamber, in which lay the sick man, and obliged the prelate to cease 
his enumeration of the many honours with which be intended to adorn 
the burial of the Reverend Father Rodin. 

"I trust, my lord," whispered M. Ange Modeste Rousselet, ** that 
his reverence has not heard what you said respecting his being 
embalmed ; but his bed touches this partition, and every word that is 
spoken here can be distinctly heard in the adjoining chamber." 

" If he hare heard me," replied the cardinal, instantly dropping 
his voice, and retreating to the further extremity of the apartment, 
** it will enable me to come to the point at once with him. However, 
under any and every circumstance, I insist that the embalming and 
public exposition wfll be highly necessary to strike a powerful blow on 
the minds of tike public, who are already terrified at the ravages of 
the cholera, and are precisely in that excited state in which the mind 
most easily receives strong and vivid impressions.'* 

" Your eminence must permit me to remark that such exhibitions 
are not allowed here, the laws " 

"Ah!*" interrupted the cardinal, wrathfufly, a there we have it 
again the laws the laws ! always the laws whenever a good or praise- 
worthy manifestation of religion is proposed. But, pray, has not Rome, 
too, its laws ? and is not every priest the subject of Rome ? Is it not 

then time to ** Then, pausing, as though unwilling to explain 

himself more explicitly to the young doctor, the prelate merely replied, 
AH this shall be duly considered and attended to, but, pray tell me, 
has the reverend father had any fresh attack of delirium since I was last 
here?- 

" Yes, my lord ; during the past night he was delirious lor nearly 
two hour*." ' 

* And did you, as I requested, keep an exact account of each word 
that escaped the patient's lips during the paroxysms ? ". 

"I did, my lord: your eminence will find herein written every 
sentence uttered by Father Rodin during his unconscious state." 

So saying, M. Ange Modeste Rousselet took from his .4de pocket 
a folded paper, which he handed to the cardinal with alow bow. 

We shall merely observe, that the latter part of the conversation, 
having been carried on in an under tone, and at the other end of the 
room, Rodin had not been able to catch one word, while the whole of 
the previous part relative to the proposed embalming had been dis- 
tinctly beard by him. 

The cardinal, having received the note from M. Rousselet, opened 



THE PATIENT. 57 

it with the most eager cariosity. After a hasty perusal of its content*, 
he crushed the paper in his hand, murmuring, in a tone of evident 
chagrin, 

"Still a mere assemblage of incoherent words; not a sentence 
from which any tangible conclusion can be drawn. One would 
imagine, that this man were gifted with the power of controlling his 
speech, even during the ratings of delirium, and only permits himself 
to talk wildly when his brain wanders on trifling matters!" Then, 
addi easing M. Rousselet, he said, " Ton are positively sore that yon 
have omitted none of the expressions used by the reverend father 
daring last night's attack?" 

" With the exception of phrases which, though continually repeated 
by his reverence, I have only once written, your eminence may rest 
persuaded I have not left out a single word, however insignificant or 
unmeaning it might have appeared to me." 

" You wfll now have the goodness to conduct me to the reverend 
father," said the prelate, after a momentary silence. 

"But, my lord," remonstrated the young man, with deep sob- 
mission and considerable hesitation, " the fit has but left his reverence 
about an hour, and he is extremely weak and exhausted !" 

44 An additional reason for my choosing the present moment for my 
visit," said the prelate, somewhat incautiously. Then, as if desirous of 
correcting himself, he added, "I mean be win be better able to 
appreciate the consolations I come to offer him. Go instantly, and 
apprise him of my visit, and should he have fallen asleep let him be 
awakened.** 

" It is for your eminence to command, and for me to obey," said 
M. Rousselet, bowing till his head nearly touched the cardinal's fee*. 
And M. Ange Modeste Rousselet disappeared into the adjoining 
chamber. 

Left alone, the MTdinal said, with a thoughtful air, "I do not 
forget, when first Rodin was seized with this fearful attack of cholera, 
his first idea was, of being poisoned by order of the papal throne. He 
must, then, be carrying on formidable machinations against Rome to 
have conceived so abominable an apprehension. Are our suspicions 
respecting him, then, well founded ? Can he be carrying on dan- 
gerous though concealed plots against an influential parry of our 
Sacred College? But wherefore should he do so? Ah ! that k the 
thing we cannot manage to discover, so well are all his secrets kept by 
those he employs his accomplices are too faithful ! I was in hopes 
that, during his delirium, he would have let fall some word or ex- 
pression which would have assisted me in finding out what it is so 
important to know ; for, generally, and more especially with men of 
minds so busy, restless, and active as his, the ravings of madness are but 
the expression of one predominating idea; yet this is the fifth written 
transcript I have received of all he has uttered during so many attacks 
of delirium, and not a word, not a sentence one would care to know, 
nothing but unmeaning sentences, or unconnected expressions " 

The reflections of the prelate were interrupted by the return of M. 
Rousselet. 

** I am extremely concerned, to be obliged to tell your eminence 
that the reverend father positively refuses to see any one. He asserts, 



58 THE WANDERING JEW. 

a* a reason, his absolute need of perfect rest. Although greatly 
exhausted, he seems much incensed ; and I should not be surprised if 
he overheard what your eminence proposed respecting his being 
embalmed " 

Without allowing M. Rousselet to proceed, the cardinal ex- 
claimed, 

' If I understand aright, Father Rodin was delirious during the 
past night ? " 

" He was, your eminence ; the fit came on about three o'clock this 
morning, and continued till about halt-past five." 

" From three to half-past five," repeated the prelate, as though 
seeking to impress this fact on his memory ; " and, upon the whole, 
the attack passed away without presenting any fact that struck you as 
extraordinary in any way ? " 

" None, whatever, my lord ; as your eminence may convince your- 
self of by perusing the paper, which, I beg to repeat, contains even the 
most incoherent word." Then, perceiving that the prelate was making 
his way towards Rodin's chamber, M. Rousselet again deferentially 
observed, " But, indeed, my lord, it will be useless going into that 
room, the reverend father peremptorily refuses to see any one. He 
has, indeed, need to gather strength to support the operation which 
will be shortly performed upon him, and there would be, possibly, 
considerable danger in " 

But, without deigning the slightest attention to this remark, the 
cardinal at once entered Rodin's apartment. 

This chamber, which was large, and lighted by two good-sized 
windows, was plainly, but comfortably furnished. Two large logs 
were burning upon the hearth. Among the hot cinders were placed a 
coffee-pot, an earthen jug, and a saucepan of the same material, from 
whence steamed forth a powerful scent of mustard, while on the 
chimney were scattered morsels of linen, and various bandages. 

Throughout this chamber prevailed that peculiar smell arising from 
the combinations of medicines, and peculiar to sick-rooms in general, 
mingled with an odour so acrid, nauseous, and offensive, that the 
cardinal suddenly paused on the threshold, either unable, or unwilling 
to advance. 

As the reverend fathers had observed during their morning's walk, 
Rodin lived because he had said, 

" / must, and I urill live ! " 

For, in the same manner as weak imaginations and cowardly 
minds frequently sink at the bare apprehensions of evil (a thousand 
facts bear out the assertion), so do vigour of character and moral 
energy frequently enable the possessor to struggle successfully against 
misfortunes, and even to triumph over almost desperate cases. 

So it was with the Jesuit. The indomitable firmness of his dis- 
position, and, it might almost be added, the fierce determination of his 
will (for the will has sometimes a sort of mysterious omnipotence, which 
is as wonderful as fearful), aided by the skilful treatment of Dr. 
Baleinier, had enabled him to overcome the dreadful complaint by 
which he had been originally attacked ; but to the violent shock the 
whole system had undergone, from the scourge which had so unex- 
pectedly seized it, succeeded a fever of the most dangerous descrip- 



THE PATIENT. 59 

tion, which for several days placed the life of Rodin in the greatest 
jeopardy. 

This increase of danger had created the most lively apprehensions 
in the mind of D'Aigrigny, who, spite of his jealous rivalry with 
Rodin, was well aware, that, in the present position of affairs, it was 
the hand of Rodin that held the various threads of their vast scheme, 
and which alone could bring it to a successful issue. 

The half-closed curtains admitted but an imperfect light on the 
bed, where Rodin writhed in hopeless impatience. The countenance 
of the Jesuit had lost that greenish cast peculiar to cholera patients, but 
it had assumed a corpselike lividness ; and so fearfully was he attenuated, 
that his harsh, rough skin clung, with appalling tenacity, to his sharp 
angular bones. The veins and muscles of his long, skinny, withered 
throat, resembling, in its naked hideousness, that of a vulture, looked 
like a bundle of cords ; while his head, covered with a greasy, faded 
silk night-cap, from which escaped a few straggling locks of dull grey 
hair, reposed on a soiled and tumbled pillow, Rodin positively refusing 
to allow his linen to be changed. His thin, grey beard, which had 
been long unshaven, stood out here and there upon the clay-coloured 
skin like the bristles of a half-worn-out brush. Beneath his shirt he 
wore an old dirty, ragged woollen jacket, and from the bony hand 
which hung out of the bed was exhibited a cotton, snuff-begrimed 
pocket-handkerchief, whose colour no artist, however skilful, could 
depict. 

He might have passed for one from whom the vital spark had fled, 
but for two glaring eyes, which burnt with feverish glow in the 
hollow depths of their sunken orbits. The fierce, restless gleam, 
which shot upwards from the dark shadows imprinted by wasting 
disease around the cheekbone, appeared to concentrate the whole spirit, 
life, and energy of the man ; it told a tale of burning disquietude 
and restless anxiety. Sometimes his features would appear contracted 
by acute agony, then, again, the convulsive movements of the hands, 
and sudden starting of the weakened body, bespoke his deep despair at 
being thus riveted to a bed of sickness, while the important interests 
with which he was intrusted called for his utmost activity and zeal. 
His mind, thus continually over-excited and on the stretch, assumed a 
wild and wandering form, permitting strange and unconnected expres- 
sions to escape bis lips unconsciously ; and these fits of wandering soon 
assumed the more fearful shape of actual raving and delirium, from 
which he recovered as one wakes from a frightful dream or painful 
vision. 

In pursuance with the excellent advice of Dr. Baleinier, who con- 
sidered Rodin as wholly unfit to occupy himself with any affairs of 
moment, Father d'Aigrigny had hitherto avoided replying to the 
questions put by Rodin touching the state of the Rennepont affair, 
so deeply interesting to him, and which he trembled to think might be 
either compromised, or utterly lost, through the disastrous inaction 
of him who alone held all its different threads, and could alone bring it 
to maturity. 

This silence on the part of D'Aigrigny, added to the complete 
ignorance in which the patient had been kept of all that had occurred 



60 THE WANDERING JEW. 

since his unfortunate seizure, materially increased the irritation of 
Rodin, and rendered him still more exasperated at being thus tied to 
;i >irk-bed, when so much remained to be done. 

Such was the moral and physical situation of Rodin, when, spite of 
his prohibition, Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber. 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE SNARE. 

IN order that we may the better understand the torture of Rodin, 
reduced to inactivity by his illness, and to explain the importance of 
the visit of Cardinal Malipieri, let us, in a few words, recall the au- 
dacious views of the ambitious Jesuit, who believed himself the rival 
of Sixtus Quintus, whilst waiting to become his equal. 

To reach, by aid of the success of the Rennepont affair, to the ge- 
neralship of his order ; and then, in case of an abdication almost fore- 
seen, to make sure, by a splendid system of corruption, of the majority 
of the Sacred College, in order to remount the pontifical throne ; and 
then, by means of a change in the statutes of the Company of Jesus, 
to enfeoff this powerful Society to the holy seat, instead of leaving it 
in its present independence, to equal, and almost control the papal 
power such were the secret projects of Rodin. 

As to the possibility, that was consecrated by numerous prece- 
dents ; for many simple monks or priests had been suddenly elevated 
to the pontifical dignity. 

As to the morality of the thing, the accession of the Borgias, of 
Julius II., and many other strange vicars of Christ, in comparison 
with whom Rodin was a venerable saint, excused, authorised the pre- 
tensions of the Jesuit. 

Although the aim of Rodin's secret intrigues at Rome had been 
until then enveloped in the deepest mystery, there was a suspicion 
aroused as to his private understanding with a great number of the 
members of the Sacred College. A section of this college, at the head 
of which was the Cardinal Malipieri, having been disturbed, the car- 
dinal profited by his journey to France to try and penetrate the dark 
designs of the Jesuit. If, in the scene we are about to paint, the car- 
dinal was so obstinately bent in his resolution of conferring with the 
reverend father in spite of his refusal, it was because the prelate 
hoped, as we shall presently see, to contrive to surprise by stratagem 
a secret until then so completely hidden as to the intrigues which he 
believed to be going on at Rome. 

It was, therefore, in the midst of circumstances so important, so 
vital, that Rodin found himself a prey to a malady which paralysed 
his strength, at a moment when more than ever he required all his 
activity, all the resources of his understanding. 

****** 

After having remained for some moments motionless near the door, 



*'.- 




THE SNARE. 
Vol. III. P. 81. 



THE SNARE. 61 

the cardinal, still holding his bottle under his nose, slowly approached 
Rodin's bed. 

Rodin, irritated at this pertinacity, and desirous of escaping an in- 
terview, which, for many reasons, was particularly disagreeable to him, 
turned his head suddenly toward the side of his bed, and pretended to 
sleep. 

The prelate, quite regardless of this pretence, and determined to 
profit by the state of weakness in which he knew Rodin to be, drew a 
chair, and, in spite of his repugnance, seated himself at the Jesuit's 
bedside. 

" My reverend and very dear father, how do you find yourself?" 
he inquired, in a honeyed tone, which his Italian accent rendered even 
more hypocritical. 

Rodin turned a deaf ear, breathed loudly, and made no reply. 

The cardinal, although he had his gloves on, took, not without dis- 
gust, the hand of the Jesuit in his own, shook it slightly, and said in 
a still louder tone, 

" My reverend and very dear father, answer me, I entreat you ! " 

Rodin could not repress a movement of angry impatience, but still 
remained mute. 

The cardinal was not a man to be repulsed so easily ; and thus he 
again shook, and somewhat more vigorously, the Jesuit's arm, repeating 
with phlegmatic tenacity, which would have overcome the endurance 
of the most patient man in the world, 

" My reverend and dear father, as you are not asleep, listen to me, 
I pray of you ! " 

Suffering acute pain, and exasperated by the obstinacy of the 
prelate, Rodin turned his head abruptly, fixed on the Roman his hol- 
low eyes, glaring with sombre fire, and with his lips contracted with a 
sardonic smile, he said, in a bitter tone, 

" You are determined, then, monseigneur, to see me embalmed, as 
you said just now, and exposed in the lighted chapel, as you will come 
thus to increase my anguish, and hasten my end ! " 

" I, my dear father ? What are you saying ? " and the cardinal 
raised his eyes to heaven, as if to call on it to testify the tender in- 
terest he took in the Jesuit. 

" I say what I just now heard, monseigneur ; for the wainscot is 
but thin," added Rodin, with increased bitterness. 

"If by that you would infer that I desire for you, with all the 
strength of my soul that I desire for you a Christian and exemplary 
end, oh, you are not deceived, my very dear father ! you have per- 
fectly understood me ; for it would be most grateful to me to see you, 
after a life so well spent, a subject of adoration to the faithful." 

"And I I tell you, monseigneur," cried Rodin, in a weak and 
broken voice, " I tell you, that it is an absurd ferocity in giving vent to 
such wishes in the presence of a sick man in a desperate condition. 
Yes," he continued, with increasing animation, which contrasted 
strangely with his weakened state ; " but take care, for, mark me I if I 
am thus tormented if I am beset thus incessantly if I am not left 
to groan out in my agony, without being disturbed, you will force 
me to die in an unchristian manner. I warn you of this ; and if you 



62 THE WANDERING JEW. 

rely on an edifying spectacle, to turn it to account, you are very much 
mistaken." 

This outburst of anger had painfully fatigued Rodin, who fell 
back on his pillow, and wiped his cracked and bleeding lips, with his 
dirty cotton pocket-handkerchief. 

" Come, come, calm yourself, my very dear father," continued the 
cardinal, with a paternal air, do not entertain such sad thoughts : no 
doubt, Providence has great designs in store for you, since you have 
been already delivered from such serious peril, let us hope that he will 
still save you from that which now menaces you." 

Rodin replied by a hoarse murmur ; and turned over with his back 
to the cardinal. 

The imperturbable prelate continued, 

" The views of Providence are not limited to your safety, my very 
dear father ; but its power has been manifested, also, in another way. 
What I am about to tell you is of the utmost importance ; and, there- 
fore, listen to me attentively." 

Rodin, without turning round, said, in a tone of bitter anger, 
which betrayed real suffering, 

"They wish for my death my chest is on fire my head burns, 
and they are pitiless. Oh, I suffer like the damned " 

" Already ! " said the Roman, in a low voice, and with a malicious 
smile at his own sarcasm. Then, he said aloud, 

" Allow me to insist, my very dear father, make a little effort to 
listen to me : you will not regret it." 

Rodin, still stretched out in the bed, raised towards heaven, but 
without uttering a syllable, and with despairing gesture, his two 
clasped hands still clenching his cotton handkerchief, and which then 
fell enfeebled beside his body. 

The cardinal shrugged his shoulders slightly, and then slowly ac- 
centuated each syllable of the following words, that not one might 
escape Rodin : 

"My dear father, Providence has willed it, that, during your 
paroxysms of delirium, you unconsciously made very important reve- 
lations." 

And the prelate waited with listless curiosity the result of this 
pious snare, which he spread for the enfeebled mind of the Jesuit. 

But he still turned away from the cardinal, and did not appear to 
have heard him, but remained perfectly mute. 

" Doubtless you are reflecting on what I have said, my dear father," 
resumed the cardinal. " You are right ; for it involves most grave facts. 
Yes, I repeat to you, that Providence has permitted that, during your 
delirium, your language should betray your most secret thoughts ; re- 
vealing, fortunately to me alone, things that compromise you in the 
most serious manner. In brief, during your attack of delirium last 
night, which lasted for two hours nearly, you revealed the concealed 
aim of your intrigues at Rome, with several members of our Sacred 
College." And the cardinal, rising gently, went to lean over the bed, 
in order to detect the expression of Rodin's countenance. 

Rodin did not give him time for this. 

Like a corpse, submitted to the action of the Voltaic pile, moves 



THE SNARE. 63 

with sudden and strange jerks, so Rodin bounded in his bed, turned 
round, and suddenly rose in his seat, as he heard the last words uttered 
by the cardinal. 

" He betrays himself," said the cardinal, in a low voice, and in 
Italian. 

Then, resuming his seat hastily, he fastened on the Jesuit his eyes, 
sparkling with joy. 

Although he had not heard Malipieri's exclamation although he 
had not remarked the gratified expression of his countenance, Rodin, 
in spite of his feebleness, at once comprehended the grave imprudence 
of his first too significant movement. He passed his hand slowly 
over his brow, as if he experienced a kind of vertigo, then he cast 
round surprised and wild looks, lifting to his trembling lips his old 
pocket-handkerchief, which he bit mechanically for several seconds. 

" Your extreme emotion, your alarm, alas, confirm the sad disco- 
very I have made ! " continued the cardinal, triumphing more and 
more at the success of his stratagem, and seeing himself on the point 
of penetrating at last a secret so important. " So now, my very dear 
father," he added, " you will comprehend how deep your interest must 
be for entering into the minutest details as to your plans and accom- 
plices at Rome, in order, my dear father, that you may hope for the 
indulgence of the holy seat, especially if your confession be explicit 
enough, so circumstantial, that they will supply all the gaps which 
were inevitably left in a disclosure made during the paroxysms of a 
burning delirium ! " 

Rodin, recovered from his first emotion, perceived but too late 
that he had been tricked, and had compromised himself gravely, not 
by his words, but by a movement of surprise and alarm, danger- 
ously significant. 

In fact, the Jesuit was for a moment afraid that he had betrayed 
himself during his delirium when he heard himself charged with dark 
intrigues with Rome ; but, after a few minutes' reflection, the Jesuit, 
despite the weakness of his frame, said to himself, with much shrewd- 
ness, 

" If this crafty Roman knew my secret, he would be too cunning 
to let me know it ; he has, therefore, only suspicions, increased by the 
involuntary movement which I could not at the moment repress." 

Rodin wiped away the cold sweat which dripped from his burning 
brow. The excitement of the scene increased his sufferings, and ag- 
gravated his condition, already so alarming. Overcome by fatigue, 
he could no longer remain seated in his bed, and fell back heavily on 
his pillow. 

" Per Bacco ! " said the cardinal, in a low voice, alarmed at the 
expression of the Jesuit's countenance, " if he were to die without say- 
ing a word, and so escape my snare, so skilfully spread ! " and, lean- 
ing over Rodin suddenly, the prelate said to him, 

" What ails you now, my very dear father ? " 

" I feel so weak, monseigneur : what I suffer no words can ex- 
press." 

" Let us hope, my very dear father, that this crisis will not have 
any injurious result; but that, on the contrary, it may so happen, that 
it will be advantageous for the safety of your soul that you should 



64 THE WANDERING JEW. 

make to me, without any delay, a most complete revelation, perfect 
in all points; and should this avowal exhaust your strength, why, the 
life eternal is worth infinitely more than this perishable existence." 

"What avowal do you refer to, monseigneur ?" inquired Rodin, 
with feeble voice and sarcastic tone. 

" How I what avowal ? " cried the amazed cardinal, " why, the 
avowal of those dangerous intrigues which you have machinated at 
Rome." 

" What intrigues ?" inquired Rodin. 

" Why, the intrigues you revealed during your delirium," replied 
the prelate, with increased and anxious impatience. " Your disclosures 
were not sufficiently explicit, why, then, should you hesitate so cul- 
pably to render them complete ? " 

" My disclosures were explicit You assure me of that ? " 

said Rodin, pausing at every word, so great was his difficulty of 
breathing ; but his energetic will, his presence of mind, did not for an 
instant forsake him. 

" Yes, I repeat to you," resumed the cardinal, " that, except some 
few connecting links, your disclosures were most explicit." 

" Then, what is the use of repeating them?" and the same 
ironical smile played over the blue lips of Rodin. 

"What is the use?" exclaimed the irritated prelate. "Why, to 
deserve pardon ; for, if we accord indulgence and remission to the re- 
pentant sinner, who confesses his faults, we award anathema and male- 
diction to the hardened sinner!" 

"Oh what torture! this is dying by a slow fire," murmured 
Rodin ; then saying aloud, " Since I have disclosed all I have 
nothing more to tell you you know all." 

" I know all ! Yes, unquestionably I know all," replied the prelate, 
in a voice of thunder; "but how have I learned it? by the avowal 
you made, without even having the consciousness of what you were 
doing ; and do you suppose that that will account to you for any 
thing ? No, no ! Believe me, the moment is solemn ; death threatens 
you : yes, it threatens you ; tremble, then, at uttering a sacrilegious 
lie!" cried the prelate, more and more enraged; and shaking Rodin's 
arm very forcibly, " Dread eternal flames if you dare to deny what 
you know to be the truth. Do you deny it?" 

" I will deny nothing," articulated Rodin, painfully ; " but leave 
me in quiet." 

" Then, at length God inspires you," said the cardinal, with a sigh 
of satisfaction. 

Then, believing he had attained his aim, he continued, 

" Hearken to the voice of the Lord : that will guide you in safety, 
my dear father. So then, you deny nothing ?" 

"I was delirious I could not then deny (oh, how I 
suffer!" added Rodin, as if by parenthesis) "1 can not, therefore 
deny my father I may have uttered during my par- 
oxysm " 

" But when these pretended follies are in accordance with reality," 
replied the prelate, furious at being again frustrated in his aim ; " but 
when delirium becomes an involuntary, providential revelation " 

"Cardinal Malipieri, your trick is not even equal to my 



THE GOOD NEWS. 65 

agony," replied Rodin, in a faint voice. " The proof that I have not 
told you my secret if I have a secret is that you are 
anxious that I should disclose it now " 

And, in spite of his anguish, in spite of his increasing feebleness, 
the Jesuit summoned strength enough to raise himself partly erect in 
his bed, look the prelate steadfastly in his face, and confront him with 
a smile of devilish irony, after which Rodin fell back exhausted on his 
pillow, pressing his two clenched hands against his breast, and utter- 
ing a long sigh of agony. 

" Malediction ! This infernal Jesuit has detected me," said the car- 
dinal, stamping with rage : " he saw that his first movement compro- 
mised him, and is now on his guard. I shall get nothing out of 
him* unless I take advantage of his weakness ; and by dint of con- 
tinued urging, threats, alarms " 

The prelate could not finish, for the door opened suddenly, and 
Pere d'Aigrigny entered, exclaiming, with a burst of inexpressible joy, 
" Excellent news ! ! " 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE GOOD NEWS. 

Bv the alteration in Pere d'Aigrigny's features, his pallor, and his 
faltering step, it was plainly perceptible that the terrible scene at 
Notre-Dame had had a violent effect on his health ; yet his counte- 
nance became radiant and triumphant as, entering Rodin's chamber, 
he exclaimed, 

" Excellent news 3 " 

At these words, Rodin started in spite of his prostrated state, and 
raised his head quickly ; his eyes were uneasy, anxious, penetrating, 
as, with his withered hand, he made a sign to Pere d'Aigrigny to 
approach his bed, and said to him, in a voice so low and broken as 
scarcely to be heard, 

" I feel myself very bad the cardinal has almost finished me 
but if this excellent news refers to the Rennepont affair the 
thought that devours me and of which no one speaks to 
me I feel that I shall recover." 

" Recover then ! " exclaimed Pere d'Aigrigny, forgetful of the 
instruction of Dr. Baleinier, who had forbidden Rodin to be spoken to 
on any matters of serious business. " Yes," repeated Pere d'Aigrigny, 
" be saved read and rejoice for what you foretold begins to be 
realised." 

So saying, he drew from his pocket a paper, which he handed to 
Rodin, who clutched it with a greedy and trembling hand. 

Some minutes previously, Rodin had really been incapable of con- 
tinuing his conversation with the cardinal, even had prudence allowed 
of it : he would also have been incapable of reading a single line, so 
much was his vision troubled and dimmed ; yet, at the words of Pere 
d'Aigrigny, he felt such a spring, such hope, that, by a powerful effort 
of energy and will, he raised himself on his seat, and, with his mind 
60 F 



66 THE WANDERING JEW. 

alert, his look intelligent and animated, he read rapidly the paper 
which Pere d'Aigrigny had just handed to him. 

The cardinal, amazed at this sudden revival, asked himself if he 
saw really and truly the same man who, some minutes before, had 
fallen overpowered on his bed almost without consciousness. 

Rodin had scarcely read before he uttered a cry of stifled joy, 
saying, in a tone impossible to describe, 

" Thus, then, ONE is out of the way it begins it works I " 

Then, shutting his eyes with a kind of ecstasy, a smile of proud 
triumph spread over his features, and rendered him even more hideous 
as they disclosed his yellow and decayed teeth. His emotion was so 
excessive, that the paper he had just read fell from his tremulous 
hand. 

" He has fainted I " cried Pe're d'Aigrigny, with disquietude, and 
stooping over Rodin. " It is my fault ; I forgot that the doctor had 
forbidden me to confer with him on serious matters." 

"No, no do not reproach yourself," said Rodin, in a faint 
voice, and raising himself up half erect in order to assure Pere 
d'Aigrigny. " This unexpected joy will perhaps cause my cure 
yes I know not what I experience but see look at my cheeks 
I seem for the first time since I have been nailed to this bed of 
misery that they have some colour in them I almost feel 
warmth." 

Rodin said true. A moist and slight flush suddenly appeared in 
his chill and livid cheeks ; his very voice, although still very weak, 
became less tremulous, and he exclaimed, with so much excitement, 
that Pere d'Aigrigny and the prelate both trembled, 

" This first success is the herald of more I read into futurity 
yes yes," added Rodin, with an air more and more assured, " our 
cause will triumph all the members of the execrable Rennepont 
family will be crushed crushed and that very shortly: you will 
see you " 

Then, interrupting himself, Rodin fell back on his pillow, saying, 

" Ah, this joy suffocates me my voice fails me " 

" What is this?" inquired the cardinal of Pere d'Aigrigny. 

The abbe" replied, in a tone of intense hypocrisy, 

" One of the heirs of the Rennepont family, a wretched workman, 
worn out by excesses and debauchery, died three days ago, after a 
most infamous orgie, in which they were braving the cholera with 
sacrilegious impiety. It was only to-day, in consequence of the severe 
indisposition which has kept me within doors, and from another 
circumstance, that I could obtain possession of the properly attested 
will and testament of this victim of intemperance and irreligion. Besides, 
I proclaim it to the praise of his reverence " (he pointed to Rodin) 
" who had said, * The worst enemies that the descendants of that 
infamous renegade can have are their own bad passions. Let them, 
therefore, be our auxiliaries against this impious race.' And so it has 
been with this Jacques Rennepont" 

" You see," continued Rodin, in a voice so exhausted that it soon 
became almost unintelligible; "the punishment is beginning al- 
ready one of the Renneponts is dead and remember that acte 
de dices" added the Jesuit, pointing to the paper which the Pere d' Ai- 



THE GOOD NEWS. 67 

grigny held in his hand, "will one day be worth forty millions (1,600,000/.) 
to the Company of Jesus and that because I have " 

Rodin's lips only completed this sentence. For some instants the 
sound of his voice was so faint that it ended by being no longer 
audible, and was completely lost ; his larynx, contracted by a violent 
emotion, did not allow a single sound to be heard. 

The Jesuit, far from being disturbed by this incident, completed 
his phrase by a kind of pantomimic gesture; raising his head proudly, 
his features assuming a bold and haughty air, he tapped his forehead 
twice or thrice with the end of his forefinger, thus indicating that it 
was to his intelligence and his direction that this happy result was due. 

But Rodin soon fell back on his couch, overcome, exhausted, 
breathless, and powerless, except to raise his pocket-handkerchief to 
his parched lips. The excellent news, as Pere d'Aigrigny called it, had 
not cured Rodin ; and it was for a minute only he found sufficient 
strength to forget his agony, and then the slight flush with which his 
cheeks were coloured rapidly faded, his face became again livid, his 
sufferings, suspended for the moment, increased so intensely, that he 
writhed in convulsions beneath his bedclothes, as he lay with his 
cheek flat on the pillow, stretching above his head his two arms as 
straight and stiff as bars of iron. 

After this crisis, as intense as it was rapid, during which the Pere 
d'Aigrigny and the prelate stood anxiously gazing at him, Rodin, in 
whose face a violent perspiration had broken out, made them a sign 
that he suffered less, and wished to drink a draught, which he indi- 
cated as being on the table. Pere d'Aigrigny fetched it, and whilst 
the cardinal, with evident disgust, supported Rodin, the Pere d'Ai- 
grigny administered to the sick man several tablespoonfuls of the 
potion, whose immediate effect was to calm him greatly. 

" Shall I call M. Rousselet?" asked Pere d'Aigrigny of Rodin, 
when he again laid down in his bed. 

Rodin made a negative gesture ; then, with a fresh exertion, he 
raised his right hand, opened it wide, and moved his forefinger over it, 
making a sign to Pere d'Aigrigny, which directed his attention to a 
bureau placed in a corner of the chamber, that, being unable to speak, 
he wished to write. 

" I fully understand your reverence," said Pere d'Aigrigny to him ; 
" but first calm yourself. Presently, if there be occasion for it, I will 
give you writing-materials." 

Two knocks loudly struck, not at the door of Rodin's chamber, 
but at the outer door of the room beyond, interrupted this scene. From 
prudential motives, and that his conversation with Rodin might be 
entirely secret, Pere d'Aigrigny had requested M. Rousselet to remain 
in the first of the three rooms. 

Pere d'Aigrigny, after having passed through the second room, 
opened the door of the antechamber, where he found M. Rousselet, 
who handed him a tolerably thick envelope, saying, 

" I beg your pardon, father, for having disturbed you ; but I was 
requested to give you these papers without any delay." 

" Thank you, M. Rousselet," replied Pere d'Aigriguy, adding, 
"When do you expect M. Baleinier?" 

" He will not be long, father, for he is anxious before night to 



68' THE WANDERING JEW. 

perform the very painful operation which will have so decisive an 
i HIT! mi tin stntc nf Pure Rodin, and I am making all the preparations 
for it," added M. Kousselct, shewing a singular and formidable appar- 
atus to Pure d'Aigrigny, who looked at it with affright. 

" I do not know if it is a serious symptom," said the Jesuit; " but 
the reverend father has suddenly lost his voice entirely." 

This is the third time in eight days that this has occurred to 
him," said M. Rousselet; " and M. Baleinier's operation will act equally 
on the larynx and the lungs." 

" Is this operation painful?" inquired the Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" There is not in my opinion any surgical operation more terrible," 
said the pupil ; " and that is the reason why M. Baleinier has concealed 
its importance from Pere Uodin." 

" Will you be so kind as remain here until M. Baleinier arrives, 
and send him to us instantly?" said Pere d'Aigrigny, and then re- 
turned to the patient. Seating himself at the bedside, he then said, 
pointing to the letter, 

" Here are various conflicting reports relative to the different per- 
sons of the Rennepont family which appear to deserve peculiar attention ; 
my indisposition not having allowed me to see any thing myself for 
several days, for I have risen to-day for the first time ; but I do not 
know, mon pere" he added, addressing Rodin, " if your state per- 
mits you to attend to me ?" 

Rodin made a gesture at once so supplicating and despairing, that 
Pere d'Aigrigny felt there would be at least as much danger in re- 
fusing Rodin's desire as to accede to it; and, turning towards the cardinal, 
who was still in dire distress at having been unable to extract the 
Jesuit's secret, he said to him, with respectful deference, whilst he 
pointed to the letter, 

" Your eminence will permit me ? " 

The prelate bowed his head, and added, 

" Your affairs are ours, my dear father, and the Church must 
always rejoice in that which rejoices your glorious Company." 

Pere d'Aigrigny unsealed the letter, which contained several notes 
in different handwritings. 

After having read the first, his features became suddenly suffused, 
and he said, in a serious and deep tone, 

" This is a misfortune a great misfortune." 

Rodin turned his head towards him suddenly, looking at him with 
an unquiet and interrogative air. 

" Florine is dead of the cholera," continued Pere d'Aigrigny ; 
" and, what is worse," added the reverend father, crushing the note in 
his hand, " before she died, the miserable creature confessed to 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville, that for a long time she had been a spy 
over her according to your reverence's orders." 

Unquestionably Florine's death and the confessions she had made 
to her mistress very much thwarted Rodin's projects, for he emitted a 
kind of inarticulate murmur, and, in spite of their languor, his features 
expressed how deeply he was annoyed. 

Pere d'Aigrigny read another note, and said, 

" This note, relative to M arechal Simon, is not absolutely bad ; but 
it is far from being satisfactory, for it announces some amelioration in 



THE GOOD NEWS. 69 

his position. We shall see, however, by information from another 
source, if this note is to be quite relied upon." 

Rodin made a gesture of impatience, and signed to Pere d'Aigrigny 
to make haste in his reading. 

The reverend father read thus : 

" ' We are assured that for some days past the mind of the marechal 
appears less disturbed, less agitated, less annoyed ; he has lately passed 
two hours with his daughters, which had not occurred for a long time 
before. The stern countenance of his soldier Dagobert becoming 
more and more relaxed, we may look upon that symptom as a certain 
proof of a sensible amelioration in the marechal's state of mind. 

" Recognised by their writing, the last anonymous letters having 
been returned to the postman by the soldier Dagobert, without being 
opened by the marechal, we advise other means to be tried to make 
them reach him.' " 

Looking then at Rodin, Pere d'Aigrigny said to him, 
" You reverence, no doubt, agrees with me that this note might 
have been more satisfactory." 

Rodin bowed his head. There might be read in that contracted 
countenance how deeply he suffered from his inability to speak, as twice 
he raised his hand to his throat, looking with anguish at D'Aigrigny. 

" Ah ! " exclaimed Pere d'Aigrigny, with anger and bitterness, as 
he read another note, " for a fortunate day, this one brings much ill 
luck with it." 

At these words Rodin, turning suddenly towards D'Aigrigny, 
extended towards him his trembling hands inquiring by look and 
gesture. 

The cardinal, shewing the same uneasiness, said to Pere d'Aigrigny, 
" What does this note inform you, my dear father ? " 

" We believed the residence of M. Hardy in our house entirely 
unknown," answered Pere d'Aigrigny ; " and now it is feared that 
Agricola Baudoin has discovered the abode of his former employer, 
and has sent him a letter by the intervention of a man in the establish- 
ment. Thus," continued Pere d'Aigrigny, with anger, " during the 
three last days, whilst I have been unable to go and visit M. Hardy in 
the pavilion, one of the servants has] allowed himself to be corrupted. 
There is a one-eyed man whom I have always distrusted, the villain ! 
but no, I will not give credit to this treason ; its results would be too 
deplorable, for I know better than any person how matters stand, and 
I aver that such a correspondence would destroy every thing. By 
awakening in M. Hardy certain recollections ideas hardly lulled to 
rest, it would ruin, perhaps, in a single day all I have effected during 
his residence amongst us in the house of retreat ; but fortunately in 
this note there is only allusion to doubts, fears ; and the other par- 
ticulars, which I rely on as more certain, will not, I trust, confirm 
these." 

" My dear father," said the cardinal, " do not despair yet. The 
good cause has always the support of the Lord." 

This assurance seemed to give the Pere d'Aigrigny but small com- 
fort, and he remained pensive and dejected, whilst Rodin, stretched on 
his bed of pain, shuddered convulsively a paroxysm of mute anger as 
he reflected on this fresh check. 



70 THE WANDERING JEW. 

"Let us see this last note," said the Pe*re d'Aigrigny, after a 
silent meditation. " I have sufficient confidence in the person who 
sends it me not to doubt of the strict exactness of the information he 
forwards to me. I only hope this adverse statement may be com- 
pletely refuted." 

In order that we may not interrupt the chain of facts contained in 
this last note, which was calculated to make so terrible an impression 
on the actors in this scene, we will leave the reader to supply in his 
imagination all the exclamations of surprise, rage, hatred, and fear, of 
D'Aigrigny, and the frightful pantomimic gesticulations of Rodin, 
during the reading of this redoubtable document, the result of the 
observations of a secret and faithful agent of the reverend father. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



PERE D'AIGRIGNY read as follows : 

" ' Three days since, the Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, who had 
never been to Mademoiselle de Cardoville's, went to that young lady's 
residence at half-past one o'clock P.M. and remained there until five 
o'clock. Almost immediately after his departure two servants quitted 
the hotel, one going to Marechal Simon, and the other to Agricola 
Baudoin, the working smith, and afterwards to Prince Djalma. 

" * Yesterday about noon Marechal Simon and his two daughters 
visited Mademoiselle de Cardoville, and shortly afterwards the Abbe 
Gabriel arrived there, accompanied by Agricola Baudoin. 

" ' A long conference ensued between the different personages and 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville ; and they remained together until half- 
past three o'clock. 

" The Marechal Simon, who came in a carriage, returned on foot 
with his two daughters : all three appeared much satisfied ; and, in 
one of the most private walks in the Champa Elysees, Marechal Simon 
embraced his daughters with great affection and cordiality. 

" ' The Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont and Agricola Baudoin came 
out last 

" * The Abbe Gabriel returned to his home, as we learned after- 
wards ; the smith, whom we had many reasons for watching, went to 
a wine-shop in the Rue de la Harpe. We followed him. He asked 
for a bottle of wine, seating himself in an obscure part of the room on 
the left hand. He did not drink, but seemed deeply preoccupied. We 
conjectured he was waiting for some one. 

" 'About half an hour afterwards, a man arrived, about thirty years 
of age, dark, tall, blind of the left eye, dressed in a mulberry-coloured 
coat and black trousers ; he was bareheaded. He did not live far off. 
He seated himself with the smith. 

" ' A very animated conversation ensued, of which, unfortunately, 
we could not hear a word. At the end of half an hour, Agricola 
Baudoin placed in the hands of the one-eyed man a small packet, 



THE SECRET NOTE. 71 

which appeared to contain gold, judging from its small size and the 
air of deep gratitude of the one-eyed man, who then took from 
Agricola Baudoin, with much ceremony, a letter, which he appeared 
to request him to deliver instantly, and which the one-eyed man placed 
carefully in his pocket. After which they separated, the smith saying, 
' To-morrow, then ! ' 

" ' After this interview, we thought it advisable to follow the one- 
eyed man : he quitted the Rue de la Harpe, crossed the Luxembourg, 
and entered the house of retreat of the Rue de Vangerard. 

" * The next day we went very early near the wine-shop in the Rue 
de la Harpe, for we did not know the hour of meeting arranged 
between the one-eyed man and Agricola. We watched until one 
o'clock, and then the smith arrived. 

" ' As we were carefully disguised, we entered the wine-shop and 
seated ourself close to the smith without exciting his suspicion. The 
one-eyed man soon came, and handed him a letter with a black seal. 

" 'At the sight of this letter, Agricola Baudoin was so much moved, 
that we distinctly saw a tear drop on his moustache. 

" ' The letter was very short, for the smith was not two minutes in 
reading it ; but yet he seemed so satisfied, so happy, that he bounded 
with joy from his seat, and cordially squeezed the hand of the one- 
eyed man. He then appeared to ask something which the other refused. 
At length, he seemed to yield, and they left the wine-shop together. 

" ' We followed at a distance, and, as yesterday, the one-eyed man 
entered the house in the Rue de Vangerard. Agricola, after having 
accompanied him to the door, for a long time remained lurking about 
the walls, as if he were studying the localities, and from time to time 
wrote down something in a pocket-book. 

" ' The smith then walked away rapidly towards the Place de 
1'Odeon, where he took a cabriolet. We did the same, and followed 
him to the hotel of Mademoiselle de Cardoville in the Rue d' Anjou. 

" ' By a fortunate chance, at the moment when Agricola entered 
the hotel, a carriage with Mademoiselle de Cardoville's livery left it. 
The head groom of this young lady's was in it, with a very ill-looking 
man, miserably dressed, and very pale. 

" ' This incident, being very extraordinary, deserved attention, and 
we did not lose sight of this carriage, which went straight to the 
Prefecture of Police. 

" ' Mademoiselle de Cardoville's master of the horse first alighted, 
and then the ill-looking man ; both entered the office of the agens de 
surveillance : half an hour afterwards, the master of the horse only 
came out, and, getting into the carriage, went to the Palais de Justice, 
to the office of the king's attorney-general, where he remained for 
nearly half an hour, and then returned to the Hotel de Cardoville in 
the Rue d' Anjou. 

" * We have discovered by a certain source, that the same day, 
about eight o'clock in the evening, Messieurs d'Ormesson and Val- 
belle, leading counsel, and the Juge d'Instruction, who has received 
the complaint of personal incarceration of Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
as to her confinement at Dr. Baleinier's, had with the young lady (at 
the Hotel de Cardoville) a conference, which extended until midnight, 
and at which Agricola Baudoin and two other workmen of the factory 
of M. Hardy were present, 



72 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" * This day Prince Djalma went to Marechal Simon's, and re- 
mained there for three hours and a half. At the end of this time, the 
Margchal and the Prince went apparently to Mademoiselle de Car- 
doville's, for the carriage stopped at her door in the Rue d'Anjou. 
An unforeseen accident prevented us from completing the statement 
of this fact. 

. " ' We have learned that a writ of summons has been issued against 
one Leonard, the former factotum of Baron Tripeaud. This Leonard 
is suspected of being the author of the fire at the factory of M. 
Francois Hardy. Agricola Baudoin and two of his comrades have 
described a man who offered a striking resemblance to Leonard. 

" ' From all this, it evidently results that, during the last ten days, 
the Hotel de Cardoville is the focus, whence proceed, and around 
which radiate, the most active and multiplied measures, \vhich seem 
always to concern Marechal Simon, his daughters, M. Fnu^ois 
Hardy measures of which Mademoiselle de Cardoville, the Abbe 
Gabriel, and Agricola Baudoin, are the most indefatigable, and, it is to 
be feared, most dangerous agents.' " 

When we compare this iiote with the other particulars, and recur 
to the past, there resulted most overwhelming discoveries for the 
reverend fathers. 

Gabriel had had long and frequent conferences with Adrienne, who 
was until then unknown to him. 

Agricola Baudoin was in communication with M. Fran9ois Hardy, 
and justice was in the trace of the authors and exciters of the riot 
which had ruined and burnt down the factory of Baron Tripeaud's 
competitor. 

It appeared almost certain that Mademoiselle de Cardoville had 
had an interview with the Prince Djalma. 

This combination of facts evidently proved that, faithful to the 
threat she had made Rodin, when the two-fold perfidy of the reverend 
father had been unfolded, Mademoiselle de Cardoville was actively 
occupied in uniting around her the dispersed members of her family, 
in order to induce them to league against the common and dangerous 
enemy, whose detestable projects, being thus unveiled and boldly met, 
could not have any chance of success. 

We may, therefore, understand what an overwhelming effect this 
note produced on the Pere d'Aigrigny and Rodin on Rodin, in 
agony and nailed to a bed of sickness, and rendered powerless, whilst he 
saw his laboriously constructed scaffolding falling asunder piece by piece. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE OPERATION. 



WE give up in despair every attempt to paint the physiognomy, 
contortions, and demeanour of Rodin, during the reading of the note, 
which appeared to ruin his hopes so long cherished: all seemed to 
fail him at once, and at the moment, too, when an almost superhuman 
confidence in the success of his plottings had given him energy 



THE OPERATION. 73 

sufficient to subdue his disease. Hardly out of a painful agony, one 
fixed, devouring thought had agitated him even to delirium. What 
progress in good or in evil had this affair, so important to him, made 
during his illness? At first they had informed him of a piece of 
welcome news the death of Jacques ; but very speedily the advan- 
tages of this decease, which reduced the Rennepont family from seven 
to six, were destroyed. Of what use was this death when this family 
dispersed, struck whilst isolated with such infernal perseverance, 
were united, and at last fully conscious of the enemies who, for so 
long a time, had been stabbing at them in the dark ? If all these 
wounded, bruised, and broken hearts came into communion, consoled 
each other, and informed one another, by lending each to the other a 
firm and mutual support, their cause was gained, the vast heritage of 
the Renneponts escaped the reverend fathers. 

What was to be done ? what to be done ? 

Strange potency of the human will ! Rodin has one foot in the 
grave he is almost in extreme agony his voice has failed him ; 
and yet this spirit, so determined and full of resource, does not yet 
despair. If a miracle should now restore him to health, then that 
unbroken confidence in the success of his projects, which has already 
given him the power of resisting a sickness under which so many 
others have succumbed this confidence whispers to him that he 
could still remedy repair all : but he requires health life ! 

Health! life! Whilst even his physician cannot determine 
whether or not he will survive so many shocks if he can undergo so 
terrible an operation. Health! life! when but just now Rodin 
heard talk of the solemn burial they intended to bestow upon him. 

Yes! health! life! He will have them, he said. Yes! he 
would live till now, and he has lived. Why, then, should he not live 
a great while longer ? 

Then he will live ! he will ! 

All we have now written Rodin had thought over in a second. 
His features, agitated by this kind of mental torture, must have re- 
vealed something very strange, for D'Aigrigny and the cardinal 
gazed on him silent and aghast. 

Once resolved to live, in order to sustain a desperate struggle 
against the Rennepont family, Rodin acted accordingly; and thus, 
for some minutes, D'Aigrigny and the prelate believed him under the 
influence of a dream. 

By an effort of will of unheard-of energy, and as if he had been 
moved by a spring, Rodin flung himself out of bed, dragging with him 
a sheet, which clung to him like a shroud behind his livid and meagre 
body. The chamber was cold, but the perspiration dropped from the 
Jesuit's brow, whilst his bare and bony feet left their moist imprint on 
the floor. 

"Rash man! what are you doing? it is death!" cried Pere 
d'Aigrigny, rushing towards Rodin, in order to compel him to return 
to his bed. 

But he, extending one of his skeleton arms, as hard as iron, pushed 
D'Aigrigny from him with a vigour that was inconceivable when 
we remember the state of exhaustion in which he had so long 
remained. 



74 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" He has the strength of an epileptic in his fit I " said D' Aigrigny 
to the prelate, as he recovered his balance. 

Rodin, with a slow step, advanced towards the bureau, in which 
were the materials which Dr. Baleinier daily used for writing his pre- 
scriptions ; then, seating himself at this table, the Jesuit took paper and 
a pen, and began writing with a firm hand. 

His composed, slow, and certain movements, had in them some- 
thing of that measured reflection which is observable in somnambulists. 

Mute and immovable, hardly conscious whether they dreamed or 
not, at the sight of this prodigy, the cardinal and Pere d'Aigrigny 
remained thunderstruck at the incredible sang froid of Rodin, who, 
half naked, was writing with perfect tranquillity. 

Father d'Aigrigny, however, advanced towards him, saying, 

" My dear father, this is madness." 

Rodin shrugged his shoulders, turned his head towards him, and, 
interrupting him by a gesture, made a sign to him to approach and 
read what he had written. 

The reverend father, expecting to see some wild effusions of a 
wandering brain, took the sheet of paper, whilst Rodin began another 
note. 

" Monseigneur !" exclaimed D'Aigrigny, " read this." 

The cardinal read the note, and returned it to D'Aigrigny, in 
whose amazement he participated. 

" It is filled with reason, ability, and resource, and must neutralise 
the dangerous understanding between the Abbe Gabriel and Madem- 
oiselle de Cardoville, who seem, in fact, the most dangerous ringleaders 
of this coalition." 

" It is really miraculous," said D'Aigrigny. 

" Ah, my dear father I " said the cardinal, in a whisper, struck by 
these words of the Jesuit, and shaking his head with an expression of 
deep regret, " what a pity we are the sole witnesses of what has oc- 
curred ! What an admirable MIRACLE might be made of this ! A 
man at the last agony thus suddenly revived ! By presenting the thing 
in a certain way, we might revive the idea of Lazarus." 

" What an idea, monseigneur ! " said Pere d'Aigrigny, in a low 
tone; " it is perfect it must not be lost sight of it is most accept- 
able, and " 

This little innocent miracle-inventing plot was interrupted by 
Rodin, who, turning his head, made a sign to D'Aigrigny to come 
towards him, and then banded him another sheet, accompanied by a 
small slip of paper, on which were written these words,-r- 

" To be done within an hour" 

Pere d'Aigrigny read the other note rapidly, and cried, 

" Really, I had not thought of that ; and in this way the corre- 
spondence of Agricol^ Baudoin with M. Hardy, instead of being in- 
jurious, may produce the happiest results. In truth," continued 
the reverend father, in a low voice, and going close to the pre- 
late, whilst Rodin continued to write, "I am amazed! I see I 
read, but I can scarcely credit my eyesight. But just now exhausted 
dying, and now with his mind as clear and intelligent as ever. Are 
we then witnesses of one of those phenomena of somnambulism during 
which the soul acts and controls the body ? " 



THE OPERATION. 75 

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Baleinier entered. 

At the sight of Rodin, seated at the desk and half naked, his bare 
feet on the floor, the doctor exclaimed in a tone of reproach and 
alarm, 

" Monseigneur my father, it is sheer murder to allow this rash 
man to do this ; if he has a tit of burning fever he must be tied down 
in his bed, and have on a strait waistcoat." 

So saying, Dr. Baleinier went quickly towards Rodin, and taking 
him by the arm, expected to find the epidermis dry and cold, but, on 
the contrary, his skin was flexible and almost moist. 

The doctor, greatly surprised, was desirous of feeling the pulse of 
the left hand, which Rodin gave him, whilst he continued to write 
with the right. 

" What a prodigy !" exclaimed the doctor, as he counted the pulsa- 
tions of Rodin; "these eight days past, and this morning even, the 
pulse was sudden, intermittent, and hardly perceptible, and now it is 
quite smooth and regular. I am amazed ! What has occurred ? I 
cannot believe my eyes," he added, turning to the Abbe d'Aigrigny 
and the cardinal. 

" The reverend father, first stricken with a loss of voice, has after- 
wards had a paroxysm of despair, so violent and furious, caused by 
bad news," said Pere d'Aigrigny, " that, for a moment, we were 
alarmed for his life ; but, on the contrary, the reverend father found 
strength enough to go to the desk, where he has been writing for the 
last ten minutes with a clearness of reasoning, a fulness of expression, 
which has quite amazed monseigneur and myself." 

" There is no doubt," exclaimed the doctor, " but that the violent 
paroxysm of despair he has undergone has created in him a violent 
perturbation which will prepare him admirably for that reacting crisis, 
which I am now almost sure of obtaining by the operation I meditate." 

" Then you resolve on trying it?" said D'Aigrigny, in a low 
voice to Dr. Baleinier, whilst Rodin continued writing. 

" I had my doubts even this morning, but in his present prepared 
state I should like to profit by the moment of unusual excitement, 
which I foresee will be followed by extreme lassitude." 

" But," said the cardinal, " without this operation " 

" This crisis, so happy so unlocked for, is unavailing, and its 
reaction may kill him, monseigneur." 

" Have you warned him of the serious nature of the operation ? " 

" In great measure, monseigneur." 

" Then now he should make up his mind." 

" That is what I am about to do, monseigneur," said Dr. Ba- 
leinier ; and going up to Rodin, who, still writing and reflecting, 
had not heard a word of this conversation, carried on in a low tone of 
voice, " Reverend father," said the doctor, in a firm tone, " would you 
wish within eight days to be on your feet again ? " 

Rodin made a gesture full of confidence, which implied, 

" Why, I am on my feet now." 

" Do not deceive yourself," replied the doctor ; " this crisis is 
most propitious, but it will not last ; and if you do not take advantage 
of it this very moment, and proceed to the operation of which I have 



76 THE WANDERING JEW. 

mentioned a word or two to you, ma foi ! I tell you bluntly and 
plainly, after such a shock, I will not answer for any thing." 

Rodin was the more impressed with these words as he had, half 
an hour before, experienced the short duration of the ephemeral 
better which D'Aigrigny's good news had caused him, and because he 
began again to feel a renewal of the oppression at his chest. 

M. Baleinier, anxious to decide the sick man, and believing him" 
to be irresolute, added, 

" In a word, my reverend father, will you live or not ? " 
Rodin wrote rapidly these words, which he handed to the doctor : 
" To live I tcould have my four limbs cut off. I am prepared for 
any thing ! " 

And he made an effort to leave his seat. 

" I must tell you, not to make you hesitate, reverend father, but 
that your courage may not be taken by surprise," added M. Baleinier, 
" that this operation is intensely painful." 

Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and then, with a firm hand, wrote : 
" Leave me my head take all the rest ! " 

The doctor read these words aloud, and D'Aigrigny and the car- 
dinal looked at each other, amazed at this indomitable courage. 

" Reverend father," said Dr. Baleinier, " you must return to your 
bed." 

Rodin wrote, 

" Prepare every thing / have to write some very important orders 
let me know when all is ready" 

Then folding a paper, which he closed with a wafer, Rodin made a 
sign to D'Aigrigny to read the words he had penned, and which were : 
" Send this note instantly to t/te agent who has written the anony- 
mous letters to Marlchal Simon." 

" This moment, reverend father," said D'Aigrigny, " I will confide 
it to a safe hand." 

" Reverend father," said Baleinier to Rodin, " since you desire to 
write, lie down in the bed whilst we make our preparations." 
Rodin made an approving sign and rose. 

But the doctor's prognostic was already realised, and the Jesuit 
could scarcely remain erect for a moment, but fell back in the chair. 
He then looked at Dr. Baleinier with anguish, and his breathing became 
more and more thick. 

The doctor, desirous of giving him courage, said to him, 
" Do not distress yourself but we must be quick ; lean on me and 
Pere d'Aigrigny." 

By the aid of his two supporters, Rodin was enabled to regain his 
bed, and, sitting up in it, he pointed towards the inkstand and paper, 
which were handed to him ; a blotting-book served him for a desk, 
and he continued writing on his knees, leaving off now and then to 
breathe, which he did with great difficulty as if he were choking, but 
remaining quite unconscious of what was passing around him. 

" Reverend father," said Baleinier to D'Aigrigny, " are you capable 
of being one of my assistants and helping me in this operation ? Have 
you this sort of courage ?" 

" No," replied the reverend father ; " in the army I never could 



THE OPERATION. 77 

in my life assist at an amputation at the sight of blood thus shed 
ray courage fails me." 

" There will be no blood," said Dr. Baleinier ; " but it is even worse 
than that : will you therefore be so kind as to send me three of our 
reverend fathers who will aid me, and also oblige me by requesting 
M. Rousselet to come in with the instruments ?" 

D'Aigrigny left the room. 

The prelate went up to Baleinier, and said to him in a low voice, 
pointing to Rodin, 

" He is out of danger ?" 

" Yes, if he can go through the operation, monseigneur." 

"And are you sure he can undergo it?" 

" To him I should say, Yes ; to you, monseigneur, I say, We hope 
so" 

" And, if he sinks under it, will there be time to administer the 
sacrament to him in public with certain ceremonies, which will neces- 
sarily compel some delay ?" 

" It is probable that his agony will endure at least a quarter of an 
hour, monseigneur." 

" That is a short time, but at least we must make the best of it," 
said the prelate. 

And he withdrew to one of the windows, on the glass of which he 
began to play the tambourine with his fingers, whilst he reflected on 
the effects of the light of the funereal bier, which he so greatly desired 
to see raised over Rodin. 

At this moment M. Rousselet entered, carrying a large square 
box under his arm, which he laid down on the marble slab of a 
commode. 

" How many have you got ready ?" inquired the doctor. 

" Six, sir." 

" Four will suffice : but it is as well to be prepared ; the cotton is 
not too thick ?" 

"Look, sir." 

" Quite right." 

"And how is the reverend father?" inquired the pupil of his 
master. 

" Hum hum," replied the doctor in a low key, " the chest is 
terribly oppressive, the respiration much impeded, the voice utterly 
gone but still there is a chance." 

" Ah, I fear, sir, that the reverend father cannot endure such fright- 
ful pain." 

" There is still a chance but in such a state we must run all 
risks ; now light the wax-taper, for I hear our assistants." 

And at this moment the three congregationists who were walking 
in the garden of the house of the Rue deVangerard, entered the room, 
following the Abbe d'Aigrigny. 

The two old men with their red and rosy gills, and the young one 
with his ascetic countenance, according to custom, were clothed in 
black, with square caps and white collars, and seemed perfectly pre- 
pared to aid the doctor in his terrible operation. 



78 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE TORTURE. 

" REVEREND fathers," said Dr. Baleinier to the three congrega- 
tionists, " I thank you for your kind aid what you have to do is 
very simple, and, with the aid of the Lord, this operation will save 
our very dear Pere Rodin." 

The three black gowns raised their eyes to heaven with energy, 
and then all bowed as if but one man. 

Rodin, still indifferent to all that was passing around him, had not 
ceased for one instant to write or reflect ; yet from time to time, in 
spite of this apparent calm, he experienced such a difficulty of respi- 
ration, that Dr. Baleinier had turned towards him with great uneasi- 
ness when he heard the sort of stifled whistling which escaped from the 
patient's throat, and after making a sign to his assistant he approached 
Rodin, and said to him, 

"Now then, reverend father, this is the important moment 
courage." 

No marks of fear were observable on the Jesuit's features, his coun- 
tenance remained as impassive as a corpse, only his small reptile eyes 
sparkled still more brightly from their dark orbits, as for a moment he 
cast a firm look on the witnesses of this scene ; then, taking his pen 
between his teeth, he folded and wafered another sheet, placed it on the 
table, and then made a sign to Dr. Baleinier, which implied: lam 
ready. 

" You must first take off your flannel waistcoat and shirt, father." 

Shame or modesty, Rodin for a moment hesitated but for a 
moment only, for when the doctor added, " It must be so, reverend 
father," Rodin, who was still seated on his bed, obeyed with the help 
of Dr. Baleinier, who added, no doubt to console the startled pudency 
of the patient, 

" We have absolutely need of all your chest, my dear father, right 
side and left side." 

And Rodin, now stretched on his back, still wearing his greasy 
black silk cap, exposed the anterior portion of a livid and yellow 
frame, or rather the bony cage of a skeleton, for the shadows cast by 
the strong projection of the ribs and cartilages encircled the skin with 
deep black and circular furrows. As to the arms, they might be com- 
pared to bones enveloped with thick cords and covered with shrivelled 
parchment, so great a relief did the muscular depression give to the 
bones and veins. 

" Now, M. Rousselet, for the apparatus," said Dr. Baleinier. 

Then addressing the three congregationists : 

Gentlemen, approach : I have already told you that what you 
have to do is exceedingly simple, as you will now see." 

And M. Baleinier then proceeded to the arrangements requisite. 

They were indeed very simple. 







THE TORTURE. 
Vol. III. P. 79. 



THE TORTURE. 79 

The doctor handed to each of his four assistants a sort of small 
steel tripod, about two inches diameter, and three in height ; the cir- 
cular centre of this tripod was filled with cotton, as full as possible. 
This instrument was held in the left hand by a small wooden handle. 

In the right hand, each aide-de-camp was armed with a small tin 
tube, about eighteen inches long at one end was an opening intended 
for the lips of the practitioner, whilst the other extremity was bent, 
and so widened as to serve for a cover to the small tripod. 

These preparations were not very alarming, and D'Aigrigny and 
the cardinal, who looked in from some distance, did not comprehend 
how the operation could be painful. 

They soon found it out, however. 

Dr. Baleinier, having thus armed his helpers, made them approach 
Rodin, whose bed had been rolled into the middle of the chamber. 

Two of the aides came on one side, two on the other side of 
the bed. 

" Now, gentlemen," send Dr. Baleinier to them, " light the cotton ; 
place the lighted end on the skin of his reverence by means of the 
tripod, which contains the wick, cover the tripod with the wide end 
of your tubes, and blow through the mouth-piece in order to keep the 
fire burning ; it is very simple as you see." 

It was in truth of patriarchal and primitive invention. 

Four wicks of lighted cotton, so disposed as to burn but slowly, 
were applied right and left to Rodin's chest. 

This is commonly called moxas. The operation is complete, when 
the whole thickness of the skin is thus slowly burnt away, which takes 
from seven to eight minutes. It is declared that an amputation is 
nothing in comparison. 

Rodin had watched the preparations for the operation with un- 
daunted curiosity, but, at the first contact of the four consuming bra- 
siers, he curled himself up, and twisted like a serpent, without being 
able to utter a cry, for he was mute : thus 1 even the expression of his 
agony was interdicted. 

The four assistants, having necessarily deranged their apparatus at 
the sudden movement of Rodin, had to begin again. 

" Courage, my dear father, offer these sufferings to the Lord He 
will accept them," said Dr. Baleinier, in a soothing tone. " I warned 
you that the operation was a very paiufnl one, but then it is as salu- 
tary as it is painful. Come, you who have evinced so much resolution 
already must not wince at the decisive moment." 

Rodin had closed his eyes, but, overcome by this first surprise of 
anguish, he looked at the doctor with an air almost ashamed at being 
so pusillanimous. 

Yet right and left, on his breast, were already visible four large 
scars of blood-red hue so fierce and deep had been the burns. 

At the moment he was about to re-establish himself on his bed of 
suffering, Rodin made a sign, by pointing to the ink-stand, that he 
wished to write. 

His whim was of course acceded to. The doctor handed him the 
blotting-book, and Rodin wrote what follows as if from a sudden 
recollection : 

" No time must be lost send instantly and inform Baron Tripeaud 



80 THE WANDERING JEW. 

of the summons isstted against his factotum Leonard, tJuit he may take 
precautions accordingly." 

This note written, the Jesuit handed it to Dr. Baleinier, making 
him a sign to pass it to D'Aigrigny, who, as much struck as the doctor 
and the cardinal with such presence of mind in the midst of such acute 
agonies, remained a moment amazed : Rodin, with his eyes eagerly 
fixed on the reverend father, seemed to await with impatience until he 
left the chamber to fulfil his instructions. 

The doctor, divining Rodin's thoughts, said a word to D'Aigrigny, 
who quitted the apartment. 

" Come, reverend father," said the doctor to Rodin, " we must 
begin again this time you must not stir you know what we have 
to do." 

Rodin made no reply, clasped his two hands over his head, pre- 
sented his chest and closed his eyes. 

It was a strange, revolting, yet almost fantastic sight 
The three priests attired in long black gowns leaning over this 
body, almost reduced to a corpse, their lips placed on the tubes which 
rested on the patient's chest, seemed as though they were pumping up 
his blood or practising upon him some magic charm. 

A nauseous, fetid smell of burning flesh was spreading round the 
silent chamber, and each assistant heard beneath the reeking tripod a 
slight crackling it was Rodin's skin, which was being penetrated by 
the action of the fire, and was being cleft in four different places in 
his breast. 

The sweat poured down from his livid features, which shone with 
it, whilst some pieces of grey, matted, and moist hair clung around his 
brows. Sometimes such was the violence of the spasms, that the veins 
of his stiffened arms swelled and expanded like cords about to burst 
in twain. 

Rodin, whilst enduring this frightful torture with as much in- 
trepid resignation as the savage whose glory consists in despising 
pain, placed all his courage and endurance in his hope we may 
say his certainty, of living. Such was the stamp of his indomitable 
disposition, the omnipotence of his energetic mind, that, in the very 
midst of his indescribable torments, his fixed idea never forsook him. 
During the rare intermission which his agony left him, during the in- 
equalities of its intensity, Rodin thought of the Rennepont affair, cal- 
culated the chances, combined the most prompt measures, feeling that 
there was not one moment to be lost. 

Dr. Baleinier never removed his eyes from him, but watched him 
with unabating attention, and the effects of the agony, and the salu- 
tary reaction of this agony on the sick man, who seemed indeed to 
breathe already more freely. 

Suddenly Rodin raised his hand to his forehead as if struck by 
sudden inspiration, turned his head quickly towards M. Baleinier, and 
begged him by a sign to suspend the operation for a moment. 

" I must tell you, reverend father," replied the doctor, " that it is 
more than half completed, and that, if it is suspended, the renewal will 
appear even more painful to you." 

Rodin made a sign that he was indifferent on that point, and wished 
to write. 



THE TORTURE. 81 

" Gentlemen, cease for a moment," said Dr. Baleinier, " do not re- 
move the moxas, but refrain from keeping up the fire." 

That was, that the fire was to continue burning gently on the 
patient's skin instead of consuming it rapidly. 

In spite of this pain, less intense, but still keen and severe, Rodin, 
lying on his back, began to write. In consequence of his posture he 
was compelled to hold the blotting-book in his left hand, to raise it on 
a level with his eyes, and write with his right hand, as it were, against 
the ceiling. 

On the first sheet he traced some alphabetical figures in cipher 
which he had invented for himself alone in order to note down certain 
secret matters. A few moments previously, in the midst of his tortures, 
a luminous idea had suddenly occurred to him ; he thought it good 
and noted it down, lest he might forget it in his sufferings, although 
he had paused two or three times, for although his skin was only 
burning slowly, still it was burning. Rodin went on to write on 
another sheet the following words, which on a sign from him were in- 
stantly handed to Pere d'Aigrigny : 

" Send instantly B. to Faringhea, and from him he will receive tlie 
report of the events of tfie last few days respecting Prince Djalma. B. 
is to return instantly with the particulars" 

D'Aigrigny hastened out of the apartment with this fresh order. 
The cardinal came nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of 
the noisome smell of the chamber, he felt a satisfaction in seeing the 
Jesuit half roasted, as he felt towards him all the rancour of an Italian 
priest. 

" Now, reverend father," said the doctor to Rodin, " continue to 
maintain your fortitude thus admirably, and your chest will be freed. 
You have a bitter moment to endure, but then our hopes will be most 
favourable." 

The patient resumed his position : as he did so D'Aigrigny re- 
turned. Rodin interrogated him with a look, and the reverend father 
responded by an affirmative gesture. 

At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants applied their lips to 
the tubes and began to renew the fire with hasty breath. 

This renewal of agony was so intense, that, in spite of his control 
over himself, Rodin ground his teeth as if he would break them, gave 
a convulsive bound, and swelled out so strongly his chest, palpitating 
beneath the brazier, that after a violent spasm, there at length escaped 
from his lungs a shriek of excruciating pain, but yet free, sonorous, 
resounding. 

" The chest is freed !" exclaimed Dr. Baleinier in a tone of triumph ; 
" he is saved, the lungs are at work the voice comes the voice has 
come ! Blow, away gentlemen, blow away, and you, reverend father," 
he said, addressing Rodin joyfully, " bawl out as loud as you can 
don't mind, but halloo as lustily as possible. I shall be delighted to 
hear you, and that will be a comfort for you. Courage now, I will 
answer for the result ; it is a miraculous cure, and I will publish it, 
cry it abroad to the sound of the trumpet !" 

" Allow me, doctor," said D'Aigrigny, in a low voice approaching 
the doctor closely, " monseigneur is witness, that I have laid claim in 

61 G 



82 THE WANDERING JEW. 

anticipation to the publication of this fact, which will pass, as it really 
should, for a miracle." 

" Well ! it is, nevertheless, a miraculous cure," replied Dr. Baleinier 
dryly, who was very tenacious of his handiwork. 

When llodiii heard him say that he was saved, although his 
sufferings were, perhaps, eveii more acute than they had yet been, 
for the fire had reached the last layer of the skin, Rodin was really 
sublime, infernally sublime ; through the painful contraction of his 
features, shone the pride of a savage triumph : it was evident that the 
monster felt himself again strong and powerful, and was fully conscious 
of the terrible evils which his fatal recovery would create. Thus, 
whilst writhing beneath the furnace which ate into him, he said, and 
they were the first words that issued from his chest more and more 
free and released, 

"I said that I should live." 

" And you said rightly," cried Baleinier, feeling his pulse, " for 
now your pulse is full, firm, even, and your lungs free. The reaction 
is complete, and you are saved." 

At this moment the last morsels of cotton had burnt, and they 
removed the tripods, leaving visible in the bony and fleshless chest 
of Rodin four large circular scars. The carbonised and still smoking 
skin exposed the red and live flesh. 

In one of the sudden bounds which Rodin had made, he hail 
disturbed one of the tripods, and there was one burn larger than 
the others, presenting a double black and seared circle. 

Rodin looked down upon these wounds, and, after some seconds 
of silent contemplation, a strange smile rose to his lips, and without 
changing his position, but looking at D'Aigrigny with a look of intel- 
ligence which baffles description, he said to him, slowly counting his 
wounds one by one with the tip of his finger, with its flat and dirty 
nail, 

" Pere d'Aigrigny what a presage ! only see one Rennepont 

two Renneponts three Renneponts four Renneponts," then 
interrupting himself, where is the fifth ? Ah, here this wound counts 
for two it is a twin."* 

And he gave a little dry and sharp laugh. 

Pere d'Aigrigny, the cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood 
the sense of these mysterious and sinister words which Rodin then 
completed by a terrible allusion, exclaiming, in a prophetic voice and 
with an inspired air, 

" Yes, I say it, the race of the impious shall be reduced to dust, as 
the fragments of my flesh have just been reduced to ashes. I say it 

it shall be as I said I would live, and I do live !" 

* Jacques Rennepont being dead and Gabriel deprived of any interest by his 
former deed of gift, there were only now five persons of the family Dj alma, Adrienne, 
M. Hardy, and Rose and Blanche. 



VICE AND VIRTUE. 83 

* 

CHAPTER XVI. 

VICE AND VIRTUE. 

Two days had passed since Rodin was so miraculously recalled to 
life. The reader has not perhaps forgotten the house in the Rue 
Clovis where the reverend father had ail apartment, and where also 
was the lodging of Philemon, inhabited by Rose-Pompon. 

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and a bright ray of 
light, penetrating a round hole made in the door of the half-subter- 
raneous shop occupied by Mother Arsene, the fruit and charcoal- 
seller, formed a strong contrast with the darkness of this kind of 
cavern. 

The sun-ray fell directly on an appalling sight. In the midst of 
fagots and withered vegetables, strewed beside a large heap of char- 
coal, was a miserable bed, under the blanket of which was easily to be 
recognised the angular and stiffened form of a corpse. It was that of 
Mother Arsene, stricken by the cholera, and who had died two even- 
ings before ; but the burials being so numerous, her remains had not 
yet been fetched away. 

The Rue Clovis was at this moment almost utterly deserted ; a per- 
fect stillness reigned without, interrupted from time to time by the sharp 
blasts of the north-easterly wind. Between these gusts there was 
sometimes heard a kind of quick and abrupt noise : this was occa- 
sioned by the enormous rats who were scrambling about in the char- 
coal-pile. Suddenly a light noise was heard, and instantly these filthy 
animals scrambled away and concealed themselves in their holes. 

Some one was trying to force open the door in the alley which 
communicated with the shop, and it offered but slight resistance. 
After a few moments the wretched fastening gave way, and a woman 
entered, who remained motionless for a minute or two in the midst of 
the obscurity of the dark and humid cellar. After a moment's hesi- 
tation, this female advanced, and the vivid ray of light fell full on the 
features of the Queen-Bacchanal, who advanced gradually towards the 
funereal couch. 

Since the death of Jacques, the alteration in Cephyse's features 
had greatly increased. Her pallor was now frightful, her splendid 
head of hair dishevelled, her legs and feet naked, whilst she was hardly 
covered by a miserable, patched petticoat, and a tattered neck-hand- 
kerchief. 

On reaching the bed, the Queen-Bacchanal cast a look of deter- 
mination that was almost tierce on the dead woman's bier. Suddenly 
she recoiled, uttering a cry of involuntary alarm. 

A rapid undulation had moved along and agitated the mortuary 
cloth from the feet to the head of the deceased ; then, the light which 
ran along the worm-eaten planks of the truckle-be^ accounted for the 
movement of the shroud. Cephyse, reassured, began to look about 
her, and to collect hastily several things, as if she feared to be detected 
in this wretched shop. She first took a basket and filled it with 
charcoal ; then, having looked about her, she saw in a corner an 
earthen brazier, which she seized with a look of sombre satisfaction. 



84 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" This is not all this is not all," said CSphyse, looking round 
with disquietude. 

At this moment she caught sight of a small iron pan, with a tin 
box beside it containing matches ; she put these into the basket, which 
she took in one hand, and the small brazier in the other. As she 
stepped by the dead body of the poor charcoal-vender, Cphyse said, 
with a meaning smile, 

" I am robbing you, poor mother Arsene, but my theft will not be 
very profitable to me." 

Cephyse then left the shop, closed the door after her as well as she 
was able, went along the alley, and crossed the small court-yard 
which separated the main building from that in which Rodin had his 
apartment. Except the windows of Philemon's apartment, from which 
Rose-Pompon had leaned and, like a joyous bird, had so often sung her 
songs of Beranger, the other windows in the house were open. On 
the first and second floor there were dead persons, which, like so many 
others, were awaiting the cart in which the coffins were piled up. 

The Queen-Bacchanal reached the staircase which led to. the 
rooms formerly occupied by Rodin, and, on reaching the landing, 
ascended a small dilapidated staircase as straight as a ladder, to which 
an old rope served for a balustrade, and then arrived at the half- 
rotten door of the garret. 

This house was so dilapidated that in many places the roof was off, 
and, when it rained, the water came into this doghole, which was 
scarcely ten feet square, and was lighted by a skylight. All the furniture 
was a wretched, half-empty mattrass, stretched against the wall on the 
bare floor, with the straw sticking out of it at all points, beside which 
was a small earthen spoutless pitcher containing a little water. 

La Mayeux, clothed in rags, was seated at the edge of the palliasse, 
her elbows on her knees, and her face hidden in her lean and white 
hands. When Cephyse entered, Agricola's adopted sister raised her 
head, and her pallid but gentle features seemed still more shrunken, 
still more withered by suffering, woe, and misery ; her hollow eyes, 
red with weeping, were fixed on her sister with an expression of me- 
lancholy tenderness. 

" Sister, I have brought what we require," said Cephyse, in a 
gloomy, harsh tone ; " in this basket is an end of our wretchedness." 
Then, shewing La Mayeux the materials she deposited on the floor, 
she added, " For the first time in my life, I have stolen, and that 
makes me feel ashamed and afraid. Most certainly I was not intended 
to be either a thief, or something worse ; more 's the pity ! " she added, 
with a smile of bitterness. 

After a moment's silence, La Mayeux said to her sister, with 
touching expression, 

" Cephyse, my dear Cephyse, you are resolved, then, that we 
should die?" 

" Why should we hesitate ? " replied Cephyse, with a firm voice. 
" You see, sister, I have made my calculation ; let us look it over 
once more. If I could forget my shame and the contempt of the 
dying Jacques, what would then be left for me ? Two alternatives : 
the first, to become good and work ; well, you know in spite of my 
good will, work will often fail me, as it has failed us for several days 



VICE AND VIRTUE. 85 

past, and, if it should not fail, even then I must live on four or five 
francs a-week live I die I should say by inches from privation, as I 
well know I would rather die at once ! The other choice would be 
to continue, in order to live, the disgraceful trade which I have once 
tried, and that I will not, it is too much for me. So really, sister, 
between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can there be a moment's 
hesitation ? Answer." Then addressing herself without awaiting La 
Mayeux's reply, Cephyse added in a gloomy, broken voice, " Besides 
what 's the use of debating the point ? I have made up my mind, and 
nothing in the world shall divert me from my purpose, and you, my 
dear, very dear sister, all you could obtain from me was a delay of a 
few days, in hopes that the cholera would come and spare us the 
trouble. To please you I have waited. The cholera came, killed all 
in the house, and left us ; so, you see, one must settle one's affairs one- 
self," she added, with a sarcastic smile. Then she continued, " And 
besides, even you, my dearest sister, are as anxious as I am to end 
existence." 

" True, Cephyse, dear," replied La Mayeux, who appeared over- 
whelmed ; " but alone one is only responsible for oneself, and it 
seems to me as though to die with you," and she shuddered as she 
spoke, " is to be guilty of your death." 

" Would you prefer, then, rather to make our arrangements sepa- 
rately, you for yourself, I for myself? that would be a gay affair I" 
said Cephyse, displaying at this terrible moment that kind of bitter, 
desperate irony, more frequent than is generally supposed in the midst 
of such deadly preparations. 

" Oh, no, no ! " said La Mayeux, with affright, " not alone ! oh, I 
would not die alone ! " 

" You see, then, my dearest sister, we were right not to forsake 
each other; and still," added Cephyse, with emotion, " I feel as though 
my heart was broken when I think you wish to die with me." 

" Selfish girl ! " said La Mayeux ; " what reasons have I, more 
than yourself, for loving life ? What vacancy shall I leave after 
me ?" 

" But why you, sister ? " replied Cephyse. " You are a martyr ; 
the priests talk of their saints ; why, is there one who can equal you ? 
And yet you desire to die like me, yes, like me, who have always 
been as idle, as reckless, as culpable, as you have been laborious and 
devoted to all that were in sorrow or in suffering. Why should I say 
it ? Yet it is true in every way ; you, an angel on earth, you are 
about to die as despairing as myself, as me who am now as degraded 
as woman can be," added the unhappy girl, casting down her eyes. 

" It is strange," remarked La Mayeux, reflectively ; " having 
started from the same point, we have followed opposite paths, yet we 
have reached the same termination, a disgust of life. As for you, 
my poor sister, but a few days since so lovely, so full of life, so en- 
thusiastic in pleasure and in joy, life is at this moment as burdensome 
to you as to me, a poor feeble creature. After all, I have done to the 
end what was my duty," added La Mayeux, with sweetness ; " Agricola 
no longer wants me he is married he loves and is beloved; his 
happiness is assured. Mademoiselle de Cardoville has nothing to 
desire, lovely, rich, happy, I have done for her all that a poor creature 



86 THE WANDERING JBW. 

of my kind could do. Those who have been kind to me are happy ; 
why then should I not to my rest? I am so weary 1" 

" Poor sister ! " said Cephyse, with deep emotion, which expanded 
her contracted features ; " when I think without telling me, and in 
spite of your resolution never to return to this generous young lady, 
your protectress, you had the fortitude to drag yourself, dying with 
weariness and want, to her house, to try and interest her in my fate 
yes, dying, for your strength failed you in the Champs Elysees." 

" And when, at length, I was enabled to reach the hotel of Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville, she was unfortunately absent, oh, most unfor- 
tunately I " repeated La Mayeux, contemplating Cephyse with agony ; 
" for the next day, seeing this last resource fail us, thinking, too, more 
of me than of yourself, and desirous, above all, of getting us bread " 

La Mayeux could not conclude, but hid her face in her hands and 
shuddered. 

" Yes, I sold myself, as so many other wretches sell themselves 
when work fails or wages are inadequate, and hunger calls so loudly," 
said Cephyse, in a husky tone ; " only instead of living on my shame as 
so many others live, I shall die of it ! " 

" Alas ! that terrible shame of which you will die, dear Cephyse, 
'because you have still a heart ; you would not have known it had I 
been able to see Mademoiselle de Cardoville, or if she had replied to 
the letter which I asked the porter's leave to write to her. Her silence 
proves to me that she is justly offended at my abrupt departure from 
her house. I can imagine that she must have attributed the blackest 
ingratitude to me ; yes, for she must, indeed, be greatly offended not to 
deign to reply to me, and she has a right to be so. I have not the 
courage to dare to address her a second time, it would be useless, I am 
sure. Good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she 
believes them deserved, and, besides, what is the use ? It would be 
too late, you had resolved on terminating this existence." 

" Yes, quite resolved, for my degradation was gnawing into my 
heart, and Jacques died in my arms despising me and I loved him I" 
added Cephyse, with much excitement. " I loved him as we only love 
once in life I " 

" Then let our destiny be accomplished," said La Mayeux, pen- 
sively. 

" Listen, dear," said Cephyse, after a brief silence, " you never told 
1110 the cause of your sudden departure from the house of Mademoiselle 
de Cardoville?" 

" That is the only secret that will die with me, Cephyse dear," 
said La Mayeux, lowering her eyes. 

And she thought with bitter joy that she should be soon released 
from the fear which had poisoned the latter days of her sad existence. 

To find herself in the presence of Agrieolcu, and he informed of the 
ffeep and absurd love she entertained for him. 

For, truth to tell, this fatal, despairing love was one of the causes 
of the suicide of this unfortunate creature. Since the disappearance 
of her journal she believed the smith knew the sad secret of those 
touching pages, and although she never doubted the generosity, the 
kind heart of Agricola, she so much mistrusted herself, felt so much 
;^tiarnod of her love, noble, pure as it was, that in the extremity to 



VICE AND VIRTUE. 87 

which she and Cphyse were reduced, both wanting work and bread, 
no human power could have forced her to meet Agricola's look and 
ask his aid. 

No doubt La Mayeux would have taken another view of her posi- 
tion if her mind had not been troubled with that sort of vertigo with 
which the strongest minds are sometimes affected, when the misfor- 
tunes that beset them pass all bounds ; but misery, hunger, and the 
influence (so contagious in such a moment), of Cephyse's ideas of sui- 
cide, the weariness of a life so long devoted to sorrows and mortifi- 
cations, gave the last blow to La Mayeux's reason ; and after having 
for some time struggled against the fatal intentions of her sister, the 
poor creature, overcome, prostrated, resolved in sharing Cephyse's 
fate, seeing at least in death a termination to so much wretchedness. 

" What are you thinking of, sister ? " asked Cephyse, astonished 
at La Mayeux's protracted silence. 

The latter shuddered, and replied, 

" I was thinking of the cause which compelled me to quit Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville so suddenly, and must have made me seem so un- 
grateful in her eyes ; may this fatality which drove me from her have 
produced no victims but ourselves may devotion like mine, obscure, 
of little worth as it is, never be wanting to her who extended her 
noble hand to the poor work-girl, and called her sister may she be 
happy, ah ! for ever happy I " exclaimed La Mayeux, clasping her 
hands with the ardour of a sincere invocation. 

" Such a wish at such a moment is right, sister," observed Ce- 
physe. 

"Oh, Cephyse, dear!" said La Mayeux, emphatically, "I 
loved I admired this wonder of mind, heart, and poetic beauty, with 
deep respect ; for never was the omnipotence of God revealed in a 
work more adorable and pure. One of my last thoughts, at least, will 
be for her." 

" Yes, and thus you will have loved and respected your generous 
protectress to the last." 

" To the last ! " said La Mayeux, after a moment's pause, " true, 
you are right it is the last soon in an instant all will be over! 
See, how calmly we speak of of what so greatly alarms others ! " 

" Sister, we are calm because we are resolved." 

" Quite resolved, Cephyse?" asked La Mayeux, casting once 
again a searching glance at her sister. 

" Oh, yes ! would you were as resolved as I am ! " 

" Be assured if I delayed from day to day the final moment," re- 
plied La Mayeux, " it was because I was so desirous of still affording 
you time for reflection. As for myself " 

La Mayeux did not finish the sentence, but made a sign of de- 
spairing sorrow. 

" Well, then, sister, let us take one last embrace," said Cephyse, 
" and then courage !" 

La Mayeux rose from her seat, and flung herself into her sister's 
arms. They both remained for a long time locked in each other's 
embrace. 

For some minutes there was a profound, a solemn silence, inter- 



88 THE WANDERING JEW. 

rupted only by the sobs of the two sisters, for it was only then that 
they gave way to their tears. 

" Oh! to love each other so dearly, and to part and that for 
ever ! " said CSphyse ; " it is, indeed, cruel ! " 

" Part 1 " exclaimed La Mayeux, and her pale and mild features 
suddenly shone with divine hope, " part, my sister ! oh, no ,oh, no I 
What makes me calm is that I feel, here, in my heart, a deep, a certain 
longing towards that better world where a better destiny awaits us I 
God, so great, so merciful, so bountiful, so good, never designed that 
His creatures should be wretched, but some selfish men, frustrating His 
design, reduce their fellow-men to misery and despair. Let us pity 
the wicked and leave them let us go up on high, sister, men there 
are nothing, God alone reigns there. Come on high, sister, there all 
is good, happy ; let us go quickly, for it is late." 

So saying, La Mayeux pointed to the red rays of the setting sun, 
which were visible through the glasses of their window. 

Cephyse, excited by the pious enthusiasm of her sister, whose fea- 
tures beamed brightly with the hope of approaching deliverance, and 
were softly tinted by the parting rays of the sun, Cephyse seized her 
sister's two hands, and looking at her, deeply affected, cried, 

" Sister, how lovely you look thus ! " 

" My beauty comes a little too late," replied La Mayeux, with a 
melancholy smile. 

" No, sister, for you seem so happy, that the last scruples I had 
still left for you are now all dissipated." 

" Then let us hasten," said La Mayeux, pointing to the brazier. 

" Be easy, sister dear, it will not last long," said Cephyse. 

And she then took the brazier filled with charcoal, which she 
had placed in a corner of the garret, and brought it into the middle of 
this small apartment. 

" Do you know how this should be all managed ? " inquired La 
Mayeux, approaching her. 

" Yes, it is very simple," replied Cephyse ; " we shut the door, 
the window, and set light to the charcoal." 

" Yes, sister, but I think I have heard say that it was necessary to 
close up every aperture, that no air might enter." 

" You are right, and this door closes so badly." 

" And the roof too, only look at the crevices." 

" What is to be done, sister? Now I think of it," said La 
Mayeux, " the straw of our mattrass twisted tightly would serve very 
well." 

" To be sure," replied Cephyse ; " we will keep enough to light 
the fire, and with the remainder we will make bands of straw to stop 
up the holes in the roof, and the door, and window." 

Then smiling with the bitter, terrible irony so common at such 
moments, as we have already stated, Cephyse added, 

" Sister dear, with our door and window secured against the 
draughts, how luxurious ! we shall be as comfortable as grand people." 

" Now, indeed, we may take our ease for a short time," added La 
Mayeux, imitating the jesting tone of the Queen-Bacchanal. 

And the two sisters, with incredible calmness, began to twist the 



SUICIDE. 89 

straw into bands, in order to put them between the chinks of the door 
and the floor, and then they made others still larger to stop up the 
crevices in the roof. 

During this gloomy employment the calm and sad resignation of 
the two unfortunate girls never forsook them for a moment. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

SUICIDE. 

CEPHYSE and La Mayeux calmly continued their preparations for 
death. 

Alas! how many poor young girls, like these poor sisters, have 
been, and will be still, fatally urged to seek in suicide for a refuge 
against despair, against infamy, or an existence too wretched to endure ! 

This must be so and on society will also weigh the terrible re- 
sponsibility of these despairing deaths so long as millions of human 
creatures, unable to obtain a bodily existence from the contemptible 
wages given to them, are compelled to choose between these three 
abysses of ills, shames, and agonies, 

A life of enervating labour and murderous privations, the causes of 
precocious death. 

Prostitution, which also kills, but slowly, by contempt, by brutality, 
and disease. 

Suicide, which kills at once. 

Cephyse and La Mayeux are morally the symbols of two fractions 
of the female working classes. 

Like La Mayeux, the one portion are discreet, industrious, indefa- 
tigable, and struggle energetically, and with admirable constancy, 
against bad temptations, against the bodily sufferings of a labour be- 
yond their strength, against frightful misery ; humble, gentle, resigned, 
they desire the good and courageous creatures ! to continue as long as 
they can endure, although so weak, so exhausted, so suffering, for they 
are almost always cold and hungry, and deprived of rest, and air, and 
sunshine. They persist courageously to the end, until broken down 
by excessive labour, undermined by killing poverty, their strength 
utterly forsakes them, and then almost invariably attacked by the 
maladies brought on by such utter prostration, the greater portion of 
them go to breathe out their last exhausted sigh in the hospitals, and 
supply the dissecting schools operated upon during their existence, 
operated upon after their decease always useful to the living. Poor 
women I holy martyrs I 

The others, less patient, light a morsel of charcoal, and utterly 
weary, as La Mayeux said yes, utterly weary of this repulsive, 
gloomy, joyless, hapless life they find repose at last, and sleep the 
last sleep without even bestowing a curse on the world, which has left 
them no choice but suicide. Yes, the choice of suicide, for, without 
referring to the occupations whose fatal insalubrity periodically deci- 
mates the working classes, misery, like strangulation, kills in a given 
time. 



90 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Other women, on the contrary, endowed like Cephyse, with a quick 
and ardent organisation, with rich and warm blood, and strong appe- 
tites, cannot resign themselves to live only on wages which do not 
even allow them to satisfy hunger. As to a few amusements, how 
cheap soever, as to garments, not showy, but clean and neat, wants 
as imperious as hunger itself with a great many, they must not think 
of these. What then follows ? 

A lover presents himself, who talks of fetes, balls, walks in the 
fields, to an unhappy girl full of youth and wishes, and nailed to her 
chair for eighteen hours a-day, in some gloomy, close garret ; the 
tempter talks of gay and new apparel, whilst the miserable dress which 
covers the work-girl scarcely protects her from the cold ; the tempter 
talks of nice dinners, when the bread she eats is not enough to satisfy 
her appetite of seventeen every evening. She yields, then, before offers 
which to her are irresistible. 

Then follows the wearying, the forsaking by the lover ; but the 
habit of idleness has possessed her, the fear of misery has increased in 
proportion as life has become more luxurious ; even incessant work will 
no longer supply all the customary expenditure. Then, from weak- 
ness, from fear, from recklessness, they descend one step lower in vice, 
and again into the deepest abyss of infamy, and thus, as Cephyse said, 
" Some live in infamy, others die of it." 

Do they die, like Cephyse ? Then ought they to be more pitied 
than blamed. 

Does not society lose the right of blaming so soon as every human 
being, at first hard-working and well-disposed, cannot find (we must 
repeat this again and again), in return for constant toil, a wholesome 
dwelling-place, warm clothing, adequate sustenance, some days of 
repose, and all facilities for study and instruction ; because the bread 
of the mind is as due to all as the bread of the body, in exchange for 
their labour and their honesty ? 

Yes ; selfish and cruel society is responsible for all those vices, all 
those bad actions, which have had for first cause solely 

The actual impossibility of living toithout sinking. 

We repeat that a fearful number of women have no choice between 

A homicidal misery ! 

Prostitution ! 

Suicide ! 

And this, we repeat, and shall be perhaps understood, and this, 
l>ecause the wages of these unfortunates is insufficient ridiculous ! 
Not that their employers are generally hard or unjust, but because 
they are suffering cruelly themselves by the continual reactions of a 
destructive competition, because borne down underfoot by an im- 
placable working feudality (a state of things maintained, imposed by 
the inertness, interest, or bad will of those who govern), they are forced 
to diminish wages daily to avoid their own utter ruin. 

And are not so many unfortunate beings, at least, sometimes sup- 
ported by a distant hope of a better prospect ? Alas, they dare not. 
believe so I 

Let us suppose a man sincere, free from asperity, from passion, 
bitterness, violence, and his heart painfully affected by so much misery, 
comes and simply places this question before our legislators : 



SUICIDE. 91 

" It results from evident, proved, undeniable facts, that thousands 
of women are compelled to subsist in Paris on, at the utmost, FIVE 
FRANCS a-week do you hear? FIVE FRANCS A-WEEK, to lodge, 
dress, warm, and feed themselves ; and many of these women are 
widows with small children ! I will not make what are called fine 
speeches, I will only conjure you to think of your own daughters, your 
sisters, your wives, your mothers ; like them, however, these thousands 
of poor creatures, devoted to a frightful and compulsorily demoralising 
fate, are also mothers, daughters, sisters, wives. I ask you in the 
name of charity, in the name of good sense, in the name of the interest 
of one and all, in the name of the dignity of human nature, whether 
such a state of things, which goes on continually increasing, is toler- 
able is possible? Will you suffer it, especially when you think of 
the frightful evils, the numberless vices, which such misery inevitably 
engenders ? " 

What would take place amongst our legislators ? Doubtless they 
would reply, painfully feeling (we must believe) their own inability, 

" Alas ! it is most distressing, and we groan over such an amount 
of wretchedness ; but we can do nothing ! " 

WE CAN DO NOTHING ! I 

The moral of all this is very simple, the conclusion easy and mani- 
fest to all, especially to those who suffer, and they, in immense numbers, 
often draw their own inferences in their own way, and wait. 

Perhaps one day society will bitterly regret its own deplorable 
want of care and attention on this head. Then, the happy of this life 
will have terrible accounts to demand of those persons who at this time 
rule over us ; for they could, without crisis, without violence, without 
difficulties, have assured the well-being of the labouring class, and the 
security of the rich. 

Whilst we are awaiting some solution to these questions, so painful 
and so deeply interesting to the future welfare of society of the world, 
perchance, many poor creatures, like La Mayeux, like Cephyse, will 
die of wretchedness and of despair. 



The sisters were not many minutes in converting the straw from 
their bed into the necessary bands and strips for filling up every aper- 
ture, and thereby rendering the effect of the charcoal more sure and 
rapid. 

At length the perfect silence which prevailed was broken by La 
Mayeux, who said to her sister, " You are taller than I am, Cephyse, 
do you then undertake to close up every crevice in the ceiling, while I 
attend to the window and door." 

" I will, I will," responded Cephyse, in a tone of calm despair, 
" but my task will be done before yours." 

And again a profound silence reigned in the wretched chamber, 
while the two unfortunate creatures carefully stopped up the various 
openings by which the wind had hitherto entered this shattered abode. 

Cephyse, whose extreme height enabled her easily to reach the 
roof of their garret, succeeded in filling the minutest crevice with 
straw, so that not the slightest breath of air could enter to defeat their 
deadly purpose. 



92 THE WANDERING JEW. 

This mournful task accomplished, the sisters sat down beside each 
other, and tenderly and earnestly regarded one another. 

As the fatal moment approached, their countenances exhibited that 
over-excitement, the invariable accompaniment of double suicides. 

"And now," said La Mayeux, "quick, quick, 'the brazier!" 
and with these words she kneeled down before the pan filled with 
charcoal, but Cephyse taking her by the waist, compelled her to rise, 



eave me to light the fire, that is my business." 

" Nay, but, Cephyse " 

" Why, you know, sister dear, that the smell of charcoal always 
gives you a bad head-ach." 

Though the Queen-Bacchanal uttered these words with unaffected 
earnestness, yet as the folly of such a recommendation struck the 
minds of each poor girl, they involuntarily exchanged a mournful 
smile. 

" Well, well," resumed Cephyse, " but for all that, there is no need 
for your suffering more pain than can be helped, time enough to en- 
dure agony when the moment has arrived ;" then pointing to the half- 
emptied mattrass, Cephyse added, " Go and lie down there, dearest 
sister, and as soon as I have lighted the brazier, I will come and sit 
beside you." 

" Do not be long, Cephyse." 

" Oh, five minutes will do it." 

The high part of the building, looking out on the street, was sepa- 
rated by a narrow court, from the wing in which was situated the 
wretched abode of the sisters, and so completely overshadowed it, that 
when once the sun had sunk behind the sharp gable ends, the garret 
was almost in a state of darkness, but a faint light stole in through 
the dingy, opaque windows, sufficient only to reveal the wretched mat- 
trass with its checked "cover, on which La Mayeux, clad in squalid rags, 
lay half reclining, leaning on her left elbow, with her chin resting in 
the palm of her hand, regarding her sister with an expression of 
heart-felt misery. 

Kneeling before the brazier, with her face bent downwards towards 
the charcoal, on whose dark surface flickered a faint and uncertain blue 
flame, Cephyse was exerting all her strength of lungs to kiudle the 
fire by means of some small pieces of lighted straw, whose deep lurid 
red reflected an unnatural hue on the pale sickly cheek of the once 
blooming Queen-Bacchanal. 

The most unbroken silence prevailed, interrupted only by the con- 
vulsive and laboured respiration of Cephyse, mingled with the crack- 
ling of the now kindled charcoal, which as it burnt brighter and 
fiercer, emitted a faint and sickening odour. 

Perceiving that the brazier was thoroughly lighted, and feeling 
herself somewhat giddy from its fumes, Cephyse arose, and approach- 
ing her sister, said in the calm voice of one who has ceased to hope, 

" All is now ready !" 

" Sister dear," answered La Mayeux, kneeling upon the mattrass 
as Cephyse stood beside her, " how shall we place ourselves, I could 
wish us to be together, and as near as possible to each other till all is 
over !" 




SUICIDE. 
Vol. HI. P. 83. 



i.oiiitini . riuiiinaii ami Halt. 



., 



SUICIDE. 93 

" Stay !" said Cephyse, progressively executing the various move- 
ments she described ; " this shall be the way, I will sit at the head of 
the mattrass and lean against the wall, and you, my darling sister, shall 
lie down there, that's right ! now lay your head on my lap, and give 
me your hand ! Are you comfortable so ?" 

" Quite, only I cannot see your face." 

" So much the better ; for no doubt there will be a time of intense 
agony, however short it may be, and we could neither of us bear to see 
the other's sufferings." 

" You are right, Cephyse !" 

" But let me once again kiss your bright glossy hair," said Cephyse, 
pressing to her lips the long silky tresses, that shaded the pale, melan- 
choly countenance of La Mayeux, " and then, dear sister, we will not 
move any more." 

" Sister," murmured La Mayeux, "give me your hand for the last 
time, and afterwards, as you say, we will Ire quite still. I do not expect 
we shall have to wait long, for I begin to feel a sort of drowsiness and 
faintness stealing over me ; do you experience any similar sensations, 
dear Cephyse?" 

" No !" said Cephyse, " not yet, I only find an oppressive smell 
from the charcoal." 

" You have no idea where we shall be buried, have you, dear sis- 
ter ?" inquired La Mayeux, after a short pause. 

" None whatever ; but why that question ?" 

" Only because I should be glad to think it would be in Pere la 
Chaise. I went there once with Agricola and his mother, oh what a 
beautiful place it is ! such trees and flowers, and splendid marble ! Do 
you know, Cephyse, I have often thought since, that the dead are far 
better lodged than the living and I I " 

" What ails you dearest sister ?" asked Cephyse, as, La Mayeux 
whose voice had been gradually becoming fainter and slower, suddenly 
ceased speaking. 

" I know not," replied La Mayeux, " but my temples beat fearfully, 
and my head seems dizzy, and how do you feel?" 

" A little giddy, nothing more ; it is strange the symptoms should 
shew themselves so much sooner in you than me." 

" Oh ! said La Mayeux trying to smile, " you know, dear Cephyse, 
I always was so much more forward than my companions in whatever 
I undertook. Do you remember, even at the school we went to, the 
holy sisters who taught us invariably pronounced me more precocious 
than all the other scholars ? and, you see, it is still the same thing, I 
outstrip you even when seeking death." 

" Be it so," replied Cephyse, " I shall soon overtake you !" 

That which excited the surprise of the sisters was very easily to 
be accounted for : although weakened by grief and misery, the con- 
stitution of the Queen Bacchanal, naturally as strong as that of poor 
La Mayeux was delicate and feeble, resisted the deleterious effects 
of the charcoal for a much longer period than her more susceptible 
sister. 

After a short silence, Cephyse, placing her hand on the forehead of 
her sister, whose head she still supported on her lap, said tenderly, 



94 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Are you in pain, dear sister ? you do not speak to me tell me, 
do you suffer much ?" 

" No, dearest Cephyse," replied La Mayeux, in a faint, languid tone, 
but my eyelid* seem heavy as lead, and I feel a sort of whirling in my 
brain ; I am conscious, too, that it continues to atfi-ct my M-IISI -. t<>r i.u 
speech seems difficult, and it is with considerable effort I am able to 
utter these words, except that I do not experience any very great 
pain. And you, dear sister? " 

" While you were speaking, a sudden giddiness came over me, and 
even now my temples beat as though they would burst." 

" Just as mine did a little time ago, one would have thought it was 
more painful, as well as difficult, to die." 

Then suddenly breaking off, La Mayeux remained silent for a 
short space, when she abruptly said, 

" Do you think Agricola will regret me much, and that he will 
long remember our past friendship?" 

" How can you doubt it?" answered Cephyse, reproachfully. 

" True," replied La Mayeux, gently ; " it was wrong of me to think 
of such a thing, but if you knew " 

" What, dear sister?" 

La Mayeux hesitated for a few seconds, and then with much emo- 
tion she said, " Nothing !" again she returned to the subject by ex- 
claiming " At least I shall die happy in the knowledge that he has no 
further need of me ; he is married to a young and charming wife who 
loves him as tenderly as he loves her, and I feel persuaded she will ren- 
der his life joyful and contented." 

As La Mayeux faltered out these last words, her voice became 
gradually fainter and fainter, all at once a sort of convulsive spasm 
seized her, and she cried to Cephyse in a timid, trembling tone, 

"Sister dear, clasp me in your arms ; oh I fear I know not 
what all things appear before my eyes of a dark, gloomy, blue colour, 
all seems turning round in the room ;" and then, as though seeking to 
escape from the frightful objects which environed her, the unfortunate 
girl buried her face on the shoulder of her still sitting sister, and 
feebly folded her in her embrace. 

" Courage I dear sister," said Cephyse tenderly pressing her sister 
to her bosom, and speaking in a voice visibly becoming weaker and 
weaker ; " courage, all will soon be over." Then, with a mixture of 
jealous fear, Cephyse added, 

"How comes it that my sister sinks so long before myself? she 
is utterly overcome, while I still retain my senses, and endure scarce 
any pain, but this neither can or shall continue so, if I thought she 
would die first, I would go and hold my head over the charcoal-pan 
ay and I will do so, for fear of the worst " 

But as Cephyse sought to rise, the feeble arms of her sister still 
restrained her. 

" You suffer much, my darling sister, do you not ? " asked Cephyse, 
trembling with affectionate agony. 

" Oh yes, I do now. Oh, Cephyse ! dear Cephyse, stay with 
me do not leave me." 

" While I scarcely experience even a passing inconvenience 
nothing that I ought to feel," answered Cephyse, casting a look of 



SUICIDE. 95 

almost savage fury at the rec/iaud, " but yet," exclaimed she, with 
gloomy exultation, " what is this that steals over me, that 
seizes on my brain on my heart? Oh, yes, at length at length 
a sensation as of suffocation oppresses my breath, while my head seems 
bursting !" 

The deleterious gas formed by the burning charcoal had by this 
time exhausted, by degrees, all the respirable air contained in the 
closely shut up garret. Day had fully advanced by this time, and the 
wretched abode of the two sisters, before in almost total darkness, was 
now lit up by the bright, lurid light of the furnace, which reflected its 
red and glowing beams upon the pale countenances of the sisters as 
they lay entwined in each other's arms. 

Suddenly, La Mayeux, who had lain perfectly quiet, struggled 
as though with some powerful emotion, her chest heaved convul- 
sively as she murmured, in a dying tone, " Agricola ! Mademoi- 
selle de Cardovtlle Oh, farewell farewell Agricola I " Then, 
faintly uttering a few indistinct sounds, her struggles ceased, and her 
arms, which had almost convulsively enfolded Cephyse, fell listlessly 
on the mattrass. 

"Sister! sister!" shrieked Cephyse, raising the head of La 
Mayeux to ascertain whether, indeed, death had set his seal on those 
dear features. " What I already freed from suffering ? What ! gone 
before me ? Oh, no, no, dead ? while I I " 

The gentle countenance of La Mayeux looked not paler than 
usual, but in her half-closed eyes dwelled only vacancy and uncon- 
sciousness; while on the half-closed, purple lips, still played a smile of 
melancholy sweetness and goodness ; a faint sigh escaped her, and 
then the mouth became fixed and rigid, while the whole features wore 
the impress of undisturbed serenity. 

" This is not right, my sister," exclaimed poor Cephyse, in the 
most heart-rending tones ; " you should have waited for me. Sister 
sister, a few minutes and I join you ! " cried she, pressing her 
lips on the already icy cheeks of La Mayeux. " Oh, wait for me, 
sister, wait but a short space I come I come " 

No sound issued from the pale lips of La Mayeux, and as Cephyse 
let go her hand, it fell unresistingly back on the mattrass. 

"God of Mercy !" exclaimed Cephyse, springing from the wretched 
bed in bitter despair, and kneeling in frantic wildness beside the mat- 
trass on which La Mayeux lay extended, " Thou knowest 'tis not my 
fault we have not died together. Dead ! " whispered Cephyse, over- 
come with terror at the sight of her sister's corpselike features 
" dead before me ! probably, because I am the stronger. Oh ! 
blessed change ! I, too, begin, like her, to see all things tinged^vith a 
blue and livid cast, and I suffer, Oh God ! what thrilling tortures 
are these that rack my frame ! I choke I die Oh, air, air what 
happiness ! what joy ! My oppressed heart must soon cease to 
struggle for breath tor life I feel the suffocating vapour gain upon 
me joy ! joy ! Sister," cried she, throwing herself beside La Mayeux, 
and casting her arms about her neck, " reproach me not. I come I 
come I " 

A sudden trampling of feet was heard on the old ricketty staircase. 
Cephyse had still sufficient remaining consciousness to hear and under- 



96 THE WANDERING JEW. 

stand the nature of these sounds ; still extended on the body of her 
sister, she lifted up her head ; the noise came nearer and nearer, and 
soon she heard a voice crying at some little distance from the door, 
"Merciful powers! what a fearful odour of charcoal!" while directly 
after the door shook under the violent efforts made to force it open, 
while a loud, manly voice exclaimed, " Open the door 1 open it 
instantly I" 

" Some one comes to save me, while my sister has perished. Oh, 
no, no ; let me not be so base, so cowardly, as to live since she has 
died." 

Such were the rapid and overwhelming thoughts of Cephyse. 
Rushing towards the window, she employed all her remaining strength 
to force it open ; the miserable frames yielded to her frenzied efforts, 
and at the very instant when the crazy door gave way beneath the 
vigorous blows with which it was assailed, the unfortunate girl precipi- 
tated herself from the third floor down to the court below. 

At this moment Adrienne de Cardoville and Agricola appeared at 
the entrance to the chamber. Spite of the suffocating atmosphere 
which filled the room, Mademoiselle de Cardoville rushed in, and per- 
ceiving the brazier, exclaimed 

" Alas ! the unhappy girl has destroyed herself! " 

" No, no," cried Agricola, " she has thrown herself from the win- 
dow ; " for his eye had caught, at the moment of forcing his way into 
the miserable spot, the outline of a human form disappear by the win- 
dow. " Oh horrible ! horrible, indeed !" continued he, as, after a hasty 
glance around him, he uttered a distracted cry, hid his face with his 
hands, and, pale and terrified, turned towards Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville ; but, mistaking the cause of his alarm, Adrienne, who, amidst all 
the obscurity of the place, had distinguished the form ofLaMayeux, 
replied, 

" No, no ! there she is I " 

At the same time pointing out to the young smith the pale figure of 
La Mayeux extended on the mattrass, beside which Adrienne threw 
herself, seizing the icy hands of the young sempstress, and pressing 
them between her own ; then placing a hand on her heart, she found no 
pulsation all was still and at rest ; but as the fresh air rushed in 
from the open door and window, Adrienne, still continuing her anxious 
scrutiny, imagined that she discovered a slight pulsation, and ex- 
claimed, 

" Her heart beats ! Oh ! M. Agricola, fly quickly for help for 
assistance ; fortunately, 1 have my salts with me." 

" I will," answered the young smith, dashing down the dark stair- 
ease; "I will obtain help for her, and the other poor unfortunate 
being also." 

He then disappeared, leaving Mademoiselle de Cardoville kneel- 
ing beside the mattrass on which lay the cold, pale form of La 
Mayeux. 







*-sv ^ > 



ADRIENNE RESCUING LA MAYEUX. 



Vol. III. F. 07. 



CONFESSIONS. 97 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



CONFESSIONS. 

DURING the painful scene we have just related, a deep emotion had 
coloured the features of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, pale and thin from 
grief. Her cheeks, formerly so beautifully rounded, were now slightly 
wrinkled, while a circle of faint and transparent blue was observable 
around her large black eyes, which were veiled sorrowfully, instead of 
being brilliant and sparkling, as they were wont to be ; her lovely lips, 
although contracted by painful disquietude, had still preserved, their 
humid and velvety carnation. 

In order to bestow her cares on La Mayeux more easily, Adrienne 
had taken off her hat, and the silky tresses of her beautiful golden hair 
almost hid her features as she leaned over the mattrass by which she 
was kneeling, clasping in her ivory hands the meagre hands of the poor 
work-girl, who had been for several minutes completely restored to 
animation by the wholesome freshness of the air and the potency of 
the salts which Adrienne carried in a bottle. Fortunately, La Mayeux's 
fainting had been caused more by her emotion and weakness than by 
the action of the asphyxia, the deleterious gas of the charcoal not 
having yet reached its height when the unhappy girl lost her con- 
sciousness. 

Before we continue the recital of this scene between the work-girl 
and the patrician lady, some retrospective words are requisite. 

Since the singular adventure at the theatre of the Porte-Saint- 
Martin, when Djalma, at the peril of his life, had rushed on the black 
panther before the eyes of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, the young girl 
had been variously and deeply affected. 

Forgetting alike her jealousy and humiliation at the sight of Djalma 
thus appearing, in the face of the world, with a female so unworthy of 
him, Adrienne, for a moment dazzled by the intrepidity of the act, at 
once so chivalrous and heroic, said, " In spite of odious appearances, 
Djalma loves me well enough to have braved death for me, that he 
might pick up my bouquet." 

But with this young girl, whose mind was so delicate, and whose 
disposition and understanding were so generous and just her reflection 
and good sense soon proved the inefficacy of such consolation to cure 
the deep wounds of love and dignity so sorely assailed. 

" How many times," said Adrienne, with much reason, "has the 
prince faced, in the chase, from pure caprice, and without reason, a 
danger like that which he has encountered to pick up my bouquet ! 
And, again, who can say that it was not to present it to the female 
by whom he was accompanied?" 

Adrienne's ideas of love, strange, perhaps, to the world, but, ne- 
vertheless, just and true, joined to her natural pride, were an insu-> 

62 H 



98 THE WANDERING JEW. 

perable obstacle to her thinking of succeeding to the woman (who- 
ever she might be) whom the prince had publicly displayed as his 
mistress. 

Yet Adrienne scarcely dared own to herself that she felt jealousy, 
the more painful, the more humiliating, as she felt this female the less 
worthy of comparison with herself. At other times, on the contrary, in 
spite of the consciousness she had of her own value, Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville, calling to mind the lovely features of Rose-Pompon, asked 
herself, if the bad taste, the vulgar and affected manners of this pretty 
creature were the result of precocious and depraved effrontery, or 
complete ignorance of the usages of society. In the latter case, this 
very ignorance, resulting, perhaps, from a simple and ingenuous nature, 
might be very attractive ; and, moreover, if to this charm and that of 
incontestable beauty there were united a sincere love and pure mind, 
the obscure birth and neglected education of this young girl were of 
very little consequence, and she might inspire Djalma with a very 
intense passion. 

If Adrienne frequently hesitated at deciding (in spite of so many 
convincing circumstances) that Rose-Pompon was a lost creature, it 
was her recollecting what so many travellers had related as to the dig- 
nity of Djalma's mind ; remembering, too, particularly, the conversation 
she had one day surprised between him and Rodin, she refused to 
believe that a man endued with a mind so remarkable, a heart so 
tender, a soul so poetical, so meditative, so enthusiastic as to the ideal, 
could be capable of loving a depraved and vulgar creature, and of 
shewing himself so unblushingly with her in public ; this was a mys- 
tery which Adrienne sought vainly to penetrate. 

These distressing doubts, this painful curiosity, increased still more 
the agonised love of Adrienne ; and we may judge of her incurable 
despair when we remember that even Djalma's contempt could not 
destroy this love, more burning, more impassioned than ever. Some- 
times taking up ideas of the fatality of the heart, she said to herself, 
that she was destined to experience this love, that Djalma merited it, 
and that scmie day all that was incomprehensible in the prince's con- 
duct would be fully explained to his advantage. Sometimes, on the 
contrary, ashamed of excusing Djalma, the consciousness of her weak- 
ness caused in Adrienne a remorse, a torture incessant; and, a victim 
to these unheard-of griefs, she lived henceforward in the most profound 
solitude. 

But the cholera now burst out like thunder. Too wretched to fear 
this scourge, Adrienne was only moved at the sufferings of others. 
She was one of the first to contribute those large subscriptions which 
flowed in from all parts with such admirable display of charity. 
Florine had been suddenly seized by the epidemic, and, in spite of the 
danger, her mistress insisted on seeing her and supporting her ex- 
hausting courage. Florine, overcome by this new display of goodness, 
could not longer conceal the treachery in which, until then, she had 
been an accomplice ; and death, before it delivered her from what was 
unquestionably the odious tyranny of those whose yoke she suffered, 
allowed her to reveal all to Adrienne. She then learned the incessant 
espionage of Florine, and the cause of Mayeux's sudden departure. 



CONFESSIONS. 99 

At these disclosures Adrienne felt all her affection and tender sym- 
pathy for the poor work-girl revive. By her order the most active 
measures were set on foot to discover traces of La Mayeux. Florine's 
confessidns had another important result also. Adrienne, justly 
alarmed at this new proof of Rodin's machinations, remembered the 
projects formed when, believing herself beloved, the instinct of her love 
revealed to her the perils which Djalma and the other members of the 
Rennepont family must encounter. Her first thought, then, was to 
assemble all of her race to rally them against the common enemy, 
after Florine's revelations. This thought she believed it her duty to 
accomplish, in this struggle against adversaries as dangerous, as pow- 
erful, as Rodin, Pere d'Aigrigny, the Princess de Saint-Dizier, and 
their satellites ; for Adrienne saw not only the praiseworthy and peril- 
ous task of unmasking hypocrisy and cupidity, but also, if not a conso- 
lation, at least a noble amelioration from frightful chagrins. 

From this moment a disturbed, feverish activity usurped the place 
of the dull and languishing apathy to which she had given way. She 
summoned around her all the persons of her family capable of answer- 
ing her appeal, and, as had been detailed in the secret note sent to Pere 
d'Aigrigny, the Hotel de Cardoville became very soon the focus of 
active and incessant measures, the centre of frequent family meetings, 
in which the means of attack and defence were fully and anxiously 
discussed. 

Quite correct in all its details, the secret note of which we have 
spoken (and the fact was therein given as dubious) supposed that 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville had granted an interview to Djalma. This 
was false. We shall know hereafter why this suspicion was credited ; 
but, so far from it, Mademoiselle de Cardoville scarcely found in the 
occupation of the great interests of her family a passing amusement to 
the consuming love which was silently undermining her, and with 
which she reproached herself so bitterly. 

The morning of the same day on which Adrienne, learning at 
length the residence of La Mayeux, had so miraculously snatched her 
from death, Agricola Baudoin had called at the Hotel de Cardoville 
to report respecting M. Francois Hardy, and had requested permis- 
sion to accompany her to the Rue Clovis, whither they both went in 
great haste. 

Then, again, we have this noble spectacle this touching symbol, 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville and La Mayeux, the two extremes of the 
social chain touching and meeting in soft and sympathising equality, 
for the work-girl and the patrician lady were alike worthy in intellect, 
in soul, and in heart ; and they were the more worthy, as the one was 
the ideal of wealth, grace, and beauty, whilst the other was the ideal of 
resignation and unmerited suffering. Alas ! misfortune suffers with 
courage and dignity, why should it not also have its crown of glory ? 

La Mayeux, extended on her mattrass, appeared so weak, that even 
if Agricola had not been detained on the ground-floor of the house 
beside Cephyse, then expiring of a horrid death, Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville would still have had to wait some time before she could beg 
La Mayeux to rise and go down with her into her carriage. 

Thanks to the presence of mind and the pious fraud of Adriennej 



100 THE WANDERING JEW. 

the poor girl was persuaded that C6physe had been transported to an 
hospital close at hand, where the necessary cures were administered to 
her, and which, it was hoped, would be successful. La Maycux's facul- 
ties only wakened very gradually from their bewilderment, and she 
had thus believed this without the slightest suspicion, being also igno- 
rant that Agricola had accompanied Mademoiselle de Cardoville. 

" It is to you, mademoiselle, that Cephyse and I owe onr lives," 
said La Mayeux, turning her wan and melancholy face towards Adri- 
enne " to you, kneeling in this garret, by the bed of misery, where my 
sister and myself desired to die; for Cephyse you assure me, do you 
not, mademoiselle? has been, like myself, succoured in time?" 

" Yes, take comfort, for this moment they have been to tell me that 
she was recovering her senses." 

And she has been told I was living, has she not, mademoiselle ? 
If not, perhaps she will regret having survived me." 

4< Be tranquil, my dear girl," said Adrienne, pressing La Mayeux's 
hands between her own, and fixing on her eyes moistened with tears ; 
" they have told her all that was requisite. Do not disturb your- 
self; only think of returning to life, and, I hope, to happiness, of which 
hitherto you have known so little, my poor dearl" 

" How good you are, mademoiselle ! after my flight from your 
house, when you must have thought me so ungrateful I" 

" Presently, when you are not so weak, I will tell you many things 
which would now fatigue your attention too much, perhaps. But how 
do you find yourself?" 

" Better, mademoiselle ; the fresh air, and the thought that, as you 
are now here, my poor sister will be no longer reduced to despair ; for 
I, too, will tell you all, and I am sure you will have pity on Cephyse, 
will you not, mademoiselle?" 

" Rely on me in every way, my dear," replied Adrienne, con- 
cealing her painful embarrassment. " You know I take an interest in 
you and all that concerns you. But tell me," added Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville, in an agitated voice, " before you took this desperate reso- 
lution, you had written to me, had you not ? " 

" Yes, mademoiselle." 

" Alas ! " replied Adrienne, sorrowfully, " not receiving any 
answer from me, you must have thought me forgetful, and cruelly 
ungrateful ! " 

" Oh, I never accused you, mademoiselle ; my poor sister will tell 
you so. I have been grateful to you to the last." 

" I believe you I know your heart ; but then how could you 
explain my silence ? " 

" I believed you were justly offended at my sudden departure, 
mademoiselle." 

" I offended ! Alas ! I never received your letter ! " 

" And yet you knew that I wrote to you, mademoiselle ? " 

" Yes, my poor dear girl, I knew you had written to me through 
the porter; unfortunately, he gave your letter to one of my women, 
named Florine, telling her that the letter came from you." 

" Mademoiselle Florine ! the young person who was so kind 
to me?" 



CONFESSIONS. 101 

" Florine behaved most treacherously to me ; she was sold to my 
enemies, and acted as a spy over me." 

" She ! " exclaimed La Mayeux. " Is it possible ? " 
" Yes," replied Adrienne, bitterly ; " but she was, after all, as 
much to be pitied as blamed ; she was compelled to obey a terrible 
necessity, and her confession and repentance before death obtained my 
pardon." 

" She dead too ! she, so young, so handsome ! " 
" In spite of her wrongs towards me, her end deeply affected me, 
for she confessed her crimes with distressing regrets. Amongst other 
disclosures, she told me she had intercepted a letter in which you had 
requested an interview which might save your sister's life." 

" That was true, mademoiselle such were the contents of my let- 
ter ; but what interest could any one have in keeping it from you ? " 

" They feared seeing you return to me, my good guardian angel ; 
you loved me too well ; my enemies feared your faithful affection, so 
wonderfully served by the instinct of your heart. Ah, I shall never 
forget how deserved was the horror with which you were inspired 
against a wretch whom I defended against your suspicions." 
" Monsieur Rodin ? " said La Mayeux, shuddering. 
" Yes," replied Adrienne : " but do not let us talk of such creatures 
now ; these hateful remembrances will spoil the joy I experience in 
seeing you recover, for your voice is not so weak, and your cheeks are 
slightly coloured, thank God ! I am so delighted at finding you 
again I If you only knew all I hope, all I expect from our meeting 
again ! for we will never part again, will we ? Oh, promise me that, 
in the name of our friendship ! " 

" I, mademoiselle, your friend ! " said La Mayeux, lowering her 
eyes timidly. 

" Did I not, some days before your departure from my house, call 
you my friend my sister ? What change is there now ? None 
none," added Mademoiselle de Cardoville, with deep emotion. " I 
should say, on the contrary, that a fatal similarity in our mutual posi- 
tions makes your friendship more dear, still more precious ; and it is 
mine, is it not ? Oh, do not refuse me, I am in such want of a 
friend!" 

" You, mademoiselle ! what need can you have of the friendship of 
a poor creature like myself?" 

" Yes," replied Adrienne, looking at La Mayeux with an expression 
of keenest grief; " and more you are the only person to whom I 
could, to whom I should, dare to confide my very bitter griefs." And 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville's cheeks turned very red. 

" And how have I merited such a mark of confidence, mademoi- 
selle ? " inquired La Mayeux, more and more surprised. 

" The delicacy of your heart, the firmness of your mind," replied 
Adrienne, after a slight hesitation ; "then you are a woman, and I am 
sure you will comprehend better than any one what I suffer, and you 
will pity me." 

" Pity you, mademoiselle !" said La Mayeux, whose astonishment 
increased ; " I pity you a great lady, so envied and admired ! I, 
so humble and so insignificant, pity you ! " 



102 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Oh, ray dear friend," replied Adrienne, after some moments' 
silence, " are not the most poignant griefs those which we dare not 
avow to any one, because of our fear of raillery or contempt ? How 
can we dare ask pity or interest for sufferings which we dare not avow 
to ourselves, because we should blush in our own eyes ?" 

La Mayeux could scarcely believe what she heard ; if her benefac- 
tress, like herself, had experienced an unhappy affection, she would 
have spoken thus ; but the sempstress could not believe in such a sup- 
position ; and thus, attributing to another cause the griefs of Adrienne, 
she replied sorrowfully, whilst thinking of her fatal love for Agricola, 

" Oh, yes, mademoiselle, a grief that makes us feel ashamed that 
must be terrible, very terrible ! " 

" But then what joy to meet not only with a heart noble' enough 
to inspire you with perfect confidence, but also proved by a thousand 
griefs to be capable of offering you pity, support, counsel ! Tell me, 
my dear girl," added Mademoiselle de Cardoville, looking fixedly at La 
Mayeux, " if you were overwhelmed with a suffering that made you 
blush, would you not be happy, very happy to find a soul kindred, 
sister with your own, into which you could pour out your troubles, 
and half alleviate them by a full and merited confidence ? " 

For the first time in her life, La Mayeux contemplated Mademoi- 
selle de Cardoville with a sentiment of sorrow and distrust. The last 
words of the young lady seemed to her very significant : " No doubt 
she has my secret," said La Mayeux to herself " no doubt my 
journal has fallen into her hands ; she knows my love for Agricola, or 
she suspects it : what she has just said was to excite my confidence, and 
assure her whether or not she has been well informed." 

These thoughts did not excite in La Mayeux any bitter or un- 
grateful feeling against her benefactress ; but the heart of the unfortu- 
nate girl was of such refined sensibility, of such painful susceptibility, 
with respect to her unhappy love, that, despite her deep and most 
tender affection to Mademoiselle de Cardoville, she suffered bitterly in 
believing her mistress of her secret. 

The thought (at first so painful) of Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
being aware of her love for Agricola was soon changed by the pure 
and estimable qualities of La Mayeux's noble mind into a deep and 
touching regret expressive of her warm attachment and veneration for 
Adrienne. 

" Perhaps," said La Mayeux, mentally, " conquered by the influ- 
ence of that extreme goodness exercised towards me by my beloved 
protectress, I should have confessed to her a secret I thought but a little 
while since to have carried with me to my grave ; it would have been 
at least a proof of my gratitude towrds Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
but I am now unfortunately deprived of the mournful satisfaction of 
confiding to my benefactress the only secret of my life. And then, 
again, however great her pity for me, however compassionate her 
nature, how is it possible one so lovely, so beloved as herself, could 
ever comprehend the painful condition of an unhappy being, like my- 
self, constrained to bury, in the most hidden recess of my aching heart, 
a love as hopeless as ridiculous on my part ? Oh, no, no ; spite of the 
delicacy with which I feel assured she would kindly comfort me, my 



CONFESSIONS. 103 

gentle benefactress would unconsciously wound me still deeper ; it is 
only the miserable can effectually administer consolation to those simi- 
larly afflicted. Alas ! alas ! why has she not left me to die ? " 

These reflections passed through the mind of La Mayeux with the 
rapidity of thought. Adrienne, who was closely observing her, re- 
marked that her features, which were gradually recovering their 
usually mild and serene aspect, all at once underwent a complete 
change, as though under the influence of some painful, humiliating 
sentiment. Alarmed at this gloomy relapse, the consequences of which 
might be fatal to La Mayeux, still extremely faint and weak, and, in a 
manner, on the verge of the grave, Mademoiselle de Cardoville said 
quickly, 

" Do you not agree with me, my dear friend, that the most cruel 
sorrow, the most mortifying circumstance, may be mitigated and 
soothed if poured into the pitying breast' of a faithful and devoted 
companion ? " 

" Doubtless, mademoiselle," answered La Mayeux, bitterly ; " but 
those who suffer in silence can alone judge of the right moment for 
unburdening their woes and revealing their secre^ until voluntarily 
given, it would be kinder to respect this silence, arid not endeavour to 
force a confidence, or from any motives whatever to surprise it." 

" You are quite right, my poor girl," said Adrienne, mournfully ; 
" and, if I have chosen the present almost solemn moment to repose in 
you a most painful secret, it is because I feel assured that, when you 
have heard my words, you will attach so much the greater value to 
your existence, as it will be manifest to you how greatly I stand in 
need of your tenderness, your consolations, and your pity." 

At these words, La Mayeux made an effort to raise herself, and, 
half reclining on her wretched mattrass, she gazed on Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville with mute astonishment. Could she hear aright? Instead 
of seeking to draw her own secret from her, or surprise her into a con- 
fession of her absurd passion for Agricola, her protectress assured her, 
with lips that never uttered aught but truth, that she it was who came 
to ask sympathy, to seek consolation, and to solicit the pity ! of a 
wretched outcast a despised Mayeux! 

11 Do I hear aright?" she at length managed to stammer forth. 
" 'Tis you, mademoiselle, who come " 

" To tell you I suffer, while I blush with deep shame for the very 
torments which consume me ; yes," continued the agitated girl, with an 
expression of almost convulsive agony, "of all humiliating confessions, 
I come to breathe into your ear the most so I love, yet despise my- 
self for my misplaced affection." 

" Like me ! " exclaimed La Mayeux, involuntarily, as she clasped 
her hands with energetic pressure. 

" Yes," resumed Adrienne, with a burst of long-repressed grief, 
" I love, and my passion is unrequited and impossible : it consumes 
destroys me and yet I dare not confide this fatal secret to 
any." 

"Like me!" again repeated La Mayeux, quite unconsciously, and 
gazing with fixed attention. " She, peerless by beauty, as well as ex- 
alted by rank, so rich, so talented, courted, and admired, suffers then 



104 THE WANDERING JEW. 

like a poor wretch such as myself!" murmured she, "and no more 
dare breathe her unhappy tale than do I, a miserable outcast." 

" Yes, yes !" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Cardoville, impetuously, 
" like you, my excellent friend, J love, without hope of return. Was I 
wrong, then, in saying that to you alone I could unburden my heart, 
when, having endured the same sufferings, you alone could pity what 
I undergo?" 

" You know all then, mademoiselle? " whispered La Mayeux, casting 
down her eyes, and recovering from the first surprise into which this 
conversation had thrown her. 

" I do, my poor girl ; but never would you have heard the smallest 
reference to your secret from me. if I myself had not had one far 
more painful to confide to you; yours is cruel, mine humiliating. Thus 
you see," said Mademoiselle de Cardoville, speaking in a tone and voice 
of such anguish as is impossible to describe, " how misfortune breaks 
down and lessens what are called distinctions and distances. Alas ! 
how frequently do the great and the envied in this world fall by severe 
visitations of Providence below the condition of the most humble and 
wretched, nay, till they come even to crave the consolation of those 
who but lately believed them favoured above all mortals." Then, dry- 
ing the tears which had flowed abundantly, Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville said, in an agitated manner, 

" But never mind, sister in misfortune, let us take courage to bear 
our fate ; let us love, support, and console each other, and make this 
sad and mysterious bond a tie whicli shall for ever unite us." 

" Ah, mademoiselle, forgive me ; but, now you know the secret of 
my life," said La Mayeux, lowering her eyes and unable to disguise 
her confusion, " I do not seem able to look at you without feeling 
ashamed." 

"And wherefore? because you are passionately attached to M. 
Agricola?" inquired Adrienne. "Why, then, I ought also to die 
with shame in your presence, for, less courageous than you, I have 
not had the strength of mind to resign myself to conceal my love 
in the deepest recesses of my heart. He whom I love with a love 
never to be surpassed has known my love, and has scorned it, has 
preferred to me a woman, the selection of whom is a fresh and mortal 
insult to me, if appearances do not belie her. Sometimes I hope 
they do deceive me ; tell me, then, is it you who ought to lower your 
eyes ? " 

" You disdained for a female unworthy to be compared to you ? 
Ah, mademoiselle, I cannot believe it," exclaimed La Mayeux. 

" And at times I myself can scarcely believe it, and I say that 
without pride, but because I know the value of my own heart. Then 
I say to myself, No, she whom he prefers is, no doubt, capable of 
touching the very soul, mind, and heart of him who disclaims me for 
her." 

" Ah ! mademoiselle, if all I hear is not a dream, if false appear- 
ances do not lead you astray, your grief is great indeed." 

" Yes, my poor friend, great, oh ! how great I and yet now, thanks to 
you, I have the hope that, perhaps, this fatal passion will grow weaker, 
perhaps I shall find strength to overcome it, for when you know all 



CONFESSIONS. 105 

absolutely all, I would not blush in your eyes, you the noblest, 
worthiest of women, you whose courage and resignation are, and 
always will be, an example for me." 

" Ah, mademoiselle, do not speak to me of my courage when I 
have so much cause to blush at my weakness." 

" Blush, alas ! always this fear ? Is there, on the contrary, any thing 
more touching, more heroically devoted, than your love ? You blush ! 
and wherefore ? Is it for having displayed the most holy affection for 
the loyal artisan, whom from your infancy you have learned to love ? 
blush, for having been the most tender daughter to his mother? blush, 
for having endured without complaint, poor dear girl ! a thousand suf- 
ferings, all the more poignant as the persons who forced you to endure 
them had not any consciousness of the ill they did you ? Did they 
think they wounded you, when, instead of giving you your simple name 
of Madelaine, as you said, they always used without reflection a nick- 
name so ridiculing and painful ? and yet, for this, how many secret 
humiliations and agonies did you undergo !" 

" Alas! mademoiselle, who could have told you ?" 

" Did you not confide this to your journal? Well, I must tell you 
all. Florine, on her death-bed, confessed all her misdeeds. She had had 

the baseness to steal your compelled, be it added, to this odious act 

by the persons who controlled her. But she had read this journal, and, as 
every good feeling was not utterly dead in her, the perusal of that 
portion in which you expressed your admirable resignation, your sad, 
but holy love, had so deep an effect on her, that even at her dying 
hour she quoted several passages to me, as she accounted to me for 
your sudden disappearance, for she had no doubt but that you were 
impelled to your flight by the fear of your love for M. Agricola being 
known." 

" Alas ! that is but too true, mademoiselle." 

" Oh, yes," continued Adrienne, with bitterness, " those who worked 
upon the unhappy girl knew well how to direct the blow, they are no, 
novices in directing injuries. They reduced you to despair they 
killed you. But, then, why were you so devoted to me ? Why did you 
penetrate their mask ? Ah ! those black gowns are implacable, and 
their power is great," said Adrienne, with a shudder. 

" It is fearful, mademoiselle." 

" Take courage, my dear little child, as you see the weapons of the 
wicked often turn against themselves, for, at the moment when I learned 
the cause of your flight, you became only more endeared to me. 
From that time I made every possible effort to find you, and at length 
this morning only, after great search, the person whom I had charged 
with the task of discovering your retreat learned that you were in- 
habiting this house. M. Agricola happened to be at my house, and 
begged to be allowed to accompany me." 

" Agricola !" exclaimed La Mayeux, clasping her hands, " is he 
come ?" 

"Yes, my dear; but compose yourself: whilst I was doing all I 
could to revive you, he was occupied with your poor sister ; you will 
see him presently." 

" Alas, mademoiselle," replied La Mayeux, in alarm, " he doubtless 
knows " 



106 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Your love ? No, no ; be assured, and only think of the happiness 
of meeting again with this good and loyal brother." 

" Ah, mademoiselle, let him never know what has caused me so 

much shame that I would have died Praised be God ! he knows 

nothing." 

" No, and therefore no more sad thoughts, my dearest girl ; think 
of this beloved brother, that you may say to yourself, that he arrived 
in time to spare us eternal regrets, and you a great fault. Ah ! I do 
not speak to you of the prejudices of the world as to the right which 
the creature has to restore to God a life which has become too heavy. 
I only say to you, that you ought not to die, because those whom you 
love, and who love you, still want you." 

" I believed you were happy, mademoiselle ; Agricola was married 
to the young girl he loved, and who will, I am certain, insure his hap- 
piness. How could I be useful ?" 

" To me, as I have proved to you ; and who could say that M. 
Agricola would never have need of you? Who told you, that his 
happiness or that of his family will always last, or would not be liable 
to severe trials ? And, even if those who love you were to be always 
happy, could their happiness be complete without you ? And your 
death, with which, perhaps, they would have reproached themselves, 
might not this have entailed upon them endless regrets ?" 

" True, mademoiselle," replied La Mayeux ; " I have been wrong, 
a fit of despair seized on me, and then the most appalling misery had 
overwhelmed us ; we had been for several days unable to find work ; 
we were living on the charity of a poor woman, who has been carried 
off by the cholera ; to-morrow or next day we must have died of 
hunger." 

"Died of hunger when you knew my house?" 

"I had written to you, mademoiselle, and, receiving no reply, I 
believed you irrevocably offended at my sudden departure." 

" Poor dear child ! you were, as you say, under the influence of a 
fit of despair at this fearful moment, and I have not courage to reproach 
you, for having, for a moment only, doubted me. How can I blame 
you ? Have I not myself entertained the idea of putting an end to 
myself ? " 

" You, mademoiselle !" exclaimed La Mayeux. 

" Yes, I had thought deeply about it, and at that moment they 
came to tell me that Florine was in her last agony and desired to 
speak to me. I went to her, and heard her disclosures. They sud- 
denly changed my intentions ; this dull, gloomy life, which had become 
insupportable to me, was suddenly lighted up, a consciousness of duty 
was awakened within me. You, no doubt, were a prey to the most 
horrible misery, it was my duty to seek you out, to save you. Florine's 
confessions disclosed to me the new scheme of the enemies of my 
isolated family, dispersed by bitter sorrows, by cruel losses. It was 
my duty to warn them of the dangers of which they were most pro- 
bably ignorant, and to rally them against our common enemy. I had 
been the victim of odious intrigues, and it was my duty to contend 
against the plotters, for fear lest, encouraged by impunity, these black 
gowns might make fresh victims. Then the sense of duty gave me 
fresh strength, and I was enabled to throw off my stupor, and, aided by 



CONFESSIONS. 107 

the Abbe Gabriel, that sublime priest, ah ! how sublime ! the ideal 
of a true Christian, the worthy adopted brother of M. Agricola, I 
courageously entered on the struggle. What shall I tell you, my child ? 
the accomplishment of these duties, the incessant hope of finding you 
again, have already soothed my sufferings. If I have not been con- 
soled, I have at least been distracted from them. Your kind friend- 
ship, and the example of your resignation, will do all the rest, and I 
believe, I am sure, I shall forget this fatal love." 

As Adrienne uttered these words, quick steps were heard ascending 
the staircase, and a young and joyous voice was heard saying, 

" Oh, poor dear Mayeux ! I only hope I am not too late ! Dear, 
dear ! I shall be so delighted if there is any thing I can do to help her." 

And, without waiting to knock at the door, Rose-Pompon rushed 
unceremoniously into the garret, followed by Agricola, who, directing 
Adrienne's attention to the open window, endeavoured by signs to 
make her understand, she must not speak to the grisette of the deplo- 
rable death of the Queen-Bacchanal. All this dumb show was, how- 
ever, lost upon Mademoiselle de Cardoville, whose heart beat with 
mingled pain, indignation, and pride, as she recognised in the fresh 
arrival the young female she had seen with Djalma at the Porte-Saint- 
Martin, and who had been the sole cause of all the wretchedness 
she had experienced since that fatal night. 

And yet, by a cruel stroke of destiny, it was at the very instant 
when the wounded heart of Adrienne was about to breathe forth the 
humiliating confession of her despised love that the woman for whom 
she believed herself sacrificed again stood before her. 

If the surprise of Madame de Cardoville was great, that of Rose- 
Pompon was noways inferior. Not only did she easily discover in 
Adrienue the lovely individual with the rich golden hair who had 
occupied the opposite box to herself on the night of the incident of 
Djalma's attacking the black panther, but she had most urgent and 
important reasons for ardently desiring this unexpected and improbable 
meeting. No words can, therefore, adequately paint the look of malig- 
nant and triumphant joy with which she affected to survey Adrienne. 
The first impulse of Mademoiselle de Cardoville was to quit the garret ; 
but not only would it have pained her to abandon La Mayeux at this 
critical juncture, but also did she shrink from assigning a reason in 
Agricola's presence for this abrupt departure. And, further still, an 
inexplicable and fatal curiosity seemed to retain her on the spot, even 
in despite of her outraged feelings, and so she stayed. 

" She should now," she mentally argued, " be enabled to judge of 
this rival, to whom her happiness had been sacrificed ; face to face, 
she should see and hear each look and word that escaped the being 
who had all but cost her her life, and to whom, in her jealous agonies, 
she had attributed every perfection of body and mind, the better to 
account for the conduct of Djalma towards herself." 



108 THE WANDERING JEW. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE RIVALS. 

ROSE-POMPON, whose appearance excited so much emotion in the 
mind of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, was dressed in the most co- 
quettish and tawdry manner. 

Her bibi (head-dress) of pink satin, with a very small crown, was 
placed so forward, and so a la chicn that it came almost over the end 
of her small nose, in revenge disclosed the half of her silky and light 
chestnut hair ; her plaid gown of enormous checks was open in front, 
and her transparent tucker, which was not closed over carefully, dis- 
played profusely her well-rounded charms, whose effect was not 
diminished by the widely sloped opening of her corsage. 

The grisette, having hurried up the staircase, held in each hand 
the corners of her shawl, bedecked with large blue flowers, which, 
having slipped from her shoulders, had fallen on to her wasp-like waist, 
where it was compelled to take rest by a natural obstacle. 

If we enter into these details, it is because, at the sight of this 
pretty creature, attired in a manner so unbecoming and flaunting, 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville, at once detecting her as the rival she be- 
lieved so happy, felt her indignation, vexation, and shame, redoubled. 

We may judge of Adrienne's surprise and confusion, when Made- 
moiselle Rose-Pompon said to her with a self-possessed and uncere- 
monious air, 

"Ah, I am so glad to find you here, madame ; we can now have 
some talk together, only I wish first to embrace my poor dear Mayeux, 
with your leave, madame" 

To imagine the tone and accent with which the word madame was 
uttered, we must have been present at discussions more or less stormy 
between two jealous and rival Rose-Pompons, and then we might 
comprehend all that this word madame y uttered under important cir- 
cumstances, would comprise, all that was provoking and hostile. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville, overcome by the impudence of Made- 
moiselle Rose-Pompon, remained silent, whilst Agricola, whose atten- 
tion was solely occupied in attending to La Mayeux, who had not 
taken her eyes off him since he entered the room, as well as by his 
recollection of the afflicting sight he had just witnessed, said, in a low 
voice to Adrienne, without remarking the grisette's impertinence, 

" Alas ! mademoiselle, it is all over, Cephyse has just breathed her 
last sigh, without being for a moment restored to consciousness." 

" Wretched girl !" said Adrienne with emotion, and forgetting 
Rose-Pompon for a moment. 

" We must conceal this sad news from La Mayeux, and tell her 
hereafter with great caution," added Agricola; " fortunately, little Rose- 
Pompon knows nothing about it." 

And by his look he directed Mademoiselle de Cardoville's atten- 
tion to the grisette, who had crouched down close to La Mayeux. 

When she heard Agricola treat Rose-Pompon so familiarly, Adri- 



THE RIVALS. 109 

enne's amazement redoubled; it is impossible to describe what she 
suffered, for, strange to say, she seemed to herself to suffer less, and her 
anguish diminished in proportion as she heard the terms in which the 
grisette expressed herself. 

" Ah, my dear, good Mayeux, I" she exclaimed, with equal volu- 
bility and emotion, and her pretty blue eyes filled with tears, " is it pos- 
sible you could have done any thing so foolish ? Is it that amongst 
poor people they do not assist each other? You couldn't send to 
me then, though you know what is mine belongs to my friends ; I 
would have made a raffle of Philemon's whole bazar," added the 
strange girl, with an increase of tenderness, which was at the same 
time sincere, affecting, and comical. " I would have sold his three boots, 
his dearly beloved pipes, his aquatic costume, his bed, and even his 
out-and-out tumbler, that you might not have been reduced to such a 
miserable plight. Philemon would not have been angry, for he is 
a trump of a fellow ; and, if he had kicked up a row, it would have 
been all the same, thank God we are not married; I only say, that 
you ought to have thought of poor little Hose-Pompon." 

" I know how kind and obliging you are, mademoiselle," answered 
La Mayeux ; for her sister had told her that Rose-Pompon, like many 
in her condition, had a generous heart. 

" I suppose," continued the grisette, wiping away a tear from the 
end of her little red nose with the back of her hand, " you will tell 
me next that you did not know where I had pitched my tent lately. 
Such a funny story I when I say funny I mean quite the contrary ;" 
and Rose- Pompon heaved a heavy sigh. " But that's all one," she 
continued ; " there's no occasion to talk about that : it's evident you 
are better now, and neither you nor Cephyse must ever think of doing 
such a thing again. They tell me she is very weak, and no one must 
see her. Isn't it so, M. Agricola ? " 

" Yes," said the smith, with some embarrassment ; for La Mayeux 
never took her eyes off him ; " we must have patience." 

" But I shall see her to-day shall I not, Agricola ? " inquired 
La Mayeux. 

" We will see about it ; but pray calm yourself." 

"Agricola is right, and we must be patient, my dear Mayeux," 
replied Rose- Pompon. " We will wait, I will wait also ; and, in the 
meantime, should like a talk with madame (and Rose-Pompon gave 
Adrienne a look like an angry cat). Yes, yes, I will wait, for I wish 
to tell poor dear Cephyse, that she, as well as yourself, may rely on 
me," and Rose-Pompon drew herself up consequentially ; " make your 
minds easy. To be sure, when one is in a comfortable way, one 
should let one's friends who are not happy share in one's luck. I 
have no idea of any one keeping their good fortune all to themselves. 
That's my idea. Shew it at once, and take care of your luck ; put it 
in a glass case, that nobody may take it away, I say. Though, to be 
sure, when I say my good fortune, it's a figure of speech 1 It's true, 
in one sense quite true ; but in another you see, my good 
Mayeux why, that's another thing. But, bah ! after all, I am only 
seventeen. It's all one, I hold my tongue ; for, if I were to talk to 
you till to-morrow in this way, you would not know more about it. 



110 THE WANDERING JEW. 

So, once again, let me give you a hearty kiss, and don't be vexed any 
more, nor Cephyse either 1 tell you ; for here I am now " 

And Rose-Pompon, crouching on her heels, kissed La Mayeux 
heartily. 

It is impossible to describe Mademoiselle de Cardoville's sensa- 
tions during this conversation, or father monologue of the grisette, 
in reference to the attempt of La Mayeux at suicide. The eccentric 
jargon of Mademoiselle Rose-Pompon, her liberal allusions to Phile- 
mon's bazar, to whom, as she said, she was fortunately not married ; 
the kind-heartedness that displayed itself every now and then in her 
offers of service to La Mayeux ; these contrasts, impertinencies, drol- 
leries, were all so strange and incomprehensible to Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville, that she at first remained mute and motionless from 
surprise. 

Such, then, was the creature for whom Djalina had sacrificed her ! 

If Adrienne's first sensation at the sight of Rose-Pompon had 
been acutely painful, reflection soon awakened in her doubts, which 
speedily became unutterable hopes. Recollecting, again, the conversation 
she had overheard between Rodin and Djalma, when, concealed in the 
conservatory, she had gone to assure herself of the Jesuit's fidelity, 
Adrienne no longer asked herself if it were possible and reasonable 
to believe that the prince, whose ideas in love appeared so poetical, so 
elevated, so pure, could find the least attraction in the silly babble, 
the bald, disjointed chatter of this young girl. Adrienne this lime 
no longer hesitated, but with reason considered the thing impossible, 
when she saw her singular rival close, and heard her express herself 
in such vulgar language, ideas, arid remarks, which, without injuring 
the effect of her pretty features, gave them a character so trifling and 
unattractive. 

Adrienne's doubts on the subject of the deep love of the prince 
for a Rose-Pompon were now changed into complete incredulity. 
Endued with too much sense, too much penetration, not to feel that 
this apparent liaison, so inconceivable on the part of the prince, con- 
cealed some mystery, Mademoiselle de Cardoville felt hope renewed 
within her. 

In proportion as this consoling idea obtained possession of 
Adrienne's mind, her heart, until then so painfully oppressed, dilated ; 
vague aspirations of a happy future came over her ; and though 
cruelly warned by the past, and afraid of yielding to a too facile 
illusion, she recalled the fact, unhappily attested to, of the prince 
displaying himself in public with this young girl yet, from the very 
reason of her becoming more familiar with the peculiar features of her 
character, did the prince's conduct appear more and more incompre- 
hensible. How could she judge really and surely of that which was 
enveloped in mystery ? And then again she reassured herself, for she 
felt a secret presentiment it would be, perhaps, at the bedside of the 
poor work-girl whom she had snatched from death, that by a provi- 
dential interposition she would have a disclosure on which depended 
the happiness of her life. 

The emotion with which Adrienne's heart was excited became so 
lively, that her beautiful countenance became rose -colour, her bosom 



THE RIVALS. Ill 

heaved violently, and her large black eyes, until then so downcast, 
sparkled with softness and brilliancy, and she became intensely impa- 
tient. In the conversation with which Rose-Pompon had threatened 
her, a conversation which, a few seconds before, Adrienne would have 
repulsed with the hauteur of her proud and legitimate indignation, she 
now hoped to find the explanation of a mystery which it was so 
important for her to penetrate. 

Rose-Pompon, after having once again tenderly embraced La 
Mayeux, arose, and turning towards Adrienne, whom she measured 
with an air of insolence, said, in an impertinent tone, 

" Now, for us two, madame (the word madame being pronounced 
as before), we have something to know the rights of between us." 

" I am at your service, mademoiselle," replied Adrienne, with 
much sweetness and simplicity of manner. 

At the sight of the coquetting and pert mien of Rose-Pompon, and 
hearing her flippancy to Mademoiselle de Cardoville, the excellent 
Agricola, after some tender words exchanged with La Mayeux, 
opened his ears as wide as possible, and was, for a moment, confounded 
at the effrontery of the grisette ; then going towards her, and touching 
her by the sleeve, he said, in a whisper, 

" I say, are you out of your senses ? Do you know to whom 
you are speaking ? " 

" Suppose I do, what then ? Is not one pretty woman as good as 
another ? I say this for madame. No one will eat one, I suppose," 
replied Rose- Pompon insolently. " I have to speak to madame, and 
she knows very well why and what about : if not, I'll tell her ; it won't 
be a very long job." 

Adrienne, fearful that some ridiculous explosion with reference to 
Djalma might take place in Agricola's presence, made a sign to him, 
and said to the grisette, 

" I am prepared to listen to you, mademoiselle, but not here you. 
understand why." 

" Oh yes, madame ; I have my key, so, if you like, come along to 
my room.'' 

This my room was said with an air of great consequence. 

" Let us then go to your room, mademoiselle, since you will 
honour me by receiving me there," replied Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
in her softest and most liquid tone, and bending slightly, with an air 
of politeness so exquisite, that Rose-Pompon, in spite of her effrontery, 
was exceedingly abashed. 

" What, mademoiselle," said Agricola to Adrienne, " you are 
really so kind as " 

" Monsieur Agricola," replied "Adrienne, stopping him, " be so 
kind as to remain here with my poor friend. I shall soon return." 

Then going towards La Mayeux, who participated in Agricola's 
astonishment, she said to him, 

" Excuse me if I leave you for a few instants. Try and gather 
a little strength, and I will come back for you to take you home, my 
dear and good sister." 

Then turning towards Rose-Pompon, who was more and more 
surprised at hearing this fine lady call La Mayeux her sister, she said 
to her, 



112 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" When you please, mademoiselle, we will go down." 

" Pardon me, excuse me, madame, if I go first to shew you the 
way ; but this barrack is such a break-neck place, "said Rose- Pompon, 
squeezing her elbows against her hips, and pursing up her lips, in 
order to prove that she was, by no means, ignorant of good manners 
and fine language. 

The two rivals left the garret in which Agricola and La Mayeux 
remained alone. 

Fortunately the mangled remains of the Queen-Bacchanal had been 
conveyed into the subterranean shop of Mother Arsene ; and thus the 
gazers always attracted by melancholy events were congregated at 
the door of the house, and Rose-Pompon, not meeting any one in the 
little court which she crossed with Adrienne, continued still in igno- 
rance of the tragic death of Cephyse, her former friend. 

After a few moments the grisette and Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
found themselves in Philemon's apartment. 

This singular abode had remained in the picturesque disorder in 
which Rose-Pompon had left it, when Nini-Moulin came to seek her 
to be the heroine of a mysterious adventure. 

Adrienne, completely ignorant of the eccentric manners of the 
students, male and female, could not, despite her pre-occupation, pre- 
vent herself from examining, with great astonishment, this whimsical 
and grotesque chaos of most contrasted objects, costumes for masked 
balls, death's heads, smoking pipes, boots mingled with books, monster 
glasses, women's clothes, fancy pipes, &c. 

To Adrienne's astonishment a painful repugnance succeeded. 

The young lady felt ill at ease, out of place, in this refuge, not 
of poverty, but disorder, whilst the miserable attic of La Mayeux had 
not caused her any such repulsion. 

Rose-Pompon, in spite of her deliberate impertinence, experienced 
considerable emotion when she found herself tite-a-tete with Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville. In the first place, the uncommon beauty of 
the young patrician, her lofty air, the extreme distinction of her man- 
ners, the way, at once high-bred, yet affable, with which she had 
responded to the pert assumption of the grisette, began to have their 
effect on the latter ; and the more so, as she was, after all, a well- 
meaning creature, and had been much moved at hearing Mademoiselle 
de Cardoville call La Mayeux Iter sister her friend. 

Rose- Pompon, without knowing any thing particularly of Adrienne, 
was not ignorant that she belonged to the richest and highest class of 
society, and she thus felt some remorse for having acted so cavalierly ; 
and thus her intention, at first very hostile towards Mademoiselle do 
Cardoville, gradually modified. 

However, Mademoiselle Rose -Pompon was a very self-willed 
young lady ; and, desirous not to appear to be subdued by an inSuence 
at which her amour propre revolted, she tried to resume her assurance, 
and, after having bolted the door, she said to Adrienne, 

" Take the trouble to sit down ; will you, madarae ? " still anxious 
to shew that she was not ignorant of fine language. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville took a chair mechanically, whilst Rose- 
Pompon, anxious to practise that ancient hospitality which respected 
even an enemy as a sacred guest, exclaimed quickly, 



t 









-7^ 







THE RIVALS 
Vol. III. p us 



1. mi. Ion: CliuimiHii and Mail. 



iV 



THE CONVERSATION. 113 

" Not that one, madame ; one of the feet is off." 

Adrienne placed her hand on another chair. 

" Nor that either, the back has given way," again shrieked Rose- 
Pompon. And she said rightly, for the back of this seat (it repre- 
sented a lyre) remained in the hand of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
who replaced it cautiously in the seat, saying, 

" Perhaps, mademoiselle, we can converse as well standing." 

" As you please, madame," replied Rose-Pompon, who took up 
an attitude which she meant to be dignified and consequential, whilst 
she really felt her importance very fast diminishing. 

And thus began the conversation between Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville and the grisette. 



CHAPTER XX. 

THE CONVERSATION. 

AFTER a minute's hesitation, Rose-Pompon said to Adrienne, whose 
heart was palpitating violently, 

" I will tell you, madame, without disguise, what I have on my 
mind. I should not certainly have tried to see you, but as I find you, 
why it is very natural that I should try and profit by the circum- 
stance." 

" But, mademoiselle," said Adrienne, quietly, " may I at least 
know the subject of the conversation we are about to have together ? " 

" Yes, madame," replied Rose-Pompon, with increased assurance, 
which was, however, more affected than real ; " in the first place, 
there's no reason why I should be thought uncomfortable, or that I 
have any desire to get up a scene of jealousy, or utter shrieks of dis- 
tress. Do not flatter yourself as to that, I beg. Dieumerci! I have 
no reason to complain of Prince Charming (for that's the name I've 
given the dear fellow), on the contrary, he has made me very happy, 
and if I have left him, it was against his wishes decidedly, and only 
because I chose it myself." 

And as she said this, Rose-Pompon, who, in spite of her off-hand 
airs, had a very heavy heart, heaved a deep sigh. 

" Yes, madame," she continued, " I have left him because it pleased 
me, for he was foolishly in love with me, and if I had at all wished it, 
would have married me yes, married me, madame; so much the 
worse, if what I say annoys you ; I mean, when I say so much the 
worse, I really mean that I should not be sorry to have made you 
rather uncomfortable ; so you may believe me. But when 1 saw you 
just now so kind to poor dear Mayeux, although I feel I have acted 
like a woman, yet I feel something ; but then to be frank with you, I 
really must say, I hate you, and you deserve it!" added Rose-Pompon, 
stamping her foot. 

From all this, it was evident, even to a person much less penetrat- 

63 i 



114 THE WANDERING JEW. 

ing than Adrienne, and less anxious to arrive at the truth, that Made- 
moiselle Rose- Pompon, in] spite of her triumphant airs with reference 
to him who was so madly in love with her, and would have married 
her, it was evident that Mademoiselle Rose-Pompon was completely 
disappointed, that she was telling an enormous falsehood,* that he did 
not care about her, and that violent love and spite had made her desirous 
of meeting Mademoiselle de Cardoville, in order to avenge herself by 
getting up what is vulgarly called a scene, as she considered (we shall 
learn why presently) Adrienne as her fortunate rival. But Rose- 
Pompon's kind heart having obtained the ascendancy, she found her- 
self unwilling to produce the scene, inasmuch as Adrienne, for the 
reasons already given, obtained more and more influence over her. 

Although she had fully anticipated, if not the singular attack of 
the grisette, still this result, viz. that it was impossible that the prince 
could have any serious attachment for this young girl ; yet Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville, in spite of the singularity of the rencontre, was 
greatly gratified at seeing her rival thus confirm a part of her conjec- 
tures. But then to these hopes, almost realised, there suddenly suc- 
ceeded a cruel apprehension. Let us explain. 

What Adrienne had just learned ought to have completely satisfied 
her, according to what is called the usages and customs of the world, 
that Djalma's heart had never ceased to be hers. It mattered little 
that the prince, in all the effervescence of an ardent youth, had or had 
not yielded to an ephemeral caprice for this young creature, who 
was really very pretty and very tempting; for, even supposing he had 
yielded to this caprice, he had blushed for his error, and separated 
from Rose-Pompon. 

In spite of so many good reasons for this error of the senses, 
Adrienne could never have pardoned it. She never could comprehend 
this absolute separation of body and soul, which miantains that the one 
does not participate in the stain of the other. She could not believe 
that it was possible to give oneself up to one woman whilst thinking 
of another. Her love, young, chaste, and impassioned, was absolute 
in its exaction, an exaction as just in the eyes of nature and of God, 
as ridiculous and silly in the eyes of men. 

Adrienne had, on the subject of the senses, scruples, delicacies un- 
heard of, invincible repugnances completely unknown to those austere 
spiritualists, those ascetic prudes, who, under the pretext of the vile- ' 
ness, the unworthiness of the offence, look on these errors as abso- 
lutely immaterial and unworthy of consideration, that they may vent 
all their spite and malice on the female offender. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville was not one of those fiercely bashful 
creatures who would rather die with confusion than declare openly their 
desire to be married to a young, handsome, and pure-minded husband, 
and who thus, as a consequence, wed ugly, worn-out, dissipated men, 
quite sure six months afterwards to have two or three lovers. No ! 
Adrienne felt instinctively all the heavenly and virginal freshness there 
is in the equal innocence of two handsome beings, enamoured and im- 
passioned : all that there is to guarantee the future in the tender and 
inexpressible souvenirs, which a man preserves of his first love, which 
is also his first possession. 

We have said that Adrieune was thus but half reassured, although 



THE CONVERSATION. 115 

perfectly convinced, from Rose- Pompon's tone of chagrin, that Djalma 
had never felt the least serious attachment towards the grisette. 

Rose- Pompon had terminated her harangue by this phrase of fla 
grant and significant hostility, 

" Madame, I really hate you I " 

" And why do you hate me, mademoiselle ? " inquired Adrienne, 
mildly. 

" Oh, dear madam," replied Rose Pompon, entirely forgetting her 
character of a conquering queen, and giving way to her natural dispo- 
sition, " as if you didn't know why, and for what, I hate you. Do 
people go and pick up other people's nosegays out of the very jaws of 
black panthers for other people for whom they don't care a button ? 
And, then too, as if that were all," added Rose-Pompon, who became 
gradually animated, and whose pretty face, until then, contracted by 
an assumed angry pout, was, as she spoke, expressive of real vexation, 
that was very comical, " ah ! if it were merely the affair of the 
bouquet," continued she, "although my heart seemed turned upside 
down, when I saw my ' Prince Charming' spring on the stage I 
should have said Oh! these Indians have their own particular 
notions of being polite and attentive; here, for instance, if a lady 
drops her nosegay, a well-behaved gentleman picks it up, and, 
making a low bow, returns it to its owner; but it is quite different 
in India; there a man does not restore what he has picked up till 
he has killed a lion, or a tiger, or some savage beast, before her 
eyes that, it seems, is the tip-top compliment of the country: 
but what I consider a very bad compliment is, to treat a woman as 
I have been treated, and all on your account, as I know full well, 
raadame." 

These complaints on the part of Rose- Pompon, at once whimsical 
and bitter, by no means agreed with what she had previously asserted 
touching Djalma's ardent and extravagant love for herself. Adrienne, 
however, wisely forbore to remind her of these contradictions, and 
contented herself with mildly observing, - 

" You are under some mistake in supposing I have been in any 
way concerned in causing your vexations. Still, I can assure you I 
truly regret that you have been unkindly treated by any one." 

" Oh, bless us ! " cried Rose-Pompon, " if you think I have been 
beaten, or any thing of that sort, you're just mistaken. No, I should 
rather think not, indeed that isn't it ; still I know very well, that if 
it had not been for you, Prince Charming would at last have loved 
me, if ever so little ; and certainly I must say, he might have done 
worse things than that too. And, besides, there are so many ways of 
loving, and I, who am not at all difficult or hard to please, would have 
been glad of ever such a trifle in the way of affection that I should 
but no, I never got so much from him as this," continued Rose- 
Pompon, pettishly biting the end of her rosy thumb-nail. 

" I'm sure," cried she, " when Nini-Moulin came here to fetch me, 
and brought me such a lot of jewels and fine things to induce me to 
go away with him, he was right enough to say, I was. not running 
into any danger, and that nothing was required of me but what was 
perfectly correct." 



116 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Nini-Moulin ? " repeated Mademoiselle de Cardoville, becoming 
more and more interested ; " and who, pray, may Nini-Moulin be ? " 

" Oh, he's a religious writer," replied Rose-Pompon, in a half- 
pouting, half-sulky voice, " a sort of handy jack, belonging to a pack 
of sinful old sacristans, whose money he pouches, and gives them in 
return any thing they want in defence of morality and religion. All 
J can tell you more is, that his own morality is of a very funny sort." 

At the words, " religious writer for the sacristans" Adrienne 
discovered the clue to another infamous project on the part of Rodin 
or Father d'Aigrigny, in addition to the black scheme which had 
already well-nigh proved fatal to the peace and welfare of herself and 
Djalma, and a faint, confused notion of the true state of the case 
glanced across her mind, still she composed her features and her voice 
sufficiently to ask in a calm, tranquil manner, " But what motive 
could this man have had in persuading you to leave your home and 
accompany him?" 

" I don't know any thing about his motives. When he came for 
me, he said my virtue would be quite safe, and that all I should be 
required to do would be to make myself look as charming as I could, 
and to call up all my prettiest and most winning ways. Well, thinks 
I, Philemon is away, and I find it very dull here alone ; there seems 
something mighty droll in this affair, and I run no risk either. 
Ah I" sighed Rose- Pompon, " I little thought the danger I was run- 
ning into. Well, Nini-Moulin took me in a fine carriage, which 
stopped in the Place du Palais Royal, a queer-looking man, with a 
skin the colour of an orange, took Nini-Moulin's place in the carriage, 
and conducted me to the house of Prince Charming, where I took up 
my abode. When I first saw the dear prince I quite staggered back 
with surprise and admiration at his beauty, for he was a beauty if ever 
there was one, and then he looked so good, so kind. Oh, dear I 
thinks I to myself, it will be rather hard work to be so 'very correct' 
as Nini-Moulin talked of, with such a love of a companion as this ; 
but I had no need to be afraid. Heaven knows I remained prudent 
and correct enough, rather more so than I could see the necessity of." 
" But surely you cannot regret having preserved your virtue so 
immaculate ? " 

" I tell you what I regret, and that is, never having once had the 
opportunity or satisfaction of refusing the very smallest request. How 
is one to say, ' No,' if one is never asked to say, ' Yes ; ' if you are 
never solicited to grant the very, very least favour that is? And 
what can be more insulting to a young and pretty woman than never 
once to utter a single word that sounded like love." 

" Still you must pardon me for remarking, that the indifference 
manifested towards you does not appear, in my opinion, to have pre- 
vented your making a somewhat long stay in the house of which you 
are speaking." 

" How do I know why Prince Charming chose to keep me there, 
or why he thought proper to take me about with him in a carriage, or 
to the theatres ; how can I tell you what his reasons were ? Perhaps 
in the savage country he comes from, it is the fashion to keep a nice 
pretty girl always beside the grandees, just to accustom them not to 
pay any sort of regard to such a circumstance." 



THE CONVERSATION. 117 

" But why did you stay in the house ; you were not compelled to 
do so ? " 

" Why?" exclaimed Rose-Pompon, impatiently stamping her foot, 
" why I staid because, somehow or other, I found myself, against my 
will, over head and ears in love with this dear prince ; and the oddest 
thing is, that I who have always been gay as a lark actually loved him 
for his very sadness and melancholy, a sure proof how much I was in 
earnest ; however, one day I could hold out no longer. Well, said I, 
come what may, I care not, I can bear this no longer. I have no 
doubt but Philemon has played me many a sly trick in the country, 
so that is an excuse for my forgetting him while he is away ; so ac- 
cordingly I set to work, and dressed myself. Oh ! so sweetly, so 
becomingly ! (you can judge by my present appearance what taste I 
have), and after having looked at myself in the glass, ' Oh I ' said I, 
this must win his heart' he never can resist!' so off I went straight 
to the prince, and then I lost my senses, I think, for I positively told 
him all the tender thoughts he had inspired me with. 1 laughed, I 
cried, until I finished by declaring that I perfectly adored him, and 
that I would kill myself if he did not return my love ! And what do 
you think he answered in his usual sweet, calm voice, while he himself 
was cold and motionless as marble, ' Why, poor girl ! ' Poor girl ! 
indeed," repeated Rose-Pompon indignantly, " why he could not 
have said either much more or less had 1 gone to complain to him 
of the toothach, in consequence of cutting a wisdom-tooth ; and what 
aggravates me worse than all is, that I am sure and certain if he 
were not himself crossed in love, he would be like a train of gun- 
powder. Yet there he is, as dull and miserable as can be ! " 

Then, suddenly checking herself in something she was about to 
say, Rose-Pompon continued, " No, no, now I think of it, I will not 
tell you that it would please you too much ;" and, then, after a second 
pause, the capricious and whimsical creature, fixing her large blue 
eyes with a mingled expression of respect and deep emotion on Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville, said, " Well, la ! why shouldn't I tell you ? 
Oh ! I don't care about its pleasing you ; I must tell the truth, and I 
will. What is the use of my trying to conceal any thing from you ? 
Why, a little while ago, when I was shewing off" my airs and con- 
sequence, I began by telling you that Prince Charming wished to 
marry me, and afterwards I let out, in spite of myself, that he had all 
but turned me out of the house. I don't know how it is, but when- 
ever I tell fibs, I always make such a mess of it, that I am glad to go 
back to Truth again to put me straight. So now, madame, you shall 
really and truly have the true history of the affair. When first I saw 
you with poor La Mayeux, I bristled up my feathers with rage, and 
felt as angry as a turkeycock ; but when I heard a beautiful rich lady 
like you call that poor miserable girl your sister, and speak to her so 
kindly and tenderly, it was no use trying to feel in a passion while 
I looked at and listened to you, my anger had all melted away. Well, 
then again, after we came here, I did all in my power to work myself 
up into a rage, but it was no use. The more 1 perceived the differ- 
ence between you and myself, the more I comprehended how natural 
it was for Prince Charming to prefer you to me ; for there's no mincing 
the matter that he's downright crazy about you. I only wish I could 



118 THE WANDERING JEW. 

have got him to care a hundred-thousand-part as much about me; but 
no, it was no use trying and trying, he never seemed to know or to 
heed any thing I said or did ; I don't mean because of his killing that 
tiger at the Port-Saint-Martin, just because he took the liberty of 
smelling at your bouquet. But, bless me, you would never guess the 
antics he played with the bouquet itself after he got it home ; then he 
used to pass whole nights without sleeping, and very often weeping, in 
a salon, where, I am told, he saw you for the first time. You know a 
room that opens into a conservatory, and there he has painted your 
portrait, from memory, on the glass doors, as is the custom in his 
country, and a quantity of other lover-like tricks, I can't bear to think 
of, but which nearly drove me wild, for I did love him so very much. 
Yet, at last, I began to feel grieved and sorry for him ; his misery 
quite touched me, and instead of feeling angry and offended, I pitied 
him for suffering as I suffered. Ah ! I only wish it had depended on 
me to make him happy ; he should not have been sighing and gazing on 
that faded nosegay as he did, till it made the tears come in my eyes to 
see his handsome face look so melancholy ! I declare even now, only 
with thinking of the poor dear prince, I can hardly help crying. 
Ah, madame I " added Rose-Pompon, her pretty blue eyes filled with 
tears, and with so genuine a look of sympathy that Adrienne was 
deeply touched by it, "ah, madame! you who look so good and 
gentle, do not leave the poor prince to be for ever wretched, but try 
and love him a little pray do : oh I you will find it very easy as 
well as agreeable if you only try." 

And, as though to add further strength to her petition, Rose-Pompon, 
with a movement which, savouring too much of familiarity, was never- 
theless performed with unfeigned simplicity, eagerly seized the hand 
of Mademoiselle de Cardoville. 

That young lady had need of all the self-command she possessed 
to restrain the torrent of joy which rose from her heart to her lips, to 
arrest the torrent of inquiries she longed to address to Rose- Pompon, 
as well as to restrain her own tears of joy and delight which had long 
trembled on her silky lashes ; and yet, strange to say, when Rose- 
Pompon took her hand, instead of angrily withdrawing it Adrienne 
affectionately pressed that of the grisette, then involuntarily drew her 
towards the window, as though she were desirous of more attentively 
examining the lovely countenance of Rose-Pompon. 

The grisette, on entering the chamber, had thrown her shawl and 
headdress on the bed, so that Adrienne could freely admire the thick 
rich masses of light, glossy hair which shaded her blooming features 
and set off the dazzling brilliancy of her complexion, displaying to 
advantage the round pearly cheek, and pouting lips that rivalled coral, 
with which the clear blue of her laughing eyes formed so gay a con- 
trast. Neither could Adrienne avoid perceiving, owing to the very 
degagie style of Rose-Pompon's toilette, that the beauty of her throat 
and bosom fully equalled the charms of her face, while the eye 
glancing downwards, the finely rounded waist found all admirable and 
perfect. Strange as it may appear, Adrienne was delighted to find 
this young girl still more handsome than she had at first thought her, 
Djalma's stoical indifference for such an attractive creature said enough 
for the sincerity of the love which absorbed him. 



THE CONVERSATION. 119 

Rose-Pompon, after having taken Adrienne's hand, was as con- 
fused as surprised at the kindness with which Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville received her familiarity. Emboldened by this indulgence 
and the silence of Adrienne, who for some instants looked at her with 
almost grateful benevolence, the grisette replied, 

" Yes, madam, you will take compassion on the poor prince ; 
won't you ?" 

We cannot take upon ourselves to say what answer Adrienne 
was about to make to this indiscreet question on the part of Rose- 
Pompon, when, suddenly, a sort of wild, shrill, shrieking, ear-piercing 
sound, which was evidently meant for an imitation of a cock crowing, 
was heard outside the door. 

Adrienne started with alarm, but in a moment Rose-Pompon's 
countenance, which had been so touchingly expressive, expanded joy- 
ously as, recognising the signal, she exclaimed, clasping her hands, 

"'Tis Philemon ! " 

" What I Philemon ?" said Adrienne, quickly. 

"Yes my lover. Ah! the monster, he creeps quietly up the 
stairs to play the cock. It's so like him ! " 

A second " cock-a-doodle-doo" still more vociferous, was heard 
outside the door. 

" Bless me, what a funny, foolish fellow it is I He always does the 
same thing because he knows how much it always amuses me," said 
Rose-Pompon. 

And she wiped away her latest tears with the back of her hand, 
laughing like an idiot at Philemon's pleasantry, which always seemed 
new and pleasant to her, although she was so regularly used to it. 

" Do not open the door," said Adrienne, in a low tone, more 
and more embarrassed, " do not answer I entreat you. 

" The key is in the door, and the bolt is fastened ; Philemon 
knows very well there is some one here." 

" Never mind." 

" But, to tell truth, he is at home here, inadame we are in 
his apartments." 

And Philemon probably growing weary at the ineffectual result of 
his ornithological imitations, turned the key in the lock, but unable 
to enter, said through the door in a deep bass voice : 

" Halloo ! ducky dear of my heart, what are we shut in ? Are 
we praying to Saint Flare-up for the return of Mon-mon (read 
Philemon)?" 

Adrienne, unwilling to increase the embarrassment and absurdity 
of this situation by protracting it, went to the door and opened it to 
the astonished gaze of Philemon, who retreated two or three steps. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville, in spite of her extreme annoyance, 
could not repress a smile at the sight of Rose-Pompon's lover, and the 
packages he had in his hand and under his arm. 

Philemon was a tall fellow, brown and fresh-coloured. He wore a 
white, flat cap, whilst his black and tufty beard fell in masses on a 
large sky-blue waistcoat a la Robespierre, a short frock-coat of olive 
velveteen, and very wide plaid trousers of immensely large pattern, 
completed Philemon's costume. As to the luggage which had caused 
Adrienne's smile, it consisted in, first, a portmanteau fioin which 



120 THE WANDERING JEW. 

projected the head and feet of a goose, and which he carried under 
his arm ; secondly, of an enormous white live rabbit, inclosed in a 
cage which the student held in his hand. 

" Ah ! what a love of a white rabbit ! what dear beautiful red 
eyes he has ! " 

It must be confessed that these were the first words of Rose- 
Pompon, and they were not addressed to Philemon, although he had 
returned after a long absence; but the student, far from being 
annoyed at seeing himself completely sacrificed to his long-eared, 
ruby-eyed companion, smiled complacently, as if delighted to see the 
surprise he had prepared for his mistress so completely successful. 

This passed very rapidly. 

Whilst Rose- Pompon, kneeling before the cage, was uttering her 
great admiration of the rabbit, Philemon, struck at the aristocratic 
bearing of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, had put his hand to his 
cap, and respectfully saluted her as he moved along the room. 

Adrienne returned his salute with mingled politeness and dignity, 
and going down the stairs quickly disappeared. 

Philemon, as much dazzled by her beauty as struck with her noble 
and patrician mien, was very curious to know how the devil Rose- 
Pompon had such acquaintances, and said to her in his amorous and 
tender slang, 

" Duck of my heart, tell its Mon-mon (Philemon) who that fine 
woman is?" 

" One of my school-fellows, great satyr," said Rose-Pompon, 
playing with the rabbit. 

Then glancing at a box which Philemon had placed near the cage 
and portmanteau : 

" I'll bet that that's some more plums you've brought from home." 

" Mon-mon brings better than that to his dear pussy," said the 
student, imprinting two vigorous kisses on the fair cheeks of Rose- 
Pompon, who had got off her knees, " Mon-mon brings her his heart." 

" Gammon ! " said the grisette, placing delicately the thumb of 
her left hand to the extremity of her little pink nose, and opening her 
small hand, which she gently moved. 

Philemon replied to this little impertinence of Rose-Pompon by 
putting his arm round her waist, and the happy household then closed 
the door. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

CONSOLATIONS. 



DURING the conversation of Adrienne and Rose-Pompon, a touch- 
ing scene was passing between Agricola and La Mayeux, who were 
both greatly surprised at Mademoiselle de Cardoville's condescension 
to the grisette. 

Immediately after the departure of Adrienne, Agricola went on 
his knees by Mayeux's couch, and said to her with deep emotion, 



CONSOLATIONS. 121 

" We are alone, and I can now tell you what I have on my heart. 
Ah I what you have done is very frightful die of misery despair, 
and not send for me to come to you I " 

" Hear me, Agricola." 

" No ! there is no excuse for it. Of what use has it been, 
then, that we should be called brother and sister ; to have given 
each other for fifteen years proofs of the most sincere affection, and 
yet on a day of misfortune you thus resolve on quitting life without 
any disquietude as to those you leave behind you; without reflecting 
that to kill yourself is to say to them, ' You are nothing to me ?' " 

" Forgive me, Agricola, this is too true ; I did not think of that," 
said La Mayeux, lowering her eyes, " but misery the want of 
work ! " 

" Misery the want of work ! but was not I at hand ?" 

" Despair." 

" And why despair ? The generous young lady received you at 
her house ; appreciating your worth she treated you like a friend, and 
yet it was at the moment when you had every guarantee for future 
happiness, my poor dear, that you so suddenly abandoned the house 
of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, leaving us all in horrible anxiety as to 
your fate." 

"I I was afraid of being a charge incumbrance to my 
benefactress," stammered out La Mayeux. - 

" You a charge incumbrance to Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
who is so rich and good?" 

" I was afraid I might commit some indiscretion," answered the 
poor little Mayeux, more and more embarrassed. 

Instead of replying to his adopted sister, Agricola kept silence, gazed 
at her for several moments with an indefinable expression, and then 
suddenly exclaimed as if in reply to a question he had put to himself, 

" She will forgive me for having disobeyed her ; yes, I am sure 
of it." 

Then addressing La Mayeux, who looked at him with increasing 
surprise, he said to her in a broken and agitated voice, 

" I am too frank ; the position is not tenable ; I am reproaching, 
blaming you, and I am not thinking of what I say, but thinking of 
something else." 

" Of what, Agricola ? " 

" I am wounded to the heart when I reflect on all the ills I have 
done you." 

" I do not understand you ; you never did me any ill." 

"No, really? Never? not even in small things? When, for 
instance, giving way to a detestable habit of infancy, I who loved 
you respected you as my sister, I insulted you a hundred times 
a-day ! " 

"Insulted me?" 

" And what else was it when I invariably gave you a nickname so 
full of hateful ridicule, instead of calling you by your name ? " 

At these words La Mayeux looked at the smith with affright, 
trembling lest he should be informed of her sad secret, in spite of the 
assurance to the contrary which Mademoiselle de Cardoville had given 
her. Still she calmed herself by the thought that Agricola might have 



122 THE WANDERING JEW. 

been reflecting on the humiliation she must have felt on hearing 
herself perpetually, invariably called La Mayeux (Humpback). She 
replied with a forced smile, 

" Why vex yourself for such a trifle ? It was as you say, 
Agricola, a habit of infancy. Your good and tender mother who 
treated me as her daughter, also called me Mayeux, as you very well 
know." 

"And was it my mother who went to consult you as to my 
marriage, to talk to you of the uncommon beauty of my betrothed, to 
entreat you to see this young girl, to study her disposition, in the 
hope that the instinct of your attachment for me would inform you of 
every thing even if I should have made a bad choice. Was it my 
mother who displayed this cruelty ? No ! it was I myself who thus 
rent your heart in twain." 

La Mayeux's fears again awoke: there was no longer any doubt: 
Agricola possessed her secret. She felt as if she should die with 
confusion. Still making one last effort not to believe in this discovery, 
she murmured in a faint tone, 

" In truth, Agricola, it was not your mother who urged you to 
that, it was yourself; and and I I felt grateful to you for such 
a proof of confidence." 

" Grateful to me ! poor dear, distressed child," cried the smith, his 
eyes filled with tears, " no, that is not true, for I did you a terrible 
injury ; I was pitiless without knowing it." 

" But," said La Mayeux, in a voice scarcely intelligible, " why do 
you think of this? " 

' Why ? " exclaimed the smith, in a voice tremulous from deep 
emotion, and affectionately bestowing on La Mayeux a fraternal 
embrace ; " why ? because you loved me !" 

" Great God ! " murmured the unhappy girl, striving to cover her 
face with her thin hands ; " he knows all ! " 

"Yes!" cried the smith, with an expression of respectful tender- 
ness impossible to depict, " yes, I do know all, and I positively forbid 
your blushing for a sentiment so honourable as well as flattering to 
my feelings. Yes, I know all, and I say with pride and happiness that 
the best and noblest heart that ever beat in human breast was, is, and 
ever shall be mine. Come, come, Madeleine ; let us leave shame to 
those who nourish sinful or ignoble passions, but do you fearlessly 
look up ; raise your eyes, and carefully search my features, you know 
that they have never expressed any but my real thoughts, and that 
falsehood or feigned meaning never yet was impressed on them. Well, 
then, I bid you look. Ay, look well on the face of your brother, 
and then I am sure Madeleine you will read how proud, how justly 
proud, I feel of your love." 

Overcome with grief, and bowed by shame, La Mayeux had not 
once dared raise her eyes towards Agricola, but the words of the 
smith were uttered with so much earnestness, his voice trembled with 
so true a manly tenderness, that by degrees the poor creature felt her 
confusion disappear even in spite of herself; especially when Agricola, 
with increasing warmth, added, 

" Tranquillise yourself, then, my gentle, noble-minded sister ; I pro- 
mise you, you shall never have cause to regret the affection so gene- 



CONSOLATIONS. 123 

rously bestowed ; but that it shall be the study of my life to render 
myself worthy of it, and trust me it will henceforward be a source of as 
much happiness to you as it has hitherto been of sorrow and tears. 
For why should a love like yours produce coldness, confusion, or fear? 
love in a breast pure as that of my Madeleine is made up of devotion, 
tenderness, and esteem, returned even with tenfold strength, accompanied 
by a confidence that knows no bounds ; and these feelings will, for the 
future, be stronger than ever with both of us I Upon a thousand occa- 
sions formerly I inspired you with fear and mistrust ; but for the time to 
come, when you perceive me all joy, and finding myself the possessor 
of such a heart as yours, dear Madeleine, you will rejoice and feel 
glad at having occasioned me so much happiness. I know it sounds 
selfish to urge such reasons ; but you know I cannot utter other senti- 
ments than those I feel." * 

The more the smith spoke, the more emboldened grew La Mayeux ; 
what she had most dreaded in the betrayal of her secret was to have 
seen it received with contempt or raillery, or, at most, by a mortifying 
and humiliating pity ; but, on the contrary, joy and happiness were 
visible on the fine, manly countenance of Agricola, whom La Mayeux 
well knew to be incapable of feigning ; discarding, therefore, all false 
shame and confusion, she also exclaimed in exulting tones, 

" So it is with all right and unselfish feelings ! they ever finish by 
exciting interest and sympathy for those who have endeavoured to con- 
trol their passions and submit themselves to the will of God, a passion, 
pure and sincere, is capable of bestowing equal honour on the object 
that inspires it as the heart that cherishes it. Thanks to you, Agri- 
cola, and your kind assurances, I feel that instead of blushing for my 
love, as though it were base or unworthy, I may even glorify myself 
for it. You and my benefactress are quite right wherefore should I 
feel shame? Is not my affection pure and holy as that of angels? 
What did I ever aspire to more than being constantly near you, to 
love you, and dare to tell you so ; to prove my affection by every 
action of my life ? And yet, shame, dread, with the distractions 
caused by the climax of misery I endured, drove me to the very verge 
of suicide ; but then, dear friend and brother, I must crave some 
allowances and indulgence for the weakness of an unfortunate being, 
devoted, like myself, to ridicule and scorn, even from my cradle ; and 
then, too, this secret would have died with me, had not a chance, 
impossible to foresee, have revealed it to you. You are right in saying 
I ought not to have doubted you, more than I did myself; I should 
have fearlessly trusted to your generous nature, to conceal my weakness 
and forgive my folly, but you must make allowances for me. When 
we mistrust ourselves as cruelly as I did, it unfortunately leads us to 
suspect and undervalue others, but let us forget all that. Come, 
Agricola, my kind and beloved brother, let me repeat the words you 
yourself used but just now, Look well into my face ; you know my 
features are incapable of expressing falsehood ; look closely, then, upon 
me see if my eyes fear to meet yours tell me if you have ever seen 
my countenance beam with truer delight, and yet a short time since I 
was about to die." 

La Mayeux said truly. Even Agricola himself had not hoped for 
so prompt an effect from his words. Spite of the severe traces left by 



124 THE WANDERING JEW. 

grief, want, and sickness, on the features of the poor girl, there shone, at 
this moment, a happiness refined and serene; while her soft blue eyes, 
pure and gentle as her mind, were raised without embarrassment to 
meet the gaze of Agricola. 

"Oh, thanks, thanks, dearest Madeleine!" cried the delighted 
young man ; " when I see you so calm and restored to peace, I feel 
more grateful to you than I can describe." 

" Yes," replied La Mayeux, " I am calm and happy ; and hence- 
forward you will never see me otherwise for now I shall have no- 
thing to conceal my every thought will be known to you. Oh, this 
day, which began so threateningly, will end like a heavenly dream ; far 
from beholding you with fear, I gaze on you with delightful hope. I 
have again found my generous benefactress I have no further uneasi- 
ness on my sister's account. We shall shortly see Cephyse, shall we 
not ? for my joy seems incomplete till she partakes of it I " 

La Mayeux looked so radiant with happiness, that the smith 
could not find in his heart to disturb it by revealing to her the wretched 
death of her sister, which he purposed breaking to her cautiously and 
by degrees. 

" Cephyse," replied the smith, " being of a more robust constitu- 
tion than yourself has suffered so severely, that I have just been in- 
formed it will be requisite to keep her perfectly calm and undisturbed 
throughout the whole of the day." 

" Oh, then, I will wait patiently ; I have plenty to prevent me from 
growing impatient. I have so many things to tell you." 

" Dear, good Madeleine ! " 

" Do you know, Agricola," said La Mayeux, interrupting the 
smith, and weeping tears of joy, " I can hardly attempt to make you 
comprehend the joy and delight I feel when you call me Madeleine 
it sounds so sweet, so soft, so beneficent on your part, that it makes my 
heart swell with happiness." 

" Poor dear girl !" exclaimed the smith, with indescribable emotion, 
" what must she not have suffered to express so great pleasure and 
gratitude in being merely called by her right name ? " 

" Imagine, dear brother, how that word from your lips seems filled 
with a fresh existence. Oh ! if you could only fancy the blessed 
glimpse of the future that seems to dance before my eyes, as your 
voice utters it ; if you could but penetrate into the dear ambitions of 
my tender hopes, your charming wife, your Angele, with the face and 
mind of an angel. Ah now, in my turn, I bid you turn your gaze on 
me, and you will see how dear that name is, both to my lips and heart. 
Yes, yes, your good and lovely Angele will also call me Madeleine; 
and your children, Agricola those adored little beings their dear 
and innocent lips will also lisp out Madeleine ! to them I shall be their 
dear, good Madeleine ; and will they not, by reason of the tender love I 
bear them, be as much my children as they are their mother's, for 
I positively claim my share in the sweet delight of bringing them up ; 
so they will belong to us all three, will they not, Agricola? Oh, 
suffer me suffer me to weep, it is so soothing and delightful to shed 
tears without bitterness or need of concealment. Praise be to God, 
and you, my friend, the source of painful tears is for ever dried up." 

An unseen spectatress had witnessed the latter part of this affecting 



CONSOLATIONS. 125 

scene. The smith and La Mayeux having been too intently occupied 
to perceive that Mademoiselle de Cardoville was standing at the thres- 
hold of the door. 

As La Mayeux had remarked, this very day which had opened on 
all with so ill a promise had turned out a day of ineffable felicity to 
all. Adrienne was radiant with happiness. Djalma had been faithful, 
still passionately loved her; the odious appearances by which she 
had been misled were evidently a fresh machination on the part of 
Rodin, and it remained only for Mademoiselle de Cardoville to find 
out the end and aim of these plots. Another joy was yet in store 
for her. 

As regards happiness, nothing makes persons more penetrating, 
and thus Adrienne guessed, by La Mayeux's appearance, that there was 
no longer any secret between the seamstress and the smith, and she 
could not then restrain herself from exclaiming as she entered, 

" Ah I this is the happiest day of my life, for I am not the only one. 
who is happy." 

Agricola and La Mayeux turned round quickly : " Mademoiselle," 
said the smith, " in spite of the promise I made you, I could not con- 
ceal from Madeleine that I knew she loved me." 

" Now I no longer blush at my love in the presence of Agricola, 
why should I blush before you, mademoiselle before you who but 
just now said to me, ' Be proud of this love, for it is noble and 
pure ? ' " said La Mayeux, and her happiness gave her strength to rise 
and lean on Agricola's arm. 

" Excellent, excellent, my dear friend," replied Adrienne, putting 
one of her arms round her to support her; "only one word to excuse 
an indiscretion with which you may reproach me. If I told your 

secret to M. Agricola " 

" Do you know why, Madeleine ? " exclaimed the smith, interrupt- 
ing Adrienne. " Another proof of the deliberate generosity of heart 
which never fails mademoiselle. ' I have long hesitated to tell you this 
secret,' she said to me this morning, 'but I have now resolved on it. 
We are about to see her again your adopted sister, to whom you 
are the best of brothers, and without knowing it, without thinking of 
it, you often wound her cruelly. Now you know her secret, and I 
rely on your heart to keep it faithfully, and to spare her a thousand 
griefs, poor dear girl ! griefs the more poignant as they come from 
you, and which she must suffer silently. Thus, when you mention 
your wife to her, your happiness, do it so that it will not wound that 
noble, good, and tender heart.' Yes, Madeleine, this is the reason 
why mademoiselle has committed what she calls an indiscretion." 

" Language fails me, mademoiselle, in order suitably to thank you 
now and ever," replied La Mayeux. 

" See, my dear," observed Adrienne, " how the plots of the wicked 
turn frequently against themselves, they dreaded your devotion to me, 
and had ordered the unhappy girl Florine to abstract your journal." 

" In order to compel me to quit your house from shame, made- 
moiselle, when I knew that my most secret thoughts were exposed to 
the jeers of every body, now I no longer fear them," said La Mayeux. 
" And you are right, my dear ; well, this atrocious treachery, which 
so nearly caused your death, has at this moment turned to the confu- 



126 THE WANDERING JEW. 

sion of the wicked ; their stratagem is unveiled, this, and fortunately 
others also," added Adrienne, thinking of Rose-Pompon. 

Then she continued in a joyful tone, 

" Well, at length, we are once more united, more happy than ever, 
and in recovering with our happiness fresh strength against our ene- 
mies, I say our enemies for all that love me are hateful to these 
\\ retches ; but courage, the hour is come^ and the worthy and good 
will have their turn." 

" Thank Heaven I mademoiselle," said the smith ; " and for my part 
it is not zeal that I want. How glorious to have been able to unmask 
these villains I" 

" Let me remind you, M. Agricola, that you have an appointment 
with M. Hardy for to-morrow." 

" I had not forgotten it, mademoiselle, any more than your generous 
offers." 

" Oh, they are simple enough, he is one of my family. Repeat to 
him what I shall also write this evening, that all the funds necessary 
to rebuild and organise his factory are at his command. Not for 
himself only that I speak, but for a hundred families reduced to a pre- 
carious destiny. Entreat him, therefore, to quit as soon as possible the 
ill-omened house to which he has been conveyed ; there are a thou- 
sand reasons why he should distrust every thing and every body 
around him." 

" Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, the letter which he wrote 
me in reply to that which I contrived to convey to him clandestinely, 
was short but affectionate, though sad. He grants me the interview, 
I am sure to induce him to decide in quitting this wretched house, 
and may perhaps bring him away with me, for he has always had 
entire confidence in my devotion !" 

" Well, then, courage, M. Agricola," said Adrienne, putting her 
cloak on La Mayeux's shoulders, and wrapping it carefully around her ; 
" let us go, for it is getting late ; as soon as we reach my house, I 
will give you a letter for M. Hardy, and to-morrow you will be so 
good as come and give me an account of the result of your visit, will 
you not?" 

Then recollecting herself, Adrienne blushed slightly and said, " No, 
not to-morrow, write me only, and come the day after to-morrow 
about noon." 

** 

Some moments later, and the young seamstress, supported by Agri- 
cola and Adrienne, had descended the staircase of the melancholy 
house, and having got into the carriage with Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville, she begged most earnestly to be allowed to see Cephyse, for it 
was in vain that Agricola had replied to La Mayeux that it were 
impossible until the next day. 

* * * # 

Thanks to the information which Rose-Pompon had given her, 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville, rightly mistrusting all that were around 
Djalma, thought she had hit upon a means of sending that same even- 
ing a letter from herself, which would safely reach the prince's hands. 



THE TWO CARRIAGES. 127 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE TWO CARRIAGES. 

IT was in the evening of the same day as that on which Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville had prevented La Mayeux from suicide. 

Eleven o'clock had struck, the night was very dark, the wind 
blew* violently and drove before it the heavy black clouds, which 
had completely overspread the pale light of the moon. 

A hackney-coach was slowly and with difficulty ascending, at the 
pace of broken-winded horses, up the steep acclivity of the Rue 
Blanche, near the barrier close to the house which Djalma inhabited. 

The vehicle stopped. The coachman, grumbling at the length 
of the long pull, which ended on this precipitous ascent, turned round 
on his seat, leaned towards the glass of the coach front window and 
said in a rude tone to the person who was within, 

" Well, here we are at the end of the run. From the top of the 
Rue de Vangerard to the Barrier Blanche, that is what I call a course, 
and then with the night so dark you can't see your way two steps 
before you, for they don't light the lamps, because of the moonshine, 
which does not shine." 

" Look for a small door with a covered entrance ; enter it, go on 
about twenty yards, then stop at the end of the wall," replied a shrill, 
impatient voice, and with a strong Italian accent. 

" Oh, this is some German beggar, who wants to make me his 
donkey," said the coachman, ill-temperedly to himself, then he added : 
' But, milles tonnerres ! I have just told you, that no one can see an inch 
before his nose, and how the devil then am I to find out your little 
door?" 

" You are exceedingly stupid : go along the wall, on the right hand 
quite close to it ; the light of your lantern will aid you, and you will 
easily find the little door : it follows No. 50. If you cannot find it, 
you must be drunk," replied the voice in the Italian accent, with in- 
creasing anger. 

The coachman's only answer was to swear like a heathen, flog his 
tired horses, and then go as close as possible to the wall on which 
he fixed his staring eyes, in order to read the numbers by the help 
of his own lamp. 

At the end of a few minutes the coach again stopped. 

" I have driven past No. 50, and here's a small door with a por- 
tico," said coachee, " is this here it?" 

" Yes," replied the voice, " and now go on twenty steps farther, 
and then stop." 

" All right then." 

" Then get off your box and go and strike twfce three blows 
at the little door we have just passed. Do you understand ? Three 
knocks twice ?" 

" Which I suppose, that's what I am to have for myself out of the 
fare," said the angry jehu. 



128 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" When you have driven me back again to the Faubourg Saint 
Germain where I live, you shall have something for yourself if you 
manage cleverly." 

"Good again ; what ! back to the Faubourg St. Germain ? a precious 
nice drag, says I," replied the coachman, considerably exasperated, 
"and I pushed my nags, that I might be on the Boulevard when the 

theatres were over. Why I'am d d if this isn't a pleasant treat ; " 

then bearing up against his misfortune and relying on the consolation 
of the pour-boire, he resumed, " I'll go and give the six thumps at 
the small door, howsumdever." 

" Yes, three knocks, then a pause, then three more knocks you 
understand ?" 

" What artorwards?" 

" Say to the person who will open the door, they are waiting for 
you, and then lead him here to the coach." 

" Devil burn you !" said the coachman, as he turned round again in 
his box, adding as he slashed his horses, " This here German covey has 
got some dodgery with some freemasons, or some smugglers mayhap. 
As we are so near the barrier, it would sarve him right to inform 
against him for giving me such a long spell from the Rue de Van- 
gerard here." 

At twenty yards beyond the small door the carriage pulled up 
again. Coachee descended from the box, in order to execute the 
orders he had received. 

When he gained the little door, he knocked as he had been told, 
three times, and after a brief pause, three times again. 

Some clouds, less opaque, less dark, than those which had until 
then obscured the moon's disc, cleared away ; and after the signal 
given by the coachman, he was enabled to distinguish when the door 
opened a man of middle stature, wrapped in a cloak, and with a co- 
loured cap on. 

This man came forward two paces into the street, after having 
shut and locked the door. 

" You are waited for," said the coachman to him. " I'll lead you to 
the coach ; " and going before the man in the cloak, who had only 
nodded in reply, he conducted him to the coach, and was preparing 
to open the door, and put down the steps, when the voice within 
said, 

" There's no occasion for this, the gentleman will not get in ; I 
will talk to him at the door ; and will let you know when I am ready 
to return." 

" As much as to say, I shall have plenty of time to wish you all at 
the devil," muttered coachee ; " but I may as well walk about a bit, 
to get the stiffness out of my legs." And he walked backwards and 
forwards by the wall, which was close to the small door. 

After a few minutes, he heard the distant rolling, which drew 
nearer and nearer, and ascending the hill quickly, stopped lower down, 
and close to the garden gate. 

" Ah, here's some gentleman's coach," said the knight of the 
whip. ' Capital nags to bowl up this stiff hill as they did." 

He had just made this remark, when, by the sudden light, he saw 
a man get out of the carriage, come forward quickly, stop an instant 



THE TWO CARRIAGES. 12) 

at the little door, open it, enter, and disappear, after having closed it 
behind him. 

" Ah ! ah ! this is a funny go," said the coachman ; " one has gone 
out, and, lo and behold, another has popped in ! " So saying, he went 
towards the carriage, which was a very handsome turn-out, with two 
splendid horses. The coachman sat motionless in his great-coat with 
six capes, holding his whip upright, with the handle resting on his 
right knee, as it should be. 

" This is gallows bad weather to bring out such high-bred 'uns as 
your'n, comrade," said the humble whip of the hack coach to the aris- 
tocratical automaton, who remained mute and motionless, without 
seeming to think he was addressed. 

" He can't speak French he's English, I see that by the 'osses," 
said coachee, interpreting thus his silence ; then seeing, a step or two 
on, a very tall footman, standing by the door, dressed in a long and full 
livery great-coat of yellowish grey, with a sky-blue collar and silver 
buttons, the coachman, addressing himself to him by way of com- 
pensation, and without much variation of theme, remarked, 

" This is gallows bad weather to be out in, comrade." 

The same imperturbable silence on the part of the valet-de- 
cJiambre. 

" The are both English," said Jehu of the hack, philosophic- 
ally ; and, although very much astonished at the incident of the small 
door, he recommenced his promenade, going towards his own vehicle. 

Whilst the facts we have recorded were passing, the man in the 
mantle and the man with the Italian accent continued conversing, one 
still remaining in the hackney-coach, and the other leaning on the door. 

The conversation lasted some time, and was spoken in Italian ; it 
related to an absent person, if we may judge by the following : 

" Well, then," said the voice which issued from the hack, " this is 
quite understood ? " 

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the man in the cloak; "but only in 
case the eagle should become a serpent." 

" And, on the contrary, when you shall receive the other half of 
the ivory crucifix which I have just given to you " 

" I shall know what it means, monseigneur." 

" Continue always to merit and presei've his confidence." 

" I will merit and preserve it, monseigneur, because I admire and 
respect the man ; more powerful by his mind, his courage, and his 
will, than the most powerful man in this world. I have knelt before 
him with humility, as before one of the solemn idols, which are be- 
tween Bohwanie and her adorers ; for he, like me, has it for religion, 
that we change life for nothing 1 " 

" Hush, hush ! " said the voice, in an embarrassed tone, " these 
comparisons are useless and irreverent ; only think how to obey him 
without reasoning on your obedience." 

" Let him speak, and I act. I am in his hands Kfte a corpse, as 
he likes to say. He has seen, he sees every day my devotion, from 
the services I render him with Prince Djalma. If he were to say to 
me, Kill ! although this son of a king " 

" For the love of Heaven, do not have such ideas ! " exclaimed the 

No. 64. K 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

voice, interrupting the man in the cloak. " Thanks to Heaven, such 
proofs of submission will not be exacted from you." 

" It is for him to order, for me to obey. Bohwauie beholds 
mcT 

1 do not doubt your zeal. I know you are a living and intelligent 
I wrier placed between the prince and many guilty interests ; and it is, 
because your zeal has been spoken of to me, as also your skill in cir- 
cumventing the young Indian, and, particularly, your blind devotion 
in executing the orders given to you, that I have been desirous to 
acquaint you with every thing. You are fanatic towards him whom 
you serve that is right. Man ought to be the obedient slave of the 
god whom he chooses." 

" Yes, monseigneur, so long as the god remains god." 

" We understand each other perfectly. As to your reward, you 

know my promises " 

" My reward ! I have it already, monseigneur." 

" How ? " 

" I understand myself." 

" Right ; and as to the secret " 

" You have guarantees, monseigneur." 
" Yes, sufficiently satisfactory." 

" And then, again, the importance of the cause I serve is an 
abundant reason for my zeal and discretion." 

" True. You are, moreover, a man of firm and undaunted pur- 
pose as well as unflinching energy." 

" My lord, such, at least, I endeavour to prove myself." 
"And, withal, a religious person I mean, according to your 
ideas on such subjects ; and there is no small merit in being accounted 
religious in days like the present, when there is so much impiety 
abroad ; furthermore, I rejoice that you are that way minded. Ob- 
serve, I still say, following out your own notions ; and by so think- 
ing and acting, you may be able to assist me." 

" Oh, rely upon all I can do, my lord, upon the principle, that the 
daring hunter would prefer taking a jackal to six foxes, would sooner 
have a tiger than ten jackals, a lion than ten tigers, and the oiiclmis 
.than ten lions." 

" What is the onelmis ? " 

' That which the mind is to matter, the sword to the scabbard, 
the perfume to the flower, and the head to the body I " 

" I comprehend. Never was a more happy comparison. You are 
evidently a man of sound judgment. Always remember the words 
you have just uttered ; and render yourself more and more worthy 
the confidence of your god your idol ! " 

" May I hope, my lord, he will soon be able to listen to all I have 
to tell him ? " 

" Assuredly. In two or three days at farthest, you will see him, 
and converse with him. A favourable crisis took place yesterday, and 
he is now quite out of danger ; and once commenced, with a person of 
his strong mental energy, his cure will be as rapid as \vas his seizure." 
" Shall you see him again to-morrow, my lord ? " 
" Yes, necessarily, to take my leave ere I return to Kome." 



THE TWO CARRIAGES. 131 

" Then, relate to him a strange circumstance which occurred yes- 
terday, and with which I have had no opportunity of acquainting 
him." 

" Speak ! " 

" I walked yesterday, in the garden of tombs. Every where the 
dead were being lowered into their narrow slips of earth, while nume- 
rous torches sparkled and glittered among the graves, and displayed 
their gaping, yawning mouths, even amid the blackness of night. 
Bohwanie smiled rejoicingly from her ebony throne ; the blessed re- 
collections inspired by the thoughts of this goddess of utter annihila- 
tion made me view with pleasure the emptying of a cart filled with 
coffins. The immense pit destined to receive them gaped and yawned 
like the mouth of hell itself. Dead after dead was thrown into it ; but 
still its expanded jaws yawned and craved for more. All at once, by the 
light of the torch, I saw an old man beside me, who was weeping. 
Yes, the old man shed many, and seemingly bitter tears. I had seen 
him before, he was a Jew; and guardian of the house that house 
you know in the Rue Saint-Francais which you know " 

And the man in the mantle suddenly started, and broke off what 
he was saying, 

" I know I know ! But what ails you ? And wherefore do you 
tremble so ? Why have you thus interrupted your discourse ?" 

" Because in that house is to be found, 150 years after it was 
painted, the picture of an individual a man whom I formerly met at 
the farthermost part of India, on the banks of the Ganges." 

And again the man in the mantle ceased speaking, while a second 
cold shudder seemed to pass over his frame. 

" A singular resemblance, doubtless, to the person you knew." 

" Singular, indeed !" 

" My lord, it could be nothing more." 

" But the old Jew ! the old Jew ! What of him ?" 

" I will tell you, my lord. Still absorbed in grief, he said to the 
grave-digger, ' Well, did you find the coffin ?' 

" ' You were quite right,' replied the man ; ' it was in the second 
row in the other pit. I knew it by the description you gave me a 
cross formed of seven black spots. But how did you contrive to know 
both the place and distinguishing marks of this coffin ?' 

" ' Alas !' replied the old Jew, with bitter sadness ; ' it matters but 
little to you, my friend, how I came by my knowledge ; you see that I 
am but too well informed. Where is the coffin ?' 

" < Behind the great black marble tomb you know so well, level 
with the earth, but just covered up sufficiently to hide it from other 
eyes than your own. Only be quick. During the present bustle, no 
one will notice you,' continued the grave-digger. ' You have paid 
me handsomely, and I heartily wish you success in your undertaking, 
whatever it may be.' " 

" And what did the old Jew do with the coffin marked with the 
seven black spots ?" 

" He was accompanied by two men, my lord, bearing a litter 
closed round with curtains. He lighted a lantern, and, followed by 
these two men, weut oft' in the direction pointed out by the grave- 



132 THE WANDERING JEW. 

digger. A confusion which ensued, in consequence of several car- 
riages, filled with dead, all arriving at once and striving to take pre- 
cedence of each other, prevented my keeping up with the old Jew. 
As soon, however, as I could make my way, I sought him diligently 
among the tombs, but without success. I could see nothing of him." 

" Yours is, indeed, a strange recital. And what could have been 
the motive of the Jew in desiring to obtain the coffin ?" 

" I have heard it said, my lord, that such as he employ the bodies 
of the dead in compounding magical charms and mystic spells." 

" "Tis more than possible ; for these miscreants are capable of any 
wickedness, even of trafficking with the Enemy of mankind himself! 
However, we will consider your report, which probably involves some 
most important discovery." 

Midnight sounded from some distant clock. 

" Midnight ! Already ?" 

" Even so, my lord." 

" Then I must go. Adieu ! You again promise me, on your 
solemn oath, that, in the event of a certain circumstance mutually 
agreed upon occurring, that directly you receive the remaining half of 
the little ivory crucifix I but now gave you, you will perform what 
you have sworn to." 

" My lord, I have so pledged myself, in the name of Bohwanie." 

" Do not forget, that for better security, the person who brings 

you the other half of the cross will say to you Let me see if you 

recollect the words he is to use. What are they ?" 

" My lord, your messenger may say, Friend ! there is many a slijy 
between the cup and the lip .' ' " 

" Quite right. Farewell ! Secrecy and fidelity !" 

" Secrecy and fidelity, my lord !" replied the man in the mantle. 

A few seconds after, and the, vehicle rolled away, bearing with it 
the Cardinal Malipieri, who had been the person engaged in convers- 
ation with the man in the mantle, whom the reader has, doubtless, 
recognised as Faringhea, and who now, returning to the small garden- 
door leading to the house occupied by Djalma, was about to put his 
key into the lock, when, to his extreme surprise, the door suddenly 
opened and a man came forth. Rushing furiously on the stranger, 
Faringhea seized him violently by the collar, exclaiming, " Who are 
you, and whence come you ?" 

The stranger evidently felt displeased, as well as dissatisfied, with 
the manner in which this question was put, for, instead of replying, he 
only redoubled his efforts to free himself from the grip of his assailant, 
at the same time shouting as loudly as possible, 

" Pierre 1 Pierre ! Help ! help I" 

And immediately the carriage, which had been stationed some 
little way off, dashed up at full speed, and Pierre, the huge footman, 
springing to the ground, caught the Me"tis by the shoulders and flung 
him to the ground, thus effecting a diversion greatly in the stranger's 
favour. 

" And now, sir," said the latter, arranging his dress, still protected 
by the herculean footman, " I am rather better able to reply to your 
questions, though I must say, that your mode of welcoming an old ac- 



THE TWO CARRIAGES. 133 

quaintance is a somewhat rough one. Nay, do not affect to forget me. 
My name is Dupont, formerly steward of the Cardoville estate; and 
by the same token, I had something to do in fishing you out of the 
roaring waters in which you had been cast when the vessel you had 
embarked in was wrecked." 

And truly enough did the Metis, by the clear brightness of the 
carriage-lamps, recognise the honest, manly features of M. Dupont, 
late steward, but now, as he had been informed, comptroller of Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville's household. The reader has probably not for- 
gotten that M. Dupont was the first to write and solicit her interest in 
favour of Djalma, while the latter was confined to the Chateau de 
Cardoville, in consequence of a wound he received during the ship- 
wreck. 

" But what was your business here, sir ? And why introduce 
yourself thus clandestinely into the house ?" inquired Faringhea, in an 
abrupt and suspicious manner. 

" I beg leave to observe, sir, 1 ' replied M. Dupont, with much dig- 
nity, as well as hauteur, " that I came hither in a carriage bearing the 
livery and arms of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, my most esteemed and 
honoured mistress, charged by her openly and undisguisedly to convey 
a letter from her to her cousin, Prince Djalma, and that, consequently, 
there is nothing of a clandestine nature, either in my mission or my 
manner of discharging it." 

At these words, Faringhea was almost convulsed with silent rage. 
He, however, replied, 

" And why, sir, come at this late hour? And wherefore introduce 
yourself by the private door ?" 

4< My sole reason for selecting this hour, my dear sir, was simply 
because my honoured young lady thought proper to direct me so to 
do ; and I availed myself of the private door, because there is every 
reason to believe that had I gone to the principal entrance, I should 
not have been permitted to see the prince." 

" You are mistaken, sir," replied the Metis. 

" It may be so : but as it was well known that the prince invariably 
passed the greater part of each night in the small salon, communicating 
with the conservatory to which this private door leads, and as Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville had retained a second key in her possession ever 
since she hired the house, I felt pretty certain, that by availing myself 
of this road, I should certainly succeed in delivering into the hands of 
the prince the letter written to him by his cousin, Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville, which I have had the honour of doing, my dear sir ; and 
feel more gratified than I can tell you, not only with the success of my 
experiment, but also with the flattering and most gracious reception I 
received from the prince, who has had the great condescension to 
remember me and the small service I was providentially enabled to 
render him." 

" And who, sir," inquired Faringhea, unable longer to smother the 
boiling rage which almost choked him " who, allow me to ask, so well 
informed you as to the prince's habitudes and tastes ?" 

" However well informed as to the habits of the prince, it would 
seem, my dear sir, as though I were very imperfectly acquainted 
with yours," said Dupont, in a dry tone of derision, "since I can 



134 THE WANDERING JEW. 

iv you, / as little reckoned upon meeting you in this small door- 
\v ay, as you did to find me there." 

And so saying, M. Dupont, with a cool sarcastic bow, quitted the 
Metis and returned to the carriage, which drove rapidly away, leaving 
Faringhea as surprised as enraged. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE RENDEZVOUS. 

THE day after that on which Dupont had fulfilled his mission to 
Djalma, the prince was walking up and down with hasty and impa- 
tient steps in the little Indian salon of the Rue Blanche. This room, 
as we know, communicated with the conservatory whence Adrienne 
had seen him for the first time. Desirous of dressing himself now as 
he had been attired on that occasion, he wore a tunic of white cash- 
mere, with a deep red turban, and a belt of the same colour. His 
leggings of carnation, embroidered with gold, displayed the perfect 
symmetry of his leg, and sloped down over a small white morocco 
slipper with red heels. 

Happiness has an action so instantaneous, and, indeed, so material, 
in young, lively, and ardent imaginations, that Djalma, who, the evening 
before, had been dispirited, dejected, despairing, was now scarcely to 
be recognised. The golden pallor of his clear and transparent com- 
plexion was no longer livid and dulled. His large eyeballs, but lately 
veiled like dark diamonds with a humid vapour, now shone with soft 
brilliancy in the midst of the pearly orbs. His lips, so long pallid, 
had now become of a colour as lively as velvety, as the most re- 
splendent flowers of his native land. 

From time to time pausing from his hasty walking, he drew from 
his bosom a small paper carefully folded, and raised it to his lips with 
ineffable delight; then, unable to contain the impulse of his happiness, 
a kind of joyful cry, full and sonorous, burst from his bosom, and with 
a bound the prince was before the glass-door which separated the 
salon from the conservatory where he had for the first time seen Ma- 
demoiselle de Cardoville. 

Singular power of memory marvellous hallucination of a mind, 
beset, governed, by one fixed, incessant idea! Very often Djalma 
believed he had, or, rather, had really seen the adored image of 
Adrienne appear to him through this crystal sheet, and still more, the 
illusion was so complete, that with his eyes ardently fixed on the 
vision he had evoked, he had, aided by a pencil dipped in carmine, 
followed and traced with astonishing accuracy the profile of the ideal 
features which the delirium of his imagination presented to his sight.* 

It was before these lovely lines, traced in the brightest carmine, 
that Djalma stood in deep contemplation, after having read and re-read, 

* Some curiosity-collections have similar sketches, the productions of Indian 
art of primitive simplicity. 



THE RENDEZVOUS. 

and carried again and again to his lips, the letter he had received the 
evening before from the hands of Dupont. 

Djalma was not alone. Faringhea followed all the prince's move- 
ments with a subtle attention and gloomy glance. Keeping himself 
respectfully standing in a corner of the salon, the Metis seemed occu- 
pied with unfolding and spreading out Djalma's bedej, a sort ofboumous 
of Indian material of light and silky texture, of which the brown shade 
was almost lost amidst gold and silver embroidery of exquisite delicacy. 

The countenance of the Metis was careworn and sinister. He 
could not be deceived the letter delivered to Djalma from Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville on the previous evening by M. Dupont could 
alone have caused his joy, for, no doubt, he knew he was beloved ; and 
his determined silence towards Faringhea since he had been in the 
salon alarmed him greatly, nor could he account for it. 

On the previous evening, after having quitted M. Dupont in a 
state of anxiety easily understsod, the Metis had returned hastily to 
the prince, in order that he might judge of the effect of Mademoiselle 
de Cardoville's letter, but he found the salon closed. He knocked, 
but no one answered. Then, although the night was far advanced, 
he despatched hastily a letter to Rodin, in which he announced the 
visit of M. Dupont and the probable intention and effect of that 
visit. 

Djalma had passed a night in all the exaltations of happiness and 
hope in a state of feverish impatience impossible to describe. It was 
only in the morning when returning to his sleeping room that he had 
taken some minutes' repose, and dressed himself alone. 

Several times, but in vain, the Metis had rapped discreetly at the 
door of Djalma's chamber. About noon, only, the prince had rang to 
order his carriage at half-past two o'clock. Faringhea had answered 
the summons, and the prince had given him his commands without 
looking at him, and as if he were speaking to one of the inferior do- 
mestics. Was this mistrust or the preoccupation of the prince ? Such 
were the questions which the Metis asked himself with increasing 
anguish ; for the designs of which he was the most active, most imme- 
diate instrument, might be ruined by the least suspicion of Djalma. 

"Oh, the houis ! the hours! how slow they are!" exclaimed 
the young Indian, in a low and trembling tone. 

" The hours were very long, you said, the day before yesterday, 
monseigneur." 

And as he said these words, Faringhea approached the prince, in 
order to attract his attention ; seeing that he did not succeed, he ad- 
vanced another step, and added, 

" Your joy seems very great, monseigneur ; will you condescend 
to inform your poor and faithful subject of its cause, that he may re- 
joice with his lord ? " 

If he had felt the sense of the words of the Metis, Djalma had not 
heard one of them. He made no reply his large black eyes were 
swimming in vacancy; he seemed to smile with adoration at some en- 
chanting vision his two hands were crossed over his breast, as the 
natives of his country place them when engaged in prayer. 

After some moments of such contemplation, he said, 

"What is the hour?" 



136 THE WANDERING JEW. 

But he seemed rather to ask this question of himself than of any 
other person. 

" Nearly two o'clock, monseigneur," replied Faringhea. 

Djalma, after having heard this reply, seated himself, and hid his 
face in his hands, as if to collect himself, and absorb himself utterly in 
his delicious meditation. 

Faringhea, extremely uneasy, and desirous at every risk to attract 
Djalma's attention, approached him, and almost certain of the effect 
of the words he was about to utter, said, in a low and penetrating 
voice, 

" Monseigueur, I am assured that you are indebted to Mademoi- 
selle de Cardoville for the happiness you are enjoying." 

He had scarcely uttered this name, than Djalma starting, bounded 
from his chair, and looking the Metis in the face, exclaimed, as if he 
had but just perceived him, 

" Faringhea ! you here ? What do you seek ? " 

" Your faithful servant partakes your joy, monseigneur." 

"What joy?" 

" That excited in you by the letter of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
monseigneur." 

Djalma made no reply, but his look shone with so much happiness, 
so much serenity, that the Metis felt himself entirely reassured ; there 
was not the slightest shade of doubt or distrust in the joyful features 
of the prince. 

Djalma, after a silence of some moments, raised his eyes, half 
covered by a tear, to the Metis, and replied, with the expression of a 
heart which overflows with love and bliss, 

'' Oh, happiness ! happiness ! it is good and great like God ! it is 
God!" 

" This happiness was due to you, monseigneur, after so much 
suffering." 

" When ? ah ! yes, formerly I suffered formerly, too, I was at 
Java : but that is some years ago." 

" But, monseigneur, this happiness does not surprise me ; what 
have I always said to you ? Do not despair, feign a violent love for 
another, and this disdainful young lady " 

At these words Djalma gave the metis a glance so piercing that he 
stopped, but the prince, in the kindest tone, said to him, 

" Go on, I hear you." 

Then leaning his chin in his hand, and his elbow on his knee, he 
fixed his eyes on Faringhea with a look steadfast, but yet so excess- 
ively sweet, so penetrating, that Faringhea, that soul of iron, for a 
moment felt troubled by slight remorse. 

" I said, monseigneur," he replied, " that in following the counsels 
of your faithful slave, who advised you to feign a passionate love for 
another woman, you have brought Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
so disdainful, so proud to come to you. Did I not foretell this ?" 

" Yes, you did foretell this !" replied Djalma, still resting on his 
elbow, and keeping his eyes fixed on the Metis with the same attention, 
with even the same expression of kindness. 

l-'aringhea's surprise increased. The prince usually, without treat- 
ing him harshly, yet maintaining the /laiileyr and imperious com- 



THE RENDEZVOUS. 137 

mand common to their mutual countries, had never before spoken 
to him with such condescension ; and knowing all the evil he had done 
the prince, mistrustful, like all wicked persons, the Metis believed for 
an instant, that his master's kind manner concealed some snare, and 
he continued, with diminished assurance, 

" Believe me, monseigneur, this very day, if you know how to 
profit by your advantages, this day will console you for all your 
griefs, and they have been terrible ; for yesterday even although you 
are so generous as to forget it, and you are wrong yesterday even 
you suffered terribly; but you were not alone in your suffering, that 
proud young girl, too, she has also suffered." 

" Do you think, so ? " observed Djalma. 

" I am certain of it, monseigneur. Judge when she saw you at the 
theatre with another woman what she must have felt. If she loved 
you slightly, her self-love would be bitterly shocked ; if she loved you 
with passion, she has been stricken to the heart : thus weary of suffer- 
ing she comes to you." 

" So that, under any circumstances, you are certain that she has 
suffered very much very much, and you have not pitied her ? " said 
Djalma, in a constrained voice, but still with a tone full of sweetness. 

" Before thinking of pitying others, monseigneur, I think of your 
sufferings, and they affect me too much to leave any pity for others," 
added Faringhea, hypocritically. Rodin's influence had already modi- 
fied the Phansegar. 

" This is strange ! " said Djalma, speaking to himself, and looking 
at the Metis even more steadfastly than before, but still with kindness. 

" What is strange, monseigneur ? " 

" Nothing. But tell me, since your advice has succeeded for me 
so well with the past, what think you of the future ? " 

"Of the future, monseigneur ? " 

"Yes, for in an hour's time I am to be with Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville." 

" That is serious, monseigneur ; the future depends entirely on 
this first interview." 

" It is just what I was thinking of." 

" Believe me, monseigneur, that women are never so desperately 
enamoured as for the bold man who spares them all the embarrassment 
of refusal." 

" Explain yourself more clearly." 

"Well, monseigneur, they despise the timid, languishing lover, 
who, in an humble voice, sues for that which he should take." 

" But I am to-day to see Mademoiselle de Cardoville for the first 
time." 

" You have seen her a thousand times in your dreams, monseigneur, 
and she has seen you in her dreams, for she loves you. There is not 
one of your thoughts of love but finds an echo in her heart. All your 
most ardent adorations are for her, and she has experienced them for 
you. Love has not two languages, and, without seeing each other, 
you have mutually said all you had to say. Now, to-day act en 
mailre, and she is yours." 

" This is strange strange !" said Djalma, a second time, and not 
removing his eyes from Faringhea. 



138 THE WANDERJNO JEW. 

Misunderstanding the meaning which the prince attached to these 
words, the Metis continued, 

" Believe me, monseigneur, however strange it may seem to you, 
it is wise counsel. Recall the past. Were it by playing the part of 
the timid lover that you brought to your feet this haughty young 
lady, monseigneur ? no, it was by pretending to disdain her for another 
woman. So, then, no weakness: the lion does not sigh like the 
weak turtle-dove this fierce sultan of the desert has no regard for a 
few plaintive moans of the lioness, who is even more grateful than 
offended at his rude and wild caresses ; and thus, submissive, happy, 
fearful, she compliantly follows the footsteps of her master. Believe 
me, monseigneur, dare dare! and this very day you will be the 
adored sultan of this young girl, whose beauty all Paris admires." 

After some minutes' silence, Djalma, shaking his head with an 
expression of tender commiseration, said to the Mentis, in his soft and 
manly voice, 

" Why betray me thus ? Why counsel me thus wickedly to employ 
violence, terror, surprise, towards an angel of purity whom I respect 
as I would my mother? Is it not enough for you to be devoted to 
my enemies, to those who have pursued me even to Java ? " 

Had Djalma, with fierce eye, terrible look, and upraised poniard, 
darted on the Metis, the latter would not have been so much surprised, 
and, perhaps, less frightened, than when he heard Djalma reproach 
him with his treason in accents of such mild reproach. 

Faringhea receded a step as if about to stand on his defence. 

Djalma continued with the same calmness, 

" Do not be afraid. Yesterday I should have killed you, I tell 
you ; but to-day propitious love makes me equitable and clement. I 
feel for you pity without gall. I pity you, for you must indeed have 
been very wretched to have become so very wicked." 

" I, monseigneur?" exclaimed the Metis, with increasing amazement. 

" You must have suffered very much. Mankind must have been 
very pitiless towards you, poor wretch! that you should be so pitiless 
in your hatred, and that the sight of happiness like mine could not 
disarm you ! Really, when I listened to you just now, I experienced 
for you sincere commiseration when I saw the sad perseverance of 
your hatred " 

" Monseigneur, I do not know, but " 

And the Metis, stammering, could not find a word to utter. 

** What injury have I ever done you ? " 

" None, none, monseigneur 1 " replied the M6tis. 

" Then, wherefore hate me thus ? Why seek so fiercely to do me 
ill ? Was it not sufficient to give me the perfidious counsel to feign a 
shameful love for the young girl you brought hither, and who, weary 
at the miserable part she played here, has left the house ? " 

"Your feigned love for that young girl, monsigneur," replied 
Faringhea, resuming his coolness gradually, " has overcome the cold- 
ness of " 

" Do not say so," said the prince, with the same mildness, and 
interrupting him : " if I enjoy this felicity, which renders me com- 
passionate towards you, which raises me above myself, it is because 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville knows now that I have not for a moment 



THE RENDEZVOUS. 139 

ceased to love her as she should be loved, with adoration, with respect. 
You, on the contrary, by counselling me as you have done, had the 
design of separating us for ever but you have failed." 

" Monseigneur, if you think thus of me you must consider me as 
your most deadly enemy ?" 

" Fear nothing, I repeat to you. I have no right to blame you. 
In the madness of my grief I have listened to you followed your 
advice. I have not been your dupe, but your accomplice. Only 
confess that, when you saw me at your mercy, dejected, wretched, 
was it not cruel in you to advise me to do that which might have been 
the most fatal thing in the world ? " 

" The ardour of my zeal may have misled me, monseigneur." 

" I wish to believe so. Yet, to-day again again evil incitements 
you were as pitiless for my happiness as you had been for my misery 
those delights of the heart, in which you saw me plunged, only 
inspired you with one desire, that of converting my joy into despair." 

"I, monseigneur?" 

" Yes, you ! you thought, by following your counsels, I should 
destroy myself, dishonour myself for ever in the eyes of Mademoiselle 
de Cardoville. What is it, I ask ? Whence this deadly enmity ? 
Wherefore ? Again, what ill have I ever done thee ? " 

" Monseigneur, you judge wrongly, and I " 

" Listen to me. I do not desire that you should be wicked and 
treacherous any longer. I would make you good. In our country we 
charm the most dangerous serpents, and tame tigers. Well, I wish to 
tame you by force of kindness you who are a man, you who have a 
mind to guide, a heart to love this day confers on me happiness 
divine, you shall bless this day. What can I do for you ? What do 
you wish ? Is it gold ? You shall have gold. Will you have more 
than gold ? will you have a friend, whose true friendship will console 
you, and, by causing you to forget the woes that have made you 
wicked, render you good? Are you willing that I, though a king's 
son, should be this friend ? I will be so ; yes, in spite of the ill no, 
because of the ill, you have done me, I will be to you a sincere 
friend ; happy to say to myself, ' The day on which that angel told me 
she loved me my happiness was very great : in the morning I had an 
implacable enemy, in the evening his hatred was changed into friend- 
ship. So now, believe me, Faringhea, misfortune makes the wicked, 
happiness the good be happy!'" 

At this instant the clock struck two. 

The prince started; it was the moment for setting out for his 
rendezvous with Adrienne. 

Djalma's striking countenance, still embellished by the sweet and 
ineffable expression that animated it whilst addressing the Me"tis, seemed 
lighted up with a divine ray. 

Approaching Faringhea, he extended his hand to him with a 
gesture of grace and tenderness, saying, 

" Your hand." 

The Mtis, whose forehead was bathed with cold perspiration, his 
features pale, altered, and discomposed, hesitated for an instant ; then, 
overcome, subdued, and fascinated, he shudderingly extended his 



140 THE WANDERING JEW. 

hand to the prince, who shook it, saying, in the fashion of his 
country, 

" You place your hand confidingly in the hand of a loyal friend. 
This hand will always be open to you. Adieu, Faringhea! I feel now 
worthy of kneeling before the angel." 

And Djalma went out in order to go to Adrienne. 

Despite his ferocity, his pitiless hatred for the human species, over- 
come by the noble conduct, the clemency of Djalma, the gloomy 
fanatic of Bohwanie said with affright to himself, 

" I have touched his hand he is henceforth sacred for me." 
Then, after a moment's silence his reflection returning to him, he 
exclaimed, " Yes ; but he is not sacred for him who, according to 
what they replied to me last night, should await him at the door of 
this house. " 

So saying, the Metis ran into an adjoining room, which looked into 
the street, lifted up the corner of a curtain, and said, with anxiety, 

" His carriage moves on the man comes towards him. Hell ! the 
carriage goes on, and I can see nothing more." 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

EXPECTATION. 

BY a singular coincidence of thought, Adrienne had observed, as 
well as Djalma, to be dressed as she was at her first interview with 
him in the house of the Rue-Blanche. 

For the place of this interview, so important to her happiness, 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville, with her natural tact, had chosen the 
great reception-room in the Hotel de Cardoville, where there were 
several family portraits. The most conspicuous of these were her 
father and mother. The apartment was very large and high, and, like 
those which led to it, was furnished with the imposing luxury of the 
age of Louis XIV. The ceiling, painted by Lebrun, had for its 
subject the triumph of Apollo, and displayed the fulness of design, and 
the vigorous colouring of the artist, in the middle of a large cornice 
magnificently sculptured and gilt, supported at the angles by four 
large gilt figures representing the seasons. The panels, hung witli 
crimson damask, surrounded with framework, served for the hanging 
of the large family portraits which ornamented the room. 

It is more easy to conceive than describe the thousand emotions 
which agitated Mademoiselle de Cardoville, in proportion as she 
approached the moment of her interview with Djalma ; their meeting 
had until then been prevented by so many painful obstacles. Adrienne 
knew that her enemies were so vigilant, so active, and so perfidious, 
that she was really in doubt as to her happiness. At every moment, 
in spite of herself, she looked at the clock. In a few minutes and the 
hour appointed would strike. 



EXPECTATIONS. 141 

At length it struck. 

Each sound of the clock resounded deep in Adrienne's heart. 
She thought that Djalraa, doubtless from reserve, had not allowed 
himself to anticipate the hour appointed by her, and, far from blaming 
this discretion, she felt that he was right ; but, from this moment, at 
the smallest noise she heard in the neighbouring apartments she 
suspended her breath and listened with anxious hope. 

During the first minutes which followed the hour at which she 
expected Djalma, Mademoiselle de Cardoville had no serious alarm, 
and calmed her impatience, somewhat disturbed, by this calculation 
(very weak and silly in the eyes of persons who have never known the 
feverish agitation of delightful expectation) saying, that the clock in 
the house at the Rue Blanche might differ somewhat from that of the 
Rue d'Anjou. 

But in proportion as this supposed difference, which was probable, 
grew into a delay of a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, and more, 
Adrienne felt increasing uneasiness ; and twice or thrice the young 
girl, rising up with palpitating heart, went on tip-toe to listen at the 
door of the salon. 

She heard nothing. 

Half-past three o'clock struck. 

Unable to repress her increasing alarm, and still clinging to hope, 
however delayed, she returned to the mantel-piece, then rang, after 
having in a manner composed her features that they might not betray 
any emotion. 

After a few seconds a grey-headed valet de chambre, clothed in 
black, opened the door, and then awaited with respectful silence the 
orders of his mistress, who said to him, in a calm tone, 

" Andre, desire Hebe to give you a smelling bottle I left on the 
mantel-piece in my chamber, and bring it to me." 

Andre bowed, and at the moment he was about to quit the room 
to execute Adrienne's command, a command which she had only 
given in order to ask another question, the importance of which she 
was anxious to conceal from the eyes of her servants, who were 
informed of the expected coming of the prince, Mademoiselle de Car- 
doville added, with an air of indifference pointing to the clock, 

" Does this clock go correctly ? " 

Andre drew out his own watch, looked at it and replied, 

" Yes, mademoiselle, I am right by the Tuileries ; and it is now 
more than half-past three o'clock by my watch." 

"Thank you!" said Adrienne, with kindness. 

Andre bowed ; but before he left the room he said to Adrienne, 

" I had forgotten to say to you, mademoiselle, that M. Marechal 
Simon called here an hour since : as you desired to be denied to every 
body except M. le Prince, we said that mademoiselle did not see any 
one to-day." 

" Quite right," replied Adrienne. 

Andre again bowed, left the apartment, and again all was silent. 

Inasmuch as, until the last minute of the hour of her interview with 
Djalma, Adrienne's hope was not disturbed by the least doubt, so the 
feeling under which she now began to suffer was the more terrible. 
Casting then a despairing look at one of the portraits placed over her 



142 THE WANDERING JEW. 

head, and on one side of the mantel-piece, she murmured, with a 
plaintive and distressing accent, 

" Oh, my mother I" 

Scarcely had Mademoiselle de Cardoville pronounced these words 
than the rumbling of a carriage was heard, as entering the court-yard 
it slightly shook the window frames. 

The young girl started, and was unable to repress a slight cry of 
joy ; her heart bounded in anticipation of Djalnia, for this time she 
felt it was he. She was as certain of it as if she had seen the prince 
with her eyes. 

She seated herself, wiping away a tear suspended by her long lids ; 
her hand trembled like a leaf. 

The noise of several doors being opened soon confirmed the young 
lady in her conviction. The two gilded folding-doors of the salon 
turned on their hinges, and the prince appeared. 

Whilst a second valet-de-chambre closed the doors, Andre, enter- 
ing a few seconds after Djalnia, whilst he was coming toward Adrienne, 
placed on a gilt table close to the young lady, a small silver tray, on 
which was her crystal scenting bottle, and then the door shut. 

The prince and Mademoiselle de Cardoville were alone. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

ADRIENNE AND DJALMA. 

THE prince was slowly advancing towards Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville. 

In spite of the impetuosity of the young Indian's passion, his unas- 
sured step, so timid, yet so delightful, betrayed his profound emotion. 
He had not dared yet to raise his eyes to Adrienne. He had become 
very pale ; and his beautiful hands religiously crossed over his chest, 
according to the customs of adoration in his country, trembled exces- 
sively ; and he paused a few paces from Adrienne, with his head 
slightly bent to the ground. 

This embarrassment, which would have appeared ridiculous in any 
other, was touching iu the prince, but twenty years of age, of almost 
fabulous courage, of so heroic, so generous a character, that travellers 
never spoke of the son of King Kadja Sing, but with admiration and 
respect. 

Soft emotion, chaste reserve, the more interesting if we recollect 
that the burning passions of this young man were the more easily ex- 
alted as they had been until now constantly repressed. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville, not less embarrassed, less troubled, 
had remained sitting, whilst Djalnia remained with his eyes on the 
ground : but the burning blushes of her cheeks, the hasty palpitation 
of her virgin heart, revealed an emotion, which she did not attempt 
to conceal. 

In spite of the firmness of her mind by turns so gay and acute 
so kind and severe, iu spite of the decision of her independent and 



ADRIENNE AND DJALMA. 

proud character, in spite of her knowledge of society, Adrienne, dis- 
playing equally with Djalma, an unsophisticated embarrassment, or 
delicious agitation, shared that kind of unutterable passing bewilder- 
ment, beneath which, these two loving, ardent, and pure souls, seemed 
overwhelmed, as though unable to support at the same time, the ex- 
citement of their palpitating senses, and the intoxicating pas 

61 AndTyet their eyes had not yet met. Both feared the first electric 
look, the invincible attraction of two loving and impassioned creatures 
to one another, the sacredlnre which, more rapid than lightning, fires, 
burns their blood, and frequently, almost without their consciousness, 
raises them from earth to heaven ; for it is to approach heaven, to re- 
sign oneself with a religious impulse, to the most noble, the most irre- 
sistible of the inclinations implanted within us, the sole inclination m 
fact, which the Dispenser of all things has vouchsafed to sanctify, by 
endowing it with a spark of His creative divinity. 

Djalma first raised his eyes, which were humid, yet sparkling : the 
fervour of an excited love-the burning ardour of youth, so long re- 
pressed; the excited admiration of ideal beauty was legible in this 
look, though it was impressed with respectful timidity, and gave to the 
features of the youthful prince an undefinable, irresistible expression. 

Irresistible f for Adrienne, meeting that look, trembled in all her 
body, and felt as if magnetically attracted. Her eyes were already 
yielding to a feeling of lassitude, when, by a supreme effort of will and 
dignity! she overcame her troubled feeling, rose from her chair, and m 
a trembling voice, said to Djalma, 

Prince, I am happy to receive you here ; then, with a gesture, 
pointing to one of the portraits suspended behind her Adrienne 
added, Is if she were introducing him, Prince, my mother ! 

By a thought of rarest delicacy, Adrienne thus, as it were, had her 
mother present at her interview with Djalma. 

This was a safeguard for herself and the prince, against the im- 
pulses of a first meeting, the more irresistible, as each knew they 
were passionately loved-that they were both free ; and were only re- 
sponsible to Heaven for the treasures of happiness and pleasure with 
which they had been so richly endowed. 

The prince understood Adrienne's thought; and thus, when the 
young lady pointed out to him the portrait of her mother Djalma, by 
a spontaneous movement, full of charming simplicity, bowed, and 
bending his knee before the portrait, said in a low, but manly voice, 
addressing the painting, , 

I will love you, I will bless you as my mother and my motnei, 
also, in my thought, shall be here, like you, beside her child. 

Nothing could better have expressed the feeling which induced 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville to place herself, as it were, under the pro- 
tection of her maternal friend and shield -certain, from this instant, of 
he purity and congeniality of the prince's affection, the happy girl 
freely gave herself up to all the delight of a free enjoyment of her ten- 
lernL for her young relative, and the rich glow of happiness gradual y 
ucceeded to the conflicting anxieties by which her mind had so lately 



144 THE WANDERING JHW. 

been torn. Reseating herself, and smilingly pointing to a chair oppo- 
site her own, she said, 

" Be seated, I pray, my dear cousin ! for by that name I iim.-t 
henceforward address you, the word '' prince ' sounding too formal, a> 
well as savouring too much of courtly etiquette, for those so nearly 
related as ourselves. And you, too, must adopt the same mode 
of address when speaking to me ; and so having settled that we strictly 
abide by the rule of always calling each other ' cousin,' let us begin 
our friendly talk." 

" With all my heart," replied Djalma, while a bright glow rushed 
over his cheek at the bare idea of being permitted thus familiarly to ad- 
dress the divinity who ruled his every thought. 

"And as frankness and candour should form the basis of all friend- 
ships," rejoined Adrienne, regarding the prince with a sweet smile, ' 1 
will commence with scolding you a little !" 

But Djalma replied not ; instead of taking the seat pointed out to 
him, he still continued standing, leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, 
iu an attitude replete with grace and expressive of the profoundest 
respect 

" Yes, indeed, cousin," pursued Adrienne, " I have to find fault 
with you for for having made me await your coming, as well as 
think you should have been here sooner " 

" And yet, ray fair cousin, when you have heard my explanation, 
you will, perhaps, chide me for not having delayed my visit more than 
I did." 

" What mean you ? " 

" Just at the moment of my leaving home, a man with whose fea- 
tures I was unacquainted approached the carriage, and said with so 
great an appearance of truth that I fully believed his words, You 
can save the life of one who has been as a second father to you 
Marechal Simon is in imminent danger, and if you wish to aid him, 
you must follow me without one instant's delay.' " 

" 'T was a snare laid to entrap you," cried Adrienne, eagerly. 
" Marechal Simon was here scarcely an hour ago." 

" Is it possible?" exclaimed Djalma, joyfully ; and, as if relieved 
from a painful and oppressive weight. " Ah, then, at last, this happy 
day will have no cloud of sorrow to dim its brightness ! " 

" But how was it," inquired Adrienne, " that you did not mistrust 
this strange emissary?" 

" Some words which subsequently fell from the man aroused my 
suspicions," replied Djalma ; " although at first I had not hesitated to 
take the road he pointed out, fearing that the marechal might, indeed, 
be placed in danger, from the numerous enemies, you are aware, my 
dear cousin, who seek to injure him as much as they desire to effect our 
misery." 

" Upon reflection, cousin, I think you decided rightly in following 
the messenger, for there was but too great reason to believe in the 
existence of some fresh plot against the marechal, and at the slightest 
suspicion of such a thing it was imperative on you to hasten to his 
assistance." 

" And I did so, even though you expected me ! " 



ADRIENNK AND DJALMA. 145 

" You made a noble and a generous sacrifice by so doing," replied 
Adrienne, deeply touched by the prince's words and manner ; " and, 
were it possible to augment the esteem I entertain for you, your con- 
duct could not fail to increase it. But tell me, what became of the 
man employed to draw you into the snare ? " 

" By my orders he ascended the carriage where I was sitting. 
Uneasy as to the position of the marechal, and growing desperate as I 
found the precious moments pass away which sho'uld have brought me 
to your side, I strictly and closely questioned the man, who, several 
times, returned embarrassed or evasive answers ; and then the idea first 
occurred to me, that the tale I had listened to was but a scheme to 
entrap me in some vile snare. Recollecting, too, all the base acts that 
had been tried to ruin me in your estimation, I resolved upon coming 
hither first. The consternation and rage of the man when he found 
that I was not to be moved by his solicitations were alone sufficient to 
enlighten me as to his treachery. Still a vague uneasiness possessed 
my mind, as I considered the possibility of Marechal Simon's being also 
in the hands of dangerous, because hidden, foes ; but those apprehen- 
sions are happily relieved by your assurances of our friend's safety." 

" Our enemies appear as implacable as perseveringly bent upon our 
destruction," said Adrienne ; " but it matters not : in our extreme 
happiness we can pity and forget their hate." 

Then pausing for a few seconds, she added, with her accustomed 
frankness, 

" Cousin, I can neither hide nor conceal what is passing in my 
thoughts; let us for awhile revert to the past, which has occasioned us 
both so much sorrow, and after that let it all be consigned to oblivion, 
like an evil and uneasy dream." 

" Speak on, dear cousin," replied the prince, " and be assured of 
my replying with perfect sincerity to every question you may put, 
even at the risk of injuring myself in your esteem by so doing." 

" Then tell me how could you venture to shew yourself in public 
with " 

" With that young female ? " asked Djalma, impatiently interrupt- 
ing Adrienne. 

" Yes, cousin, that young girl who accompanied you to the Porte- 
Saint-Martin," answered Mademoiselle de Cardoville, gently though 
firmly, while her heart waited with devouring anxiety for Djalma's reply. 

" A stranger to the customs of this country," cried Djalma, with- 
out confusion, for he uttered the plain and unvarnished truth, " my 
mind weakened by despair, and led astray by the fatal counsels of a 
man devoted to my enemies, I believed, according to his advice, that, 
by affecting a love for another in your presence, I should awaken 
your jealousy, and that " 

" Enough, enough, cousin," exclaimed Adrienne, in her turn in- 
terrupting Djalma, for the purpose of sparing him a painful and 
humiliating confession; "I understand it all now. And I, too, 
must have been blinded by despair, or I should have seen through the 
vile scheme to separate us ; more especially after your intrepid though 
imprudent action, when you risked death itself to regain my bouquet," 
pursued Adrienne, shuddering at the bare recollection. " One word 
more," continued she ; " although my heart anticipates your reply ere 
65. L 



146 THE WANDERING JEW. 

I ask the question tell me whether you received a letter from me 
on the morning of the day on which I met you at the theatre?" 

Djalma answered not, but a heavy cloud passed over his fine 
countenance, while, for a brief space, his features assumed an aspect 
so menacing and wrathful as alarmed Adrienne ; but this violent 
agitation soon subsided, as though from the calm whisperings of 
internal peace and happiness, and the forehead of the prince became 
open, candid, and serene as before. 

" I have been more merciful than I thought for," said he, observing 
the surprise with which Adrienne was observing him, " I wished to 
come into your presence worthy of you, dear cousin, and for that 
purpose I pardoned the guilty wretch who, to serve my enemies, gave 
me, and still continues to offer, such detestable advice. This very man, 
I feel assured, kept your letter from me. A few minutes ago, while 
reflecting upon all the wretchedness his villany had caused me, I 
thought I had shewn him too much clemency ; but when I remembered 
your letter of yesterday, my breast could find no room for anger. 
Then let us for ever forget our past misery, our fears, our mistrusts, 
our mutual suspicions, let us banish from our minds the recollection 
of those hours of torment when we doubted each other's faith." 

" Oh, yes ! " exclaimed Mademoiselle de Cardoville, clasping her 
hands and looking upwards with ineffable joy, "let us but rejoice 
that at length the pure light of truth has for ever dispersed the 
dark treachery of our enemies." And then, as though her heart were 
for ever relieved from the gloomy thoughts which had so long op- 
pressed it, she continued, " Henceforward the happy future is all our 
own, a future so bright, so radiant with pure, unmixed delight, a 
vista of joys, unfettered by obstacles or difficulties, that the eye droops 
before its boundless splendours ! " 

No language can portray the heightened rapture, the thrilling 
tenderness with which Adrienne pronounced these words ; but, sud- 
denly, a soft melancholy stole over her lovely features, while, in a 
voice of deep emotion, she murmured, 

" Alas ! alas ! to think that at a moment like this there should be 
any who suffer in body or in mind upon the earth." 

This burst of pity and unfeigned commiseration for the unfortu- 
nate at the very moment when the noble-minded girl believed herself 
on the very pinnacle of human happiness made so lively an impression 
on the mind of Djalma, that, involuntarily throwing himself on his 
knees before Adrienne, he clasped his hands and turned towards her 
his handsome countenance, on which was impressed an adoration 
almost divine. Then, after gazing with ineffable tenderness for 
several minutes, he bowed his head as if in silent adoration. For 
some time the most profound silence reigned around, which was 
first interrupted by Adrienne, who, perceiving a tear steal from 
between the slender fingers of Djalma, exclaimed, 

" What ails you, cousin ? " 

Then with a movement more rapid than thought itself, she bent 
forwards towards the prince, and removed his hands which were 
still pressed against bis face. As the covering fell from the features of 
Djalma it revealed the large pearly drops which were rapidly coursing 
each other down his cheeks. 



If' 











** ' 









'.' 

Axx-^rTr-:.: -' ' I L* 




.. ... J 

. 







AURIEXNE AND DJALMA. 
Vol. III. P. 147. 



ADRIENNE AND DJ ALMA. 147 

" You are weeping, too ! " cried Mademoiselle de Cardo\ ille, so 
much carried away by her feelings, that she still retained the hands 
of Djalma between her own, so that, unable to dry his own tears, the 
young Indian was compelled to allow them to trickle, like drops of 
crystal, adown his pale cheeks. 

Xo earthly happiness is comparable to mine," cried the prince, in 
a tone of soft, mellifluous tenderness; "and yet, M added he, with a sort 
of irrepressible melancholy, " I feel a degree of sadness for which I 
cannot account, yet it must needs be so ; for while you rain celestial 
happiness upon me, I have but common earthly joys to offer in 
return. Alas, alas ! what can man offer in exchange for divinity 
he may worship, idolise, bless, and adore, but never can he return 
the rich treasures he receives, and therefore he sighs, not in his 
pride, but in his heart." 

With Djalma this language expressed no exaggerated passion, he 
spoke but the true and natural thoughts of his heart, and this hyperbo- 
lical manner of speaking, peculiar as it was to the East, was alone 
equal to conveying his impassioned thoughts. His own manner of 
expressing his sense of his unworthiness to approach the idol of 
his love was so sincere, so unaffected, his humility so gentle and 
subdued, that Adrienne, touched almost to tears, replied with an unde- 
tinable expression of earnest tenderness, 

" Dear cousin, we are each as happy as mortals can hope to be ; 
and yet, although arising from different sources, mournful ideas rise 
to the mind of each. Our prospect of future happiness is boundless 
and without limit, and the very immensity of our felicity startles 
and overwhelms our minds. The powers of the soul and body are 
unequal to contemplate joys such as those our horizon presents, 
and thus the full flow of our overcharged hearts oppresses and weighs 
us down. So do the flowers hold down their drooping heads, as 
though exhausted and faded beneath the fervid heat of that glorious 
orb which is at once their light and their life. Ah, cousin, this 
sadness we feel, though extreme, is yet sweet and refreshing to our 
hearts." 

And as Adrienne pronounced these last words, her voice sunk 
more and more while her head drooped gently forwards, as though 
bending beneath the weight of her happiness. Djalma meanwhile 
remained kneeling before her, his hands still contained in hers, so that 
as Adrienne stooped towards the prince her ivory forehead and golden 
tresses touched the pale amber of Djalma's cheek, and mingled with 
his raven curls. 

And so the lovers wept; and their sweet, yet silent tears fell 
slowly, until they trickled on the beautiful clasped hands of the 
enamoured pair. 

******* 

While this scene was being enacted at the Hotel de Cardoville, 
Agricola repaired to the Rue de Vangirard, the bearer of a letter 
from Adrienne to M. Hardy. 



148 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE " IMITATION." 

M. HARDY occupied, as we have said, a pavilion in the Maison He 
Retraite annexed to the residence occupied in the Rue Vangirard by a 
considerable number of reverend peres of the Company of Jesus. 
Nothing could be more calm, more quiet than this abode, where they 
always spoke in a low tone, and where the. very servants had some- 
thing soft in their words, and demure in their steps. 

As in every thing else subjected to the compressive and annihi- 
lating action of these men, animation was wanting in this house of 
gloomy stillness. The boarders led an existence of heavy monotony, 
of chilling regularity, interrupted from time to time by certain devo- 
tional exercises; and thus, according to the interested calculations of 
the reverend fathers, the mind without nourishment, without exterior 
communication, without excitement, languished in solitude ; the beat- 
ings of the heart seemed to become slower, the soul became torpid, 
the system gradually weakened, and, finally, all free will, free judg- 
ment was destroyed, and the pensionnaires, subjected to the same 
scheme of complete withering away, became also as dead bodies in 
the hands of the congregationists. 

The aim and end of these manoeuvres were clear and plain : they 
assured the success of inveigling all dispositions alike, the incessant 
object of the skilful policy and pitiless cupidity of these priests; and by 
means of the vast sums of which they thus became masters or depo- 
sitees, they pursued and assured the success of their projects, even if 
murder, incendiarism, rebellion, and all the horrors of civil war, excited 
and maintained by them, should set bleeding in every pore the country 
whose control they so darkly desired. 

As a lever, the money acquired by all possible means, even the 
most shameful and criminal as the end, the despotic domination over 
minds and consciences, in order to work them out with due fructifica- 
tion to the profit of the Company of Jesus such have been, and such 
will always be, the means and ends of this fraternity. 

Thus, amongst other means of making money flow into their 
always gaping treasury, the reverend fathers had founded the retreat in 
which M . Hardy was at this time. 

Persons with a bruised spirit, a wounded heart, with weakened 
understanding, misled by false devotion, and deceived, moreover, by 
the recommendations of the most influential members of the priest- 
party, were attracted hither; then insensibly isolated, sequestrated, and 
finally despoiled in this religious den, and all in the most holy way 
possible, and ad majorem Dei gloriam, according to the device of the 
honourable Society. 

In Jesuitical slang, as we may see by the hypocritical prospectus 
destined for the worthy fold the dupes of this humbug, these pious 
cut-throats call them generally, 

" ffolyatylums open to the souls aweary of the tain brawling s of tlic 
world" 



THE " IMITATION." 149 

Or else they were entitled, 

" Calm retreats, in which the faithful, happily freed from the perish- 
able attachments of this nether world, and tfie earthly ties of family, 
could at length alone wilh God work out effectually their own salva- 
tion" &c. &c. 

What is here stated and unfortunately proved by a thousand in- 
stances of unworthy inveigling effected in a great number of religious 
houses to the prejudice of the families of many pensionnaires, this we 
say stated, proved, admitted, and yet only let a right mind reproach the 
state for not watching with sufficient scrutiny these dangerous places, 
and then it is something to hear the cries of the priest party, the 
invocations to individual liberty, the desolations, the lamentations in 
reference to the tyranny that seeks to oppress consciences. 

Could it not be replied to this, that these singular pretensions 
viewed as legitimate, that the players at thimble-rig and roulette 
have as much right to invoke private liberty, and appeal against the 
decisions which have shut up their haunts of infamy ? After all we 
have thus abridged the liberty of the players, who come freely, joy- 
ously to engulph their patrimony in these dens ; we have equally 
tyrannised over their conscience, which allowed them to lose in the 
turn of a card the last resources of their family. 

Yes, we ask positively, sincerely, seriously, what difference there 
is between a man who ruins or despoils his family by playing 
rouge et noir, and the man who ruins or despoils his family in the 
doubtful hope of being a fortunate hunter at this game of Hell or 
Paradise, which certain priests have had the audacious sacrilege to 
invent, in order to constitute themselves croupiers ? * 

Nothing is more opposed to the real and divine spirit of Christianity 
than these barefaced spoliations. His repentance for sins, the practice 
of all Christian virtues, the devotion which endures suffering, the love 
of our neighbour, which deserves Heaven ; and not a sum of money, 
larger or lesser employed like a stake in the hopes of winning 
Paradise, and swamped by priests who santent la coupe, and who 
trick weak minds by the aid of a very lucrative display of leger- 
demain. 

Such then was the asylum of peace and innocence in which M. 
Hardy was. 

He occupied the ground-floor of a pavilion looking on to a part 



* The " Dcmocratie Pacifique," and the " National," have lately alluded to a cap- 
tation (inveigling) done by the priests by abominable means. It was in an affair of 
inheritance of EIGHT MILLION francs (3'20,000/.), and will shortly come before the 
tribunals of France. A note hag been forwarded to us, of which we guarantee the 
authenticity, but repress the real names. 

M , a very rich manufacturer possessing a factory, made a gift, before a 

notary of Paris, of a million francs ( 4-0, out)/.), for a house of Jesuits to be established 
at his death : children only to be admitted after proofs of the piety of their fathers and 
grandfathers. This act was with difficulty legalised the government even opposed it 
strongly, but the skill of die sons of Loyola obtained the ascendant. The reverend 
fathers so far abused the credulity of the donor, that he seriously affirms that, but for 
a miracle which provided for the wants of the reverend fathers of the Rue des Postes, 

they must have died of hunger this winter. M. has some relations well off, 

but he has others who are living in honest poverty. 



l.'jf) THE WANDERING JEW. 

of the garden of the house. This apartment had been judiciously 
chosen, for wo know the deep and diabolical skill with which the 
reverend fathers take advantage of the material means and appear- 
ances to effect a lively impression on the minds they are sapping and 
mining. 

Let the reader imagine, as the sole perspective, an enormous wall 
of blackish grey, half overgrown with ivy, that plant of ruins; a dark 
alloy of old yews, those trees of the tombs, with their sepulchral 
verdure ; one end of which terminated with one side of this sombre 
wall, and the other at a small semicircle in front of the chamber 
usually inhabited by M. Hardy. Two or three mounds of earth 
planted with box symmetrically cut, completed the beauty of thi> 
garden, which was in all points similar to those which surround 
places of interment. 

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and, although it was a 
fine sunny day in April, the sunbeams, excluded by the height of the 
wall we have mentioned, only penetrated into this part of the garden, 
which was dark, damp, and cold as a cavern, and on to which opened 
the chamber of M. Hardy. 

This apartment was furnished with a perfect knowledge of the 
comfortable : a soft carpet covered the floor, thick curtains of dark 
green cloth, of the same hue as the panels, hung over an excellent bed 
and a window that looked into the garden. Some mahogany furniture 
very plain, but bright with cleanliness, decorated the room. About 
the secretaire, and in front of the bed, was a large figure of Christ in 
ivory, in a black velvet curtain. The mantel-piece was ornamented 
with a clock of ebony, with mournful emblems, encrusted in ivory, 
such as hour-glasses, times' scythes, deaths' heads, &c. &c. 

Now, then, let us visit this picture with a gloomy twilight let us 
think that this solitude was incessantly plunged in gloomy silence, 
interrupted only at the hours of prayer by the lugubrious tinkling of 
the bells of the chapel of the reverend fathers, and we shall own to 
the infernal skill with which these dangerous priests know how to take 
advantage of exterior objects, as they might desire to make an 
impression one way or the other on the minds of those whom they 
wish to inveigle. This was not all. After having thus addressed the 
eyes, it was necessary to address the understanding. 

And in this way had the reverend fathers proceeded. 

One single book one only was left as if by accident at the 
control of M. Hardy. 

This book was the Imitation. But, as it might chance that M. 
Hardy had not the courage or wish to peruse this volume, thoughts, 
reflections, borrowed from this work of pitiless desolation, and written 
in very large characters, were placed in black frames, and hung up 
either in the interior of the recess in which the bed was placed, or 
against the panels most in sight : so that, involuntarily, and in the sad 
leisure of his depressing inactivity, his eyes became almost perforce 
attracted towards them. 

Some quotations of the maxims, with which the reverend fathers 
thus encircled their victim, are necessary that we may see into what 
fatal and desperate circle they had circumscribed the weakened mind 



THE "IMITATION." 151 

of this unfortunate man, who had been prostrated by such bitter 
sufferings.* 

What he read mechanically at each moment of the day and night, 
when 

" Gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse," 
forsook his eyelids, red with tears, was as follows, f 

"HE IS VERY VAIN WHO PLACES HIS HOPE IN MEN OR IN ANY 
CREATURE THAT IS." 

"IT WILL SOON BE ALL OVER WITH YOU HERE BELOW. IN WHAT 

STATE ARE YOU ?" 

"THE MAN WHO IS ALIVE TO-DAY WILL NOT APPEAR TO-MORROW ; 
AND WHEN HE HAS DISAPPEARED FROM OUR EYES, HE IS SOON 
EFFACED FROM OUR THOUGHTS." 

"WHEN THE MORNING COMES, REFLECT THAT PERHAPS YOU WILL 
NOT SEE THE EVENING." 

"WHEN THE EVENING COMES, BE NOT TOO CONFIDENT THAT YOU 
WILL SEE THE MORNING." 

" WHO WILL REMEMBER YOU WHEN YOU ARE DEAD ?" 

"WHO WILL PRAY FOR YOD?" 

" YOU DECEIVE YOURSELF IF YOU EXPECT ANY THING BUT 
SUFFERING." 

"ALL THIS MORTAL LIFE IS FULL OF MISERIES AND ENVIRONED 

BY CROSSES : BEAR THESE CROSSES, CHASTISE AND SUBJECT YOUR 

BODY, DESPISE YOURSELF, AND DESIRE TO BE DESPISED BY 

OTHERS." 

" BE PERSUADED THAT YOUR LIFE MUST BE A CONTINUAL DEATH." 
"THE MORE A MAN DIES TO HIMSELF, THE MORE HE BEGINS TO 

LIVE TO GOD." 

It is not sufficient thus to plunge the soul of the victim in incura- 
able despair by the aid of these maxims, which must prey on the mind, 
but it is also necessary to mould it to the corpse-like obedience of the 
Society of Jesus, and thus the reverend fathers had judiciously chosen 
some other passages of the " Imitation" for we find in this terrifying 
book a thousand alarms to intimidate weak minds, a thousand slavish 
maxims to enchain and subject the pusillanimous spirit. 

We thus read again : 

" IT IS A GREAT GAIN TO LIVE IN OBEDIENCE, TO HAVE A 
SUPERIOR, AND NOT TO BE MASTER OF ONE'S OWN ACTIONS." 
" IT IS MUCH MORE SAFE TO OBEY THAN TO COMMAND." 
"IT IS BEST TO DEPEND ON GOD ONLY, IN THE PERSON OF THE 
SUPERIORS WHO REPRESENT HlM." 

* \Ye find what follows in the Directorium in reference to the means to be 
employed, in order to attract into the Company of Jesus those persons whom they 
wish to get hold of, 

" To attract any person into the society, it is requisite not to be too much in haste, but 
await some good opportunity ; for instance, when THE PERSON EXPERIENCES A VIOLENT 
GRIEF, or has been entangled in some misfortunes, even vices present good opportunities for 
this." See, on this subject, the excellent Commentaries of M. Dezamy, on the Con- 
stitutioos of the Jesuits, in his work of " Jesuitism f. varnie par Is Soualisme," Paris, 
1845. 

t We need scarcely add, that these passages are from the text oi' the " Imitation" 
(translation and preface of the Keverend Pere Genelieu). 



152 THE WANDERING JEW. 

And, if it were not enough, after having urged to despair and 
terrified the victim, after having deprived him of every liberty, after 
having reduced him to a blind and brutish obedience, after having 
persuaded him, with the incredible cynicism of clerical pride, that to 
submit himself passively to the first priest that comes Mas to submit 
liiiuself to Cod Himself, it was necessary to retain the victim in the 
house in which they desired to rivet his fetters for ever. 

Thus we also read amongst the maxims, 

"TURN TO ONE SIDE OR TO THE OTHER, AND YOU WILL NOT 
FIND ANY REPOSE BUT IN SUBMITTING YOURSELF HUMBLY TO THE 
GUIDE OF A SUPERIOR." 

" MANY PERSONS HAVE BEEN DECEIVED BY THE HOPE OF BEING 
BETTER ELSEWHERE, AND BY A DESIRE TO CHANGE." 

The reader will now imagine M. Hardy conveyed wounded to this 
house, with his heart torn, lacerated by bitterest agonies, by horrible 
treachery, bleeding even more copiously than his bodily wounds. 

Most carefully attended to and nursed, thanks to the recognised 
skill of Dr. Baleinier, M. Hardy was soon cured of the wounds he had 
received through rushing into the midst of the flames to which his 
factory was a prey. 

Still, in order to favour the projects of the reverend fathers, a 
certain medicament, harmless in itself, but still capable of acting on 
the mind, and often employed, as we are told, by the reverend doctor 
under other important circumstances, had been administered to M. 
Hardy, and had kept him for some time in a kind of dreamy 
thoughtfulness. 

For a mind crushed by atrocious deceptions, it is in appearance an 
inestimable benefit to be plunged in that torpor, which at least 
prevents recurrence to a past of despair. M. Hardy, resigning himself 
to this deep apathy, arrived insensibly at a state which made him 
consider this abstraction of thought as the most heavenly good. Thus 
those unhappy persons who are tortured with cruel maladies accept 
with gratitude the opiate draught, which slowly kills, but which at 
least puts suffering to sleep. 

When we sketched the portrait of M. Hardy, we endeavoured to 
display the exquisite delicacy of his mind, his painful susceptibility 
with respect to all that was low and vile, his extreme goodness, recti- 
tude, and generosity. 

We recall those admirable qualities because we prove in his case, as 
with almost all thus endowed, they are not allied cannot be allied 
with energetic and resolute character. Of inflexible perseverance in 
good, the conduct of this man was effective, irresistible, but it did not 
carry due weight withal: it was not with the rude energy, the some- 
what fierce will peculiar to other men with great and noble hearts, 
that M. Hardy had realised the prodigies of his maison commune, but 
by dint of kind persuasion, with him the suaviter in modo supplied 
the forliter in re. At the sight of a baseness, an injustice, he did not 
revolt, irritated and menacing he suffered; he did not assail the 
offender body to body, but turned his gaze from him with bitterness 
and sorrow. And then, especially, this loving heart, of such feminine 
delicacy, had an irresistible desire of the wholesome contact of the 
dearest affection of the soul ; they alone gave life and animation tp 



THE " IMITATION." 153 

him. Thus a poor and delicate bird dies frozen when it can no longer 
nestle amidst its brothers and sisters, and receive from them as they 
receive from it that gentle warmth which is diffused amongst them all 
in the maternal nest. 

And then behold this too sensitive organisation of such refined 
susceptibility struck blow by blow with deceptions ; by griefs, one of 
which would suffice if not entirely to crush, at least most deeply to 
shake, the mind of firmest temper. 

M. Hardy's dearest friend behaved to him in an infamous manner. 

An adored mistress forsook him. 

The house he had founded for the happiness of his workmen, 
whom he loved as brethren, was nothing now but ashes ruins. 

What then ensues? All the springs of his soul are broken. 

Too weak to stand up against so many fearful shocks; too 
cruelly disabused by treachery to seek fresh affections; too much 
discouraged to think of re-laying the first stone of a new maison com- 
mune this poor heart, isolated besides from all salutary contact, 
seeks forgetfulness of all and of itself in an overwhelming torpor. 

If still some instincts of life and affection seek to display them- 
selves at long intervals, and half opening the eyes of the mind 
which he keeps closed that he may neither see the present, nor the 
past, nor the future, M. Hardy looks about him, and what finds he ? 
These sentences, imprinted in characters of the deepest despair : 

" You arc but dust and ashes ;" " You were born to grief and tears ;" 
" Believe in nothing upon earth ;" " There are neither relatives nor 
friends;" "All affections are deceitful;" "Die this morning, you will 
be forgotten before night;" "Humble yourself despise yourself 
be despised by others ;" " Do not think, do not reason, do not see, 
confide your sad fate to the hands of a superior, he will think and 
reason for you ;" " Weep suffer think of death ;" " Yes, death 
always death that is the termination, the end of all your thoughts, 
if you think, but it is better not to think ;" " Have no feeling but 
that of incessant anguish, that is all that is requisite to gain heaven ;" 
" We are only welcome to the terrible, implacable God whom we 
adore by our miseries and tortures." 

These were the consolations offered to this unfortunate. Thus 
alarmed, he shut his eyes, and relapsed into his gloomy lethargy. 

To leave this sombre maison de retraite he was unable, or, rather, 
he was unwilling : the will was lacking ; and then, it must be said, 
he had at least accustomed himself to this residence, and even to like 
it, they took such care of him, left him so much alone with his 
sorrow ; there reigned in the house the silence of the tomb, so accord- 
ant with the silence of his heart, which was but a tomb in which 
lay buried his, last love, his last friendship, his last hopes of the 
future for the labouring classes ! All energy was dead within him. 

Then he began to undergo a slow but inevitable transformation, 
so judiciously foreseen by Rodin, who directed this machination in its 
minutest details. M. Hardy, at first affrighted at the sinister maxima 
with which he was surrounded, had gradually accustomed himself to 
read them almost mechanically as a prisoner counts during his sad 
idleness the nails of his prison-door or the gratings of his cell. This 



154 THE WANDERING JJW. 

was a great point gained for the reverend fathers. His spirit, thus 
weakened, was next struck at the apparent justice of some of these 
lying and distressing aphorisms. Thus he read : 

" We must not rely on tfie affection of any creature on earth ;" and 
he had indeed been infamously treated. "Man was born to live to 
desolation ;" and in desolation he lived. u There is no repose but in 
the almegation of thought ; " and the sleep of his mind alone brought 
truce to his sufferings. 

Two openings skilfully contrived, beneath the hangings and in the 
panels of the chambers of this house, enabled the fathers at all times 
to see or hear their boarders, and especially to observe their physiog- 
nomy and habits, and all those details which tell so much when a man 
believes himself alone. 

Some exclamations of misery which escaped M. Hardy in his 
gloomy solitude were brought to Pere d'Aigrigny by a mysterious 
watcher. The reverend father having scrupulously followed the in- 
structions of Rodin, had not at first visited his boarder very frequently. 
It has been already said that the Pere d'Aigrigny when he pleased, 
could display a charm of seduction almost irresistible, and uniting in 
his interviews a tact and reserve full of address, he only presented 
himself occasionally to inquire after M. Hardy's health. But soon 
the reverend father, warned by bis spy and aided by his own natural 
sagacity, saw all the advantages he could extract from the physical 
and moral weakness of his boarder ; and, certain beforehand that he 
would not give way to his persuasions, he spake to him several times 
of the dulness of the house, urging him affectionately either to quit 
the house if the monotony of the life he led oppressed him, or to seek 
at least outside the walls some amusements some pleasures. 

In the state in which this unfortunate man was, to speak to him of 
amusements and pleasures was sufficient to ensure a refusal, and so 
it occurred. The Pere d'Aigrigny did not at first attempt to sur- 
prise the confidence of M. Hardy, and said not a word to him of his 
sorrows; but each time he saw him he seemed to evince a tender inter- 
est, expressed in a few simple words, deeply penetrating. Gradually 
these conversations, at first rare, became frequent and longer. Endued 
with insinuating and persuasive eloquence, the Pere d'Aigrigny natu- 
rally took for his theme the mournful maxims on which the thought 
of M. Hardy was so frequently fixed. 

Plastic, prudent, skilful; knowing that until then M. Hardy had 
professed that generous natural religion which preaches a grateful 
adoration for God, a love of human kind, a worship of the just 
and good; and who, disdaining dogmas professed the same venera- 
tion of Marcus Aurelius as for Confucius; for Moses as Lycurgus ; 
the Pere d'Aigrigny did not at first attempt to convert M. Hardy, 
but commenced by incessantly recalling to the mind of this unfortu- 
nate gentleman in whom he wished to destroy all hope, the abominable 
deceptions by which he had suffered. Instead of pointing out to him 
these treacheries as the exceptions in life ; instead of trying to calm, 
to encourage, to re-animate this crushed spirit ; instead of persuading 
M. Hardy to seek forgetfulness and consolation for his griefs in the 
accomplishment of duties towards humanity, his brethren whom he 



THE VISIT. 155 

had so greatly loved and succoured, D'Aigrigny kept open the 
bleeding wounds of this unfortunate gentleman, and depicting to him 
mankind under the most atrocious colours, as all cheats, ungrateful and 
villanous, he rendered his despair incurable. 

This end attained, the Jesuit advanced another step. Knowing 
Hardy's excessive kindness of heart he took advantage of the weakness 
of his mind by talking to him of the comfort there was for a man 
overwhelmed with desperate sorrows, to believe firmly that each of 
his tears so far from being profitless, was agreeable unto God, and 
would aid his fellow-men in believing, as the reverend father skilfully 
added, that it was permitted to the faithful only to utilise his griefs 
in favour of others wretched as himself, and thus render it sweet 
unto the Lord. All that is despairing and impious, all that conceals 
atrocious, politic Machiavelism in those detestable maxims which make 
of the Creator, so gloriously good and paternal, a pitiless God, in- 
cessantly desirous of the tears of humanity, was thus skilfully kept 
from the eyes of M. Hardy, whose generous instincts still survived. 
Soon this tender and loving soul, whom these base priests urged to 
a sort of moral suicide,' found a bitter delight in this fiction, that 
at least, his sorrows profited other men. It is true, at first, it was 
only a fiction, but a weakened spirit which yields itself to such a 
fiction, admits it sooner or later as reality, and sooner or later submits 
to all its consequences. 

Such, then, was the moral and physical state of M. Hardy when, 
by the intervention of a servant bribed, he had received a letter from 
Agricola Baudoin, requesting an interview. The day of this interview 
had arrived. Two or three hours before the time appointed for 
Agricola's visit D'Aigrigny entered Hardy's chamber. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE VISIT. 

WHEN Pere d'Aigrigny entered the apartment M. Hardy was 
sitting in a large arm-chair ; his attitude bespoke indescribable depres- 
sion. Beside him was a draught prescribed by Dr. Baleinier. The 
fragile constitution of M. Hardy had been so rudely shattered by so 
many cruel blows, that he seemed but the shadow of his former self. 
His pallid, attenuated countenance expressed at the moment a kind of 
gloomy tranquillity. In this short time his hair had become grizzled ; 
his eyes half-closed wandered around vaguely, and as if they had lost 
their " speculation ;" his head was leaning against the back of the chair, 
and his wasted hands, coming from beneath the large sleeves of his 
brown morning-gown, rested on the arms of the chairs. 

D'Aigrigny had assumed as he approached his pensionnaire a look 
full of benignity and regard, and the inflection of his voice had never 
been more insinuating. 

" Well, my dear son," he said to Hardy, embracing him with 



156 THE WANDERING JEW. 

hypocritical fondness (your Jesuits embrace very much ! ), " how are 
you to-day?" 

" Much as usual, father." 

" Are you still satisfied with the attention of the people who wait 
upon you ? " 

Yes, father." 

"I trust, my dear son, that the repose you so much like has not 
been broken in upon ? " 

" No, I thank you." 

" Your apartment still pleases you ? " 

Still." 

" You want for nothing ? " 

" Nothing, father." 

" We are so happy to find that you are satisfied with our poor 
house, my dear son, that we would fain anticipate all your desires." 

" I have no desire, father, for anything but sleep. Sleep is so 
comforting," added Hardy, his head quite confused. 

" Sleep is oblivion. And here below it is better to forget than 
to remember, for men are so ungrateful, so wicked, but almost every 
recollection is bitter, is it not, my dear son ? " 

" Alas ! what you say is but too true, father." 

" I admire your pious resignation, my dear son. Oh, how agree- 
able is this constant mildness in affliction unto the Lord ! Believe 
me, my dear son, your tears and your incessaut grief are an offering 
which with the Lord will find acceptance for you and your fellow- 
creatures. Yes, for man was only born to suffer in this world to 
suffer with gratitude towards God who sends us our afflictions it is 
in truth to pray, and he who prayeth prayeth not only for himself, but 
for all human kind." 

" May Heaven at least grant that my sufferings be not sterile. To 
suffer is to pray," repeated M. Hardy, speaking to himself as if 
reflecting on the idea. " To suffer is to pray, and to pray for all 
mankind still it seemed to me in former times," he added with an 
effort over himself, " that the destiny of man " 

" Continue, my dearest son, say your whole thought," said 
D'Aigrigny, seeing that M. Hardy paused. 

After a moment's hesitation the latter, who as he spoke had some- 
what raised himself in his chair, fell back again discouraged and weary 
as it were, and murmured, 

"Of what use is it to think? it is wearying ; and I do not feel my 
strength adequate." 

" You speak rightly, my dear sou; of what use is it to think? it is 
better to believe." 

" Yes, father, it is better to believe, to suffer ; above all, to forget 
forget 1 " 

Hardy did not finish, but his head fell languidly back on the chair, 
and he covered his eyes with his hand. 

"Alas I my dear son," said D'Aigrigny, with tears in his eyes, 
and this admirable actor went on his knees beside M. Hardy's chair, 
" alas ! how could the friend who so infamously betrayed you mistake 
a heart like yours? But it is always so when we seek the affection of 
the creature instead of the Creator ; and that unworthy friend " 



THE VISIT. 157 

" Yes, for pity's sake do not talk to me of that treachery," said M. 
Hardy, interrupting D'Aigrigny, in an imploring tone. 

" No ! I will not think of it, my too susceptible son ! Forget 
that perjured soul. Forget that wretch, whom sooner or later the 
vengeance of God will overtake, for he played with your noble confi- 
dence in a most odious manner. Forget, too, that unhappy woman 
whose crime was very great, for on your account she trampled under 
foot her sacred duties, and the Lord reserves for her a fearful punish- 
ment, and one day " 

Hardy again interrupted D'Aigrigny, saying with repressed emotion, 
but still most evident and bitter, 

" It is too much : you do not know, father, the harm you do me ; 
no, you do not know." 

" Forgive me ! oh, forgive me, my son ! but alas I you see the mere 
remembrance of these earthly attachments still causes you at this 
moment a painful excitement ; .does not this prove to you that it is 
beyond this corrupt and corrupting world that we must seek for those 
consolations always assured to us ? " 

" Oh, shall I ever find them?" exclaimed the unhappy man, iu bitter 
despair. 

" Yes, you will find them, my good, my tender son," cried 
D'Aigrigny, with emotion admirably feigned, "can you doubt it? 
Oh ! what a day for us will that be, when having made further steps 
in that pious path of safety which you are digging out with your tears, 
all that which at this moment seems to you surrounded by certain 
darkness, will light up with ineffable and divine lustre; oh, what a holy 
day ! what a happy day ! when the last ties which attach you to this 
foul and wicked world being destroyed, you will become one of us, and 
like us you will aspire only to eternal delights." 

Yes until death!" 

" Say, rather, to the life immortal; to Paradise, my dearest son ; and 
you will have there a glorious place ascribed to you a place my 
paternal heart desires as fervently as it hopes for it ; and your name 
will be found every day in all my prayers and those of our good 
fathers." 

" I do at least what I can to attain this blind faith ; this detaching 
from all things in which you assure me, father, that I shall at last find 
repose." 

"My poor dear son, if your Christian modesty allowed you to 
compare what you were at the first of your coming here and what 
you now are, and that only through your sincere desire to have the 
faith, you would be astonished. What a difference ! To your agi- 
tation, your despairing groans, has succeeded a pious calmness. Is 
it not so ? " 

" Yes, it is true : at times, when I have suffered very much, my 
heart does not beat, I am calm, so are the dead, they are calm, 
too," said M. Hardy, letting his head fall on his breast. 

" Ah ! my dear son, my dear son, you break my heart when I 
sometimes hear you speak thus. I am always afraid that you regret 
your worldly life, so fruitful in abominable deceptions. But, this very 
day, you will fortunately have to undergo a decisive trial on this point." 

" In what way, father ? " 



158 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" That worthy artisan, one of the best workmen in your factory, is 
to come and see you." 

"Ah, yes!" said M. Hardy, after a minute's reflection; for his 
memory, as well as his mind, were greatly weakened. " Yes, Agricola 
is coming. I think I shall have much pleasure in seeing him." 

" Well, then, my dear son, your interview with him will be the 
proof of what I say. The presence of this worthy fellow will recall to 
you the active, busy life you once led. Perchance, these recollections 
will make you regret the pious repose you now enjoy ; perchance, you 
will again desire to dash into a career full of all sorts of emotions, 
form new friendships, seek fresh affections, in fact, revive, as. in other 
times, a bustling, noisy existence. Should these ideas awaken in you, 
you will not be ripe for this retreat ; obey them, then, my dear son ; 
seek again pleasures, enjoyments, fetes ; my warmest wishes will 
always follow you, even in the midst of this mundane tumult; but re- 
collect, too, my beloved son, that if, one day, your soul should again 
be torn by fresh treacheries, this peaceable asylum will be always 
open, and you will always find one ready to weep with you at the 
dolorous vanities of human things." 

As D'Aigrigny spoke, Hardy had listened almost with affright. 
At the mere thought of again throwing himself into the midst of the 
torments of a life so painfully distressing, this poor soul had recoiled, 
trembling and overpowered ; and he exclaimed with an almost im- 
ploring tone, 

" I, my father ? I, return to a world in which I have so greatly 
suffered, where I have left my last illusion, I, mix with its fetes, its 
pleasures ? Ah, this is, indeed, cruel raillery ! " 

" It is not raillery, my dear son. It is to be expected that the 
sight, the words of this loyal artisan will awaken in you ideas, which, 
at this moment, you think for ever destroyed. In this case, my dear 
son, try once more a mundane life. Will not this retreat be always 
open to you after fresh griefs, fresh sorrows ? " 

" And, for what, and why, should I expose myself to fresh suffer- 
ings ? " cried Hardy, in an agony of mind. " I can scarcely support 
those I now endure. Oh, never, never ! Oblivion of all, every thing, 
the nothingness of the tomb, until the tomb. This is all I hence- 
forth desire." 

" So you think, my dear son, because no voice from without these 
walls ha* hitherto come to trouble your tranquil solitude, or awaken 
those holy hopes which suggest to you, that beyond the tomb you will 
be with the Lord ! But this workman, thinking less of your safety than 
his own interest, and the interest of his family, will come." 

"Alas, my father!" said Hardy, interrupting the Jesuit, "I have 
been happy enough to be able to create for my work-people all that, 
humanly speaking an honest man can do : fate has not allowed me to 
continue this any longer. I have paid my debt to humanity : my 
powers are exhausted ; and, henceforth, I seek nothing but forgetful- 
ness rest. Is it, then, too much to require ? " exclaimed the un- 
happy man, with an unutterable gesture of weariness and despair. 

" Unquestionably, my dear and excellent son, your generosity has 
been unequalled ; but it is in the very name of this generosity that 
this artisan is coming to impose fresh sacrifices on you. Yes ; for 



THE VISIT. 159 

with hearts like yours, the past is an obligation, and it will be almost 
impossible for you to resist the entreaties of your work-people. You 
will be compelled to renew your incessant activity, in order to raise 
again an edifice from its ruins, to recommence founding to-day that 
which, twenty years ago, you founded in all the strength and ardour 
of youth ; to renew those commercial relations in which your scrupu- 
lous honesty has been so often wounded ; to resume those chains of all 
sorts, which bind the great manufacturer to a life of disquietude and 
labour, but also, to what compensations ! In a few years, you will 
reach, by dint of incessant toil, the same point at which you were when 
this terrible catastrophe occurred ; and then, too, what ought to en- 
courage you still more is, that at least, during these rude labours, you 
will not be as you were formerly, the dupe of an unworthy friend, 
whose false regard appeared to you so delightful, and added such a 
charm to your existence. You will not have again to reproach your- 
self with an adulterous liaison, in which you believed that you each 
day found fresh strength, new encouragement to do well, as if, alas ! 
that which is culpable can ever have a happy termination. No, no ! 
having reached the decline of your career ; the enchantment of friendship 
broken ; recognising the nothingness of guilty passion ; alone, always 
alone, you go boldly again to face the storms of life. Doubtless, on 
quitting this calm and pious asylum, where no noise troubles your 
tranquillity, your repose, the contrast will at first be great ; but even 

this contrast " 

" Enough ! oh, for mercy's sake, enough ! " exclaimed M. Hardy, 
interrupting the abbe in a faint voice, " when I only hear you speak 
of the agitation of such a life, my father, I experience the most tor- 
turing feelings, which my head can scarcely withstand. Oh, no I 
quiet, quiet before every thing. Yes, I repeat, even though it should 
be the quiet of the grave." 

"But then how will you resist the urgent entreaties of the young 
artisan ? The obliged have rights over the benefactors you will be 
unable to resist his entreaties." 

" Well then, my father, if it be necessary, I will not see him, I 
have anticipated a kind of pleasure in this interview, but now I feel it 
will be wiser to refuse it." 

" But he will not consent ; he will insist on seeing you." 
" You will be so kind, my father, to send him word that I am very 
ill, that it is impossible for me to see him." 

" Listen, my dear son. In our times there exist great, unhappy 
prejudices against the poor servants of Christ; and although you have 
voluntarily remained amongst us after having been brought accident- 
ally and in a dying state into this house, yet, seeing you refuse an 
interview which in the first instance you had granted, it might be 
supposed that you were subjected to restraint, and however absurd 
that suspicion might be, it might arise ; and we should be sorry that it 
was accredited. It will be better, therefore, to receive the young 
artisan." 

" Father, what you require of me is beyond my strength ; at this 
moment I feel quite overcome ; this conversation has exhausted me." 

" But, my dear son, the young workman will come, and when I 
tell him you will not receive him, he will not believe me." 



160 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Why, father have pity on me I I assure you it is impossible 
for me to see anybody, I suffer too severely." 

"Well, then, let us see; let us seek some means: if you write to 
him, they will give him your letter when he comes; you can give him 
another meeting say to-morrow." 

" Neither to-morrow, or ever," exclaimed the unhappy man, urged 
to extremity, "I will not see any one; I wish to be alone always 
alone ; that does not hurt any one, and may not that liberty at least be 
granted to me ? " 

" Compose yourself, my son ; follow my advice, do not see this 
good lad to-day, since you dread the meeting ; but do not say you 
never will to-morrow you may change your mind. So let your 
refusal be vague." 

" As you will, father." 

" But, although it is not yet near the hour when this workman is> 
expected," said the reverend father, "it will be as well to write at once." 

" I have not strength enough, father." 

" Try." 

" Impossible ; I feel myself too weak." 

"Come, a little courage," said the reverend father; and betook 
from a desk writing materials, placed a sheet of paper and a blotting 
book on Hardy's knees, and held the inkstand open, which he pre- 
sented to him. 

" I assure you, father, I cannot write," said Hardy, in a faint 
voice. 

" Only a few words," replied D'Aigrigny, with pitiless pertinacity, 
and placing the pen between Hardy's inert fingers. 

" Alas ! father, my sight is so dim that I can no longer see." 

And the unhappy man said truly. His eyes were filled with tears, 
so bitter were the sensations which the Jesuit's language had excited 
in him. 

" Be composed, my son, I will guide your dear hand, only dictate." 

" Father, I beg you will write, and I will sign." 

" No, my dear son, for a thousand reasons it is requisite that it 
should be all written with your own hand; a few lines are sufficient." 

" But, my father " 

" Come, it must be so, or I must admit the workman," said 
D'Aigrigny dryly, seeing by the growing weakness of Hardy's mind 
that he might at a moment so important use firmness which might be 
recompensed by a milder demeanour subsequently. As he spoke, he 
bent his large, grey, round, and sparkling eyes on Hardy with a stern 
look. The poor wretch shuddered under this look of almost fascina- 
tion, and replied with a sigh, 

" I will write, father, I will write ; but I beseech you dictate, my 
head is too weak," said Hardy, wiping away his tears with his burning 
and feverish hand. 

D'Aigrigny dictated the following lines : 

"'My dear Agricola, I have reflected that an interview with 
you will be useless ; it would only serve to awaken bitter griefs which 
1 have been able to forget with God's help, and those soft consolations 
which religion offers to me. '" 

The reverend father paused for a moment : Hardy was even paler. 



THE VISIT. 161 

and his weak hand could scarcely hold the pen ; his forehead was bathed 
with a cold sweat. D'Aigrigny drew out his pocket-handkerchief, and, 
wiping his victim's face, said with a return of affectionate solicitude, 

" Come, come, my dear and beloved son, courage I It was not I, 
you know, who begged you to decline this interview, was it? No, 
on the contrary : but since, for your repose, you desire to postpone it, 
try and finish the letter, for what, after all, is it that I desire ? Why, 
to see you henceforward enjoy an ineffable and religious calm, after 
so many painful agitations." 

" Yes, my father, I know it, you are very good," said poor Hardy, 
in a grateful voice, " excuse my weakness." 

" Can you go on with this letter, my dear son ? " 

" Yes, father." 

" Then write ;" and the reverend father continued his dictation. 

" ' I enjoy undisturbed tranquillity, I am surrounded with care, 
and, thanks to the Divine mercy, I hope to make a perfectly Christian 
end far from a world whose vanities I now see through. I do not say 
adieu, but that we shall soon meet, my dear Agricola : for I wish to 
tell you yourself of the wishes I form, and always must entertain, for 
you andjyour worthy comrades. Be my interpreter with (hem, and 
as soon as I find it convenient to receive you I will write ; until then 
believe me always your very affectionate friend ' " 

Then the reverend father said to M. Hardy, 

" Do you think this will do, my dear son ? " 

" Yes, father." 

" Sign it, then." 

" Yes, father." 

And the miserable man, after having signed it, fell back on his arm- 
chair utterly exhausted. 

"This is not all, my dear son," added D'Aigrigny, drawing a paper 
from his pocket. " You must have the kindness again to sign this fresh 
favour granted by you to our reverend fathers' procureur to terminate 
the affairs you know of." 

" Oh, Heaven I again! " exclaimed Hardy, with a kind of feverish 
and diseased impatience. " But you see plainly, my father, my strength 
is quite gone." 

" You have only to sign after you have read it, my dear son ;" and 
D'Aigrigny presented to M. Hardy a large sheet of stamped paper 
filled with writing which was almost undecipherable. 

" Father, indeed I cannot read it to-day." 

" But you must, my dear son ; forgive my pressing this on you, 
but we are very poor, and " 

" I will sign, father." 

" But you must read what you sign, my son." 

" Wherefore ? Give it me give it me," said M. Hardy, harassed 
as he was by the inflexible obstinacy of D'Aigrigny. 

" Since you will have it so, my dear son," said the wily priest, 
presenting the paper. Hardy signed, and fell back almost fainting. 

At this moment a servant entered, after having knocked at the 
door, and said to the reverend father, 

" M. Agricola Baudoin desires to speak to M. Hardy, with whom 
he says he has an appointment." 

66 M 



162 THE WANDERING JEW. 

*' Very well, desire him to wait," replied D'Aigrigny, as much vexed 
as surprised, and making a sign to the servant to withdraw. Then 
concealing the annoyance he felt, he said to M. Hardy, 

" This worthy artisan is in haste to see you, my dear son ; he is 
two hours before the appointed hour; there is still time, will you see 
him? " 

" Why, my dear father," replied Hardy, with a kind of painful 
irritation, "you see how weak I am; pray have pity on me. I 
entreat you let me be calm I repeat, although it were to be the 
calm of the tomb ; but, for the love of heaven, calm I " 

" One day you will enjoy the eternal peace of the elect, my dearest 
son," said D'Aigrigny, with emotion, " for your tears and misery are 
agreeable to the Lord ;" so saying, he left the room. 

M. Hardy, left alone, clasped his hands in despair, and, bursting 
into tears, exclaimed, as he glided out of his arm-chair on his knees, 

" Oh, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! take me from this world ; I ana 
too miserable." 

Then bending his brow to the seat of his arm-chair, he concealed 
his face in his hands, and wept bitterly. Suddenly there was a noise 
of voices, which grew louder; then a kind of struggle, and then the 
door of the apartment opened, violently driven in by D'Aigrigny, who 
came in backwards, stumbling several paces. Agricola had thrust him 
forwards with a vigorous hand. 

"Sir! dare you use force and violence?" exclaimed D'Aigrigny, 
pale with rage. 

" I will dare anything to see M. Hardy," was the smith's reply. 
And he rushed towards his old master, whom he saw on his knees in 
the middle of the chamber. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AGRICOLA BAUDOIN. 

THE Pere d'Aigrigny could scarcely repress his spite and rage, 
and cast not only angry and threatening looks at Agricola, but from 
time to time glanced with unquiet and irritated eye at the entrance of 
the door, as if he feared at each moment to see some other person 
enter whose coming he equally dreaded. 

The smith, as soon as he saw the countenance of his master, 
retreated, struck with painful surprise at the sight of M. Hardy's 
features, so sad, so grief-worn. For some seconds the three actors in 
this scene kept silence. Agricola had no longer any doubt as to the 
moral weakening of M. Hardy, accustomed as the artisan was to see 
as much high spirit as kindness of heart in the worthy man. 

D'Aigrigny first broke silence, saying to the boarder, and laying 
decided emphasis on each word : 

" I should suppose, my dear son, that after the desire so positive, 
so spontaneous, which you have just manifested to me, not to see 



AGRICOLA BAUDOIN. 168 

this gentleman I should suppose, I say, that his presence now is 
painful to you ; and I trust, therefore, that out of deference, or at 
least gratitude, to you, this gentleman," and he looked towards the 
smith, " will at once retire, and terminate this unpleasant situation, 
already too much prolonged." 

Agricola made no reply to Pere d'Aigrigny, but, turning his back 
to him, addressed M. Hardy, whom he gazed at for some moments 
with profound emotion, whilst the big tears fell from his eyes, 

" Ah, monsieur ! it does me good to see you, although you appear 
to be suffering so much I How my heart grows calm, is reassured, 
rejoices ; my comrades would be so happy to be in my place. If you 
but knew all they have said to me about you ; for to cherish, venerate 
you, we all have but one soul, one feeling." 

D'Aigrigny gave Hardy a glance which meant What did I tell 
you ? Then addressing Agricola impatiently, as he went up close to 
him, 

" I have already told you that your presence here is intrusive." 

Agricola made no reply, did not even turn towards him, but said, 

" Monsieur Hardy, have the goodness to desire this person to 
leave the room. My father and I know him, as he knows full well." 

Then turning round towards the reverend father, the smith added 
scornfully, and measuring him from head to foot with a look of indig- 
nation mingled with disgust, 

" If you have any desire to hear what I have to say to M. 
Hardy about you, return here by and bye ; but at present I wish to 
speak to my late employer on private business, and give him a letter 
from Mademoiselle de Cardoville, who knows you also, unfortunately 
for her." 

The Jesuit remained unmoved, and replied, 

" I will allow myself, sir, to think you somewhat invert our po- 
sitions. I am here in my own house, where I have the honour to 
receive M. Hardy. It is I, therefore, who have the right and power 
to compel you to quit this place instantly, and " 

" Father, pray," said M. Hardy, with deference, "excuse Agricola; 
his attachment to me urges him somewhat too far; but as he is 
here, and has private matters to communicate to me, allow me, father, 
to converse with him for a little while." 

" Allow you, my dear son ? " replied D'Aigrigny, pretending sur- 
prise, " why ask permission ? Are you not perfectly free to do 
what you think best? Was it not you who just now, and in spite 
of my observations begging you to receive this individual, formally 
and decidedly refused to grant him the interview ? " 

" Quite true, father." 

After these words, D'Aigrigny could no longer resist without 
want of tact, and he rose, therefore, and squeezing Hardy by the 
hand, said to him, with an expressive gesture, 

" Adieu, for the present, my dear son, but remember our recent 
conversation, and what I foretold." 

" Adieu, for the present, father ; make your mind easy," replied 
M. Hardy, in a melancholy tone. 

The reverend father left the room. Agricola overcome, amazed, 
asked himself if it were indeed his former master whom he heard call- 



164 THE WANDEHINO JEW. 

ing the Pere d'Aigrigny father with so much deference and humility. 
Then as the smith scrutinised the features of M. Hardy more atten- 
tively, he remarked in his wasted countenance an expression of 
exhaustion and lassitude, which equally alarmed and affected him, 
and he therefore said to him, whilst endeavouring to conceal his painful 
surprise, 

"At length, sir, you will be restored to us: we shall then soon 
see you in the midst of us ! Ah I your return will make many very 
happy, relieve much uneasiness ; for, if it were possible, we have 
loved you still more since we were afraid for an instant that we should 
lose you." 

" Honest, worthy fellow !" replied M. Hardy, with a benevolent but 
melancholy smile, and holding out his hand to Agricola, " I never for 
a moment doubted you or your comrades ; their gratitude has always 
repaid me for the good I was enabled to do them." 

" And which you will do them again, sir, for you " 

Here M. Hardy interrupted Agricola by exclaiming, 

" Before we continue this observation, my worthy young friend, 
you must allow me to speak with perfect frankness, so as to prevent 
yourself or your companions from entertaining hopes that can never 
be realised. My resolution is irrevocably taken to pass the remainder 
of my days if not within the walls of a cloister, at least in absolute 
retirement ; for my soul sickens and is weary oh, how weary of this 
life ! " 

" But we are not weary of honouring and cherishing the warmest 
affection for you, my beloved master I " exclaimed the smith, more and 
more alarmed by the tone and language of M. Hardy. "It is now 
our turn to devote ourselves to you, and to prove our sincerity by 
our zeal, our disinterested services, and our unanimous and energetic 
aid, in rebuilding the manufactory, that monument of your generous 
goodness and noble desire to befriend your fellow-creatures." 

M. Hardy mournfully shook his head. 

" No !" said he, "I repeat that the activity of life has ceased for 
me ; I seem, during the last few weeks, to have grown at least twenty 
years older, and I have neither the strength, the courage, nor even 
the inclination, to recommence my past career. Thank God, while I 
was able I did what I could for the interests of humanity. I have 
discharged my debt of social duty, and at this moment I have but 
one wish, one desire, and that is, to obtain peace and tranquil- 
lity from the consolations of religion." 

" And can you possibly, sir," inquired Agricola, with utter amaze- 
ment at these words, " can you prefer living in this gloomy solitude 
to being among your own faithful and attached people? Do you 
believe you should find greater happiness here amid these priests, 
than in your manufactory raised from its present ruins, and become 
more flourishing than ever?" 

" Happiness and I have for ever parted company upon this earth," 
replied M. Hardy, bitterly. 

After a momentary hesitation, Agricola quickly resumed in an 
agitated and unsteady voice, 

"My honoured master, you are basely deceived, cheated, duped !" 

" What mean you, my friend ? " 



AGRICOLA BAUDOIN. 165 

" I mean, M. Hardy, that the priests who surround you are false 
and treacherous, and that they have the blackest designs upon you. 
Oh, master ! dear master ! you little know the wicked hands you have 
fallen into. Are you aware with whom you are living ?" 

"Yes, with good and holy men, belonging to the Company of 
Jesus." 

" And your mortal enemies ! " 

"Enemies?" cried. M. Hardy, with a faint smile of mournful 
impatience, " what have I to fear further from the enmity of my most 
implacable foes ? where could they find the means of inflicting any 
fresh wound ? " 

" But, monsieur," exclaimed the smith, " it is not personal danger 
you need fear from the machinations of these religious hypocrites, 
their motive consists in endeavouring to dispossess you of your share 
in an immense inheritance, and they have laid their plans with con- 
summate villany. Not only yourself, but the daughters of Marechal 
Simon, Mademoiselle de Cardoville, and my adopted brother, Gabriel, 
in a word, all belonging to your family have narrowly escaped be- 
coming victims to their infernal schemes. I tell you, these priests 
have no other aim than to abuse your confidence, and that now their 
sole motive in causing you to be transported hither half-dying as you 
were, and the reason why they wish to keep all your faithful friends 
from seeing you " 

And M. Hardy again broke in upon Agricola's discourse, 

" My worthy young friend," said he, with a smile of gloomy indif- 
ference, " you are in error as to these pious priests, whose care and 
attention to me have been unceasingly great ; and as to this pretended 
inheritance, what are all the riches of the world to me ? Oh no ! 
henceforward the vain treasures of this valley of grief and tears have 
no charms, no temptations for me. I bow my spirit to the dust, 
humbly trusting that my severe sufferings may be acceptable in the 
eyes of the Lord, and plead in my favour, that I may as quickly as 
possible be removed from the scene of my painful pilgrimage." 

" Alas I dear master," urged Agricola, unable to believe the reality 
of what he heard, " you cannot be thus changed in so short a time ! 
You, to adopt such despairing sentiments, who ever bade us love and 
admire the inexhaustible goodness of our Heavenly Father ; and well 
might we believe in the bounty, and love, and mercy you spoke of, for 
had not that beneficent Protector and ever-watchful Guardian sent you 
to dwell among us ? " 

" And the greater is it my duty to resign myself to His will, since 
He has thought proper to withdraw me from you, my friends ; doubt- 
less because, spite of my wish to serve Him aright, I have failed in so 
doing. I fear me much I have worshipped and loved the creature 
more than the Creator." 

" And how, dear master," cried the smith, into whose heart fresh 
apprehensions as regarded the state of M. Hardy's mind were rapidly 
gaining ground, " could you better serve and honour God than by 
encouraging industry and honesty ; rendering men better by securing 
their welfare ; treating your dependants as men and brothers, by 
cultivating their understanding, and giving them a taste for virtue and 
real love for goodness ; by propagating among them, by your example, 



166 THE WANDERING JEW. 

sentiments of equality, brotherhood, and to share all things in common 
with a heavenly spirit. Ah, master ! you need but remember the 
good you have done, the daily blessings breathed for you by the small 
world of whom you were the sun, that bestowed the life and light of 
happiness and content, to find consolation for the past, and hope for 
the future I" 

"Why recall the past?" replied M. Hardy, gently, "had my 
humble deeds been acceptable in the sight of God, would He have 
punished me thus? Far from rejoicing in or vaunting of what I have 
done, I ought, rather, to lament and bewail in sackcloth and ashes ; 
for I much fear I walked in darkness and error, and had wandered 
from His sacred fold : perhaps I was led to think my path a right one, 
and allowed myself to be blinded by my foolish pride. I, a poor, 
unworthy worm, to presume to differ from the many great and clever 
men who have humbly bowed themselves in submission to the strict 
forms I dared to consider unnecessary I Ah, now I feel my crime I I 
am conscious of my sin, and, with tears and prayers, in solitude and 
mortifications, will I endeavour to wash away my fault. Yes, I will 
humbly trust that an avenging God will yet one day grant me His 
pardon, and that ray bitter sufferings may even be accepted in favour 
of other sinners great as myself." 

Agricola found not one word to reply, but contemplated M. Hardy 
with mute alarm, as he continued to pour forth these melancholy, 
though hackneyed expressions, in a feeble and tremulous tone ; and as 
he examined the dejected, careworn countenance of the man once so 
animated and energetic, he asked himself, with secret dread, what could 
be the mysterious influence, the fascination possessed by these priests, 
by which they were enabled to turn the sorrows and mental exhaus- 
tion of this unfortunate individual to their own purpose, and to dry 
and parch up one of the finest, noblest hearts that ever beat in human 
breast ; to render barren and unproductive a beneficence that knew no 
bounds, and to annihilate a mind the most enlightened that had ever 
devoted itself to the happiness of the human race. 

So great was the chagrin and astonishment of the smith, that he 
felt neither strength nor courage to continue the conversation, which 
became so much the more afflicting to him as at each fresh word and 
look from M. Hardy he saw more clearly revealed the depth of the 
abyss of incurable desolation into which the reverend fathers had 
plunged his unhappy patron. 

M. Hardy, meanwhile, preserved a gloomy silence ; he had fallen 
back into his original apathy and listless manner, while his eyes 
wandered to the various maxims inscribed on the walls relative to the 
" IMITATION." 

At length, Agricola broke the dead silence which prevailed, and 
drawing from his pocket the letter of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
which now formed his only hope, he presented it to M. Hardy, 
saying, 

" Monsieur, a relation, at present unknown to you, except by 
name, which you have doubtless heard, has desired me to give you 
this letter." 

" And what good can that letter do me, or indeed any one, 
my young friend?" 



AGRICOLA BAUDOIN. 167 

" Nay, master! I beseech of you to read it. Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville eagerly expects your reply. It refers to most important matters." 

" My friend," replied M. Hardy, raising towards heaven his eyes 
red and swollen with weeping, " I know but of one important matter, 
and it is there !" pointing upwards. 

" M. Hardy/' continued the smith, more and more affected, " I 
beseech you, in the name of our united gratitude towards you, in 
that of the prayers we will teach our children night and morning to 
offer for your return to health and happiness, to read this letter. Yes, 
master, dear, dear master, I implore of you to read it; and if, after 
that, your mind continues unchanged, why then why then 1 will 
urge you no more ; all will be at an end for us poor workmen ; we shall 
have lost our benefactor for ever; he who treated us like brothers, and 
cherished us like friends ; whose good example would, sooner or later, 
have been followed by others having hearts as noble and generous as his 
own, so that, by your intervention, by degrees our working brethren 
would have shared our blessings, and have had to bless your name as we 
did. But it matters not ! To us, your faithful, your devoted workmen, 
your memory will be our most sacred treasure, and never will your 
name escape our lips but with love and respect, mingled with a grief 
that will not be consoled, for how can we forget that we have lost you ?" 

The voice of Agricola, which had been greatly interrupted by his 
rising emotions, was here lost amid the sighs and tears, which, spite of 
his firm and manly character, he found it impossible to repress. 

" Excuse my weakness, dearest master," said he, " but my tears 
fall not for myself alone. No, no, my heart bleeds when I think of 
those that will long be shed by brave and worthy men, as they 
mournfully repeat, ' We shall see our M. Hardy no more ! never 
never again.' " 

The emotion and tone of Agricola were so natural and unfeigned, 
his frank and noble countenance, bathed in tears, expressed so deep, so 
touching a devotion, that M. Hardy, for the first time during his 
abode among the reverend fathers, felt a something like warmth re- 
kindle round his heart, as though some revivifying sunbeam had at 
length managed to pierce through the thick, icy covering beneath 
which he had so long vegetated. 

M. Hardy held out his hand to Agricola, and said to him, in an 
altered voice, 

" Thanks, my good friend, thanks. This fresh proof of your 
devotion, these regrets, all move me ; and a gentle emotion, unembit- 
tered, does me good." 

" Ah I sir," exclaimed the smith, with a glimmer of hope, " do not 
restrain yourself; listen to the voice of your heart; it will tell you, 
to make the happiness of those who cherish you, and for you to see 
people happy, is to be happy. Now, read this letter from the gene- 
rous young lady, it may, perhaps, finish what 1 have begun, and if 
it does not, then we shall see." 

So saying, Agricola paused, and cast a glance of hope towards 
the door, then he added, again presenting the letter to M. Hardy, 

"Oh, sir, read, I entreat you; Mademoiselle de Cardoville has 
desired me to confirm to you all there is in the letter." 

"No, no, I must not I ought not to read it," replied Hardy, 



168 THE WANDERING JEW. 

with hesitation. " Of what use would it be but to revive my regrets? 
lor, alas ! it is true I loved you all so much, I had formed so many 
projects for the future," added poor Hardy, with involuntary emotion ; 
then struggling against the feeling, he continued, " But wherefore 
think of this? The past can never return?" 

"Who knows, M. Hardy, who knows?" observed Agricola, more 
and more satisfied at the doubt of his old master ; " first read Mademoi- 
selle de Cardoville's letter." 

Hardy, yielding to Agricola's persuasion, took the letter almost in 
spite of himself, broke the seal, and read it; gradually his countenance 
expressed in turns gratitude and admiration. Several times he inter- 
rupted himself to say to Agricola, with a warmth of feeling which 
seemed to astonish even himself, 

" Oh, how good ! how admirable ! " 

Then having concluded the perusal of the letter, Hardy, addressing 
the smith, said with a melancholy sigh, 

" What a heart is Mademoiselle de Cardoville's I What kindness ! 
What a mind ! What elevation of mind ! Ah ! I shall never forget 
the noble feelings that have dictated her generous offers to me. May 
she at least be happy in this sad, sad world !" 

" Ah, believe me, sir," replied Agricola, with excitement, " a world 
which comprises such creatures, and so many others beside, who, 
without having the inestimable worth of this excellent young lady, are 
yet worthy of the attachment of honest people ; such a world is 
something more than dirt, corruption, and wickedness, and proves, on 
the contrary, in favour of humanity. It is such a world that sum- 
mons awaits you. Come, M. Hardy, listen to the advice of Mademoi- 
selle de Cardoville, accept the offers which she makes you ; return to 
us return to life ; for it is death in this house ! " 

" Return to a world wherein I have suffered so much ? quit the 
calm of this retreat ?" answered Hardy, with hesitation ; " no, no, I 
cannot I ought not." 

" Ah I I have not relied on myself alone to decide you," cried 
the smith, with increasing hope, " I have there a powerful auxiliary" 
he pointed to the door "whom I have kept to strike the great 
blow, and who will appear when you please." 

"What mean you, my friend?' inquired Hardy. 

" Ah I it was another excellent idea of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
who always thinks rightly, knowing the dangerous hands into which 
you had fallen, knowing, also, the perfidious cunning of those persons 
who desire to inveigle you, she said to me, ' M. Agricola, the dispo- 
sition of M. Hardy is so frank and good, that perhaps he will easily 
allow his mind to be abused, for honest hearts always refuse to 
believe in unworthy trickeries; then he may suppose that you are 
interested in having him accept the offers I make to him ; but there 
is an individual whose sacred character ought under such circum- 
stances to inspire M. Hardy with entire confidence; for this admirable 
priest is our, relation, and was very nearly also a victim to the implac- 
able enemies of our family.' " 

" And this priest, who is he ?" inquired Hardy. 

"The Abbe Gabriel Rennepont, my adopted brother," cried the 
smith, with pride. " He is a noble priest ! Ah I sir, if you had 



THE HIDING-PLACE. 169 

known him earlier, instead of despairing, you would have hoped. 
Your grief would not have resisted his consolations." 

"Who is this priest? where is he?" inquired Hardy, equally sur- 
prised and curious. 

" There in your antechamber. When Pere d'Aigrigny saw him 
with me, he became furious, and ordered us to go away ; but my 
worthy, dear Gabriel replied, that he might have to converse with you 
on very important interests, and that therefore he should stay. I, less 
patient, gave the Abbe d'Aigrigny, who sought to stop my progress, 
a push, and rushed by him, so anxious was I to see you. Now, sir, 
then you will receive Gabriel, will you not ? He would not come in 
without your permission ; I will now fetch him. You talk of religion ; 
why it is his that is the real one, for it does good, it encourages, 
consoles, you will see, and then, at last, thanks to Mademoiselle de 
Cardoville and him, you will be restored to us I " exclaimed the smith, 
unable any longer to repress his joyful hope. 

" No, my friend, no ! I don't know. I am afraid," replied Hardy, 
with increasing hesitation, yet feeling, in spite of himself, aroused, 
animated, excited, by the cordial language of the smith. The latter, 
taking advantage of the propitious hesitation of his old master, ran to 
the door, opened it, and exclaimed, 

"Gabriel, my brother, dear brother, come, come; M. Hardy wishes 
to see you." 

" My friend," observed Hardy, still hesitating, but nevertheless 
seeming quite satisfied to have his hesitation taken advantage of, " my 
friend, what are you doing ? " 

" I am calling your preserver and our own ! " replied Agricola, 
overjoyed, and certain of the good success of Gabriel's intervention 
with M. Hardy. 

Appearing at the call of the smith, Gabriel quickly entered M. 
Hardy's apartment. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HIDING-PLACE. 

WE have said that in certain parts of most of the apartments occu- 
pied by the boarders of the reverend fathers certain spyholes were 
formed, with the intention of giving every facility to the incessant 
espionage with which the Company environed those they desired to 
watch ; and M. Hardy being one of these, there had been contrived, 
adjacent to his apartment, a secret hiding-place which could hold two 
persons. A kind of long funnel aired and lighted up this closet, in 
which was a speaking-pipe, arranged with so much skill, that the least 
whisper in the adjacent room was heard in this retreat as distinctly as 
possible ; and several round holes cleverly contrived, and masked in 
different places, allowed all that went on in the adjacent chamber to be 
seen. 

Pere d'Aigrigny and Rodin were now in this hiding-place. 



170 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Immediately after the resolute entrance of Agricola and the firm 
answer of Gabriel, who declared his determination to speak to M. 
Hardy if he would allow him, D'Aigrigny, not desirous of having any 
disturbance to preclude the interview of M. Hardy with the smith and 
the young missionary, an interview whose consequences might be so 
fatal for the Company, went to consult Rodin. 

Rodin, during his remarkable and rapid convalescence, resided in 
the adjacent limits reserved for the reverend fathers. He saw at once 
the deep importance of his position, whilst he recognised at the same 
time how ably D'Aigrigny had followed out his instructions relative 
to tiie means by which the interview with Agricola and Hardy was to 
be prevented, a manoeuvre which would have resulted successfully 
but for the sudden arrival of the smith. Rodin, desirous of seeing, 
hearing, judging, and acting for himself, went instantly to ensconce 
himself in the secret closet in question with D'Aigrigny, after having 
hastily despatched an emissary to the palace of the Archbishop of 
Paris; for what purpose, we shall hereafter discover. 

The two reverends arrived at the cabinet about the middle of 
Agricola and Hardy's conversation. 

The reverend fathers, at first confident in the gloomy apathy in 
which Hardy was plunged, from which the generous urging of the 
smith was unable to draw him, saw the coming danger as it gradually 
approached, and it became more menacing from the moment when 
M. Hardy, shaken by the arguments of the smith, consented to re- 
ceive the letter of Mademoiselle de Cardoville, until the moment when 
Agricola called in Gabriel in order to give the final blow to the hesi- 
tation of his old master. 

Rodin, by the inexhaustible energy of his character, which had 
given him strength to support the terrible and most agonising opera- 
tion of Dr. Baleinier, was now out of danger ; he bad nearly recovered 
his health, but still his reduced frame was beyond idea. The light, 
falling from over his head, and directly upon his yellow and shining 
cranium, his projecting cheek-bones, and angular nose, shone brightly 
on these prominent features, whilst the rest of his face was furrowed 
with dark and opaque shadows. 

He was the living image of one of those ascetic monks of the 
Spanish school, those gloomy portraitures where we see under some 
dark-brown half-fallen cowl, a skull, the colour of old ivory, with livid 
cheek-bones, an eye almost extinct in its deep orbit, whilst the rest of 
the features disappear in the obscure shadow through which we can 
scarcely distinguish a human form, kneeling and wrapped in a gown, 
with a hempen girdle. 

This resemblance was the more striking, as Rodin, coming hastily 
from his chamber, had on his long black woollen dressing-gown, and 
still more, as being very sensitive of the cold, he had thrown over his 
shoulders a short cloak of black cloth, with a hood, to protect himself 
from the northern blast. 

D'Aigrigny, not finding room exactly beneath the light which 
came into the hiding-place, remained in the dimmer shade. 

At this moment when we present the two Jesuits to the reader, 
Agricola had left the chamber to summon Gabriel, and introduce him 
to his former employer. 




THE SECRET CLOSET. 
Vol. III. P. I'd. 



A CHRISTIAN PRIEST. 171 

Pere d'Aigrigny, looking at Rodin with deep and savage anguish, 
said to him in a low tone, 

" But for Mademoiselle de Cardoville's letter, the persuasions of 
the smith would have been vain. This accursed girl will, at all times 
and in all places, be the obstacle against which our plans will be 
wrecked ! Do what we would, still you see she is reconciled to the 
Indian ; and if now the Abbe Gabriel comes to effect his purpose, and 
by his intervention M. Hardy escapes us, what is to be done ? what is 
to be done ? Ah, father, our future is nothing but despair ! " 

"No!" replied Rodin, dryly, "if there is no delay at the arch- 
bishop's palace in executing my orders." 

" And in that case ? " 

" I will still be answerable for all ; but I must have the papers in 
question in less than half an hour." 

" They must be ready and signed these two or three days past, for 
by your command I wrote the very day of your operation of the 
moxas and " 

Rodin, instead of continuing this conversation, fixed his eye at 
one of the holes, whence he could see into the apartment, and then 
motioned with his hand for D'Aigrigny to be silent. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

A CHRISTIAN PRIEST. 

AT this moment Rodin saw Agricola return to Hardy's chamber, 
leading Gabriel by the hand. 

The presence of these two young men, one with his manly, open 
countenance, and the other with his angelic beauty, offered so striking 
a contrast to the hypocritical countenances of those persons by whom 
Hardy was usually environed, that, already aroused by the animated 
language of the artisan, it seemed as though his heart, so long in a 
state of collapse, dilated beneath a salutary influence. 

Gabriel, although he had never seen M. Hardy, was struck with 
the extreme languor of his looks, and recognised at once in those suf- 
fering, dejected features the fatal stamp of that enervating subjection, 
that moral emasculation with which the victims of the Company of 
Jesus are always branded, when they are not fortunately delivered in 
time from their homicidal influence. 

Rodin, with his eye at the hole, and D'Aigrigny, with his ear on 
the listen, did not lose a word of the following conversation at which 
they were present, though unseen. 

" Here he is, my dear good brother. Sir," said Agricola to M. 
Hardy, presenting Gabriel to him, " here be is, sir, the loveliest of the 
priests. Listen to him, and you will again feel hope and happiness 
spring up, and you will be restored to us. Listen to him, and you 
will see how he will unmask the cheats who deceive you by false ap- 
pearances of religion. Yes, yes, he will unmask them, for he himself 
has also been a victim to these wretches, have you not, Gabriel ? " 



172 THE WANDERING JEW. 

The young missionary made a gesture with his hand to moderate 
the smith's excitement, and said to M. Hardy, in his soft and thrilling 
voice, 

" If, under the painful circumstances in which you are placed, sir, 
the aid of one of your brothers in Jesus Christ can be useful to you, I 
am at your service ; and let me assure you, at the same time, that I am 
already most respectfully attached to you." 

" To me, Monsieur 1' Abbe ? " said M. Hardy. 

" I am aware, sir," replied Gabriel, " of all your kindness to my 
adopted brother of your gracious generosity to your workpeople: 
th.ey cherish, they venerate you, sir ; and may the consciousness of 
their gratitude, the conviction of having been pleasing to God, whose 
eternal goodness rejoices in all that is good, be your recompense for 
the good you have done, and your encouragement for the good which 
you will still do." 

" Thank you, thank you, M. FAbbe," replied Hardy, touched by 
language so different from that of D'Aigrigny ; " in the sorrow into 
which I am plunged, it is delightful to the heart to hear language so 
consolatory spoken to me; and, I confess," added M. Hardy, with a 
pensive air, " that the loftiness, the gravity of your character give 
great weight to your words." 

" I was afraid of this," said D'Aigrigny, in a low voice, to Rodin, 
who still remained at his hole, with his eye glaring, and his ear listen- 
ing ; " this Gabriel will do every thing to rouse M. Hardy from his 
apathy, and lead him again to active life." 

" I am not afraid of this," replied Rodin, in his short and sharp 
tone. " M. Hardy may, perhaps, forget himself for a moment, but, 
when he tries to walk, he will plainly see that his legs will give way 
under him." 

" What, "then, is it that your reverence fears ? " 

" The delay of our reverend father of the archbishopric." 

" But what do you hope from him ? " 

Rodin, whose attention was again attracted, made another sign to 
D'Aigrigny, who was instantly mute. 

A silence of some moments had succeeded to the commencement 
of Gabriel and Hardy's conversation, the latter being absorbed by the 
reflections to which Gabriel's language had given birth. 

During this momentary pause, Agricola had, mechanically, cast 
his eyes over some of the lugubrious sentences with which the walls of 
Hardy's chamber were as it were hung : suddenly, seizing Gabriel by 
the arm, he exclaimed, with an expressive gesture, 

" Oh, my brother, read those maxims you will understand all ! 
What man, remaining utterly in solitude, with such desolating thoughts, 
but must sink into the depths of despair even, perhaps, to suicide? 
Ah, it is horrible, infamous!" added the artisan, with indignation; 
" it is moral murder ! " 

" You are young, my friend ! " replied M. Hardy, shaking his head 
sadly. " You have always been happy, have never experienced any 
deception. These maxims may seem deceiving to you but, alas I to 
me, and to the majority of mankind, they are but too true : here, 
below, all is nothing, misery, grief, for man is born to suffer I Is it 
not true, M. l'Abb ?" he added, addressing Gabriel. 



A CHK.1ST1AIN 



Gabriel had also cast his eyes over the different texts to which the 
smith directed his attention, and the young priest could not repress a 
smile of scorn when he remembered the hateful calculation which 
had dictated the choice of these reflections, and he then answered 
Hardy, in a voice much agitated, 

<; No, no, sir ! all is not nothing, lies, misery, deception, vanity, 
here below. No ! Man is not born only to suffer. No ! God, 
whose supreme essence is paternal kindness, has no pleasure in the 
sufferings of His creatures, whom He made to be loving and happy in 
this world." 

" Do you hear, M. Hardy ? do you hear ? " cried the smith. " He 
is also a priest, but a true, a sublime priest ; and he does not speak 
like those others." 

"Alas! and yet, M. 1'Abbe," said M. Hardy, "these maxims, 
mournful as they are, are extracted from a book which is almost placed 
on an equality with the inspired volume." 

" That book, sir," said Gabriel, " may be abused like every human 
production ! Written to restrain poor monks, in renouncement of the 
world, in isolation, in the blind obedience of an inactive, barren life, 
this book, in preaching the detaching oneself from every thing, 
contempt and self- mistrust of our fellows, an overwhelming servility, 
aimed at persuading these unfortunate monks that the tortures 
imposed on them in this life a life utterly opposed to the eternal 
views of God for mankind would be acceptable to the Lord." 

" Ah, this book appears to me, thus explained, even still more 
alarming," said M. Hardy. 

" Blasphemy ! impiety ! " continued Gabriel, unable to repress his 
indignation ; " to dare to sanctify idleness, isolation, mistrust of every 
thing, when there is nothing divine in the world but the holy labour, 
the holy love of one's brethren, holy communion with them ! Sacri- 
lege I to dare to say that the Father of boundless, immense goodness 
rejoices in the miseries of His creatures. He, He I just Heaven ! 
He, who has no sufferings but those of His children, He, who has no 
wish but that of their happiness, He, who has gloriously endowed 
them with all the treasures of creation, He, indeed, who has bound 
them to His own immortality by the immortality of their souls." 

" Oh, your words are beautiful, comforting ! " exclaimed Hardy, 
more and more aroused; "but, alas! why, then, are there so many 
wretches on earth, in spite of the providential care of the Lord?" 

" Yes, oh, yes ! there is in the world so much of misery," 
answered Gabriel, with dejection and sorrow. " Yes, so many poor 
destitute of all joy, all hope who are hungry and cold, without 
clothes or shelter, in the midst of immense riches, which the Creator 
hath dispensed, not for the happiness of certain men, but for the hap- 
piness of all : for it is His wish that the division should be made with 
justice* but some have seized on the common heritage by cunning 

* The doctrine, not of sharing, but of community not of division, but of association, 
is substantially laid down in this passage of the New Testament, "And the multitude 
of them that believed were of one heart and of one soul : neither said any of them 
that aught of the things which he possessed were his own, but they had all things in 

common * * * NEITHER WAS THERE ANY AMONG THEM THAT LACKED ' 

Acts of the Apostles, iv. 32-34. 



174 THE WANDERING JEW. 

and force ; and it is that which afflicts God. Oh, yes I if He suffer, it 
is to see that, in order to satisfy the cruel egotism of some, innumera- 
ble masses of creatures are bound down by a deplorable fate. Thus 
the oppressors of all times, all countries, daring to take God as their 
accomplice, have united to proclaim, in His name, that fearful maxim, 
' Man is born to suffer his humiliations, his sufferings are pleasing 
unto God.' Yes, they have proclaimed this, so that, the more the lot 
of the creature whom they wrong was harsh, humiliating, painful, the 
more the creature shed of sweat, of tears, of blood, the more, accord- 
ing to these murderers, was the Lord satisfied and glorified." 

"Ah, I understand you I I see all now I recollect," cried M. 
Hardy, suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, as though the light had 
suddenly beamed on his darkened thought. " Oh, yes ! this is what 
I have always believed, before such shocking griefs had weakened my 
understanding." 

" Yes ! " exclaimed Gabriel ; " your great and noble heart always 
believed this, and then you did not suppose that all was wretchedness 
here below ; for, thanks to yourself, your workpeople lived happily : 
all was not then deceit and vanity, for every day your heart rejoiced in 
the gratitude of your fellow-creatures ; all was not then tears and 
lamentations, for you saw constantly around you smiling countenances. 
The creature was not then inexorably devoted to misfortune, because 
it filled him with felicity. Ah, believe me, when we enter, with all 
our hearts, our love, and our faith, into the real views of God of 
God the Saviour, who has said, 'Love one another we see, we feel, 
we know that the end of the scheme of humanity is happiness for all, 
and that man was born to be happy! Ah, my brother!" added 
Gabriel, moved to tears as he looked at the maxims with which the 
chamber was surrounded, " this terrible book has done you great 
harm this book, which they have had the audacity to call ' The 
Imitation of Christ,' " added Gabriel, with indignation, " this book 
the imitation of the word of Christ ! this miserable book, which con- 
tains only thoughts of vengeance, contempt, death, and despair, when 
Christ had only the words of peace, pardon, hope, and love !" 

" Oh, I believe you !" cried M. Hardy, overwhelmed with delight. 
" I believe you, and I have need of believing you." 

" Oh, my brother I " resumed Gabriel, more and more moved, 
" my brother I believe in a God always good, always merciful, always 
loving. Believe in a God who blesses labour, a God who would 
suffer cruelly for His children, if, instead of employing the goods with 
which He has endowed you for the good of all, you were to isolate 
yourself for ever in an enervating and sterile despair ! No, no, God 
will not have it so ! Up, then, up, my brother," added Gabriel, 
taking Hardy cordially by the hand, who rose, as if obedient to a 
generous magnetic influence. " Up, my brother ! a wnole world of 
labourers bless and appeal to you : quit this tomb come come into 
the broad and expansive air, the eye of the bright sun, to the midst of 
warm and sympathising hearts. Leave this stifling air for the whole- 
some and vivifying air of liberty leave this sad and gloomy retreat 
for an abode animated by the song of the labourer. Come, come, and 
meet again those hard-working artisans, whose protector you are: 
lifted up by their robust arms, pressed to their throbbing and generous 



A CHRISTIAN PRIEST. 175 

bosoms, surrounded by women, children, old men, weeping with joy 
for your return amongst them, you will be again invigorated. You 
will feel that the will, the power of God is in you, inasmuch as you 
can do so much for the happiness of your fellow-creatures." 

" Gabriel, you say the truth it is to you, it is to God that our 
poor family of hard-working mechanics will owe the return of their 
benefactor," exclaimed Agricola, throwing himself into Gabriel's arms, 
and squeezing him most affectionately to his heart. " Ah, now I fear 
nothing M. Hardy will be restored to us ! " 

"Yes; you are right, it will be to him, this right worthy priest of 
Christ, that I shall owe rny return to myself, for here I was buried 
alive in a sepulchre," said M. Hardy, who had risen straight firmly, 
his cheeks lightly coloured, his eye sparkling, although but so recently 
he was pallid, bowed down, prostrated. 

"At last, then, ytm are restored to us?" cried the smith; "and 
now I have no more fears." 

" I hope so, my friend," replied M. Hardy. 

" You accept Mademoiselle de Cardoville's offers ? " 

" By and by I will write to her on the subject ; but, first," he 
added, with a grave and serious air, " I wish to confer alone with my 
brother," and he offered his hand gratefully to Gabriel. " He will 
allow me to give him the name of brother he, the generous apostle of 
the fraternity !" 

" Oh, my mind is easy ! As soon as I have left you alone with 
him," said Agricola, " I shall run to Mademoiselle de Cardoville to tell 
her the good news. But, now I think of it, if you leave to-day, M. 
Hardy, where will you go to ? Shall I look out for you ?" 

" We will talk that over with your worthy and excellent brother," 
replied M. Hardy. " Go, I entreat, and thank Mademoiselle de Car- 
doville for me, and say, that this evening I shall do myself the honour 
of replying to her." 

" Ah, sir, I must keep my heart and head steady, if I would not go 
wild with joy !" said the worthy Agricola, placing his hands in turns on 
his head and heart in the intoxication of his happiness : then, turning 
towards Gabriel, he again folded him to his hear^, and said in his ear, 
" In one hour I shall return, but not alone, all our people with me, 
en masse, you'll see ; but, not a word to M. Hardy, I have my plan." 

And the smith went out in a state of unutterable delight. 

Gabriel and Hardy remained alone. 



Rodin and D'Aigrigny had, as we know, been invisibly present at 
this scene. 

" Well, and what does your reverence now think ? " inquired 
D'Aigrigny of Rodin, in great alarm. 

" I think that they have delayed too long in returning from the 
archiepiscopal palace, and that this heretical missionary will ruin every 
thing," said Rodin, gnawing his nails to the quick until the blood 
started. 



176 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE CONFESSION. 

WHEN Agricola had quitted the chamber, M. Hardy, approaching 
Gabriel, said to him, 

" M. 1' Abbe " 

" No, say brother. You have given me this name, and I would 
have it," said the young man, affectionately, as he extended his hand 
to Hardy, who shook it cordially, and replied, 

" Well, my brother, your words have put new life into me, have 
recalled me to duties which in my sorrows I had Overlooked ; and now, 
may the strength not be wanting to me in the fresh trial I must un- 
dergo, for, alas, you do not know all ! " 

" What do you mean ? " asked Gabriel, with interest. 

" I have painful confessions to make to you," answered M. Hardy, 
after a moment's silence and reflection. " Will you hear my confes- 
sion?" 

" I beseech you say your confidence, my brother,'' observed Ga- 
briel. 

" Then, can you not hear me as a confessor?" 

" As much as I can," replied Gabriel, " I avoid official confession, 
if it may be so called : it has, in my opinion, many unfortunate disad- 
vantages ; but I am happy, oh, very happy ! when I inspire such con- 
fidence, that a friend comes to open his heart to me as a friend, and 
says to me, I suffer ; comfort me. I doubt ; counsel me. I am 
happy ; participate in my joy. Oh, believe that to me this confession 
is the mostjholy : it is this that Christ intended when He said, ' Con- 
fess ye one to another.' Tenfold wretched is he who in his life, has 
not found one faithful and sure heart to which he could thus confess, 
is he not, my brother ? Yet, as I have submitted myself to the laws of 
the church, by virtue of vows voluntarily pronounced," said the young 
priest, unable to repress a sigh, " I obey the laws of the church ; and 
if you desire it, my brother, I will be a confessor, and hear you." 

"You obey even those laws which you do not approve?" asked 
Hardy, astonished at this submission. 

" My brother, whatever experience may teach us, whatever it may 
unveil," answered Gabriel, sorrowfully, " a vow freely, knowingly 
made, is with a priest a sacred engagement ; with a man of honour, a 
sworn oath. So long as I remain in the church, I will obey its disci- 
pline, how heavy soever that discipline may at times be." 

" For you, my brother ? " 

"Yes; for us country priests, or for those doing duty in cities, for 
us, the working clergy, the discipline is severe. The aristocracy 
which has been gradually introduced into the church is often of 
almost feudal rigour towards us ; but, such is the Divine essence 
of Christianity, that it resists the abuses which tend to destroy its 
nature ; and it is in the obscure ranks of the lower clergy that I can 
serve, better than any where else, the holy cause of the disinherited, 







THE CONFESSION. 
Vol. III. P. 177. 



THE CONFESSION. 177 

and preach them emancipation with greater independence. It is for 
that, my brother, that I remain in the church, and, being there, I submit 
to its discipline : I tell you this, my brother," added Gabriel, with 
warmth, " because you and I preach in the same cause. The artisans 
whom you have brought to share with you in the fruit of your labours 
are no longer disinherited. Thus, then, by the good you effect, you 
serve Christ more efficaciously than I do." 

" And I will continue to serve Him, provided, as I have already 
observed, I have sufficient strength." 

" Why should your strength be wanting ?" 

" If you knew how wretched I am, if you knew all the blows 
that have struck me ! " 

" No doubt the ruin and conflagration which have destroyed your 
factory were most deplorable." 

" Ah, my brother ! " said M. Hardy, interrupting Gabriel, " what 
was that ? My courage would not have drooped before a misfortune 
which money alone could repair. But alas ! there are losses which 
nothing can repair ; there are ruins of the heart which nothing can 
renovate. No; and yet, just now, yielding before the enthusiasm of 
your elevated language, the future, dark as it was till then before me, 
brightened. You had encouraged, animated me, by reminding me of 
the duties I had still to discharge in the world." 

" Well, my brother ? " 

" Alas ! fresh fears come to beset me, when I think of returning to 
that active life in the world where I have suffered so much." 

" But who aroused, created these fears ? " inquired Gabriel, with 
increasing interest. 

" Listen, my brother," replied Hardy. " I had concentrated all 
the tenderness and devotion which was left in my heart in two beings. 
In a friend whom I believed sincere, and in an affection still more 
tender. The friend deceived me in an atrocious manner. The woman, 
after having sacrificed her duties for me, has had the courage (for 
which I must the more honour her) to sacrifice our loves to the repose 
of her mother, and has quitted France for ever. Alas! I fear these 
sorrows are incurable, and will come and crush me in the very midst 
of the new path which you are urging me to pursue. I confess my 
weakness. it is great; and it alarms me the more, as I have no right 
to remain idle, solitary, so long as 1 can still do something for my fel- 
low-creatures. You have enlightened me on this duty, my brother : 
but still my sole fear, in spite of my good resolution, is, I repeat, to 
feel ray strength abandon me, when I again find myself in this world, 
which must for ever be to me cold and deserted." 

" But these worthy artisans who await you, bless you, will they 
not people the world for you ? " 

" Yes, my brother," replied Hardy, with bitterness ; " but formerly, 
to this pleasing feeling of doing good were imited two affections which 
shared my existence : they are no longer mine, but leave in my heart 
an immense void. I had relied on religion to fill it ; but, alas ! to re- 
place what causes me regret so poignant, all that I have given to me to 
feed on in my desolated heart is my despair ; and they tell me that the 
more deeply I dig into it, the greater tortures I experience, the more 
meritorious shall I be in the eyes of the Lord." 

67 N 



178 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" And they deceive you, my brother, I assure you : it is happiness, 
and not grief, which is in the eyes of the Lord the end of human crea- 
tion ; He would have man happy, because He would have him just and 
good." 

" Oh, that I had sooner heard these words of hope ! " exclaimed 
Hardy, " my wounds would then be healed, instead of becoming incu- 
rable : I should the sooner have recommenced the work of good which 
you urge me to undertake, and have found in that the consolation, 
oblivion, perhaps, of my woes : whilst at present, oh, it is indeed hor- 
rible to confess, they have made grief so familiar to me, so identified it 
with my existence, that I seem to think it must for ever paralyse my 
existence." 

Then, ashamed of this relapse into weakness, Hardy added, in a 
voice of agony, hiding his face in his hands, 

" Oh, pardon pardon my weakness ! But if you knew what a poor 
creature is who only lived on affection, and to whom every thing failed 
at once ! Yes, indeed, it seeks on all sides to attach itself to some- 
thing ; and its hesitation, fears, weaknesses even, are, believe me, more 
worthy of compassion than disdain." 

There was something so distressing in the humiliation of this con- 
fession, that Gabriel was moved by it even to tears. 

From this almost diseased weakness the young missionary re- 
cognised. with affright the terrible effects of the manoeuvres of the 
reverend fathers, so skilful in poisoning, in rendering mortal the 
wounds of susceptible and tender souls (whom they seek to isolate and 
inveigle), by distilling into them incessantly, drop by drop, the acrid 
poison of the most desolating maxims. 

Knowing, too, that the excess of despair has a sort of bewildering 
attraction, these priests dig, dig out this abyss around their victim, 
until, distracted, fascinated, he plunges incessantly his fixed and burn- 
ing look into the depths of this precipice, which must eventually en- 
gulf him, fatal shipwreck! of which their cupidity gathers all the spoils. 

In vain does the azure of the sky, the gilded sunbeams shine, in 
vain does the unhappy wretch feel that he would be saved by raising 
his eyes towards heaven, in vain does he even cast a stealthy glance 
heavenward ; for at last, yielding to the omnipotence of the infernal 
charm cast around him by these malevolent priests, he again plunges 
his looks into the depths of the gulf which gapes to receive him. 

It was thus that M. Hardy stood, and thus Gabriel understood all 
the danger of the unhappy man's position ; and, collecting all his 
strength to snatch him from this destruction so imminent, he 
cried, 

" What do you mean, my brother, by pity and disdain ? What is 
there more sacred, more holy in the world, in the eyes of God and 
men, than a soul which seeks for faith in which to fix itself after the 
torments of the passions ? Take courage, my brother, your wounds 
are not incurable ; once out of this house, believe me, they will rapidly 
heal!" 

" Alas I how can I indulge in any such hope ? " 

" Believe me, my brother, they will heal from the moment when 
your past woes, far from arousing in you thoughts of despair, shall 
awaken thoughts that are consolatory almost delightful." 



THE CONFESSION. 179 

"Thoughts that are consolatory almost delightful?" exclaimed 
M. Hardy, unable to believe what he heard. 

" Yes," replied Gabriel, smiling with angelic sweetness ; " for there 
are great delights, great consolations in pity, in pardon. Tell me 
tell me, my brother, did the sight of those who had betrayed Him in- 
spire Christ with hatred, despair, and vengeance ? No, no ; He found 
in His heart words tilled with mildness and pardon ; He smiled in His 
tears with unspeakable indulgence, and He prayed, too, for His enemies. 
Well, then, instead of suffering with so much bitterness for the treachery 
of a friend, pity him, my brother ; pray affectionately for him ; for 
you are not the more miserable of the two. Tell me, in your generous 
friendship, what a treasure has not this faithless friend lost ? Who 
has told you that he does not repent, that he does not suffer ? Alas, 
it is true, if you constantly think of the ill this treachery has done you, 
your heart will break in its incurable desolation. Think, on the con- 
trary, of the charm of forgiveness, the sweetness of prayer, and your 
heart will be lightened, and your soul be happy, for it will ascend to 
God." 

To open suddenly before a disposition so generous, so delicate, so 
loving, the adorable and infinite way of pardon and of prayer, was to 
respond to its instincts was to save this unhappy man; whilst to 
chain him down in a gloomy, barren despair, was to slay him, as the 
reverend fathers had hoped to do. . 

Hardy remained for a moment as if dazzled at the sight of the 
radiant horizon, which for the second time Gabriel's apostolic language 
had suddenly called up before his eyes. 

Then, his heart palpitating with such contrary emotions, he ex- 
claimed, 

" Oh, my brother, what holy power is in your words ! How could 
you thus change in a moment, as it were, bitterness into sweetness ? 
It seems to me as if already a calm was renewed in my soul, when I 
reflect, as you suggest, on pardon, prayer prayer filled with mildness 
and hope." 

" Ah, you will see," continued Gabriel, enthusiastically, " what soft 
joys await you ! Pray for those we love pray for those we have 
loved, to put, by our prayers, God in communion with those we 
cherish fondly. And she whose love was so precious to you ; why 
should her memory be painful to you ? Why flee from her ? Ah, 
my brother I on the contrary, think of her but to purify, to sanctify 
the thought by prayer ; to allow a divine love to succeed a terrestrial 
one; a Christian love, the heavenly love of a brother for a sister in 
Jesus Christ ! And then, if this woman has been guilty in the eyes 
of Heaven, what so delightful as to pray for her ! What unspeakable 
joy to be enabled each day to speak of her to God, to God who, 
always merciful and good, touched by your prayers, will pardon her ! 
for He reads the deepest recesses of the heart, and knows how often, 
alas ! many lapses are so fatal. Did not Christ intercede with the 
Father for the offending Magdalene and the woman taken in adultery ? 
Lost creatures, He did not repulse them, He did not curse them He 
pitied them, prayed for them, ' because they had loved much,' said the 
Saviour of men." 

"Ah, now I understand you!" cried Hardy. "Prayer is still to 



180 THE WANDERING JEW. 

love ; prayer is to pardon, and not to curse ; it is to hope, instead of 
despair I Prayers, indeed, are the tears which fall ou the heart like de- 
licious dews, and not those which scorch as they drop. Yes, I under- 
stand you now, for you do not say, Suffer, is to pray. No, no, I feel 
it. You speak the truth when you declare that to hope, to pardon, is 
to pray. Yes ; and, now, thanks to you, I will return to life without 
fear." 

Then, his eyes moist with tears, Hardy extended his arms to Ga- 
briel, crying, " Ah, my brother, you save me a second time !" 

And these two good and noble creatures threw themselves into 

each other's arms. 

#**** 

Rodin and D'Aigrigny had, as we know, been present, unseen, at 
this scene. Rodin, listening with " greedy ear," had not lost one word 
of the conversation. 

At the moment when Gabriel and Hardy were embracing, Rodin 
suddenly withdrew his reptile eye from the hole through which he had 
been looking. 

The Jesuit's countenance had an expression of diabolical joy and 
triumph. D'Aigrigny, whom the denoument of the scene had, on the 
contrary, depressed and alarmed, could not comprehend the gratified 
air of his associate, and looked at him with indescribable astonish - 
ment. 

"/ have the lever!" he said suddenly, in his curt and sharp 
manner. 

"What do you mean?" asked D'Aigrigny, amazed. 

"Have you a travelling carriage here?" asked Rodin, giving a 
reply to the question of the reverend father. 

D'Aigrigny, astonished at this question, opened his troubled eyes, 
and repeated mechanically, 

" A travelling carriage?" 

"Yes, yes," said Rodin, impatiently; "do you think I'm talking 
Hebrew? Is there a travelling carriage here ? Is that a plain ques- 
tion ? " 

" Certainly ; for I have mine here," replied the reverend father. 

" Then, send for post-horses instantly." 

" For what purpose ? " 

" To convey M. Hardy." 

"Convey M. Hardy!" replied D'Aigrigny, thinking Rodin deli- 
rious. 

" Yes," he replied. " You will convey him to Saint-Hercm this 
evening." 

" To that sad and gloomy solitude he? M. Hardy ? " 

D'Aigrigny believed he must be in a dream. 

"He M. Hardy," replied Rodin, in the affirmative, and shrug- 
gi ng his shoulders. 

"Convey M. Hardy now after what Gabriel has " 

" Before another half hour M. Hardy will beg me on his knees to 
convey him from Paris to the world's end, to a desert, if I can." 

"And Gabriel?" 

" And the letter which they bring me from the archbishop's 
palace but just now ?" 



THE VISIT. 181 

" Why, you said it was too late now." 

" But then, I had not the lever now, I hold it," answered Rodin, 
in his shortest tone. 

So saying, the two reverend fathers hastily left the concealed 
retreat. 



CHAPTER XXXIJ. 

THE VISIT. 

IT is useless to remark that, with a reserve full of dignity, Gabriel 
had contented himself to have recourse to none but the most generous 
means to snatch M. Hardy from the murderous influence of the 
reverend fathers. It M'as repugnant to the great and noble mind of 
the young missionary to descend to the disclosure of the odious 
machinations of these priests. He would only have had recourse to 
this extreme means if his earnest and sympathising language had failed 
with the infatuation of M. Hardy. 

" Exertion, prayer, and pardon," said Hardy, with ecstasy, after 
having pressed Gabriel in his arms. " With these three words you 
have restored me to life and hope." 

He had just pronounced these words, when the door opened and a 
servant entered, who, without uttering a syllable, handed a large 
envelope to the young priest, and then quitted the apartment. 

Gabriel, much surprised, took the letter and looked at it mechanic- 
ally at first, then perceiving at one of the corners a particular stamp, 
he broke the seal hastily, drew out a paper in the form of an official 
despatch, to which was appended a seal of red wax. 

" Oh ! " exclaimed Gabriel, involuntarily, and in a voice of deep 
emotion. Then addressing M. Hardy, " Excuse me, sir." 

" What is it ? any bad news ? " inquired Hardy, with an air of 
interest. 

" Yes, very bad," answered Gabriel, sorrowfully. Then he added, 
speaking to himself, " So, it was for this, then, that I was summoned 
to Paris ; and they have not even deigned to hear me, but strike 
without permitting me to justify myself! " Again he was silent for a 
moment, then he added, with a deep sigh of resignation, " No matter ! 
I must obey. I will obey my vows compel me." 

Hardy, looking at the young priest with as much surprise as 
uneasiness, said to him, affectionately, 

" Although my friendship and gratitude have been yours but so 
short a time, yet can I not be, in any way, serviceable to you ? I 
owe you so much that I should be so happy in any way, however 
trifling, to prove my gratitude." 

" You will have done a great deal for me, my brother, by leaving 
me the remembrance of this day : you make my resignation to a cruel 
blow the more easy." 

" A cruel blow ?" said Hardy, hastily. 



182 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Or, rather no a painful surprise," replied Gabriel. And, 
turning away his head, he wiped a tear which was on his cheek, and 
continued, " But, by addressing myself to the good God, the just God, 
I shall not lack consolation : I have the first-fruit already when I leave 
you in the right and noble path. Adieu, then, my brother, we shall 
soon meet again." 

" You leave me ? " 

" It must be so. I should wish first to know how this letter came 
to me here; then I must instantly obey an order I have received. 
My good Agricola will come to take your orders he will inform me 
of your resolution, and the house where I can meet you ; and, when you 
please, we will see each other again." 

Hardy from delicacy did not press Gabriel to inform him of the 
cause of his chagrin, and replied, 

"You ask me when we shall see each other again? Why, to- 
morrow ; since I quit this abode to-day." 

"To-morrow, then, my dear brother," said Gabriel, squeezing 
Hardy's hand. 

The latter, by an involuntary movement, perhaps instinctive, at the 
moment when Gabriel withdrew his hand, squeezed it, and retained 
it between his own, as if, fearing to see him depart, he would fain have 
retained him. 

The young priest, surprised, looked at Hardy, who said to him, 
with a benign smile, and releasing the hand he held, 

" Pardon, my brother ; but you see, after what I have suffered 
here, I have become like a child who is afraid when he is left 
alone." 

" And I am quite easy about you. I leave you with consoling 
thoughts, with assured hopes. They will suffice to occupy your 
solitude until the arrival of my worthy Agricola, who will not be 
long before he returns. So once more farewell until to-morrow, my 
brother." 

" Farewell, until to-morrow, my dear preserver. Oh, do not fail to 
come ; for I shall still have the greatest need of your benevolent 
support in order to make my first steps in the open daylight. I, who 
have been so long motionless in the midst of darkness." 

" Till to-morrow, then," said Gabriel ; " and till then, courage, 
hope, and prayer." 

" Courage, hope, and prayer," responded M. Hardy ; " with these 
words I am very strong." 

And he was left alone. 

It was very singular, but the kind of involuntary fear, which 
Hardy had experienced at the moment when Gabriel was about to 
leave him, was reproduced in his mind under another form; imme- 
diately after the departure of the young priest, Hardy thought he 
beheld a sinister and expanding shadow succeed to the pure and soft 
light that beamed in the presence of Gabriel. 

This kind of reaction was the more easily to be conceived after a 
day full of such deep and contrasting emotions, especially if we reflect 
on the state of physical and moral weakness to which Hardy had been 
for so long a time reduced. 

About a quarter of an hour after the departure of Gabriel, the 



THE VISIT. 188 

servant attached to the service of the boarder of the reverend fathers 
entered, and handed him a letter. 

" From whom does it come ? " he inquired. 

" From a boarder in the house, sir," replied the man, with a bow. 

This man had a sly and puritanical look ; his hair flat over his 
brows, and his eyes always looking on the ground, and, as he awaited 
the reply of M. Hardy, he crossed his hands, and twiddled his thumbs 
composedly. 

M. Hardy broke the seal of the letter just received, and read as 
follows, 

"MONSIEUR, 

" I have only to-day learned, at this very moment, and accident- 
ally, that I am with you in this respectable house : a protracted 
illness which I have had, and the extreme retirement in which I live, 
will explain my ignorance of our being neighbours. Besides, as we 
never met but once, sir, although that circumstance which procured 
me the honour of an interview was very recent, yet it was so distressing 
for you, that I cannot suppose you have forgotten it." 

Hardy made a gesture of surprise, recalled his recollections ; but, 
not finding any thing which could give him any light on the matter, 
continued to read, 

" This circumstance, however, awakened in me so deep and 
respectful a sympathy for you, sir, that I cannot resist my strong 
desire to present my respects to you, especially when I understand 
that you are about to quit this house to-day, as I have just learned 
from the excellent and worthy Abbe Gabriel, one of the men whom I 
love, admire, and venerate most in the world. 

" May I hope, sir, that, at the moment when you are about to quit 
our common retreat to return into the world, you will deign to receive, 
with kind acquiescence, the prayer, perhaps ill-timed, of a poor old 
man henceforth dedicated to a life of unbroken solitude, and who can 
never expect to meet you in the midst of the whirlpool of society which 
he has quitted for ever ? 

" Awaiting the honour of your reply, sir, allow me to present the 
assurances of the profound esteem of him who has the honour to be, 

" Sir, 
" With the most unfeigned respect, 

" Your very humble and very obedient servant, 

RODIN." 

After perusing this letter, and the name of him who had signed it, 
M. Hardy again summoned up his recollection, tried a long while, but 
was unable to recall either the name of Rodin or the " distressing 
circumstance" to which he alluded. 

After a protracted silence he said to the servant, 

"It was M. Rodin who gave you this letter?" 

"Yes, sir!" 

" And who is M. Rodin ?" 

" A good old gentleman, who is recovering from a long illness, 
which very nearly carried him off. He is hardly recovered yet, but is 
still so sad and so weak that it is painful to see him ; and it's a great 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

pity so it is, for there is not a worthier or nicer gentleman in the 
whole house, unless it is monsieur," added the servant, bowing fawn- 
ingly to Hardy, "and he's just such another as M. Rodin." 

" Monsieur Rodin ? " said Hardy, with a pensive air ; " it is 
strange I do not remember the name, or any event attached to it." 

"If monsieur will give his answer," observed the servant, "I'll 
take it to M. Rodin, who is taking leave of the Pere d'Aigrigny." 

" Taking leave ? " 

" Yes, sir, the post-horses are just arrived.'' 

" For whom?" asked M. Hardy. 

" For Pere d'Aigrigny, sir." 

"Is he going to travel, then ?" inquired Hardy, much astonished. 

" Oh, I dare say he won't be very long absent," said the servant, 
with a confidential air, " for the reverend father has no one with him, 
and very little luggage. Besides, no doubt the reverend father will 
come to take leave of you, sir. But what answer to M. Rodin ? " 

The letter, which Hardy had received from the reverend father, was 
couched in such polite terms, he spoke of Gabriel with so much kind- 
ness, that M. Hardy, impelled, moreover, by a natural curiosity, and 
seeing no reason for refusing this interview at the moment he was 
about to quit the house, replied to the servant, 

" Be so kind as to tell M. Rodin that, if he will take the trouble to 
come to me here, I will await him." 

"I'll go and tell him this moment, sir," said the servant, who 
bowed and quitted the room. 

Alone, M. Hardy, whilst asking himself who M. Rodin could be, 
employed himself in making some trifling preparations for his departure. 
Under no consideration in the world would he have passed another 
night in this house, and, in order to keep up his courage, he called to 
mind every instant the apostolic and mild language of Gabriel, just as 
believers recite certain litanies that they may not fall into temptation. 

The servant soon returned, and said to M. Hard}', 

" Here's M. Rodin, sir." 

" Beg him to come in." 

Rodin entered, dressed in his black dressing-gown, and holding his 
old silk cap in his hand. 

The servant left the room. 

The twilight was coming on. M. Hardy rose to meet Rodin, 
whose features he could not at first recognise; but, when the reverend 
father had reached a spot which was lighted up by a ray of brighter hue 
near the window, Hardy, having looked at the Jesuit for a moment, 
could not repress a cry extorted from him by surprise and agonising 
remembrance. 

This first movement of astonishment and pain over, Hardy, 
recovering himself, said to Rodin, in a faltering voice, 

"You here, sir? Ah, you are right, the circumstance under 
which I saw you for the first time was indeed distressing." 

" Ah, my dear sir!" said Rodin, in a paternal and satisfied tone, " I 
was sure you had not forgotten me." 



PRAYER. 185 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

PRAYER. 

IT will be recollected that Rodin went (although then unknown to 
M. Hardy) to find him at his factory, in order to disclose to him 
the infamous treachery of M. de Blessac, a frightful shock which had 
only for a few moments preceded a second blow no less terrible, for it 
was in the presence of Rodin that Hardy learned the unexpected depar- 
ture of the woman he adored. After the preceding scenes we may 
understand how afflicting to him was the unexpected appearance of 
Rodin. Yet, thanks to the salutary effects of Gabriel's counsels, he 
grew gradually calmer. To the contraction of his features there 
succeeded a melancholy calm, and he said to Rodin, 

" Indeed, sir, I did not expect to have met you in this house." 

" Alas, sir ! " replied Rodin with a sigh, " I did not think either to 
have come here, in all probability to finish my wretched days, when I 
went, without knowing you, and with the sole view of rendering a 
service to a worthy man, to unmask to you an infamous treachery." 

" In truth, sir, you did me a real service, and perhaps at that 
painful moment I expressed my gratitude very inefficiently, for at the 
moment when you revealed to me M. de Blessac's treachery " 

" You were overwhelmed by another piece of most painful informa- 
tion," said Rodin, interrupting Hardy ; " I shall never forget the 
sudden arrival of that poor, pale, agitated lady ; who, regardless of my 
presence, came to inform you that a person whose affection was very 
dear to you had suddenly quitted Paris." 

" Yes, sir, and without thinking of thanking you, I rushed preci- 
pitately from the apartment," observed Hardy, in a melancholy tone. 

" Do you know, sir," said Rodin, after a moment's pause, " that 
there are sometimes singular approximations ?" 

" What do you mean, sir?" 

" Whilst I was going to you to inform you that you were betrayed 
in an infamous manner myself, I " 

Rodin interrupted himself as if he was overcome by some sudden 
emotion, and his face betrayed such intense grief, that M. Hardy said 
to him, with interest, 

" What ails you, sir ? " 

" Pardon me," replied Rodin, with a bitter smile, " thanks to the 
religious counsels of the angelic Abbe Gabriel, I have learned to 
understand what resignation means ; yet, still, there are times when at 
certain recollections I experience intense pain. I was saying," con- 
tinued Rodin, in a firmer voice, " that the day after that on which I 
had been to say to you, You are deceived, I was myself the victim 
of an infamous deception. An adopted son, a forsaken child whom I 

had protected " again pausing, he passed his trembling hand over 

his eyes, and said, " Excuse me, sir, for speaking of sorrows to 
which you must be indifferent. Excuse the indiscreet sorrow of a 
poor, grief-stricken old man." 

" Sir, 1 have suffered too much myself, for any sorrows to be 



186 THE WANDBRING JEW. 

indifferent to me," replied M. Hardy ; "besides you are not a stranger 
to me. You have rendered me a real service, and we experience a 
mutual veneration for a young priest." 

"The Abbe Gabriel!" cried Rodin, interrupting Hardy. "Ah, 
sir ! he is my preserver, my benefactor. If you but knew his cares, 
his devotion for me during my long illness, which a terrible grief 
had occasioned : if you knew the unutterable sweetness of the counsel 
he gave me 1 " 

" If I knew it, sir!" exclaimed Hardy; "oh, yes! I know how 
salutary his influence is." 

"Ah, sir! are not the precepts of religion which fall from his 
lips full of mildness," replied Rodin, with enthusiasm ; " are they not 
comforting? Do they not make us love and hope, instead of fear and 
tremble ? " 

"Alas! sir, in this very house," said Hardy, " I have made the 
comparison." 

" I," said Rodin, " I have been so fortunate as to have at once the 
angelic Abbe Gabriel for my confessor or, rather, my confidant." 

"Yes," replied Hardy, " for he prefers confidence to confession." 

" How well you know him !" said Rodin, with an air of delight and 
simplicity impossible to pourtray. " He is not a man, he is an angel : 
his language, so persuasive, would convert the most hardened; myself, 
for instance, I confess it, without being impious, I had lived in the 
sentiments of religion which is called natural, but the angelic Abbe 
Gabriel gradually fixed my vague beliefs, gave them a body, a soul, 
and, in fact, has given me faith." 

" Oh ! he is a priest according to Christ, he is a priest all love and 
forgiveness," cried M. Hardy. 

" What you say is so true," answered Rodin, " that I became almost 
mad with grief; now thinking of the ungrateful wretch who had paid 
my paternal bounties by the most monstrous ingratitude, and giving 
way to all the agonies of despair, now falling into a gloomy reverie as 
chilling as the grave, when suddenly the Abbe Gabriel appeared > 
the darkness vanished, and the daylight broke in upon me." 

" You are right, sir, there are singular approximations," said M. 
Hardy, giving way more and more to the confidence and sympathy 
which were excited in him by so many points of similarity between 
his own and the pretended position of Rodin. " And, in truth," he 
added, " I now congratulate myself on having seen you before leaving 
this house. If I had been capable of relapsing into a state of contempt- 
ible weakness, your example would in itself prevent me. Since I have 
heard you, I feel myself more strengthened in the noble path which has 
been disclosed to me by him whom you so correctly call the angelic 
abbeV' 

" Then the poor old man will not have to regret following the first 
impulse of his heart which attracted him towards you," observed 
Rodin, with touching expression ; " you will at least preserve a recol- 
lection of me in that world to which you are about to return ? " 

" Be assured of that, sir. But allow me one question : you remain, 
they tell me, in this house ? " 

" Why not ? the calm is here so perfect, one is so little disturbed 
in one's prayers, and you must know," added Rodin, in a tone filled 



PRAYER. 187 

with good feeling, "I have suffered so much ill, such misery, the 
behaviour of that ingrate who has deceived me has been so horrible, 
he was so depraved in his conduct, that God must have been greatly 
angered against him. I am so old that I can scarcely hope, by the 
exercise of fervent prayer during the few days that remain to me, to 
disarm the just anger of the Lord. Oh ! prayer prayer it was the 
Abbe Gabriel who revealed to me all the power, all the sweetness, and 
also all the severe duties it imposes." 

" Truly, these duties are great and sacred," replied M. Hardy, with 
a pensive air. 

" Do you know the life of De Rancey ? " inquired Rodin, looking 
at Hardy with singular expression. 

" The founder of the abbey of La Trappe ?" said Hardy, sur- 
prised at Rodin's inquiry. " I have vaguely, and a long time ago, 
heard talk of the grounds of his conversion." 

" Because there is nowhere a more striking example of the omnipo- 
tence of prayer, and the state of almost divine ecstasy to which it can 
lead religious minds. In a few words, I will tell you this instructive 
and tragic history. M. de Rancey but I beg your pardon, I am 
encroaching on your time." 

" No, no !" eagerly replied M. Hardy, " you know not, on the con- 
trary, how much what you are saying interests me. My conversation 
with Gabriel was suddenly interrupted, and, when I listen to you, it 
seems as though I heard the full developement of the sentiments he 
had vaguely expressed. Speak then, I conjure you." 

" Most willingly, for I would fain have the advantages I derived 
(thanks to our heavenly-minded abbe) from the conversion of M. de 
Rancey, as full of blessings and benefits to you under your particular 
affliction, as by the aid of our divine Gabriel it was to me in mine." 

" And it was the Abbe Gabriel who worked your cure ? " 

" It was, indeed ; and to give greater weight to his own exhortations, 
he cited to me this edifying history. Alas, sir! I owe it to the consol- 
ing words of this youthful priest, that my poor crushed feelings, and 
all but broken heart, ever regained strength and courage to endure 
what further trials the all-wise Disposer of men shall see fit to send." 

" Nay, then, I shall listen with a double interest ! " 

" M. de Rancey," commenced Rodin, attentively observing M. 
Hardy, "was a man of the world, and a soldier; young, handsome, and 
ardent in all his affections ; who passionately loved, and was beloved 
by, a young and lovely girl, whose merits were only equalled by her 
exalted rank. What were the obstacles which prevented their union, I 
know not, but their love was a stolen one, and their joys required the 
mask of concealment ; but each night M. de Rancey was admitted by 
a secret staircase to the apartment of his mistress, from whence he 
again retired at dawn of day, silently and unseen as he had entered. 
Theirs was, indeed, a passion, which the human heart can feel but 
once during life, and the very mystery which enshrouded their love, 
the sacrifices made by the devoted girl, the risks they ran, even com- 
bined to give a stronger character to their amour. And thus, amid 
the shades and tranquillity of night, did these happy lovers meet during 
two years, passed in a delirium and fervour of tenderness almost 
approaching a state of superhuman bliss." 



188 THE WANDERING JEW. 

At these words M. Hardy started; for the first time since hi.* 
troubles began, a burning blush rose to his cheeks and forehead ; his 
heart beat with impetuous violence, in spite of his attempts to con- 
trol his emotion, for he remembered how often he too had experi- 
enced all the intoxicating ardour, the burning fervoui of a hidden and 
guilty passion. 

Although the day was rapidly declining, Hoclin, casting a sidelong 
glance on M. Hardy, perceived that his language had taken the 
desired effect on the mind of his victim. He then proceeded, 

" Sometimes, when reflecting on all the consequences that would 
ensue to his adored mistress, if their liaison were discovered, M. de 
Rancey proposed to break the tender ties which bound their hearts ; 
but the impassioned girl would throw her arms around the neck of her 
lover, and threaten him in language the most frantically tender to 
reveal all herself, and brave every danger that might befall her, if he 
ever again hinted at their parting. Too weak and too deeply en- 
amoured of his beautiful mistress to resist her prayers, M. de Rancey 
yielded to her wish ; and the enraptured pair, blinded, fascinated by 
their intoxicating passion, gave themselves up with fresh ardour to the 
concealed delights of their mutual love till they forgot all things on 
earth almost in heaven." 

M. Hardy listened with feverish, restless avidity, and burning 
eagerness, while the Jesuit persisted in thus dwelling on the sensual 
delights of an ardent though hidden love; by degrees the warm, the 
lover-like recollections of his own past happiness, which had been 
until now drowned in his tears, resumed their pristine force, and to the 
gentle calmness produced by the words of Gabriel succeeded a deep, 
painful, and oppressive agitation, which, combined with the reaction 
arising from the many exciting events of the day, began to disturb even 
the clear action of his brain. 

Having gained his proposed end, Rodin thus resumed his narra- 
tive, 

" A fatal moment arrived. M. de Rancey was compelled by his 
military duties to quit for awhile the mistress he so idolised ; but the 
campaign was a short one, and he hastened back more enamoured than 
ever. He had contrived to write word to his beloved that she might 
expect him almost as soon as his letter; and, accordingly, directly 
the shades of night had fallen, he hurried to the private staircase lead- 
ing to the apartment of his dearest treasure. Alas ! he found but the 
empty case, the jewel was for ever lost to him. she who was dearer to 
him than his heart's blood lay stretched in the cold embrace of death." 

"Dreadful!" murmured M. Hardy, shuddering with nameless 
dread, and covering his face with his hands. 

" She had expired that very morning," continued Rodin ; " two 
large tapers were burning beside her funeral couch. M. de Rancey 
neither could nor would believe it possible she could be dead ; he threw 
himself on his knees beside her, and in his frenzied grief sought to 
raise that head so lovely, so beloved that he might cover it with 
kisses ; the beauteous head parted from the fair neck, and remained a 
ghastly spectacle in his arms ! Yes," continued Rodin, observing 
M. Hardy start, turn pale, and draw back in terror, " yes, the cause of 
death had been so sudden and so extraordinary that the unfortunate 



PRAYER. 189 

girl had not been enabled to receive the last holy rites of our church ! 
After her decease, the medical gentlemen who had attended her with 
the view of discovering the nature of the singular malady which had 
thus baffled their skill, had mutilated the corpse for the purpose of in- 
vestigating the supposed seat of disease." 

As Rodin reached this point of his narrative the day was drawing 
to a close, and a dim twilight alone prevailed in the gloomy apartment 
of M. Hardy, amid which, faintly distinguishable, was the crafty, 
saturnine countenance of Rodin, whose tall, meagre form, clad in his 
long, loose, black robe, added to the effect produced by the almost 
fiendish glare of his malignant eyes. Bending beneath the violent 
emotions produced by this recital, so strangely intermingled with pic- 
tures' of death, voluptuous pleasure, stolen love, and death-bed horrors, 
M. Hardy remained speechless and agitated, waiting with intense cu- 
riosity for Rodin to proceed, his heart palpitating with an indescrib- 
able mixture of agony, fear, and deep interest. At length he man- 
aged to articulate, as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, 
"And M. de Rancey, what became of him?" 
" After two days of absolute delirium," continued Rodin, " he re- 
nounced the world, and shut himself up in the most impenetrable 
solitude. The first part of his retirement was dreadful ; in his utter 
despair he uttered cries and groans of rage and grief which might be 
heard afar off, and twice he even raised his hand against his life for 
the purpose of escaping from the fearful visions by which he was 
tormented." 

"Had he, then, visions?" inquired M. Hardy, with increased cu- 
riosity and a thrill of sympathising agony. 

"Oh, yes!" answered Rodin, in a solemn tone, "he had, indeed, 
most horrible ones ! Continually did his eyes behold the unhappy 
creature, who, dying in the midst of her guilty passion for him, had been 
thereby plunged in the middle of tormenting flames, her lovely features 
distorted by the tortures she underwent, and her lips shrieking in wild, 
despairing misery. Sometimes she was presented to his mental vision 
grinding her teeth with impotent fury, and, writhing and twisting in 
consuming agony, she wept tears of blood, and in an avenging and 
distracted voice she called aloud to her seducer, < Be thou for ever 
cursed ! cursed ! cursed ! thou, my destroyer and ruin ! '" 

And as Rodin uttered these last words, he approached eacli time a 
step nearer M. Hardy, as though to give greater effect to what he was 
saying. 

If the exhaustion, terror, and wretchedness of M. Hardy be taken 
into consideration if it be remembered that the Jesuit had just been 
disturbing and probing the very soul of this unfortunate man, had 
again called into life by his sensual details a love chilled and buried 
beneath a weight of grief and tears, but not extinguished ; if it be also 
recollected that M. Hardy, in addition to his other causes of distress, 
had to reproach himself with having, by leading a woman to forget 
her duties to her husband and family, placed her, according to the 
Catholic creed, in danger of eternal perdition, it will be easily imagined 
what a terrifying effect would be produced on his excited mind by this 
phantasmagoria called up in the midst of silence and solitude by a 
gloomy and awe-inspiring being like Rodin. 



190 THE WANDERING JEW. 

The influence thus effected on M. Hardy was at once deep and 
suddeti, and so much the more dangerous as the Jesuit, with diabolical 
cunning, continued to work upon the ideas of Gabriel, merely giving 
them another direction to that of the young priest; for had not he 
pointed out to M. Hardy that nothing was more delightful, more 
ineffably soothing, to the wounded soul than to intercede in prayer 
either for those who had injured us, or those who by our means have 
been led into evil ? Now as pardon always pre-implies previous anger 
and punishment, so it was that punishment which Rodin sought to 
paint in such fearfully vivid characters before the eyes of his victim. 
With clasped hands, and fixed, terrified gaze, M. Hardy, trembling 
with awe and dread, seemed still to listen to Rodin, even after the 
latter had ceased speaking, repeating mechanically to himself, " Ac- 
cursed! accursed/ accursed/" then all at once he exclaimed, in a 
species of wandering frenzy, 

" I, too, shall hear myself styled accursed by the woman whom I 
have caused to forget her most sacred duties, whom I have rendered 
for ever guilty in the eyes of God, that loved being, plunged in 
eternal flames, will also twist her beauteous form in agony and despair, 
weep tears of blood, aud shout to me from the depths of the abyss 
whither my hand has plunged her, Accursed ! accursed .' accursed ! 
Some day," added he, with increased terror, "some day, who knows, 
perhaps at this very instant, she curses me in her tortures, for this 
voyage may have proved fatal to her, or the waves may have wrecked 
the vessel in which she sailed across the ocean ! Oh, God of mercy ! 
if it be so, if she be dead, dead in guilt and sin, doomed to everlasting 
perdition ! and for me, for me! have pity on her, O merciful Father, 
and expend Thy just wrath on ME; but pity and spare her, I I alone 
am guilty, and deserve Thy heaviest punishment I " 

And the miserable man, almost driven mad, fell on his knees, with 
his hands clasped in agony. 

" Sir," cried Rodin, with a tender and affectionate voice, and 
hastening to raise him, " my dear sir my dear friend, be calm. Com- 
pose yourself, I should be miserable to drive you to despair. Alas ! 
my intention is quite the contrary." 

" Cursed ! cursed ! she will curse me also ; she whom I havr 
adored, delivered over to the flames of hell !" murmured Hardy, trem- 
bling and appearing not to understand Rodin. 

"But, my dear sir, hear me then, I entreat you," replied the latter. 
" Let me finish this history, and then you will find it as consoling as it 
now appears frightful to you. In the name of Heaven, recall those 
adorable words of your angelic Abb6 Gabriel on the sweetness of 
prayer ! " 

At the soothing name of Gabriel, Hardy came to himself and ex- 
claimed, heart-broken, 

" Ah, his words were sweet and benign ! Where are they ? Oh, 
for pity, repeat to me those holy words ! " 

" Our angelic Abbe Gabriel," said Rodin, " spoke of the sweetness 
of prayer " 

" Oh, yes ! prayer." 

" Well, my good sir, listen to me, and you will find that it was 
prayer that saved M. de Rancey, which made of him a saint. Yes, 



PRAYER. 191 

those fearful torments which I have just painted to you those menac- 
ing visions it is prayer that has dissipated them, changed them into 
heavenly delights." 

" I entreat you," said M. Hardy, in an overwhelming voice, " speak 
to me of Gabriel speak to me of heaven. Oh! but no more of 
these flames of that hell in which guilty women weep tears of blood." 

" No, no," added Rodin ; and as in the portraiture of hell his accent 
had been harsh and threatening, so it became tender and soothing as 
he uttered the. following words, " No, no more of these images of 
despair, for I have said that after suffering infernal tortures, thanks to 
prayer, as the Abbe Gabriel told you, M. de Raricey tasted the joys of 
paradise." 

" The joys of paradise ?" repeated Hardy, listening with avidity. 

" One day, in the very agony of his grief, a priest a good priest, 
an Abbe Gabriel came to M. de Rancey. Oh, happiness! oh, pro- 
vidence ! In a few days he initiated this unhappy man in the holy 
mysteries of prayer that pious intercession of the creature towards 
the Creator in favour of a soul exposed to heavenly anger. Then 
M. de Rancey seemed transformed, his griefs were appeased; he 
prayed, and the more he prayed, the more his fervour, his hope in- 
creased he felt that God listened to him. Instead of forgetting the 
woman he so adored, he passed whole hours in thinking of her, pray- 
ing for her salvation. Yes, shut up with happiness in the recess of his 
obscure cell, alone with the adored remembrances, he passed days and 
nights in praying for her, in an unspeakable, excited, I might almost 
say amorous ecstasy." 

It is impossible to render the emphasis, almost sensual, with which 
Rodin accentuated the word amorous. 

M. Hardy shuddered with a feeling at once burning and icy ; for 
the first time his weakened mind was struck with the idea of those sad 
pleasures of asceticism, of ecstasy that deplorable catalepsy so fre- 
quently erratic, of Sainte Ther6se, Saint Aubierge, &c. 

Rodin saw this and continued, 

" Oh! M. de Rancey was not to be contented with a vague, un- 
meaning prayer said now and then in the midst of mundane disturb- 
ances, which nullify them and prevent their arrival at the ear of the 
Lord. No, no, in the profoundest depth of his solitude he still sought 
to render his prayer even more efficacious, so ardently did he desire 
the eternal salvation of that mistress beyond the grave ! " 

" What more did he do ? ah ! what more did he do in his soli- 
tude ?" exclaimed M. Hardy, from that moment caught in the spell of 
the wily Jesuit. 

" In the first place," said Rodin, slowly accenting his words, " he 
became a monk." 

" A monk ! " echoed Hardy, with a pensive air. 

" Yes," replied Rodin, " he became a monk, because as such his 
prayer was the more favourably received by Heaven ; and then, as in 
the depths of his undisturbed solitude his thoughts were still sometimes 
disturbed by the flesh, he fasted, mortified himself, subdued himself, 
macerated all that was carnal within him, in order that he might be- 
come all mind, and that the prayer coming from his bosom, brilliant, 



102 THE WANDERING JEW. 

pure as flame, might ascend to the Lord like the perfume of in- 
cense." 

"Oli, what an intoxicating dream!" exclaimed Hardy, inorr anil 
more under the spell. " In order to pray more effectually for an 
adored woman to become mind, perfume, light." 

" Yes, mind, perfume, light," replied Rodin, laying stress on these 
words; " but it is no dream. How many recluses, how many monks, 
have, like M. de llancey, attained the divine ecstasy by prayers, 
austerities, macerations ! and if you but knew the heavenly joys of these 
ecstasies ! Thus to M. de llancey 's terrible visions succeeded (when 
he had become a monk) most enchanting visions. How many times, 
after a day of fasting and a night passed in prayers and macerations, did 
he sink, worn out, exhausted, on the stones of his cell ! Then, after 
the annihilation of matter succeeded the gush of the mind ; an inex- 
pressible happiness seized on his senses, heavenly concerts reached his 
ravished ear, a light at once dazzling and soft, which is not of this 
world, penetrated through his closed eyelids ; then, to the harmonious 
vibrations of the golden harps of the seraphs, in the midst of a circle 
of light to which the sun is pale, the monk saw the adored female ap- 
pear " 

" That woman whom by his prayers he had at length snatched 
from eternal flames ? " said Hardy, in a palpitating voice. 

" Yes, herself," replied Rodin, with real and insinuating eloquence, 
for this monster spoke all languages ; " and then, thanks to the prayers 
of her lover, which the Lord had heard, this woman no longer wept 
tears of blood, no more twisted her beautiful arms in infernal convul- 
sions. No, no; still lovely ah, a thousand times more lovely than 
when on earth ! lovely with the eternal beauty of angels ! she smiled 
at her lover with ineffable love, and her eyes beaming with a humid 
glow, she said to him in a tender and impassioned voice, 

"'Glory to the Lord! glory to thee, oh, my much-adored lover! 
Thy ineffable prayers, thy austerities, have saved me ; the Lord hath 
placed me amongst his elect. Glory to thee, my much-adored lover !' 
Then, radiant in her bliss, she stooped over him and touched with her 
lips, perfumed with immortality, the lips of the ecstatic monk, and 
then their soul exhaled itself in a kiss burning like love, chaste as 
virtue, immense as eternity."* 

" Oh !" exclaimed Hardy, the prey to complete delirium, " Oh ! a 
whole life of prayers, fastings, tortures, for such a moment with her I 
love, her I weep for, with her whom perhaps I have damned " 

" What do you say ? such a moment ?" exclaimed Rodin, whose 
parchment-coloured skull was bathed with sweat, like that of a mag' 
netiser, and taking Hardy by the hand in order to approach him more 
closely, as if he would have inflated him with the burning delirium in 

* It would he impossible to quote in support of this, even with any omissions, the 
lucubrations of the erratic delirium of Sister Thri-se, in her account of her ecstatic love 
for Christ. These diseases could only find place in a dictionary of medical science 
or in the " Compendium."* E. S. 



A work directed by the Jesuits. Etig. Trout. 



A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 193 

which he sought to plunge him. " It was not once in his religious life, 
but almost daily, that M. de Raucey, plunged into the ecstasy of a di- 
vine asceticism, tasted these deep, unutterable, unheard-of, superhuman 
pleasures, which are to terrestrial pleasures what eternity is to human 
life." 

Seeing no doubt that Hardy had reached the point he desired, and 
the night being almost set in, the reverend father coughed twice or 
thrice in a significant manner, and looked towards the door. At this 
moment Hardy, at the height of his delirium, exclaimed in a supplicat- 
ing, maddened tone, 

"A cell a tomb and ecstasy with her- " 

The door of the chamber opened, and D'Aigrigny entered with a 
cloak on his arm. A servant followed him with a lisrht in his hand. 



About ten minutes after this scene, a dozen stout men, with honest, 
open countenances, headed by Agricola, entered the Rue de Vangi- 
rard, and bent their joyous steps towards the door of the house of the 
reverend fathers. 

It was a deputation of the former workmen of M. Hardy, who 
came to fetch and thank him for consenting again to come amongst 
them. Agricola walked at their head. Suddenly he saw at a distance 
a post-carriage leave the maison de retraite, the horses going at a rapid 
pace and being urged by the postilion. 

Chance or instinct, the closer this carriage approached the party 
the more Agricola's mind became uneasy. The feeling became so 
strong that it grew at once into a terrible assurance, and at the instant 
when the chariot, with all its blinds closed, was about to pass him, the 
smith, yielding to an insurmountable presentiment, cried as he darted 
to the horses' heads, 

" My lads, follow me." 

"Postilion ten louis gallop crush him under the wheels!" 
uttered the military voice of D'Aigrigny from behind the blind. 

The cholera was at this time raging at its height, the postilion had 
heard of the murder of the poisoners, and, already alarmed at Agricola's 
sudden assault, he gave him such a heavy blow with the handle of his 
whip on the head that he felled the smith to the ground, then, spurring 
and urging his horses to a top speed, the carriage speedily disap- 
peared, whilst Agricola's companions, who had neither comprehended 
his motive nor his action, came around, and tried to restore the 
-in i th to animation. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 



VARIOUS occurrences had taken place during the short interval 
which had elapsed since the fatal evening when M. Hardy, bewildered 
and brought almost to the verge of madness by the highly wrought 
state of mind and strong mental excitement induced by the artful 

68 o 



194 THE WANDERING JEW. 

representations of Rodin, had with clasped hands implored D'Aigrigny 
to remove him far from Paris, and to conduct him to some lonely 
solitude where, shut out from all communication with the world, he 
could devote himself both in body and mind to devotional exercises 
and severe corporeal penance and mortification. 

Marechal Simon, since his arrival in Paris, had taken up his 
abode with his daughters in a plain, unpretending abode, situate in the 
Rue des Trois Freres. But before introducing the reader within its 
humble walls, we must briefly recall several circumstances to the mind 
of the reader. 

On the day on which the fire occurred at the manufactory of M. 
Hardy, Marechal Simon had gone thither for the purpose of consulting 
his father on an affair of the deepest importance, as well as to confide to 
him the painful apprehensions he entertained concerning the increasing 
melancholy of his two daughters, the cause of which he sought in vain 
to penetrate. 

It may also be recollected that Marechal Simon professed an 
almost religious adoration for the memory of the emperor ; his grati- 
tude towards his hero and idol had been as boundless as his confidence 
was blind and unlimited, while his enthusiastic affection partook of 
all the deep fervour of the sincerest and most devoted friendship. 

Nor was this all. 

One day the emperor, in a burst of happiness and paternal tender- 
ness, conducted the marechal to the cradle of his sleeping infant, the 
young King of Rome, and after fondly pointing out the exquisite 
beauty of the slumbering boy said to him, in tones of deep emotion, 

" Here, my friend, here by the side of this sweet cherub, promise 
me to be to the son all you have been to the father. Nay, swear 1" 

Marechal Simon had both taken and kept the prescribed oath. 

At the head of a military conspiracy, he had attempted during the 
Restoration, but in vain, to persuade a regiment of horse, then com- 
manded by the Marquis D'Aigrigny, to join the cause of Napoleon II., 
but betrayed, and then denounced by the future Jesuit, the marechal, 
after a sanguinary encounter with his enemy, fled into Poland, thereby 
alone escaping condemnation and death. It is useless recapitulating 
all the events which conducted the marechal from Poland to India, and 
again restored him to. Paris after the Revolution of July, a period at 
which many of his companions-in-arms, unknown to himself, solicited and 
obtained the confirmation of the rank and title bestowed on him by the 
emperor previously to the battle of Waterloo. Upon his return to Paris, 
after so long an absence, the marechal, spite of the happiness he felt 
in embracing his children, had suffered a severe shock in learning the 
death of his wife, to whom he was most passionately attached. Up to 
the very last moment, he had expected to meet her in Paris, and the 
disappointment struck to his heart, though he strove by every mental 
effort to forget his cruel, though unavailing regrets, in the gentle 
caresses and tender consolation of his young and innocent daughters. 
And, ere long, the fiendish machinations of Rodin added still more to 
the trouble and agitation which already distracted his soul. 

Owing to the secret correspondence kept up by Rodin with the 
court of Vienna, one of his creatures, deserving of all confidence by 
his previous conduct, and substantiating his words still more by the 



A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 195 

most irrefragable proofs that he came from those whose authority he 
quoted, applied to the marechal, saying, 

" The son of our emperor is dying ; a victim to the dread with 
which the name of his father still inspires Europe ; and from this slow, 
lingering agony, you Marechal Simon, one of the most faithful friends 
and adherents of the emperor, may possibly be enabled to snatch the 
unfortunate prince. The correspondence I lay before you clearly 
proves that it will be both practicable and easy to establish a direct 
communication with the most powerful and influential personage about 
the King of Rome, and that this person would be favourably disposed 
to aid the escape of the prince. It is, then, quite possible, by means 
of a bold and unexpected attempt, to rescue Napoleon II. from 
Austria, where he is permitted to languish and waste away in an 
atmosphere chilling and vitally mortal to one of his delicate organisa- 
tion. The enterprise is a bold, but not a hopeless one; it presents even 
a fair chance of success, a success more likely to be achieved by you 
than another, since your devotion to the emperor is well known, and 
the daring bravery with which, in 1815, you joined the various conspi 
racies in favour of Napoleon II. is fresh in the memory of all." 

The state of wasting languor in which the young King of Rome 
then lay was well known in France ; public rumour even went so far 
as to affirm that the son of the hero was carefully and studiously brought 
up by the priests in complete ignorance of all the glory his father had 
achieved, and that by a vile plot they endeavoured each day to repress 
and extinguish the noble and generous sentiments which so early 
manifested themselves in the unhappy youth ; and even the coldest and 
most calculating natures were touched and moved at so mournful and 
unpromising a destiny. 

When the heroic character, the chivalrous loyalty of Marechal 
Simon is considered, in conjunction with his enthusiastic admiration of 
the emperor, it will easily be seen that the father of Rose and 
Blanche would be more deeply interested than any one in the jfate of 
the young prince; and that, upon a fitting occasion, the marechal 
would not confine the demonstration of his zeal and affection to a few 
empty professions or useless regrets. 

As regarded the genuineness of the correspondence exhibited by 
the emissary of Rodin, it had been indirectly submitted by the 
marechal to a rigid test by the means of some old connexions of his, 
who had for many years been diplomatically employed at the court of 
Vienna during the time of the empire ; the result of this investigation, 
which was, however, managed with the greatest caution for fear of 
exciting suspicion, served to prove that the overtures made to him 
merited his serious attention. 

From hence arose the severe struggles and cruel perplexity which 
disturbed the father of Rose and Blanche ; since, were he to undertake 
the bold and dangerous enterprise pointed out to him, he must perforce 
quit his daughters; while, if too much pained at the idea of a separa- 
tion from his only treasures, he shrunk from endeavouring to save the 
King of Rome, whose severe sufferings and fast-failing health were 
known and admitted by all, he became in his own opinion a renegade 
and a traitor to the promise made by him to the emperor. 

To end these painful and conflicting hesitations, and full of trust 



19t> THE WANDERING JEW. 

and reliance on the inflexible integrity of his lather, the mart-dial had 
jjone to seek his advice on the very day of the attack on M. Hardy's 
manufactory, but the mortal wound received by the old republican 
workman had prevented his doing more than to utter in broken and 
disjointed sentences, as his half-benighted brain still dwelt on the affair 
his son had communicated to him, 

" My son, you have a great and serious duty to perform ; and to 
fail in it would be unworthy of a man of honour, and as you would 
\\isli to obey my dying commands you must unhesitatingly" 

and with these feebly uttered words the old man expired; but by a 

deplorable fatality, the remaining part of the'sentence, so necessary to 
give force and meaning to the whole, escaped in faint, unintelligible 
sounds ; so that his death left Marechal Simon even more embarrassed 
than he had been before, and a prey to an anxiety so much the more 
poignant as the path he should take to escape from his perplexing laby- 
rinth had been decided on by his father, in whose judgment he had the 
most absolute and well-merited reliance. He passed his hours in trying 
to divine his parent's meaning, whether his father had adjured him, in 
the sacred name of honour and of duty, not to quit his children, and 
to renounce a too hazardous enterprise, or if it had been intended to 
counsel him unhesitatingly to abandon his daughters for a time, in 
order that he might fulfil the vow made to the emperor, and endeavour, 
at least, to snatch Napoleon II. from his mortal captivity. 

This perplexity, rendered still more painful by circumstances we 
shall narrate hereafter, the poignant grief occasioned by the sudden 
and violent death of his tenderly beloved parent, the unceasing and 
torturing anguish resulting from the recollection of his adored wife's 
having died far from him in a land of exile, added to the unhappiness 
he felt at the daily increasing sadness of Rose and Blanche, made fearful 
inroads into the health and energy of Marechal Simon ; let it be 
further remarked, that, spite of his natural intrepidity, so bravely 
manifested during twenty years spent in war, the ravages of the 
cholera that terrible malady to which his wife had fallen a victim in 
Siberia, created a sort of involuntary dread in the mind of the man 
who, during so many hard-fought battles, had coolly looked on death, 
yet who now felt his habitual firmness fail him at the sight of the 
desolation and misery he encountered at every step in Paris. 

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle de Cardoville had contrived to assemble 
around her the various members of her family, with the view of 
putting them on their guard against the machinations of their enemies, 
and the affectionate tenderness lavished by her on Rose and Blanche 
appeared to exercise so happy an influence on their mysterious melan- 
choly, that the marechal, forgetting for awhile his painful subjects of 
thought, gave himself up to the dear delight of enjoying this gratifying 
change, a change, alas ! but of too short a duration. 

These circumstances recalled to the recollection of our readers, and 
the requisite explanations given, we will now proceed with our recital. 



JOCRISSE. 197 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

JOCRISSE. 

MARCHAL SIMON occupied, as we have already said, a quiet, un- 
pretending mansion in the Rue des Trois Freres. Two o'clock, mid- 
day, had just struck on the clock in the inarechaTs bedchamber, a room 
furnished with a simplicity entirely military. At the head of the bed 
was a stand of arms composed of the various accoutrements worn by 
the marechal during his several campaigns ; while on the bookcase, 
which faced the bed, was a small bronze bust of the emperor, the only 
ornament the apartment contained. 

The temperature without the chamber was far from being warm, 
and the marechal, from his long residence in India, was particularly 
sensitive of cold ; a good fire, therefore, was blazing on the hearth. A 
door, concealed by the hangings of the room, and communicating with 
a back staircase, slowly opened, and a man appeared bearing a basket 
of wood ; this individual advanced slowly till he reached the fire-place, 
when, stooping down, he began to arrange the blocks of wood in sym- 
metrical order in a large box placed a little way from the fire : after 
pursuing his occupation for several minutes, the man, still on his knees, 
continued insensibly to approach a second door, not far from the chim- 
ney-piece, where he appeared to listen with profound attention, as if 
desirous of ascertaining whether any person was speaking in the 
adjoining apartment. 

This man, employed throughout the house as a sort of supernu- 
merary servant, had the most ridiculously stupid aspect that can be ima- 
gined ; his duties consisted in carrying wood to the different rooms, 
going of errands, &c. &c. ; moreover, he served as a jest and make- 
game for every domestic in the house. In a momentary fit of gaiety, 
Dagobert. who exercised in the house a sort of major-domo capacity, 
had bestowed on the idiotic fellow the name of Jocrisse, which he had 
ever afterwards retained, and certainly never was sobriquet better 
placed as regarded the stupidity of the man, with his flat, unmeaning 
face, great snub nose, and large, dull, fishy-looking eyes ; add to this, 
a dress consisting of the usual nether garments, and a red serge waist- 
coat, finished off with a white bib belonging to an apron of the same 
colour, and the reader may form some idea of the simpleton so aptly 
and justly named Jocrisse. Nevertheless, as the man crouched down 
before the door of the adjoining chamber, and seemed to be paying 
such close attention to what might be passing within, a bright sparkle 
of intelligence shone in those eyes usually so dull and stupid. 

After having thus listened for an instant or two at the door, Jocrisse 
returned to the fire-place, still drawing himself along on his knees ; then 
rising, he took his basket, half filled as it was with wood, and again 
appi-oached the door before which he had been listening, and gently 
tapped at it. No one answered him. A second time he knocked, and 
more boldly; still no reply. Then speaking in a voice as hoarse, 
squeaking, grating, and ridiculous, as can be imagined, he said, 



198 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Please, young ladies, are you in any want of wood for your 
chitnbley, if you please ? " 

Receiving no answer, Jocrisse put down his basket, opened the 
door softly, and entered the adjoining chamber; after casting a rapid 
glance around, in two or three seconds he came out again, looking 
anxiously from side to side, like a person who has just accomplished 
some very important and mysterious thing. Resuming his wood- 
basket, he was just preparing to quit the marshal's bedchamber, when 
the door leading to the back staircase again slowly and cautiously 
opened, and Dagobert appeared there. 

Evidently surprised at the presence of Jocrisse, the old soldier 
frowned angrily, and abruptly inquired, " What are you doing there ?" 

At this sudden demand, accompanied by a deep growl, arising out 
of the ill-humour which at that moment affected Kill-joy, who was 
closely following his master, Jocrisse uttered a cry of terror, real or 
affected ; if the latter, he, by way of giving greater effect to his 
emotion, contrived to upset his load of wood on the floor, as though 
fear or surprise had caused it to slip from his hands. 

" What are you doing there, booby?" pursued Dagobert, whose 
countenance bore marks of extreme sadness, and as though his present 
turn of mind was ill calculated to relish the foolery of Jocrisse. 

" Ah, M. Dagobert ! how you did frighten me to be sure ! Oh 
dear! oh dear Iwhat a pity I was not carrying a pile of plates, just 
that I might have had the pleasure of proving that it was not my fault 
that they were all thrown down and broken 1" 

" I ask you what you were doing there ? " persisted Dagobert. 

" Why, M. Dagobert, it's pretty plain what I was a-doing, just 
look'ee there ;" pointing to his basket. "I have just been bringing 
wood into the chamber of my lord duke, 'cos, says I, if he's cold, and 
wants to warm hisself, if he hasn't got no wood, why he can't burn it ! 
and I'm sure, it is downright cold, and no mistake indeed, accord- 
ing as I hear say " 

" There, that will do pick up your things, and be off with 
you." 

" Lord love you, M. Dagobert, my legs quite tremble under me ; 
dear, dear me, what a fright you gave me, aurely !" 

" Will you take yourself out of the way, you great, stupid brute ?" 

Then taking Jocrisse by the arm, he pushed him against the door, 
while Kill-joy, laying back his sharp-pointed ears, and bristling up his 
coat like the quills of a porcupine, evinced every disposition to accele- 
rate the retreat of the idiotic-looking being. 

" I'm a-going, M. Dagobert bless your dear heart, I'm a-going," 
replied the simpleton, hastily picking up his basket ; " but will you 
have the goodness just to mention to M. Kill-joy, that I'd rather if 
he pleases " 

" Go to the with you, you chattering old fool !" cried Dago- 
bert, turning Jocrisse out of the apartment. The old man then bolted 
the door of the back staircase withinside, and proceeding to that which 
led to the chamber of the sisters, turned the key in the lock. This 
done, the soldier hastily approached the alcove, and took down from 
the panoply of arms suspended at the head, a pair of loaded pistols, 
from which he carefully removed the percussion-caps, then, with a deep 




JOCRISSE AND DAGOBERT. 
Vol. III. P. 19S. 



i.otiiiuii: i 'iiaiuii.iii aii'i Hall 



'i- I"), IHf, 



JOCRISSE. 199 

sigh, he returned them to their original place ; he was leaving the 
spot, when, as if actuated by some fresh idea, he again extended his 
hand towards the stand of arms, and took from it an Indian kangiar (or 
poniard, with an extremely sharp and pointed blade), drew it from its 
golden sheath, and broke off the end of this deadly weapon, by press- 
ing it beneath one of the iron castors which supported the bed. 
Dagobert then unfastened the doors he had previously secured, and 
returned with slow and lingering steps towards the fireplace, leaning 
his arm on the mantel-piece, with an air at once pensive and dejected ; 
while Kill-joy, stretched out before the fire, followed, with an attentive 
eye, the least movement of his master the noble brute even sought to 
attract his attention by a fresh proof, the wonderful sagacity with which 
he was endowed, for the old soldier, in drawing out his pocket-hand- 
kerchief, unconsciously let fall a small roll of tobacco. 

Kill-joy, who fetched and carried like a retriever of the Rutland 
breed, took the paper up, and holding it between his teeth seated 
himself on his hind legs, and, with all possible respect and attention, 
presented it to Dagobert, who, wholly absorbed in his deep and 
painful ruminations, took it mechanically, without seeming to feel either 
pleasure or interest in the cleverness of his faithful dog. 

The countenance of the old man expressed as much grief as anxiety, 
and, after remaining for some time beside the fire in the same medi- 
tative attitude, he began pacing the room in extreme agitation, one 
hand thrust into the bosom of his long blue great-coat buttoned up to 
the chin, the other in one of the back pockets. 

From time to time Dagobert suddenly paused, and, as if in reply 
to his secret thoughts, uttered aloud some exclamation of doubt or 
surprise ; then, turning towards the pile of military trophies, he mourn- 
fully shook his head as he murmured,. 

" No matter ! very possibly my fear is unfounded and absurd ; 
but still he has been so very strange during the last two days. At any 
rate it is more prudent." And again resuming his march up and down 
the apartment, Dagobert said, after a fresh and prolonged silence, " I 
must make him tell me what it is that thus presses on his mind. He 
makes me too unhappy to be able longer to bear it in silence. And 
then, again, when I think of those dear girls, it almost breaks my 
heart." 

And, with these words, Dagobert rapidly smoothed his moustache 
between his thumb and forefinger with an almost convulsive movement, 
which, in him, was invariably the index of some powerful internal 
agitation. 

After another pause of several minutes, the old soldier, as though 
replying to some inward thought, exclaimed, 

"What can it be if not that? Surely not more anonymous 
letters? they are too base and unworthy to be capable of thus 
changing him. No, no, he despises all that sort of mean, cowardly, 
fighting-in-the-dark work ! I'm sure he does. No, no, there is some 
other reason for all his misery ; and that reason I must and will find 
out." 

And, as if wound up to fresh excitement, Dagobert began pacing 
the room more energetically than ever. 



200 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Suddenly Kill-joy pricked up his ears, turned his head in tho 
direction of the back staircase, and growled fiercely. 

A few minutes afterwards some one knocked at the door. 

" Who is tjiere ? " inquired Dagobert. 

No reply was given, but the knocking was repeated. 

Irritated and impatient, the old soldier hastily opened the door, 
and beheld the stolid countenance of Jocrisse. 

" What the do you mean," asked the angry soldier, " by not 

answering when I spoke to you ? " 

" M. Dagobert, if you please, I was afraid ! because, you know as 
you sent me away just now, I was in fear of making you angry if I 
told you it was me come back again ! " 

" And what have you come for ? what do you want ? But, don't 
stand staring there, you gaping fool, if you have any business to do; 
be quick, and take your stupid carcass out of my way. Do you hear 
me, you lout? why don't you move one way or the other? Then 
I'll make you!" added Dagobert, wrought up to a paroxysm of fury, 
and forcibly dragging Jocrisse into the midst of the chamber, finding 
the man persisted in remaining on the threshold of the door. 

" I'm a-coming ! I'm a-coming directly, I am, M. Dagobert ! 
Pray don't be so very cross to me, you make me ill ; you do, indeed, 
when you speak. I always was afraid of thunder, when I was quite a 
little boy, and ever since. There, there, now don't fly out again, I'm 
a-going to speak directly I can get my words together. I came, M. 
Dagobert, to tell you oh, dear me, how I do tremble ! that there 
was a young man -" 

"Well?" 

" Who says he wants to speak to you directly, M. Dagobert, if you 
please, sir ! " 

" And what is his name ? " 

" Ah, now I know you are laughing at me, M. Dagobert, " 
answered Jocrisse, twisting himself about with a silly and idiotic look 
and manner. " When you ask me his name, then I'm sure you are 
mocking of me !" 

" Why, you half-brained simpleton, you seem determined to make 
me shake the wretched breath out of your body ! Come, come, no 
more of this fool's nonsense, or I shall be as good as my word," cried 
the soldier, seizing Jocrisse by the collar. " Will you tell me the 
name of this young man, or must I shake it out of you ? " 

" M. Dagobert, 3'ou hurt me ! Please take your knuckles out of 
my throat, and I'll tell you all I know. I will, indeed ; only don't 
look so horrid and speak so violent. As for the name of the young 
man, I thought it was not worth while mentioning it, as you know it 
already as well, or better than myself." 

"Oh, you brute, beast!" exclaimed Dagobert, shaking his fists in 
his face ; " I'll make you remember crossing my path with your cock- 
and-bull tales, when I'm so little in the humour to have patience with 
you or myself either. What do you mean by saying I know the name 
of this young man ?" 

" Well, la ! I beg pardon, I'm sure. It was my mistake ; only I 
thought it most likely you did, as it was your own son ! He's down 



THE ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENTS. 201 

below, and he says he wants to see you, and speak to you about some- 
thing very particular, this very identical minute." 

So well did Jocrisse enact his part of simpleton, that Dagobert was 
completely deceived by it ; and pitying, rather than resenting, the folly 
of the man, he looked for an instant searchingly into his countenance, 
but, finding nothing in the utter stolidity of Jocrisse's face to arouse his 
suspicions, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and, directing his steps 
towards the staircase, contented himself with saying to the man, 

" Follow me!" 

Jocrisse obeyed ; but, before closing the door after him, he felt in 
his pocket, drew from it a letter with a cautious and mysterious air, 
which he threw behind him : then, without turning his head, and 
speaking all the while to Dagobert to divert his attention, he said, 

" Your son is in the court-yard, M. Dagobert ; he wouldn't come 
up, he said so, I take it, that's the reason he staid downstairs." 

So saying, Jocrisse shut the door, believing the letter lay where he 
left it, namely, on the floor in Marechal Simon's bed-chamber. But 
Jocrisse had not included Kill-joy in his calculations. Whe- 
ther he considered it more prudent to bring up the rear, or whether 
from i-espectful deference to the two-legged animal who preceded him, 
the sagacious dog had not chosen to quit the room till all had departed 
but himself; and, as he was extraordinarily clever at fetching and carry- 
ing (as has been already stated), when he saw Jocrisse drop the letter, 
he took it carefully up, and, holding it between his teeth, followed the 
man who had thrown the paper on the ground, without his having the 
least suspicion of this fresh act of intelligence and good manners on the 
part of Kill-joy. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENTS. 

WE shall hereafter relate what became of the letter so cleverly 
conveyed in the jaws of Kill-joy, as well as his reason for not following 
his master when the latter ran to welcome his dear Agricola. 

Dagobert had seen nothing of his son for several days, and first 
cordially and affectionately welcoming him, he led him into the two 
chambers on the ground-floor assigned as his residence. 

" And how is your wife ?" inquired the old soldier, as soon as they 
were seated. 

" Thank. you, father; she is quite M'ell." 

The tone in which Agricola replied to his father's question was so 
unlike his natural manner of speaking, that Dagobert involuntarily 
raised his eyes to his face, and, for the first time, observed the powerful 
emotion depicted on his features. 

" What is the matter, my boy ?" asked the anxious parent. " Has 
anything new or unfortunate occurred since I saw you last ?" 

" Father !" answered the young smith, in despairing accents ; " all 
is over he is lost to us for ever !" 

" Of whom are you speaking ? " 



202 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Of M. Hardy 1 " 

" M. Hardy I Why, three days ago you told me that you were 
going to see him by his own wish." 

" And I did go, father, in company with my dear and excellent 
brother, Gabriel. We both had an interview with him, and Gabriel 
talked to him oh, in such a way, it would have melted a stone, till 
at length, by his animating and encouraging words, M. Hardy was 
brought to declare his intention of returning to us all again. Quite 
wild with joy, I ran to convey the happy tidings to some of my com- 
panions, who were waiting to know the result of my conference with 
M. Hardy, and they all hurried back with me to thank and bless their 
kind benefactor for thus restoring them to happiness and employment. 
We were within about a hundred steps of the black gownsmen's h/wse, 
when " 

" You mean priests, I suppose," said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. 
" Ah ! I thought they must needs be concerned wherever evil and 
mischief were going on. Come, let's hear what fresh misfortunes 
occurred ; something fatal, I'm sure. I know those religious mischief- 
makers too well !" 

" You are not mistaken in this case certainly, father," said Agri- 
cola, with a sigh. " Well, as I said before, I was hurrying with my 
comrades, when, all at once, I perceived a travelling carriage approach 
from the priests' house, and an indescribable impression came over 
my mind that they were carrying off M. Hardy." 

" Do you mean by force ?" asked Dagobert, eagerly. 

" Oh, no !" replied Agricola, bitterly ; " these men are too clever 
and cunning for that. They always find some means or other of 
rendering you a willing instrument in their guilty hands a voluntary 
aider and abettor in your own ruin. I have not forgotten how they 
went to work with my dear mother." 

" Ah, poor woman ! she was another unhappy fly caught in their 
treacherous, poisoned net. But what of the carriage you were telling 
me about?" 

" As I saw it drive from the priests' house," said Agricola, " a 
pang shot through my heart, and, by an impulse I felt it impossible 
to restrain, I sprung to the horses' heads, calling upon my companions 
to aid me, but the postilion aimed a blow at me with his whip, which 
stretched me senseless on the ground, and by the time I recovered 
myself the vehicle was far off." 

" But you received no serious injury, my son, I trust !" exclaimed 
Dagobert, eagerly, whilst he attentively and anxiously surveyed Agri- 
cola. 

" No, dear father ; the blow had merely stunned me, and I 
escaped with a slight scratch or a bruise." 

" And what did you do next, my lad ?" 

" Why, I made all possible haste to our guardian angel, Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville, and related to her all that had occurred. 
' You must follow M. Hardy instantly,' said she, when I had con- 
cluded my tale. ' You shall have one of my travelling carriages 
with post horses. M. Dupont will accompany you, and you will 
pursue M. Hardy from stage to stage, and if you are fortunate enough 
to overtake him, it is possible that your presence and entreaties 



THE ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENTS. 

may overcome the fatal influence these priests have obtained over 
him.' " 

" The excellent young lady was quite right. It was the very best 
thing that you could do." 

" An hour after that we were on M. Hardy's track, for we learnt, 
by some return postilions we met, that he had taken the road to 
Orleans. We followed as far as Estampes, where we heard that he had 
gone, by a cross-road, towards a lone house, situated in a valley about 
four leagues from the highroad ; that this house was called the Vale of 
Saint Herem, and belonged to the priests; but the night was so 
dark and the roads so very bad, that we were counselled to sleep at 
the inn, and depart upon our search at break of day ; and this advice 
we determined to follow. Directly it was light we started off again, 
and, after proceeding for about a quarter of an hour by the road, we 
quitted it for a by-path, as precipitous as dreary and desolate. No- 
thing was to be seen but immense blocks of greystone, with a few birch- 
trees and stunted shrubs scattered over them. As we advanced, the 
aspect of the country became still more wild and dreary. You might 
easily suppose yourself 100 leagues from Paris. At length we stopped 
before a large dark-looking old mansion, built at the declivity of a high 
mountain, covered with patches of the greystone which I mentioned to 
you abounded so much in the neighbourhood. There were scarcely any 
windows in this gloomy abode, and what there were were so small 
and high that the inmates could never, by any possibility, guess what 
was passing without. Never, during my life, have I seen anything 
so lonely and dismal-looking. We alighted and rang at the bell, 
which was promptly answered by a man-servant. ' Did not the Abbe 
d'Aigrigny arrive here last night with another gentleman ?' I asked, 
with an air of extreme intelligence. ' Let that gentleman know that 
I wish to see him directly upon an affair of great importance, and that 
I beg he will allow me to state my business to him without delay.' 
The man believing, of course, that we belonged to the Abbe d'Aig- 
rigny's party, allowed us to enter. In about a minute a door opened, 
and the Abbe d'Aigrigny appeared. At sight of me he started back 
and retreated as quickly as he had come ; but in about five minutes, 
time I was in M. Hardy's presence." 

" Well !" said Dagobert, anxiously ; " then I suppose you made it 
all right ?" 

Agricola mournfully shook his head, then resumed, 

" I saw, at the first glance, that all was over with M. Hardy ; the 
expression of his features told me that plainly enough. Addressing 
himself to me, in a voice gentle but firm, M. Hardy said, ' I can both 
understand and excuse the motive that brings you here, but I have 
finally resolved to pass the remainder of my life in retirement and 
devotion. I take this determination willingly and of my own free 
will, uninfluenced by any person, because I believe my immortal hap- 
piness and the state of my soul require it. Bear my good wishes to 
your comrades, and say, that I have made such a provision for them 
as will, I trust, reconcile them to my loss, and secure me a place in 
their remembrance.' Then, perceiving me about to speak, M. Hardy 
interrupted me by saying, * It is all in vain, my good friend, my 
resolution is fixed and unchangeable. Do not write me, for, if you 



204 THE WANDERING JEW. 

do, your letters will remain unanswered. My whole attention will, 
henceforward, be engrossed by prayer and meditation. And now 
farewell ! Excuse my quitting you, but I am much fatigued with 
travelling/ And he might well refer to his being unhinged and indis- 
posed, whether from travelling or other causes. He was pale as a 
spectre, and there even seemed to me a sort of wandering and wildness 
in his eyes. In fact, he was scarcely like the same person I had seen 
and conversed with only the day previously, while the hand he held 
out to me was parched and burning. The Abbe d'Aigrigny now 
entered. ' Father,' said M. Hardy to him, ' will you do me the favour 
to conduct M. Agricola Baudoin to the door?' With these words 
he waved his hand to me, in token of an eternal adieu, and entered an 
adjoining chamber. All was now over, and he for ever and irre- 
vocably lost to the world and those who loved him as I did." 

" I see," said Dagobert, " these black-coated priests have bewitched 
him, as they have done so many others." 

" So then," said Agricola, " I returned home in utter despair in 
company with M. Dupont. See, now, what these priests have made 
of M. Hardy, the generous individual who maintained nearly 300 
workmen, and induced them, by the excellence of his system, to live 
an industrious, orderly life, cultivating their intelligence, improving 
their hearts, and rendering himself, by his wise and beneficent conduct 
towards them, well worthy of the blessings they daily, nay hourly, 
invoked on his head ! Instead of all this useful benevolence, M. Hardy 
has now for ever devoted himself to a silent, solitary life, useless to 
himself as well as to all around him." 

" Oh, these priests !" said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to 
conceal an limit-finable dread he felt creeping over him ; " the more 
I know of them, the more they inspire me with fear. You saw how 
those black hypocrites turned and twirled your poor mother's mind, 
till, unconsciously to herself, she was made to aid in their vile projects. 
Now, you see to what they have brought M. Hardy. You are aware 
of their infamous schemes against my two poor orphans, as well as 
that noble-minded, generous, young lady. Oh, those men are cunning 
as the devil himself! and I tell you honestly, Agricola, I had much 
rather face a squadron of Russian grenadiers than a dozen of those 
cassocks. Don't let us talk of them any more. I have plenty of 
other causes for fear and uneasiness without them." 

Then, observing the surprise imprinted on Agricola's expressive 
features, the old soldier, unable longer to restrain his emotion, threw 
himself into his son's arms, crying, in a hurried, agitated voice, 

" I can bear it no longer ! My heart overflows, and in whom 
can I repose my sorrows and my confidence, if not in you, my 
son?" 

" You terrify me, father," said Agricola. " What has happened ?" 

" I tell you, my boy, that only for you and those two poor orphan 
girls, I should have been tempted, twenty times over, to blow my 
brains out, rather than to see what I see, and, above all, to fear what 
I fear!" 

" And what is it you do fear, dear father?" 

" I know not what has been the matter with the marcchal ; but, 
for several days past, he has alarmed me greatly !" 



THE ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENTS. 205 

" Yet his recent conversations with Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville " 

" Certainly did him good, and, for a time, he appeared consider- 
ably improved in spirits and manner. The generous young lady 
seemed, by her kind and soothing words, to have poured healing balm 
into his wounds. And the presence of the young Indian had also 
served to divert his thoughts. He appeared less gloomy, less melan- 
choly, and his poor children enjoyed all the good effects of so blessed 
a change ; but for several days past it seems as though some demon 
\vere let loose afresh to distract and torment the whole family ; it well- 
nigh turns my brain, and I feel almost certain that the sending of 
anonymous letters, which had been discontinued, has again com- 
menced." * 

" What letters do you allude to, father ?" 

" The anonymous ones." 

" And what is the purport of these letters ?" 

" You are aware of the hatred the marechal previously entertained 
for that renegade, Abbe d'Aigrfgny. When he learnt that the traitor 
was here, and that he had pursued the orphan children with the same 
bitter and implacable enmity he had manifested towards their unfor- 
tunate mother, hunting her even to death, but that he had become a 
priest, and, consequently, escaped from his vengeance, I thought the 
marechal would go mad with rage and indignation. He even threat- 
ened to seek out the traitor, the renegade^ and pin him to the earth 
with his sword ; but I calmed 'him with a single word. ' He has 
turned priest, remember,' said I, ' and you may cross his path, insult, 
or even strike him, but he will neither return your blow nor meet you 
like a man. He began by fighting against his country, and he finishes 
by becoming a wicked and hypocritical priest. Trust me, he is not 
worthy of being spit upon or spurned with your foot !' ' Still, still,' 
exclaimed the exasperated raarechal, ' I cannot rest till I have at once 
avenged my children's wrongs and my wife's death.' ' You must 
remember,' said I again, ' that you have been assured that there are 
laws and tribunals in France capable of punishing him as he deserves. 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville has already lodged a complaint against 
him for having illegally, and with evil intent, confined your children 
in a convent. We must, therefore, wait in patience, but our revenge 
will only be the more certain.' " 

* It is well known Low familiar the reverend fathers, as well as other sects, are 
with the employment of denunciating threats and anonymous slander. The venerable 
Cardinal de Latour d'Auvergne has complained recently, in a letter addressed to the 
different journals, of the disgraceful attacks and numerous anonymous letters with 
which he had been assailed, because he refused a blind and unqualified obedience to 
the prohibition of M. de Bonald against the " Manuel" of M. Dupin, a work which, 
spite of party or priesthood, will for ever remain a compendium of reason, right, and 
independence. \Ve have now before us the particulars, nay, the very documents, of 
an action at law, referred even to the conseil d'etat, in which were produced a con- 
siderable number of anonymous letters, addressed to an aged mnn the priests were 
desirous of getting into their clutches, containing the most fearful threats if he 'did 
not disinherit his nephews, as well as the most abominable accusations and impu- 
tations against each member of his honourable family. It further came out on the 
trial, that these anonymous letters were the productions of two priests and a pro* 
fessed nun, who never quitted the old man, even in his last moments, and ultimately 
succeeded in despoiling the family of more than 500,000 francs. 



206 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Yes, father, you were right in urging all this to the poor mare- 
chal ; but, unfortunately, there are no direct proofs againts the Abbe" 
d'Aigrigny. Why, only the other day, when Mademoiselle de Car- 
doville's solicitor questioned me respecting our going to the convent 
that night, he told me plainly, that he found fresh difficulties every 
step he advanced in the affair, for want of positive and material proofs, 
and that the priests had taken their measures so skilfully that he fully 
expected the charge would fall to the ground ! ". 

" That is precisely the marechal's own opinion, my lad; and the 
idea of so flagrant an injustice irritates him still more." 

" It is a pity he cannot view the conduct of these unprincipled men 
with the contempt it deserves I " 

" And the* anonymous letters, also. Would you despise them 
also ? " 

" Father, I do not understand your reference to these letters." 

" Then listen, while I explain the whole matter to you. Brave and 
generous-minded as is the mart-dial, when his first burst of indigna- 
tion had passed away, he considered that to chastise the renegade as he 
deserved, now he had converted his military garb into a priest's frock, 
would be almost as cowardly as to attack a woman or an old man. 
He therefore endeavoured, as much as possible, to despise and forget 
the wrongs he had received ; but, lo ! by every post arrived letters 
from some concealed writer, endeavouring, by every possible means, to 
re-kindle and excite the anger of the marechal against the renegade, 
by recapitulating all the injuries both himself and those dearest to him 
had received from the Abb6 d'Aigrigny ; and many bitter taunts and 
cutting remarks were made on the cowardice of the marechal, who 
could allow insults and wrongs, such as he had sustained, to go 
unpunished, while the persecutor of his wife and children daily 
indulged in the most insolent jests and contemptuous observations 
concerning the marechal, his late wife, and even his children ! " 

" And have you the least suspicion, father, as to the sender of these 
letters ? " 

" None whatever ! I think and think, till I go almost out of my 
senses with puzzling my brain, and all to no purpose." 

" They come, doubtless, from the marechal's enemies, and he has 
no foes but those priests." 

" That is my opinion." 

" But what can be the aim and motive of these vile anonymous 
scrawls ? " 

" The motive ? " exclaimed Dagobert. " Why, that is clear 
enough. The marechal is quick, hasty, impetuous, and has a thousand 
reasons for seeking to revenge them on the renegade. Now he is 
prevented doing himself justice, and justice from his country he is 
unable to obtain for want of more positive proofs than he possesses. 
Thus foiled, then, in what he so deeply thirsted for, he powerfully 
controlled his feelings, and tried to forget the past : but, behold ! each 
day brings insolently provoking letters, that cannot fail recalling this 
just hatred on the part of the marechal, whose sensitive mind is goaded 
on with insults, abuse, and mockery, no man could stand. I tell you 
what, my brain is as strong as most people's, but I know this kind of 
torment would drive me actually mad ! " 



THE ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENTS. 207 

" It is, indeed, a scheme worthy of hell itself, and one that only a 
fiend could have concocted." 

" And that is not all, either I " 

" Not all ? surely the base persecuting of his enemies can go no 
further ?" 

" Each day the marechal receives other letters, but those he does 
not allow me to see ; but, when the first came, he seemed dreadfully 
affected, and said, in a low voice, ' This is too much too much ! 

They do not even respect ' and then, covering his face with his 

hands, he burst into tears ! " 

" Is it possible ? " exclaimed the smith, almost disbelieving what he 
heard ; " could any cause make the marechal weep ? " 

"I tell you, Agricola," resumed Dagobert, "that, upon the 
receipt of the letter I was speaking of, he cried like a child ! " 

" What could those letters have contained, father ? " 

" I know not. Neither durst I inquire. But he looked so wretched 
and despairing that my heart seemed ready to burst." 

" Alas, tormented and harassed in this merciless way, the life of 
the marechal must be a burden to him ! " 

" And, then, again, the sight of his poor children, whom he observes 
more and more dejected and depressed each day, without it being 
possible to guess the cause of their unhappiness, added to the recol- 
lection of his father expiring in his arms, it is enough to break down 
one man's fortitude, I should think, eh ? Still I feel perfectly persuaded 
that I do not yet know all the marechal's causes of suffering. There is 
something, even worse than I have related to you, which preys on his 
mind, and drives him nearly to desperation. He is completely altered, 
both in looks, character, and manner, and for the last few days he has 
given way to the most violent bursts of passion and fury without any 
cause or reason that even he could assign. Indeed," continued the old 
soldier, after a brief hesitation, " I know I may trust you, my son, and 
therefore I will candidly confess, that, in consequence of my fears, I 
have just now been to the marechal's apartment for the purpose of 
removing the caps from his pistols ! " 

" Oh, father ! " exclaimed Agricola, infinitely distressed at what he 

heard, " could you then have dreaded " 

" After the violently excited and exasperated state he was in all 
yesterday, I dread every thing 1" 
" Why, what occurred then ? " 

" For some time past he has had long and secret interviews with 
an individual, whose appearance was that of an old soldier, as well as a 
brave and worthy sort of man ; and I have remarked that the mare"- 
chal has always appeared more depressed and agitated after the visits 
of this person. Two or three times I ventured to remark something 
of the kind to the marechal, but, as I saw it displeased him, I did not 
venture further. Well, this very individual came again in the evening, 
and staid here till nearly eleven o'clock, even till his wife came to seek 
him, and waited for him in a hackney-coach at the door. Directly he 
had left, I went up to the marechal to see if he wanted anything. 
He looked very pale, but seemed calm ; and, when I spoke to him, 
thanked ine, but declined my services, and I went downstairs again. 



208 THE WANDERING JEW. 

You know that my bed-room at the side here is directly underneath 
his, and, for some time after I returned to my chamber, 1 could hear 
the marechal pacing to and fro, as though under the influence of some 
powerful agitation. At length it seemed as if he were knocking over 
and throwing the furniture about with violence. Much alarmed, I 
hurried upstairs again ; but, when I entered the room, he seemed 
extremely angry with me for coming, and sternly bade me begone 
immediately ! Seeing him in this state 1 thought it dangerous to 
leave him, and accordingly I stopped as if I had not heard what he 
said. He got into a furious rage, but still I did not offer to go. I 
only pointed to the table and chair he had thrown down, and which 
were lying on the ground, with an air so mournful and full of concern, 
that he understood me, and, being one of the best and noblest natures 
that ever lived, he took my hand, and said, ' Forgive me, my good 
Dagobert, for paining you thus, but I had, just now, so fierce a rage 
upon me, that, in a moment's folly, I might have done any desperate 
act. Nay, I verily believe I should have thrown myself through the 
window had it been open. I only trust my poor dear little girls did 
not hear me ; but, indeed, my head was quite turned for a time.' 
Then, going on tip-toe, he walked to the door of the room which led 
to the sleeping chamber of his daughters. After anxiously and atten- 
tively listening for a minute, he returned to me, saying, ' All is still 
thank Heaven they sleep!' I then ventured to inquire what had so 
much disturbed him, and if, spite of all my precautions, he had received 
another anonymous letter ? ' No !' answered he, with a gloomy air, ' I 
have not I But leave me now, my good friend, I feel better the 
sight of you has done me good. So good night, old companion and 
worthy comrade ; retire to your bed and sleep, as I mean to do.' You 
may be very sure I did not go far off; but, for fear of irritating him, 
I made believe to go down stairs, but I walked up again without my 
shoes, and took my station at the top of the stairs, listening to every 
sound. No doubt with a view of effectually composing his mind, the 
marechal went to look at his sleeping daughters, and, perhaps, bestow 
a kiss on their innocent foreheads, for I heard the door leading to their 
apartment open and shut. After his return from their chamber, he 
continued for a long while to walk up and down his room, but in a 
calmer manner ; then, as if quite tired out, I heard him throw himself 
on his bed. I kept my watch, however, till daybreak, and then, 
finding all remained quiet, I gently stole back to my room, feeling 
comforted to think that, as far as I could judge, he had passed a 
tranquil night." 

" But what can be the matter with him, dear father ? " 
" I know no more than you do. But, when I went to him in the 
morning, I was struck with the change in his countenance, and the 
bright, unnatural sort of glitter in his eyes. He could not have 
looked worse if he had been suffering from madness, or a raging fever ; 
then, remembering what he had said the evening previously, that if 
the window had been open he should have thrown himself out, I 
thought it would be more prudent to remove the caps from his 
pistols." 

" J cannot understand it," said Agricola ; " for a man so firm, so 



THE GOLDEN CITY. 209 

intrepid, and habitually so calm and self-possessed as the marechal, to 
have these unaccountable fits of violence, indicates some dark mystery 
time only can unravel." 

" I tell you, something most extraordinary is passing in his mind. 
He has not seen his children for the last two days, which is always a 
bad sign with him ; while the two sweet girls are fretting and pining 
at the idea of having offended him in some manner, and unconsciously 
displeased him, and the bare idea of this increases their previous 
sadness. But for two such angelic beings as they are to give offence 
to any one is wholly impossible. Ah! if you only knew what a life 
those dear children lead, a walk out with me, or a drive in the 
carriage with the person who has charge of them, for I never allow 
them to go out alone, and then, upon their return, they attend to theii 
studies, read, or embroider, but always together, till they retire to bed. 
Their preceptress, whom I believe to be a very worthy woman, told 
me, that she had often been disturbed during the night by hearing 
them sobbing in their sleep. Poor children ! thus, in their young 
lives, certainly they have not enjoyed much happiness," said the 
soldier, with a sigh. 

At this moment, hearing rapid steps in the court-yard, Dagobert 
looked up, and beheld Marechal Simon, with pale, distorted features, 
and half-frenzied air, holding in his hands a letter, the contents of 
which he seemed to read with intense anxiety and extreme agitation. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE GOLDEN CITY. 

WHILE Marechal Simon was pacing the garden with a hasty and 
agitated step, while engaged in the perusal of the anonymous letter 
received so singularly through the medium of Kill-joy, his daughters 
sat alone in the apartment they usually occupied, and to which during 
their temporary absence Jocrisse had paid a brief visit. The poor 
girls seemed doomed to wear the "livery of woe," for just as their 
mourning for their mother terminated, the tragical death of their 
grandfather again covered them with funereal crape. 

The sisters, dressed in deep black, were sitting upon a sofa near their 
work-table. Grief frequently produces the effect of years, and adds to 
our outward appearance of age. So it was with Rose and Blanche, a few 
months had converted them into young women and changed the almost 
child-like beauty of their fair young faces, once so round and rosy, into 
pale, lengthened countenances, whose careworn expression rendered it 
almost impossible to believe they were the same gay, light-hearted beings 
they had been previous to quitting Siberia. Their large, clear blue 
eyes were no longer visited by those tears of exuberant joy, caused by 
their merry laugh either at the amusing coolness and imperturbability 
of Dagobert, or the mute drollery of old Kill-joy, whose pranks fre- 

69 P 



210 THE WANDERING JEW. 

quently enlivened their long and fatiguing pilgrimage. In a word, 
these charming young creatures, whose soft and delicate loveliness 
none but the pencil of a Greuze could have fitly described, were, as 
they then sat and looked, well worthy of inspiring the melancholy 
genius of the immortal painter of " Mignon regretting Heaven," or 
Marguerite meditating on Faust" 

Rose, leaning against the back of the sofa, sat with her head partly 
drooping on her bosom, over which was crossed a black crape hand- 
kerchief, while the light of an opposite window shone full on her pure 
white forehead, surmounted by a double plaiting of rich chestnut hair ; 
her look was fixed, and the contraction of her finely arched eyebrow 
evinced the deep preoccupation of her mind ; her small, delicate, but 
thin and wasted hands, still holding the morsel of embroidery with 
which she had attempted to amuse herself, had fallen listlessly on her 
lap. The side-face of Blanche was alone visible as she bent forwards 
to her sister with an expression of tender yet anxious solicitude. Con- 
tinuing to gaze on her, while she mechanically passed her needle 
through the canvass she was engaged upon, as though still occupied 
with her work, 

" Sister dear !" said Blanche, in a sweet and gentle voice, after 
waiting a few seconds during which the tears might be seen rapidly 
gathering in her eyes, " tell ine what you are thinking of? you seem 
so very sad !" 

" I was thinking," replied Rose, in a slow tone, and after a short 
silence, " of the golden city, of our dreams and fancies !'' 

Blanche comprehended all the bitterness contained in these words, 
and, without saying another word, she threw her arms round her sister's 
neck, and burst into tears. 

Poor children ! the golden city of which they had so long talked 
and dreamed was Paris and their father ; Paris, the marvellous city 
of joys and fetes innumerable ; and their imagination had portrayed the 
smiling, happy countenance of their beloved parent as he welcomed 
them to the festive scene. But, alas, for them I this gay, golden city, 
Ind been converted into the drear abode of grief and tears, death and 
mourning ; the dreadful scourge which had struck their mother in the 
wilds of Siberia appeared to have followed them like a dark, threaten- 
ing cloud, and hovering still over their heads, seemed perpetually to 
exclude from them the soft blue of the heavens, or the cheering rays 
of the sun. And the golden city of their fond picturing displayed 
before their mental view the day when their father should present to 
them two claimants for their affection, handsome and good as them- 
selves, saying as he did so, 

" Here, my children, arc hearts worthy of your own ; these youths 
love you as you deserve to be loved ; let each sister, then, bestow a 
tender and affectionate brother on the other, while by giving your 
hand as I direct, I shall be enabled to boast of my sons, as I have 
hitherto proudly done of my daughters." 

And, then, how bright a blush tinged the cheek of the orphans, 
whose souls, pure as the transparent crystal, had never before reflected 
any image but that of the angel Gabriel sent by their mother to pro- 
tect and guard them. It may, therefore, be well imagined with how 
painful an emotion Blanche heard her sister murmur in bitter sadness 






: 




REVERIES OF ROSE AND BLANCHE. 
Vol. III. P. 210. 



THE GOLDEN CITY. 211 

those words which so painfully described the difference between their 
real position and that their imaginations had promised them. 

"Alas! dear Hose," said Blanche, wiping away the tears which 
trickled down her sister's cheek, as she replied, "I was thinking of 
the golden city, we hoped to find ; maybe we shall be happy yet after 
all !" 

" Oh, no !" said Rose, " hope it not, sister ; for since, though blessed 
with our father's presence, we find ourselves unhappy, how can we 
ever hope to be otherwise than wretched?" 

" I'll tell you when we shall, dearest Rose," answered Blanche, 
raising her soft, bright blue eyes to heaven, " we shall be quite quite 
happy when we go to rejoin our dear mother; shall we not, think 
you?" 

" And, possibly, the dream we have just had, like the dream we had 
before, when we were in Germany, is intended to announce to us what 
is about to happen. Only you know, sister dear, there was this differ- 
ence, that in Germany we dreamed that the angel Gabriel descended 
from heaven to come to us ; and this time he fetched us from this earth, 
and carried us to the skies, where our mother was waiting for us." 

" Probably, this dream will come true, like the other, dear sister ; 
for we dreamed then that the angel Gabriel would protect us, and did 
he not come and deliver us during the dreadful storm when the ship 
was wrecked ? And this time we dreamed that he took us up to 
heaven, why should not that also come to pass ?" 

" Why, you see, sister, that before he can descend from heaven to 
take us to our mother, he must first die himself; and it is too dreadful 
even to think that the dear, good Gabriel who saved us from the 
tempest should die. I can't bear even to hear you hint at it ; let us 
both kneel down and pray that such a great misfortune may not 
happen." 

" Oh ! but that need not happen, because you know that it was 
not the living Gabriel, but the good angel of that name, whom he so 
strongly resembles, that we saw in our dream descending from heaven 
to fetch us." 

" Is it not very strange, dear sister, that last night we shou both 
dream exactly alike, just as we did in Germany, where we not only 
had the same dream, but also the three successive nights we should 
do so?" 

" Yes, indeed, in last night's dream the angel Gabriel seemed to 
bend over us, saying, in a gentle tone, while he tenderly and compas- 
sionately regarded us, ' Come, my children ; come, my sisters ; your 
mother awaits you. Poor children,' added he, in a voice full of pity 
and sadness, ' helpless beings travellers from afar ; you will have 
traversed the earth innocent and gentle as doves, to find* rest at last 
and for ever in the maternal nest.' " 

" These were precisely the angel's words as I heard them in my 
sleep," answered the other orphan, with a pensive air ; " we have never 
done harm to any one, and we have always loved those who loved us, 
wherefore, then, should we fear to die?'' 

" And then, sister, it seemed as though when the good angel so 
addressed us, we smiled rather than wept, and we were quite, quite 



-I- THE WANDERING JEW. 

happy when, taking each of ns by the hand and unfolding his beautiful 

white wings, he carried us with him into the clear blue sky " 

" Till we reached the bright heavens where our beloved mother, 
all bathed in tears, was waiting to receive us." 

"Ah, sister!" eried Blanche, "depend upon it, such visions as 
this are not sent for nothing;" then, regarding Rose with a touching 
smile and a look of mournful intelligence, she added, " And, besides, 
were all that to happen, it would put an end to a great source of 
sorrow and unhappiness, of which we are unfortunately the cause; you 
know what I mean." 

" Alas, alas! yet how can it be our fault when we love him so very 
dearly ? But now we always appear so frightened and sad in his pre- 
sence, that very likely he thinks we do not love him at all." 

As Rose uttei'ed these words, she took her handkerchief from her 
small workbasket, that she might wipe away the tears that were 
rolling rapidly down her pale cheeks as she raised the handkerchief 
to her eyes, a paper folded like a letter fell from it on the ground. 
At this sight, the sisters started with alarm, and clinging to each 
other, Rose whispered in a trembling voice, 

" Another of those letters ! Oh, I fear to take it up ; doubtless, 
it resembles the others we have received." 

" Oh, but you know we must not allow it to lie there, for fear of 
its been seen by any one !" said Blanche, stooping, and carefully 
picking up the paper, " or else the persons who take so much interest 
in our welfare might run considerable risk and danger." 
" But how could that letter have come there ?" 
" Nay, how has it happened that so many others have been placed 
in our way ; always when our preceptress is absent from us ?" 

" True, it is quite useless endeavouring to account for a mystery 
which it is impossible to find out ; but let us read the letter, its con- 
tents may probably be more comforting and favourable than the last." 
The two sisters then read as follows : 

" My dear children, continue to love, to idolise your father, for 
he is very wretched, and 'tis you who cause his unhappiness ; yes, un- 
consciously and involuntarily you occasion suft'erings greater than you 
can form any idea of; you can never imagine the terrible sacrifices 
your presence imposes on him ; but, alas ! he is the victim to his 
paternal duties, and his torments are greater than ever ; be careful, 
therefore, to spare him all demonstration of your affection and tender- 
ness, since they cause h>m more pain than pleasure ; every caress you 
bestow on him pierces his heart like a dagger's point; for in you he 
sees but the innocent cause of his grief. Still, my poor children, you 
must not despair, and it' you have sufficient self-command not to 
expose him* to the painful ordeal of undergoing your tender words 
and looks, compel yourselves to be reserved, though affectionate, to- 
wards him, and you will thereby assuage and relieve a considerable 
share of his misery. 

" Be secret ! let not even the good and worthy Dagobert, who so 
sincerely loves you, know a word of this ; for if you breathe a syllable 
to any living soul of the contents of this letter, not only your dear 
father, but your faithful Dagobert and the unknown friend who writes 



THE GOLDEN CITY. 213 

it, will be exposed to the most frightful dangers ; for your enemies are 
great, powerful, and numerous. 

" So let hope and courage sustain your young hearts, and believe 
that, if you act as advised, you will soon succeed in purifying your 
father's tenderness for you of all grief or sorrow, and then what happi- 
ness will be yours ! Perhaps that joyful day is nearer than you expect. 

" Burn this letter as you did those previously received." 

So skilfully was this epistle concocted, that if even the orphans 
had shewn it either to their father or Dagobert, its contents would, at 
most, have passed for a strange and dangerous sort of interference on 
the part of some ill-judging person, but still there was nothing to 
merit any particular censure or reprehension. Nothing could have 
been more fiendishly worded, because, when it is recollected how con- 
tinual a struggle was going on in the mind of the marechal, between 
his unwillingness to abandon his so newly found daughters and his 
shame at failing in what he considered a sacred, an imperative duty to 
the son of his late benefactor ; while, on the other hand, the tender 
susceptibility of the sisters having been awakened by the detestable 
counsel they had received, they soon perceived the mixture of pleasure 
and pain their presence imposed on their parent ; for while at their 
sweet and innocent aspect he felt it impossible to quit them, yet the 
recollection of his broken promise to the emperor and unfulfilled duty 
to the son cast a deep gloom over his manly countenance, and made 
him abruptly retreat from the affectionate attentions of his loving 
children as though he feared to trust himself longer in their sweet 
society. 

While the unhappy girls could only interpret these variations and 
fluctuating conduct according to the fatal explanation contained in the 
anonymous letters they received, they became painfully aware of 
one fact, that, by some mysterious motive, beyond their ability to 
penetrate, their presence was frequently not only troublesome, but 
even highly vexatious, to their father. And from thence arose the 
fast-increasing melancholy of Rose and Blanche, and also a descrip- 
tion of fear, restraint, and reserve, which, spite of themselves, re- 
pressed the outward manifestation of their filial tenderness ; an effect 
the more to be regretted as the marechal, deceived on his side by in- 
explicable appearances and perfidious hints, attributed it to coolness 
and diminished affection for himself, and at this idea, a pang, severe 
as that of death, shot through his heart, while his fin* features be- 
trayed the bitter anguish he endured ; and often would he rush in 
agony to the solitude of his own chamber, there to indulge the burn- 
ing tears that flowed in streaming torrents down his sunburnt cheeks. 

And the poor heart-broken orphans would fold their arms around 
each other, and mournfully repeat, 

" 'T is we who cause our father's wretchedness, 't is our presence 
renders him thus miserable." 

It may well be imagined what ravages a thought so fixed and 
unceasing would effect in two young hearts as loving, timid, and 
ingenuous as those of the orphans ; or how could it be expected that 
they should entertain mistrust of letters which, although anonymous, 
spoke with respect and veneration of those they themselves believed 



214 THE WANDERING JEW. 

be*t and wisest of all created beings, and when the mysterious as- 
surances they continually received as to the painful effect produced by 
their presence seemed so fully borne out by the conduct of the father 
towards themselves? Having been already the victims of so many 
plots, and having, also, repeatedly heard it said that they were sur- 
rounded by numerous enemies, it may readily be supposed that, in 
strict accordance with the recommendations of their unknown friend, 
they had never confided even to Dagobert those letters in which the 
soldier was so justly appreciated. 

The end of this diabolical scheme was but too evident. In thus 
harassing the marechal on all sides, and persuading him of the cool- 
ness and indifference of his daughters, it was naturally enough ex- 
pected that the hesitation he still felt to abandon his children to 
engage in a dangerous and uncertain enterprise would render his life 
so disturbed and embittered that he would hail with pleasure the 
chance of forgetting his domestic unhappiness in the bustle and ex- 
citement of a rash, generous, and chivalric undertaking ; such, at 
least, was the end proposed by Rodin, and, certainly, his scheme was 
deficient neither in reason nor possibility. 

After having perused the letter, the sisters remained perfectly 
silent for a time, as though too deeply affected to trust themselves to 
speak. After a considerable pause, Rose, who held the paper, sud- 
denly approached the fire-place, and throwing the letter on the burning 
embers, exclaimed, in a timid voice, 

" \Ve must not delay destroying this paper, else, you know, dear 
Blanche, terrible things might happen." 

" Alas!" said Blanche, "I scarcely see how any greater afflictions 
or misfortunes can possibly occur than have already befallen us. 
Only to think of our occasioning such unhappiness to our beloved 
father. What can it be that we do ? or how do we grieve him ?" 

" Perhaps, dear Blanche," replied Rose, while tears almost choked 
her utterance, " perhaps our father is disappointed in us ; and although 
he loves us as the children of our poor mother, whom he so wor- 
shipped, still he finds not in us the daughters he had hoped for and 
imagined. Do you understand me, sister ? " 

" Oh ! yes, yes ! doubtless that it is that so pains and vexes him. 
You see we are so ignorant, so uncivilised, and awkward, that he is 
ashamed of us ; but yet because he loves us in spite of all these dis- 
advantages, that gives him pain." 

" But it is not our fault : our dear mother brought us up as well as 
she could in the wilds of Siberia," 

" And I am sure my father in his heart does not blame us for it 
but, as you say, 1 am sure it gives him pain. And then, you know, 
if he have friends whose daughters are beautiful, clever, and ac- 
complished, he cannot help regretting that we are not so likewise." 

" Do you recollect when he took us to see our cousin, !Vtf ademoiselle 
Adrienne, who has been so good and kind to us, how he said, with 
admiring looks, ' Did you observe, my children, how beautiful Made- 
moiselle Adrienne is ? what sense, what goodness of heart, and noble- 
ness of mind, are united in her, with grace and beauty impossible 
to surpass !' And he spoke truly. Mademoiselle de Cardoville looked so 
lovely, and her voice sounded 8O sweetly on one's ear, that while 



THE WOUNDED LION. 215 

gazing on her, or listening to her words, one quite forgot one's own 
griefs." 

" Well, then, depend upon it, Rose, that when our father com- 
pares us either with our cousin or various other young ladies he knows, 
he feels disappointed and ashamed of us ; and it is quite natural that 
a person beloved and honoured as he is every where should wish for 
children of whom they could feel proud." 

Suddenly pressing her hand on her sister's arm, Rose said, in an 
anxious tone, 

" Listen ! listen ! I can hear loud talking in my father's room ! " 

" Oh, yes," replied Blanche, also hearkening, " you are right 
some one is walking hastily 'tis my father's step, I am sure." 

" How loudly he is speaking ! he seems dreadfully angry ! per- 
haps he will come here ! " 

And at the thoughts of the coming of their parent the father 
who loved and idolised them, the unhappy girls looked at each other 
in terror. 

The sound of angry voices becoming momentarily more distinct 
and threatening, Rose, pale and trembling, said to her sister, 

" Do not let us stay here ! pray, pray, come with me to our 
bed-room I " 

" Why, dear Rose ? " 

" Because we cannot help hearing all our father says, and he, most 
likely, is not aware of our being here." 

" You are right quite right ! " returned Blanche, rising quickly 
from her chair ; " come, come, sister ! " 

" I am quite frightened ! " continued Rose ; " I never before 
heard my father speak with so much irritation." 

" Sister," exclaimed Blanche, turning deadly pale, and suddenly 
staying her progress to the adjoining chamber, " it is Dagobert he is 
so angry with ! " 

" What can have occurred to cause our father to be so very much 
displeased ? " 

" I know not : some fresh misfortune, doubtless. Oh ! sister, do 
not let us stay here any longer. I cannot bear to hear our good 
Dagobert spoken to in that manner." 

The loud noise of some article either thrown down or knocked 
over in the apartment of their parent so terrified the orphans that, 
pale and trembling with emotion, they rushed into their bed-chamber, 
and secured the door. 

Let us now explain the cause of Marechal Simon's violent excite- 
ment and extreme anger. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE WOUNDED LION. 

THIS was the scene whose echoes had so much alarmed Rose and 
Blanche. Alone Marechal Simon, in a state of exasperation difficult 
to describe, began to walk up and down hastily, his handsome, manly 
countenance inflamed with anger, his eyes sparkling with indignation, 



216 THE WANDERING JEW. 

whilst on his broad brow, where the hair was growing grey and cut 
very short, the very throbbing of the veins might be counted, as they 
seemed swelling ready to burst. From time to time his thick black 
moustache was agitated by a convulsive movement like that which 
agitates the face of an enraged lion ; and as a lion wounded, torn, 
tortured, by a thousand invisible small darts, goes backwards and for- 
wards in his den with fierce agony, so the Marechal Simon, breath- 
less, excited, walked up and down in his room, as it were, by bounds : 
sometimes walking slightly bent, as if he was bowed down by the 
weight of his anger ; sometimes, on the contrary, stopping, suddenly 
becoming erect, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his head ele- 
vated, his look threatening terrible, he seemed to hurl defiance at an 
invisible foe, whilst he muttered confysed exclamations : then he was 
the man of war and battle in all his intrepid fervour. The marechal 
then paused, stamped his foot angrily, went to the mantel-piece, and 
rang so violently that the cord remained in his hand. 

A servant quickly answered this hasty ringing. 

"Have you not told Dagobert I wished to speak with him?" he 
inquired. 

" I obeyed your order, my lord duke, but M. Dagobert went with 
his son to the door of the courtyard, and " 

"Very well I" said the Marechal Simon, waving his hand quickly 
and imperiously. 

The servant left the room, and his master resumed his hasty 
strides, violently squeezing in his hand a letter which had been inno- 
cently brought to him by Kill-joy, who when he saw him come in 
ran to him to be caressed. 

At last the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. 

" I have been awaiting you for some time, sir ! " said the marechal, 
in an irritated tone. 

Dagobert more pained than surprised at this fresh display of 
temper, which he rightly attributed to the extreme excitement in 
which the marechal was continually, replied mildly, 

" Excuse me, general, but I went out with my son, and- 1 " 

" Read that, sir ! " said the raarechal, interrupting him abruptly, 
and handing him the letter. 

Then whilst Dagobert was reading, the marechal added, with 
fresh rage, and knocking over a chair as he moved, 

" So it would appear, then, that even in my own house there are 
some wretches ; no doubt bribed by those who pursue me with such 
deadly animosity. Well, sir, have you read it?" 

" Another piece of infamy to add to the rest I " said Dagobert, 
calmly, and he threw the letter into the fire. 

"The letter is infamous, but it tells the truth," replied the 
marechal. 

Dagobert looked at him without comprehending his meaning. 

The marechal continued, " And do you know who brought me 
this infamous epistle? it would seem as though the devil mingled in 
the dance it was your dog." 

" Kill-joy ?" said Dagobert, greatly astonished. 

" Yes," replied the marechal, with bitterness ; " no doubt it was a 
joke of your invention ?" 



THE WOUNDED LION. 217 

" I am not in much of a mood for joking, general !" answered 
Dagobert, more and more sorrowful at the state of irritation in which 
he saw the marechal. " I cannot account for this at all : Kill-joy 
fetches and carries very well, no doubt he saw the letter in the house, 
and picked it up, and " 

" And who left this letter here ? Am I, then, surrounded by 
traitors ? You do not keep a vigilant look-out you in whom I have 
such confidence " 

" Hear me, general ! " 

But the marechal went on without listening, 

" What ! I have fought for twenty-five years, I have headed 
armies, I have struggled victoriously against the worst times of exile 
and proscription, I have resisted the blows of clubs, and am I 
to be killed by the points of pins ? What ! persecuted even in my 
own house ! am I to be beset, tortured at every instant by the work- 
ings of some unknown hand? When I say unknown, I mistake. 
D'Aigrigny that double-dyed traitor, that renegade is at the bottom 
% of all this, I am sure. I have but one enemy in the world, and it is 
that man. There must be an end of this, for it wearies me it is too 
much ! " 

" But, general, remember he is a priest, and " 

" What is it to me if he be^a priest? I have seen him handle a 
sword, and I know how to bring up his soldier's blood into the face of 
this renegade." 

" But, general " 

" I tell you that I must find some one ! " exclaimed the marechal, 
a prey to violent exasperation ; " I tell you it is necessary for me to 
give a name and shape to these dark infamies, in order that I may put 
an end to them. They hem me in on every side, they make my life a 
hell, as you well know, and they spare nothing to save me from those 
rages which kill me by inches. I can rely on no one 1" 

"General, I cannot allow you to say so without remark," said 
Dagobert, in a calm but firm and penetrating voice. 

" What mean you ? " 

" General, 1 cannot allow you to say that you can rely on no 
one ; you will, perhaps, end by believing so, and that would be still 
harder for you than for those who know what their devotion is, and 
would throw themselves into the flames for you ; and I am one of 
these I ! and you well know it I " 

These simple words, spoken by Dagobert with a tone of profound 
emotion, recalled the marechal to himself; for his loyal and generous 
disposition might be from time to time excited by irritation or chagrin, 
but it soon resumed its original uprightness and justice, and replying 
to Dagobert, he said, in a tone less harsh, but which was still much 
agitated, 

"You are right, I ought not to doubt you my irritation masters 
me ! this infamous letter has quite unhinged me made me mad. 
I am unjust brutal ungrateful! yes, ungrateful and to whom? 
to you yes " 

" Do not say another word about me, general ; with such kind 
words at the end of the year, you may treat me like a brute for the 
other three hundred and sixty four days. But what has occurred ? " 



218 THE WANDERING JEW. 

The marshal's countenance again became overcast, and he said 
in a brief, quick tone, 

' What is it has occurred ? that I am despised disdained I " 

" You you ?" 

" Yes ; me me ! And, after all," added the marechal, bitterly, 
" why should I conceal this fresh wound from you ? I have doubted 
you, and I owe you this recompense. You shall then know all. For 
some time past I have remarked that when I met my old companions 
in arms they gradually withdrew from me." 

" What, was it this that the anonymous letter " 

" Alluded to ? yes. And it said the truth," continued the mare- 
chal, with a sigh of anger and indignation. 

" But it is impossible, general. You, so loved so respected !" 

" These are but words ; I speak to you of facts. When I appear 
the conversation commenced suddenly ceases ; instead of treating me 
like a brother soldier, they affect towards me a stiff and chill politeness. 
There are a thousand shades, a thousand nothings, which wound the 
heart, and yet can hardly be described." tf 

" What you tell me, general, astounds me," replied Dagobert, in 
amaze ; "yet, as you tell me so, I must believe you." 

" It had become intolerable. I wished to have it cleared up ; and 
this morning I went to General d'Havrincourt, who was colonel with 
me in the Imperial Guard, and is the soul of honour and frankness. I 
went to him to open my heart. ' I have perceived,' I said to him, 
' the coldness evinced towards me ; there must be some calumny in 
circulation against me. Tell me all. Knowing the attacks, I will 
defend myself boldly honourably.' " 

" Well, general ? " 

" D'Havrincourt was stiff and ceremonious, making cold replies to 
my questions, such as ' I do not know, monsieur le marechal, that any 
calumnious report has been spread about you.' ' I do not require to 
be called 'monsieur le marechal,' my dear D'Havrincourt. We are 
old soldiers old friends I My honour is uneasy, I confess ; for I 
find that you and our comrades do not receive me so cordially as you 
did in former days. It cannot be denied ; I see it I know it I feel 
it.' At this D'Havrincourt replied with the same coldness, ' I have 
never remarked any failure in attentions to you.' ' I am not talking 
of attentions,' I exclaimed, pressing his hand cordially, whilst he very 
faintly returned my grasp, as I remarked, ' I speak to you of affection, 
of confidence evinced towards me, whilst now I am treated more and 
more like a stranger. W T hy is this? wherefore this estrangement?' 
Still chilling and reserved, he answered, ' These are but such delicate 
shades, monsieur le marechal, that it is impossible for me to give you 
an opinion on this point.' My heart was filled with anger and grief. 
What was to be done ? To provoke D'Havrincourt was folly, and 
from self-respect I broke off a conversation which but too well con- 
firmed my fears. Thus," added the marechal, more and more excited, 
" thus I have no doubt fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled 
perhaps despised ; and yet ignorant of the cause ! Is not this hate- 
ful ? If, indeed, there was any fact, any report, I might at least be 
able to defend myself avenge myself or refute it. But nothing 
nothing not a word ; a coldness as polite as it was cutting and 



THE WOUNDED LION. 219 

insulting. Oh, again I say it is too much too much ! And all this 
is added to other cares. What a life has mine been since my father's 
death ! Can I even find some rest, some happiness, in my own home ? 
No ! I return to it, and it is to peruse infamous letters. And besides 
this," added the marechal, in a toue of deep affliction, after a moment's 
hesitation, " and besides this, I find my children more and more indif- 
ferent towards me. Yes," added the marechal, as he observed Dago- 
bert's amazement ; " and yet they do not know how dear they are to 
me ! " 

" Your daughters indifferent ? " replied Pagobert, surprised. " Do 
you say that ? " 

" And, indeed, I do not blame them ; they have scarcely had time 
to know me." 

" Not had time to know you ! " responded the soldier, in a re- 
proachful tone, and becoming excited in his turn. "And of whom did 
their mother talk to them but of you ? And did not I constantly 
make you the third amongst us ? And what have we taught your 
children if it were not to know to love you ?" 

" You defend them that is just ! They love you better than 
me," said the marechal, with increasing bitterness. 

Dagobert was deeply moved, and gazed at the marechal without 
reply. 

" Yes," said the marechal, with a painful burst, " yes, it is 
cowardly ungrateful. But no matter. Twenty times I have been 
jealous yes, cruellyjealous of the affectionate confidence which my 
children testify to you, whilst when with me they seem always fearful. 
If their melancholy features are sometimes animated by a gayer look 
than usual, it is when conversing with you or when they see you ; 
whilst to me they shew but constraint, coldness and it kills me. 
Sure of the affection of my children, I could have braved every thing 
overcome every thing." Then seeing Dagobert about to rush 
towards the door which communicated with the apartment of Rose 
and Blanche, the marechal said to him, " Where are you going ? " 

" To fetch your daughters, general." 

" What to do ? " 

" To bring them before you ; to say to them, ' My children, your 
father believes you do not love him.' I will only say that, and you 
will see " 

" Dagobert, I forbid you ! " exclaimed the father of Rose and 
Blanche, impetuously. 

" Jt is not a question of Dagobert ; you have no right to be unjust 
towards the poor dear children." And again the soldier moved to- 
wards the door. 

" Dagobert, I command you to remain here ! " exclaimed the mare- 
chal. 

" Hear me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant, 
if you will," said the ex-dragoon, roughly ; " but there is no rank, no 
grade to be considered, when it is a question of defending your daugh- 
ters. All will be explained to place good people in one another's 
presence that is the only way I know." 

And if the marechal had not retained him by the arm, Dagobert 
would have gone into the orphans' apartment. 



220 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Stay !" said the marechal, so imperiously, that the soldier, accus- 
tomed to obedience, bowed his head and did not move. 

"What are you about to do?" inquired the marechal; "to tell 
my daughters that they do not love me ? thus to excite an affectation 
of tenderness which the poor girls do not actually experience ? It is 
not their fault ; no doubt it is mine ! " 

" Ah, general," said Dagobert, with a tone of deep affliction, " it 
is no longer anger that I feel whilst I hear you speak thus of your 
children, but grief. You^break my heart." 

The mar&chal, touched by the expression of the soldier's phy- 
siognomy, replied less harshly, " Well, then, I am wrong again ; and 
yet 1 ask you without bitterness, without jealousy are not my 
daughters more confiding, more familiar with you than with me ? " 

" Morbleu ! my general," cried Dagobert, "if you take that view, 
why they are more familiar with Kill-joy than with me. You are 
their father, and however good a father may be, he inspires a certain 
awe. They are familiar with me, pardieu f why, how could they be 
otherwise ? How the devil should they have any respect for me who, 
except my moustaches and my six-foot stature, am just like some old 
granny who nursed them ? Then I must tell you, too, even before 
the death of your good father you were melancholy preoccupied 
and the children remarked it ; and what you take for coldness on their 
part is, I am sure, only uneasiness on your account. Really, general, 
you are not just ; you complain because, in fact, they love you too 
much." 

" I complain of what I suffer," said the marechal, with painful 
excitement ; " I alone know my own sufferings." 

" They must, indeed, be great," continued Dagobert, with increasing 
emotion. " But why should I seek to defend the unfortunate children, 
who only know how to be resigned and love you ? What is the use 
of defending them against your unhappy blindness ? " 

The marechal made a gesture of impatience and anger, and replied 
with assumed coolness, " I shall always remember all I owe you. I 
never can forget it, whatever you may do." 

" But, general," cried Dagobert, " why will you not allow me to 
fetch your children ? " 

"Do you not see that such a scene would crush destroy me?" 
exclaimed the marechal, exasperated. " Do you not see that I have 
no desire to make my daughters witnesses of what I endure ? A 
father's grief has dignity, sir, and you ought to perceive and respect it." 

" Respect it ? No ! For it is an injustice that causes it." 

" Enough, sir enough." 

" And not content with thus tormenting yourself," cried Dagobert, 
unable- any longer to contain himself, " do you know what you will do ? 
You wjll drive your daughters to die of grief, I tell you ; and it was 
not for that that I brought them to you from the depths of Siberia." 

" Reproaches ? " 

" Yes ; for to make your daughters unhappy is the real way to 
evince ingratitude to me." 

" Leave the room this instant, sir !" cried the marechal, greatly 
excited, and so fearful from his anger and grief, that Dagobert, regret- 
ting to have urged him so far, replied, 



THE TEST. 221 

" General, I was wrong ; I have, perhaps, been wanting in respect. 
Excuse me, but " 

" I excuse you, but desire you will leave me alone," replied the 
marechal, containing himself with difficulty. 

" One word, general ! " 

" I request you as a favour to leave me alone ; I require it as a 
service at your hands. Will that suffice ? " said the marechal, redoub- 
ling his efforts to contain himself. And a ghastly paleness succeeded 
the deep red which, during this painful scene, had inflamed the mare- 
chars features. Dagobert, alarmed at this symptom, renewed his 
entreaties. 

" I entreat you, general," he said, in an agitated voice, " allow me 
for a moment to " 

" Since you will have it so, I will quit the room, sir," said the 
marechal, advancing towards the door. 

These words were uttered in such an accent that Dagobert dared 
persist no longer, but bowed his head in grief and despair, looked 
again for a moment at the marechal in silence, and with a supplicating 
air ; but at another impatient gesture which the father of Rose and 

Blanche could hardly repress, the soldier slowly left the apartment. 

* * * # * # # 

But a few minutes had elapsed since Dagobert's departure when 
the marechal, who, after a deep and gloomy silence, had several times 
approached the door of his daughters' apartment with hesitation filled 
with anguish, made a violent effort with himself, wiped the perspiration 
which streamed upon his brow, endeavoured to conceal his agitation, 
and entered the room to which Rose and Blanche had retreated. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE TEST. 

DAGOBERT was perfectly right to defend his children, as he pateinally 
styled Rose and Blanche, and yet the coldness and indifference with 
which the marechal reproached his daughters were unfortunately but 
too much borne out by appearances. As he had told his father, being 
utterly unable to explain the cause of the timid embarrassment, the 
shrinking dread, his children seemed to experience in his presence, he 
at last ascribed it to the coldness of their feelings towards himself. At 
times he bitterly reproached himself with not having been able to con- 
ceal from them the severe grief their mother's death had occasioned 
him, allowing them to infer thereby that they were insufficient to con- 
sole him ; and, again the fear would come across him of not having 
manifested an affection sufficiently warm and tender to replace the 
parent they had lost. At other times he dreaded lest his soldierlike 
roughness had alarmed and discouraged them. And then he would 
persuade himself with a bitter pang, that having always lived away 
from him, they looked upon their father almost as a stranger. In a 
word, the most improbable and unfounded suspicions presented them- 



222 THE WANDERING JEW. 

selves to his mind in endless variety, and so soon as the seeds of 
doubt, distrust, or fear, have insinuated themselves into an affection, 
the fatal fruits will not be long in manifesting themselves. And yet, 
spite of the coldness which so deeply pained him, so intense was the 
marechal's affection for his daughters, that the idea of again quitting 
them caused him the bitterest agony, and occasioned a continual 
struggle between his feelings as a father and what he looked upon as a 
sacred and imperative duty. 

As for the various slanderous reports, so skilfully circulated respect- 
ing the marechal that many even of his most honourable-minded 
friends and old military companions gave some credit to them, they 
were industriously propagated by the allies of the Princess de Saint- 
Dizier with most fatal and fiendish success. The aim and import of 
these vile rumours will be seen hereafter ; but their present effect on 
the sensitive mind of the marechal, already writhing under so many deep 
sources of grief, was to drive him almost to a state of madness. 

Carried away by passion, and driven almost to desperation by the 
continual goadings and torture he experienced at the hands of his 
unseen enemies, and still further irritated by Dagobert's words, he had 
driven him from his presence. But, after the old man had quitted 
him, the marechal, left to solitude and reflection, could not avoid 
recalling the warmth and self-conviction with which the soldier had 
vindicated his daughters, and a doubt stole over his mind as to the 
reality of the frigidity and indifference of which he had accused them. 
He determined, therefore, to test the matter at once ; and, having 
taken a fearful resolution in the event of his distracting doubts being 
confirmed, entered, as before stated, into his daughters' apartment 

So loud and angry had been the discussion with Dagobert, that 
the sound of their voices had reached the ears of the sisters, who had 
quitted their sitting-room to avoid overhearing the conversation of 
their father, and sought refuge in their bed-chamber their pale and 
anxious countenances evincing the terror they experienced. At the 
sight of the marechal, whose features also bore the marks of extreme 
agitation, the sisters rose from their seat, and respectfully welcoming 
their parent, remained clinging to each other in trembling suspense. 

And yet neither anger nor seventy were indicated by the expression 
of the marechal's features. On the contrary, they were marked by a 
deep and almost supplicating sorrow, a look that seemed to implore 
their sympathising affection. It was as if he had said, 

" My children, I am wretched, and I come to you for comfort. 
I cannot live without the solace of your love and tenderness." 

And so clearly were these words impressed on the speaking 
countenance of the marechal, that after the orphans had conquered 
their first fear, they were about to throw themselves into his arms ; 
but recalling the conduct recommended in the anonymous letter in 
which they were assured that every display of affection on their part 
added to their father's sufferings, they exchanged a mournful glance 
with each other and restrained themselves from an act calculated to 
cause additional pain to their beloved parent. 

And by a cruel coincidence the marechal also pined to clasp his child- 
ren to his heart that noble heart smarting under so many stings their 
innocent love alone could cure. His eye rested on them with doating 



THE TEST. 223 

fondness, and he was even about to call them to him, not daring to enfold 
them in his arms for fear of exciting that timidity and embarrassment 
with which they seemed so oppressed when in his presence ; but the hap- 
less girls, terrified by the fiendlike advice they had received, made no 
responsive movement but continued to stand silent and trembling 
before him. 

A bitter pang shot through the heart of the marechal at this ap- 
parent insensibility, all doubt was at an end, and it was but too manifest 
that his daughters could neither comprehend his terrible grief nor his 
despairing tenderness. 

" Still, still cold and immovable," said he mentally. " Alas, then 
I was not mistaken ! " 

But anxious to conceal the misery he endured he advanced towards 
his daughters, and in a voice he struggled hard to render calm and 
composed, said, 

" Good day, my children." 

" The same to you, papa," replied Rose, less timid than her sister. 

" I was unable to see you all yesterday," continued the marechal, 
in an unsteady voice, " I was so 'deeply engaged, and with affairs of 
such deep importance, that I had no means of escaping from them 
matters relative to my military duties; but you are not angry with me 
for having thus neglected you, I hope ? " said the marechal, trying to 
smile, not venturing to tell them that, after the violence and excite- 
ment of the preceding night, he had sought to tranquillise his jarred 
and harassed feelings by gazing on them as they slept. " Tell me," 
repeated he, " will you not forgive me for this seeming neglect on my 
part?" 

" Certainly, dear papa," said Blanche, timidly, and casting down 
her eyes as she spoke. 

"And if," said the marechal, speaking slowly and distinctly, "I 
were obliged to leave you for a time, you would also excuse me, and 
try to reconcile yourselves to my absence, would you not ? " 

" We should be very sorry, indeed, if you put yourself to the 
smallest inconvenience on our account," replied Rose, as she remem- 
bered that the anonymous letters continually referred to the sacrifices 
their presence compelled their father to make. 

At this reply, uttered with as much embarrassment as timidity, but 
which the marechal construed into genuine and unaffected indifference, 
the unhappy father ceased to hope for comfort from the affection of 
his children who evidently felt nothing for him beyond cold respect 
and frigid duty. 

" It is finished ! " thought the miserable parent, as he contemplated 
his children, they have no feeling of affection in common with myself. 
Whether I go or stay, it matters not to them. No, no, they love me 
not; since, even in this awful moment in which, perhaps, I behold 
them for the last time, no warning instinct whispers to them that their 
tenderness would save me. 

While these painful reflections passed through the mind of the 
marechal he still kept tenderly gazing on his daughters, and his manly 
features assumed an expression at once so touching and yet distracting, 
his eyes revealed so plainly and mournfully the anguish and despair 
that lay heavy at his heart, that Rose and Blanche, thoroughly over- 



-'iM THE WANDERING JEW. 

come, terrified by tlic mute appeal of their father, forgot all their 
caution and pre-determination, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse of 
spontaneous tenderness, threw their arms around their father's neck, 
and covered him with tears and kisses. 

Neither Mareehal Simon nor his daughters had uttered a word, yet 
all three understood each other. Their hearts, as though touched by an 
electric shock, had mingled as it were into one. 

Vain fears, false doubts, deceitful counsels, all had given way 
before the burst of genuine affection which threw the daughters into 
their father's arms, and infused faith and confidence into their hearts 
at the very moment when a fatal mistrust was about to separate them 
for ver. 

All these thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the rnarechal, 
but he found no words to give them utterance. Breathless with 
wonder and delight, the overjoyed father smothered the face, hand?, 
and hair of his beloved children with his kisses by turns, weeping over 
them, smiling, sighing, and betraying an ecstasy of happiness that 
bordered on delirium ; at length he exclaimed, 

"I have found them again but, no, no, I have never lost them! 
They have always loved me, I feel assured of it, but durst not tell me 
so. I have been too grave too severe for their timid natures. I 
have repressed the utterance of their tenderness by my gloom and 

reserve. And to think, too, that I should imagine but it is all my 

fault. Merciful God, I thank Thee for this blessing which seems to 
bring with it increase of strength, courage, resolution, and hope. Ha, 
ha, ha ! " exclaimed he, laughing and weeping at the same time, as he 
again and again pressed his children to his heart ; " let them come 
now and mock me, despise and harass me. I defy them all, ay, and 
the whole world, too, to render me again unhappy. Look at me, my 
beloved ones, and let the sight of those dear eyes speak peace and 
happiness to my soul?" 

" Dear, dear father," cried Rose, with enchanting innocence, 
" then you do love us as much as we love you 't " 

" And now you will always allow us to throw our arms about 
your neck, embrace you, and tell you how delighted we are to be 
with you 't " 

" And to display to our dearest father all the tenderness we have 
been hoarding up in our hearts, when our only grief, alas, consisted in 
being unable to exhibit it." 

" And you will give us your permission to speak all our thoughts 
aloud ? " 

" Yes, yes, beloved children," answered Marechal Simon, almost 
beside himself with joy, " who or what shall prevent you from pouring 
out all the treasures of your young hearts to a parent who can never 
sufficiently testify his love for you? who has hitherto denied us all that 
delight? But, no, no; do not reply; I know, I understand quite well 
how all has happened. Enough, however, of the past, I see plainly 
enough that my absent and preoccupied manner has been too much 
for your young ideas to comprehend, and, naturally enough, you have 
explained it after your own belief of its cause, and it has grieved you 
and rendered you sad ; while, on my side, I have been equally pained 
at your dejection, which I mistook for But, upon my word, I 




CONPIDBNCE RESTORED. 
Vol. III. P. MS. 



London: Chapman ami Hall. February I ft. 



THE TEST. 225 

seem unconscious of what I am saying, and to have no other 
thought but of looking at you till my brain grows dizzy with excess 
of joy." 

" Dear, kind papa," cried the delighted girls, " look well into our 
eyes, that you may read there all the love with which our hearts are 
filled for you." 

" And besides that, dearest papa," added Blanche, sweetly, " you 
will see written there happiness unfailing for ourselves, and love 
unchangeable for you. Give me your hand," continued she, taking 
the hand of her father, and pressing it to her heart. 

"And me, too, dear father," cried Rose, taking the marechal's 
other hand. 

" Now, then," said both sisters, " do you believe in the love and 
happiness we told you of?" 

It is impossible to describe the look of almost heavenly brightness 
and filial pride with which the sweet girls regarded their parent, as 
he placed his brave hands, according to their directions, and felt the 
eager throb of their youthful hearts, beating high with joy and hope. 

" Ah, yes ! " exclaimed the marechal ; " happiness and tenderness 
are alone capable of causing pulsations such as these." 

A sort of heavy, hoarse sigh proceeding from the chamber-door, 
which had been left open, made the happy girls raise their heads from 
their father's shoulder, while all three directed their looks to the spot 
from whence the sound arose ; there they perceived the tall figure of 
Dagobert, by whose side stood Kill-joy, rubbing his black nose against 
the knees of the old soldier. 

Wiping his eyes with his blue checked handkerchief, the old man 
stood stiff and motionless as if on parade. Then struggling between 
the emotion he tried to subdue, and the choking in his throat caused 
by the tears he obliged himself to swallow, significantly shaking 
his head, he managed to say to the marechal in a harsh, guttural, 
sobbing kind of voice, 

" Well, I said so ! I told you so -did'nt I ? " 

" Hush !" replied the marechal, with an expressive smile; "you 
were a better father than myself, my worthy friend, but come and 
embrace my dear girls. I am no longer jealous of their affection !" 

So saying, the marechal held out his hand to the soldier, who 
warmly and energetically pressed it, while the sisters threw their arms 
around his neck, and Kill-joy, wishing, according to custom, to have 
his share in the happiness going forward, reared himself on his hind 
legs, and familiarly placed his fore paws on the shoulders of his 
master. 

For a moment the silence was unbroken by a sound; but the 
exquisite felicity enjoyed by the marechal, his daughters, and their 
faithful Dagobert, was suddenly interrupted by a loud barking from 
Kill-joy, who had quitted his two-legged position. 

The happy group parted, looked around them, and beheld the 
stupid countenance of Jocrisse, looking more vacant and silly than 
usual ; the idiotic fellow remained standing staring in the open doorway, 
carrying his eternal wood-basket in one hand, and a large plumcau, 
or feather brush in the other. 

70 Q 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

Nothing is more exhilarating than happiness. Thus, though his 
appearance just then was any thing but opportune or agreeable, the 
sight of this grotesque figure, with the fixed stolidity of his gaze, 
drew a peal of gay, joyous laughter from the bright rosy lips of the 
sisters. 

The very circumstance of Jocrisse having brought back to the so- 
long-dejected girls those mirthful smiles and vivacious spirits which 
had once been so natural to them, was quite sufficient to claim for 
him the indulgence of the nuirechal, who accordingly said, in a kind, 
encouraging manner, 

" What do you want, my good fellow ? " 

" M. le Due," replied Jocrisse, with an awkward bow, and drop- 
ping his plumeau, in a forcible attempt to cover his breast with his 
hand, " I hope you do not think it is me." 

The laughter of the light-hearted girls broke out again with 
redoubled vehemence. 

" Who the deuce is it, then, if not you?" inquired the marechal. 

" Come here, Kill-joy ! " cried Dagobert, for the sagacious brute 
seemed to entertain a secret presentiment concerning the supposed 
simpleton, not exactly to his advantage, and was drawing close to him 
with a more than suspicious air. 

"No, M. le Due," replied Jocrisse, "it is not me I mean my 
fault I took the liberty to come; but because the valet de chambre . 
told me to tell M. Dagobert, when I come up with wood, to tell you, 
M. le Due as I was bringing up a basketful that M. Robert wanted 
to speak to you." 

At this ridiculous piece of oratory on the part of Jocrisse, and the 
sight of his great staring, rolling eyes, and bewildered-looking coun- 
tenance, the two girls again indulged their mirthful propensities, and 
fresh bursts of laughter welcomed its delivery. But the marechal 
joined not in their hilarity ; on the contrary, he started with a painful 
recollection as the name of M. Robert met his ear. 

This individual was the secret emissary of Rodin, as regarded the 
possible, though somewhat adventurous scheme in agitation for endea- 
vouring to carry off the young prince, Napoleon II. 

After a brief pause, the marechal, whose countenance was still 
radiant with joy and happiness, said to Jocrisse, 

" Beg of M. Robert to wait a moment below in my study." 

" Yes, M. le Due I" replied Jocrisse, bowing till his head touched 
the ground. " I will, M. le Due I " 

As soon as the idiot had quitted the chamber, the marechal said to 
his daughters, in a joyful tone, 

" This is not a day, or a moment to leave you, my sweet children 
even for M. Robert." 

" Oh, so much the better, dear papa," cried Blanche, gaily, " for, to 
tell you the truth, that M. Robert is no favourite of mine as it is." 

Have you writing materials at hand ?" inquired the marechal. 

" Oh, yes, dear papa," answered Rose, quickly, pointing to a small 
writing-table placed beside one of the windows, to which the marechal 
hastily walked ; " you will find every thing there, arranged all ready, as 
though prepared purposely for you." 



THE TEST. 227 

And then the two sisters, who had considerately forborne to in- 
terrupt or follow their father, but remained standing by the fireside, 
tenderly and lovingly embraced each other, rejoicing, with all the 
delight of their young and innocent hearts, in this day's unexpected 
happiness. 

The marechal, meanwhile, seated himself before the writing-table 
of his daughters, and beckoned to Dagobert to approach him. 

While rapidly tracing, with a firm hand, some few words on the 
paper, he said smilingly to Dagobert, but in so low a tone, that his 
daughters were unable to hear him, 

" Do you know what I had almost resolved on before entering here 
a little while ago?" 

" No, general ! tell me yourself 1" 

" To blow out my brains I and it is to my children I owe the 
relinquishing my fatal intention." 

The marechal then resumed his writing. 

Dagobert could not refrain from a sudden start, as this fearful con- 
firmation of his worst fears reached him from the marechal's own lips : 
but that passed away, and he replied, 

" You could not have done so with your own pistols at any rate, 
general. I had guarded against that by taking off the caps !" 

The marechal turned quickly towards him, and looked at the old 
soldier with an air of surprise. The latter, however, bore the scrutiny 
unmoved, but, merely giving a confirmatory nod of the head, said, 

" Never mind, that's all done with ! Thank God those dreadful 
thoughts are for ever ended ! " 

The marechal's only answer was to point to his children with a 
look of ineffable tenderness and joyful exultation ; then sealing the 
brief note he had just written, he gave it to the soldier, saying, 

" Carry that to M. Robert, and say I will see him to-morrow." 

Dagobert took the letter and departed. 

Then the marechal, returning to his daughters, and extending 
his arms, said gaily, 

" Come, young ladies, I claim one of your best kisses for having 
sacrificed that poor M. Robert to you. Now, then, I am waiting to be 
paid !" 

Rose and Blanche threw themselves on their father's neck. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

At almost the same instant that these things were passing at Paris, 
two strange travellers, though separated from each other, exchanged 
through space and distance their mysterious thoughts. 



228 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER XL. 

THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OP SAINT JOHN THE DECAPITATED. 

THE sun is declining. 

At the extremity of an immense forest of pines, in the depths of a 
gloomy solitude, are the ruins of an abbey formerly dedicated to Saint 
John the Decapitated. 

Ivy, parasitical plants, and moss, cover almost entirely the stones 
blackened with age ; several ruined arches, some walls pierced with 
Gothic windows, remain standing, and are defined against the dark 
curtain of the dense woods. 

Elevated above this mass of ruins, and on a mutilated pedestal half 
hidden by creeping plants, a colossal stone statue, dilapidated here and 
there, remained standing. 

The statue is remarkable awe-inspiring. 

It represents a man beheaded. Clothed in an antique toga, it holds 
a dish in its hands. In this dish is a head ; this head is his own. 

It is the statue of Saint John the Martyr put to death by order of 
Herodias. 

There is a solemn silence. From time to time is heard but the 
dull rustling of the branches of the enormous pine-trees shaken by the 
breeze. 

Copper-coloured clouds, reddened by the setting sun, sail slowly 
above the high forest, and arc reflected in the current of a small stream 
of sparkling water, which, crossing the ruins of the abbey, derives its 
source from the midst of a mass of rocks at a distance. 

The water flows, the clouds pass on, the aged trees shake, the wind 
sighs. 

Suddenly across the shadow formed by the high tops of this en* 
closure, whose innumerable trunks are lost in the vast depths, there 
appears a human form. 

It is a female. 

She advances slowly towards the ruins reaches them. ; she tram- 
ples on what was once holy ground. 

She is pale, her look is sad, her long gown floats in the wind, her 
feet are covered with dust ; her step is painful, faltering. 

A block of stone is placed on the border of the stream, nearly 
underneath the statue of Saint John the Decapitated. 

On this stone this woman sinks exhausted, breathless with fatigue. 

Yet for many days, many years, many ages, she walks onwards 
onwards unceasingly. 



ABBEY OF SAINT JOHN THE DECAPITATED. 229 

But, for the first time, she feels an insuperable lassitude. 

For the first time her feet are wearied. 

For the first time she who crossed with equal careless and certain 
step the moving lava of the torrid, deserts, whilst whole caravans were 
swallowed up beneath the waves of burning sand, 

She who with firm and heedless foot trampled on the eternal snows 
of the northern regions, icy solitudes in which no human being could 
exist, 

She who was spared by the devouring flames of fire, and the im- 
petuous waters of the torrent, 

She, in fine, who for so many centuries had nothing in common 
with humanity she now, for the first time, experienced mortal agony. 

Her feet were bleeding, her limbs bruised with fatigue a devour- 
ing thirst consumes her. 

She feels these infirmities, suffers under them, and yet dares 
scarcely believe it. 

Her joy would be too overpowering. 

But her throat, more and more parched, is contracted it is on 
fire. She sees the spring, and goes hastily on her knees to quench 
her thirst at this crystalline current, clear and bright as a mirror. 

What then passes ? 

Scarcely have her parching lips touched the pure and fresh water, 
than, still on her knees on the bank of this stream, and leaning on her 
two hands, this woman suddenly ceases to drink, and looks intently in 
the limpid brook. 

Suddenly forgetting the thirst which still devours her, she utters a 
loud cry a cry of deep, vast, religious joy as a token of thanksgiving 
towards the Lord. 

In this deep mirror she sees that she has grown older. 

In some days, in some hours, in some minutes at this very mo- 
ment, perchance she has attained the maturity of her age. 

She who for more than eighteen centuries was only twenty years of 
age, and dragged through worlds and generations this imperishable 
youth, 

She had grown old. She might then hope for death. 

Each minute of her existence she approached the tomb. 

Transported at this ineffable hope, she rises suddenly, raises her 
head to heaven, and clasps her hands in an attitude of fervent prayer. 

Then her eyes rest on the large stone statue representing Saint 
John the Decapitated. 

The head, which the Martyr bears in his hands, seems through its 
granite eyelid, half-closed by death, to cast on the Wandering Jewess 
a look of commiseration and pity. 



230 THE WANDERING JEW. 

And it is she Herodias who, in the cruel excitement of a heathen 
festival, demanded the death of this saint ! 

And it is at the foot of the image of the Martyr that, for the first 
time for long ages, the immortality which weighed Herodias down 
seems to be alleviated. 

" Ah, impenetrable mystery ! ah, divine hope ! " she exclaims, 
" the heavenly wrath is at length appeased ! The hand of the Lord 
leads me to the feet of this holy martyr ; it is at his feet that I begin 
to be a human creature. It is to avenge his death that the Lord had 
condemned me to an eternal journeying. 

" Oh, Mon Dieu ! grant that not only I may be pardoned ! He, 
the artisan, who, like me, the king's daughter, journeys onwards for 
ages, may he, like me, hope to attain the limit of his eternal course ! 

"Where is he, Lord where is he? The power you gave 
me to see him through space, have you withdrawn it ? Oh, at this 
moment, restore to me, O Lord, this divine gift ; for, in proportion as 
I feel these human infirmities, which I bless as the end of my eternity 
of ills, nay sight loses the power of penetrating the immensity, my ear 
the power of hearing the wandering man from one end of the world to 
the other." 

Night had come dark, stormy. 

The wind had risen amidst the gloomy pine-forest. 

Behind their black summits the silver disc of the moon began to 
rise slowly through the dark clouds. 

Perhaps the invocation of the Wandering Jewess was heard. 

Suddenly her eyes closed, her hands clasped together, and she 
remained kneeling in the midst of ruins, motionless as a statue amongst 
tombs. 

And then she had a strange vision ! 



CHAPTER XLI. 

THE CALVARY. 

This is the vision of Herodias. 

On the summit of a high mountain, bare, rugged, and precipitous, 
is a Calvary. 

The sun is declining as it was declining when the Jewess had 



THE CALVARY. 281 

dragged herself, exhausted with fatigue, to the ruins of Saint John 
the Decapitated. 

The Lord crucified on the Cross ; the hill and plain, arid, bound- 
less : the figure of Christ on the Cross seems white and pale against 
the blue-black clouds which obscure the face of heaven, and become 
of a deep violet hue as they lower in the horizon. 

In the horizon where the setting sun has left long trains of lurid 
light red as blood. 

As far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on this 
gloomy desert, covered with sand and flint, like the time-exhausted 
bed of some dried-up ocean. 

The silence of death reigns over this desolate country. 

Sometimes gigantic black vultures with their bare and fleshy 
necks, their yellow and bright eyes pausing in their flight in the midst 
of these solitudes, come hither to feed on the bleeding prey which 
they have carried off from a country less savage. 

How comes it that this Calvary, this place of prayers, has been 
constructed so far from the abode of men ? 

This Calvary was raised at great cost by a repentant sinner. He had 
done great injury to his fellow-men, and to deserve pardon for his 
crimes, he climbed up this mountain on his knees, and became an 
anchorite ; he lived until his death at the foot of this cross, scarcely 
sheltered by a thatched roof open to the wind on all sides. 

The sun is still sinking ; the sky becomes more and more sombre ; 
the luminous rays of the horizon, formerly purple, gradually become 
obscured, like bars of iron, of iron heated in the fire, the heat of 
which gradually expires. 

Suddenly, there is heard behind one of the extremities of the 
Calvary opposite to the west, the noise of several stones which are 
detached, and fall rolling to the base of the mountain. 

The step of a traveller, who, after having traversed the plain, 
has been for a weary hour climbing this steep ascent, has caused the 
stones to roll away. 

This traveller does not yet appear, but his slow, equal, and firm 
tread is heard ; at length he attains the summit of the mountain, and 
his tall form is visible against the stormy sky. 

This traveller is as pale as the Christ on the Cross; on his 
broad forehead, from one temple to the other, a black line extends 
itself. 

It is the artisan of Jerusalem ! 

The artisan rendered unfeeling by misery, injustice, and oppression ; 
he who, without pity for the sufferings of the Divine Man bearing 
his cross, had repulsed him from his dwelling, exclaiming, fiercely, 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

" ONWARDS ONWARDS ONWARDS!" 

And since that day an avenging God has said in his turn to the 
artisan of Jerusalem, 

" ONWARDS ONWARDS ONWARDS !" 

And he has gone onwards eternally onwards ! 

Not confining His vengeance to this, the Lord has been pleased 
sometimes to affix death to the steps of the wandering man, and 
countless graves have been the mile-stones of his homicidal progress 
across worlds. 

And to the wandering man they were days of rest to his infinite 
pain when the invisible hand of the Lord thrust him into deep 
solitudes such as the desert in which he now dragged his footsteps, 
for as he'crossed this desolate plain he did not again hear the fune- 
real knell of the dead, which for ever for ever sounded behind 
him in populated lands. 

All day, and every day, and at this instant plunged in the dark 
abyss of his thoughts, following his fatal route, going whithersoever 
the invisible hand urged him, his head stooping on his breast, his 
eyes fastened on the ground, the wandering man had traversed the 
plain, ascended the mountain without looking towards heaven, with- 
out looking at the Calvary without seeing the Christ on the Cross. 

The wandering man was thinking of the last descendants of his 
race, he felt, in the desolation of his heart, that great perils still 
menaced them. 

And in bitter despair, profound as the ocean, the artisan of 
Jerusalem sat down at the foot of the Calvary. At this moment, a 
last ray of the sun piercing in the horizon the gloomy pile of clouds, 
threw on the crest of the mountains, on the Calvary, a burning light, 
like the reflection of a conflagration. 

The Jew placed his hand upon his reclining brow ; his long hair, 
agitated by the evening breeze, covered his pale face, when, throwing 
aside his hair from his face, he started with surprise; he who was no 
longer astonished at any thing. 

With an anxious look he gazed on the long tress of hair which 
he held in his hand. His locks, lately as black as midnight, had 
become grey. 

He too, like Herodias, had become older. The progress of his 
years, arrested for eighteen centuries, had again moved forwards. He, 
too, as well as the Wandering Jewess, might now hope for the grave. 

Throwing himself on his knees, he extended his hands, his face 
to Heaven, to ask of God an explanation of the mystery which filled 
him with such joyful hope. 

Then, for the first time, his eyes rested on the Christ on the Cross. 



THE CALVARY. 

which was on the Calvary, just as the Wandering Jewess had fixed her 
gaze on the granite eyelid of the holy martyr. 

The Christ, with the head bowed beneath the weight of his crown 
of thorns, seemed from the height- of his cross to contemplate with 
mercy and forgiveness the artisan whom he had cursed so many ages 
ago, and who, on his knees, leaning back in an attitude of fear and 
prayer extended towards him his suppliant hands. 

" Oh ! Christ !" exclaimed the Jew, " the avenging arm of the 
Lord leads me to this foot of the cross so burdensome, which thou, 
broken down with sufferings, bearedst. Oh, Christ! when thou wouldest 
stop to repose at the threshold of my poor abode, and in my pitiless 
brutality I repulsed thee, saying, Onwards! onwards! and now, 
after my wandering life I find myself before this cross ; and now, at 
length, my hair becomes grey. O Christ! in Thy divine goodness hast 
Thou pardoned me ? Have I, then, attained the end of my eternal 
course ? Doth Thy celestial clemency at length grant me that rest of 
the grave which hitherto alas ! has continually fled from me ? Oh, if 
Thy clemency descends on me, may it also descend on the woman, 
whose punishment is equal to my own ! Protect, also, the last descend- 
ants of my race! What will be their destiny? Lord, already, one of 
them, the only one of all whom misfortune has corrupted, has dis- 
appeared from this earth. Is it for this that my hair has grown 
grey ? W'ill my crime never be expiated until not one of the descend- 
ants of our doomed family survives ? Or does this proof of Thy all- 
powerful goodness, oh Lord ! which restores me to humanity, announce 
Thy clemency, and the happiness of my descendants ? Will they at 
length come out triumphantly from the perils which threaten them? 
Will they be enabled to accomplish all the good with which their 
ancestor desired to benefit humanity to merit their pardon and my 
own ? or, indeed, inexorably condemned by Thee, O Lord ! as the 
accursed scions of my accursed race, must they expiate their original 
offence and my crime ? 

" Oh ! say, say, oh Lord I shall I be pardoned with them, or shall 
they be punished with me ?" 



In vain had the twilight given place to the dark and stormy night ; 
the Jew still prayed, fervently kneeling at the foot of the Calvary'. 



234 THE WANDERING JEW. 



CHAPTER XLII. 



ROMANCE is usually inspired by the observation of manners which 
it reproduces, in the infinite variety of their most prominent aspects, 
their most delicate shades : it is also inspired by the study of mankind, 
and has unveiled to us very frequently the most hidden springs of its 
multiplied and impassioned nature. But M. Eugene Sue has opened 
for it fresh horizons. Since the appearance of the Mysteries of Paris, 
romance is replete with the spectacle of the general phenomena of 
social life ; romance seeks to study its laws and notes down its dis- 
orders and fearful iniquities. 

We do not know in France any who have preceded M. Eugene 
Sue in the wide and progressive path in which he advances. Before 
him, no doubt, writers of every degree, struck with the varieties, the 
follies, and the vices of the society of their age, allowed themselves to 
laugh at them in their works which we will call romances, if you please, 
for want of a more exact name : thus did Rabelais in Gargantua, 
Montesquieu in the Lettres Persannes, and many others beside, whom 
we could quote. But whatever was the genius of the majority of these 
writers, this was the comedy of manners generalised, and not social 
criticism properly so called. It is true, that M. Sue has been re- 
proached with having taken up Utopianisms as his starting points, and 
urged their application as urgent reforms incumbent on society. The 
best reply to such a reproach is to appeal to history. 

Thomas Morus, Harrington, Campanella, have written, under the 
form of philosophy, social romances, which are called Utopia, Oceana, 
The City of the Sun, and many of the schemes of their books are 
found, without any one being surprised, rightly and fitly realised in 
our day. 

The Mysteries of Paris and the Wandering Jew are animated by 
a spirit of social philosophy which, to be properly understood, requires 
a more serious attention than that which is usually accorded to literary 
fancies. 

Awaiting the time when the second of these two works shall be com- 
plete, we purpose now to sum up the plot and the principal incidents 
of this great fable of the Wandering Jew, that there may be fewer 
gaps in the reader's memory in perusing the concluding chapters 
of this admirable study. 

It must not be supposed that M. Eugene Sue has had in view in 



RSUM. 235 

this work a simple campaign against the Jesuits. If he has pur- 
sued with the energy of unwearied criticism a corporation of which 
the past ought to put us all completely on our guard as to the future ; 
if he has thrown the strong light of publicity into the most mysterious 
secrecies of the Jesuitical Daedalus, be assured that it was not for the 
simple and sole sake of aiding in the suppression of the Society of 
Jesus. The Jesuits have been for him a means and not an end ; he 
has seized on them because they were at hand, as instances of the pro- 
digies which a concentration of individual forces can effect in one 
determined and unvarying line of action. 

The real problem he has desired to state, a very ancient problem, 
but one that has not grown old, is that of a human fraternity becoming 
more informed by the lights of science. Then, to prove to us that he 
did not aspire to a chimera, to an ideal of impossible and fanciful 
organisation, he has brought out to the light of day the marvellous 
workings of the Jesuitical mechanism, in order that we might antici- 
pate all that the spirit of good could extract from the intelligent com- 
bination of human strength, since the Company of Jesus, in which one 
poet personifies the Spirit of Evil, has been able to acquire such 
enormous power by the single fact of its energy, and, let us add, its 
powerful tendency to unity. 

The Wandering Jew, with its multiplicity of episodes, incidents, 
interests, and facts, is a little world that reflects the great one. As to 
the personages who people it, they are types, and types painted by a 
master hand. Each of them corresponds to some one of the aspects 
of human nature, to one of the characteristic traits of the physiognomy 
of man. 

Let us recall to mind the elements of this drama. They are simple, 
as suits a work of such extent. It is a sustained struggle. On the one side, 
the Society of Jesus, that society powerful even from its endurance and 
the pertinacity of its system, from the self-denial of its associates in the 
accomplishment of their common work, and from the contempt which 
it is enabled to create, when requisite, of all principles which may 
cross its progress. On the other hand, is a family, many of the mem- 
bers of which remain strangers to each other, who defend themselves 
almost always singly, and who, far from concentrating all their strength 
and all their thoughts in the object of their pursuit, are distracted, 
weakened, separated by the passions incidental to those who live in 
the world. They have for an auxiliary, it is true, a kind of provi- 
dential chance ; a fantastic, super-human being appears in the prin- 
cipal portion of the drama and interferes in their favour. But the 
Wandering Jew, their ancestor, in spite of his singular nature, can 
lend them but very feeble succour. He only passes, borne in a whirl- 



236 THE WANDERING JEW. 

v mil, ill a track marked out by the hand of Heaven. He is frequently 
far from the oppressed family at the moment when it has the greatest 
need of his aid. 

The aim of this unequal struggle, in which one of the parties only 
defends itself, is the acquisition of an immense inheritance left to all 
his race by the Marquis de Rennepont in 1682. A victim of the times, 
from the manceuvres by which the Society of Jesus has seized on all 
his wealth, M. de Rennepont but too well understood the invincible 
power of this association. He desired to unite his descendants in 
order to give them strength, hoping that their association in the love 
of good and the love of their neighbour, would be a striking example 
for the world and a defence for the oppressed. He took care to 
endow them for this end with a really kingly fortune. Fifty thousand 
crowns, escaped from the spoliation of the rest of his property, were 
by him deposited in the hands of the Israelites, who transmitted this 
deposit from generation to generation until the term of one hundred 
and fifty revolving years, that is to say, until the 13th of February, 
1832, the day appointed for the opening of the marquis's will and the 
distribution of the inheritance. 

The depositaries had placed the fifty thousand crowns out at 
interest at five per cent, according to the wishes of the testator. At 
the expiration of the one hundred and fifty years the bequest of the 
Marquis de Rennepont has accumulated to 225,950,000 francs, of 
which 13,775,000 francs is to be deducted for expenses, leaving 
212,175,000 francs (8,487,000/. sterling) to divide amongst the heirs. 

This is a great prize to be contended for. Let us add, that the 
acquiring inheritances is a plague-spot in society which it is very much 
to the purpose and very useful to point out in the midst of those 
associations which France possesses. This plague is not a fresh 
one. The hunting after legacies was one of the principal occupations 
of the degenerate Greeks and Romans. How many epigrams the 
satirists of other days have flung out against legacy-hunters ! In this 
respect antiquity has nothing to envy modern times, and modern 
times are very far from having allowed these traditions of antiquity to 
perish. 

None will have a right to share in the inheritance of the Marquis 
de Rennepont who is not present in person at the opening of the will 
on the 13th of February, 1832. To recall this obligation to posterity, 
the testator had distributed to each of the members of his family a 
medal, which was to serve at once for claim and memento. 

A few months before the appointed epoch the Rennepont family 
comprised seven representatives holding different positions in the scale 
of society. These were, 



23? 

The Prince Djalma, a young Indian full of generous feelings and 
enthusiasm. He is a type borrowed from the old Asiatic world, and. 
placed with the abrupt right-mindedness of his instincts, but also with 
full possession of his faculties, in contact with our delicacies, our sus- 
ceptibility, and conventional ideas, born in a state of civilisation which 
seems to have effaced every original trace. 

Mademoiselle Adrienne de Cardoville, a noble and independent 
soul, open to all fine sentiments, reflecting all great and good things, 
sensitive but firm, ardent but chaste, a singular compound, but yet 
most admirable, a pagan spirit with a Christian education. 

M. Hardy, of refined taste, with excessive sensitiveness. His 
mother called him the " Sensitive Plant," says the author of the Wan- 
dering Jew, " as he had one of those organisations of a fineness and 
delicacy as exquisite as expansive, as loving as noble and generous, 
but of such tender sensibility, that the least ruffle made them shrink 
and retreat into themselves." 

The Abbe Gabriel is a character resplendent with goodness and 
virtue. He is the personification of that portion of the clergy which 
is, perhaps, not the highest in place, but which practises the greatest 
virtues in a modest rank. Nothing can be more holy and more 
respectable than the character of this young man, who has already 
undergone martyrdom. Whilst painting with warmth so many virtues, 
has not M. Eugene Sue proved that he does not confound the true 
priest with the bad ministers ? and that, in attacking dangerous, im- 
moral, impious doctrines, he has not for a moment misrepresented the 
merit and holiness of Christian morality ? 

Then come the two daughters of Marshal Simon ; two fair and 
blushing flowers reared beneath a foreign sky. Their innocence 
excites respect, their candour creates compassion. 

The last scion of the Marquis de Rennepont is a workman, whose 
name betrays his disorderly habits. Couche-tout-Nu floats between 
the path of labour and dissipation. He inclines to good, but allows 
himself to be attracted towards evil. His heart is good, but his head 
is bad. The weakness of his disposition and the fickleness of his 
imagination render him the easy victim of every calculating, cool 
villain, who may desire to have an influence over his mind. 

In face of this family we have placed the Jesuit Rodin, in whom is 
personified all the skill and all the vices by which the dangerous com- 1 
pany of the sons of Loyola are distinguished in history. Diabolical 
ambition, learned hypocrisy, obstinate constancy, due perhaps to the 
feeling of strength and vitality of the Order, indifference as to the 
means always sanctified by the end, in fine, the infinite resources 
and marvellous clearness of a mind continually devoted to the pur- 



238 THE WANDERING JEW. 

suit of one design : such are the principal features of Rodin's 
character. 

The Company had prepared long since the plot which was to ac- 
quire for them the inheritance of M. de Rennepont. Its first care was 
to obtain an heir who would cede his rights to the Company. Thus 
Gabriel was ensnared in the nets of the Society of Jesus. He pro- 
nounced his vows, by virtue of which all the property that might fall 
to him would become the acquisition of the community of which he 
forms a portion. All the efforts of the Jesuits then tended to separate 
and keep away the other heirs, in order that Gabriel might accomplish 
singly the clause of the will, which requires the presence of the de- 
scendant of the Marquis de Rennepont on the 13th of February, 1832, 
in the house of the Rue Saint-Francois. 

Pere d'Aigrigny, an ancient tmigre, formerly a colonel, and now 
a Jesuit, was at first charged with the conduct of this affair. This man 
is far from having the superiority of Rodin. The material modes, the 
forcible acts, the vulgar use of strength, are the levers he employs 
against the Renneponts. 

Djalma is still in India. The young daughters of Marshal Simon 
have quitted Siberia under the care of an old soldier of the old 
imperial guard, named Baudoin, to whom an adventure, as brave as 
burlesque, has given the name of Dagobert ; but they have not yet 
crossed the frontier of Germany. It is necessary to prevent the prince 
from setting out, and the young orphans from arriving. All three are 
to be taken to prison by skilful measures, which will make the prince 
appear as a member of the redoubtable association of Indian Stranglers, 
and which, by depriving Dagobert and his pupils of their papers, and 
exciting the old soldier to commit an act of legitimate anger, will 
deliver them into the hands of the burgomaster as turbulent and vaga- 
bond. And the author describes, in passing, the prodigies of Indian 
nature, the mysteries of its ancient civilisation ; he conducts us to the 
dens of wild beasts, and sketches their tamer a hundred times more 
hideous than the brutes he tames. 

In France personal violences present more difficulties and dangers. 
But the laws intended to protect society become in the hands of the 
Jesuits the most fearful weapon which can be made use of. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville possesses in a very high degree the 
taste which all right minds have for moral and physical beauty. She 
has about her servants elegantly clad, she unites in her apartments all 
the marvels of luxury, which are purposely made to pass as insanity. 
Then, too strong in her virtue, and yielding to an extreme feeling of 
independence, she often leaps over the reserves which our customs 
impose on a young lady. She disdains the patronage of her aunt, the 



RESUM& 239 

Princess de Saint-Dizier, an ambitious, jealous woman affiliated with 
the Society of Jesus. Is it not easy to pass her oft* as lunatic ? The 
physician, Baleinier, another Jesuit, has acquired Adrienne's con- 
fidence, and undertakes to effect this. 

One of the most touching and real episodes in the romance is that 
in which Mademoiselle de Cardoville, confined by stratagem in a 
wretched lunatic asylum, handed over to the repulsive attentions of 
sordid and coarse women, alarmed by the horrid cries which madness 
utters in this horrible house, feels her reason troubled gradually, and 
begins to believe that she is really mad, and that Dr. Baleinier has 
told the truth. 

Besides other means frequently employed by the legacy-hunters is 
that of shutting up legitimate heirs under a pretext of madness. The 
difference between sanity and insanity is not always easy to decide 
upon. There are very few persons who have not furnished their 
family, once in their lives, with a pretext for shutting them up in 
Bedlam. 

The Company of Jesus has now no other rivals than M. Hardy 
and Couche-tout-Nu, the workman. This latter is not very redoubt- 
able. They lend him money, which he spends in feasts and orgies ; 
the day of payment arrives, and he is cast in prison for debt. As to 
the skilful and enlightened manufacturer, he is not caught in such 
coarse snares. His heart is assailed. A very dear friend, the secret 
instrument of the Jesuits, summons him to his aid some days before 
the 13th of February. M. Hardy goes, forgetting all for the service 
of a man who betrays him. 

The Company, then, has reached its aim, per fas et nefas, by 
working out good feelings and bad passions. Vice and virtue are but 
the instruments of ambitious hypocrisy. It is true that Prince Djalma 
has contrived to escape from prison; and the daughters of Marshal 
Simon, with their conductor, have been miraculously freed. All have 
reached Paris in time ; but a powerful narcotic administered to the 
prince on the eve of the 13th of February, has plunged him in a 
leaden slumber, lasting during all the day appointed for reading the 
will. And the marshal's daughters, minors carried off by aid of a 
pious fraud, have been shut up in a convent, in which they were 
occupied with the care of their salvation, until the too tardy law 
should come and set them free, after the 13th of February shall have 
passed away. 

The day arrives, the day of which the Company had never lost 
sight of for a single moment, during a century and a half. The 
walled-up house of the Rue Saint- Francois is at length opened. The 
will has been read : twelve strikes, and Gabriel is the only heir who is 



240 THE WANDERING JEW. 

present. Already the Abbe" Rodin has seized on the treasure of the 
Kenneponts, when a female appears in the threshold : it is Herodias, 
the sister of tJie Jew,* like him condemned to wander over the face of 
the whole earth, a symbol, like himself, of that portion of the human 
race M'hich God appears to have disinherited, of those poor creatures 
who, in all parts of the world, drag on a miserable existence, sinking 
beneath the burden of their own miseries, and the wretchedness of 
their isolation and their impotency. 

Herodias discovers a codicil, which postpones for three months 
the distribution of the inheritance, and again puts every thing in 
question. 

Henceforth the part of the Company of Jesus will be more thorny, 
for the heirs of the Rennepont family are aware of their plots. The 
Abbe d'Aigrigny is not competent to this, and Rodin will under- 
take it. As the Abbe d'Aigrigny has done, as Rodin declares, so 
many gross things, great things, coarse things, so many little, puerile, 
secret things will he, Rodin, do. This will be the triumph of mind 
for the Society of Jesus. Rodin will Avork upon the passions if 
need be he will excite them he will become, if possible, the inti- 
mate friend of those whom he seeks to destroy. He will not lay a 
coarse plot for them : the mischief shall come from a third or fourth 
hand. 

To begin, Rodin pretends to attack the Jesuits. He first betrays 
the interests of his Company, the better to serve them afterwards. He 
restores Mademoiselle de Cardoville to liberty ; brings back the 
daughters of Marechal Simon to their father ; gains the friendship and 
confidence of Prince Djalma. Besides, he well sums up his own 
conduct. 

" I have had," he says, " ability sufficient to play the most foolish 
game for six weeks. Such as you see me, 1 have played the amiable 
M ith a grisette ; have talked of progress, humanity, emancipation of 
women, with a young girl of excited imagination. I have talked of 
the great Napoleon Buonapartean idolatry with a silly old soldier; 
I have discoursed of imperial glory, humiliation of France, hope in 
the King of Rome, with a brave man, a marshal of France, who, if he 
has his heart full of admiration for that robber of thrones, who was 
tied by the leg at Saint Helena, has his head as hollow and sonorous 
as a war trumpet. I have done mighty well, i' faith, for I have 
listened to the feelings of love from a young wild tiger." 

* Here is some error : Herodias (chap. xiv. of St. Matthew's Gospel) was the 
wife of Philip, Herod the tetrarch's brother, and neither she, nor her daughter who 
brought the head of John the Baptist to her mother in a charger, could hare been 
sister to the (Wandering) Jew, who was a poor, distressed shoemaker. English 
Trantlalor. 



RSUMK. 241 

With all these puerilities, Rodin obtains immense advantages. In 
fact, if he creates in the hearts of the prince and Mademoiselle de 
Cardovillc reciprocal love, it is in the hope that this double passion 
will produce terrific storms. Already has he sown jealousy between 
the two lovers. It is true that a woman who defends her happiness is 
very strong. Mademoiselle de Cardoville says Rodin has, therefore, 
not succeeded in separating for very long the two lovers who sought 
each other. 

But, in compensation for this check, how much misery and ruin 
has not this Jesuit created with his small means his puerile and secret 
manoeuvres I 

Couche-tout-Nu has died in the midst of an orgy, in a delirium of 
drunkenness ; the Society of Jesus had opened to him a road of foolish 
joys, unrestrained pleasures, debauches of wine and brandy, to lead 
him to the grave. At the moment when he sinks, struck by the 
cholera, even in the very room which had witnessed his last bacchic 
exploits, the pitiless avidity of the Jesuits deals him the last blow by 
revealing to him the dishonour into which they had contrived to 
precipitate the woman he loved. 

M. Hardy had a friendship, that friendship is deceived; he had 
a love, that love is broken ; there remained to him as a last resource 
activity in his affairs, his factory is burnt down. He sinks over- 
whelmed, without strength, into the hands of Rodin, who hands him 
over to D'Aigrigny. The cares and counsels of the reverend fa- 
ther are not slow in making a gangrene of the wound in his heart, 
and rendering it incurable. Henceforth retreat, obscurity, in which 
they weep in silence, and uncontrolled, becomes the sole object of 
M. Hardy's desires. He will abandon all his interests, all his hopes, 
to the good fathers, who so generously console him, and he will 
henceforth ask only for rest until he dies. 

Then those strange calumnies, spread against the Marechal Simon, 
prepare him for the chilling, cutting reception in society, where his 
glorious deeds ought to produce sympathy, if not admiration and 
respect. Anonymous letters create, from time to time, coldness and 
fear between himself and his two daughters. The Company endea- 
vours at the same time to urge the marechal into a Buonapartean 
conspiracy, which would, doubtless, be as soon revealed as plotted, 
and which would thus give the marechal a prison or exile. 

Thus far has Rodin advanced without apparent exertion or direct 
means, but merely profiting by events, or in contriving to produce 
them. However, destiny has served him wonderfully. 

The cholera, that great purveyor of inheritances, has come to his 
71 R 



242 THE WANDERING JEW. 



aid. Amongst all the scenes, so powerfully striking, which this 
scourge has inspired M. Eugene Sue withal, we will only refer to that 
in which the Abb d'Aigrigny, pursued as a poisoner by the excited 
mob to the church of Notre Dame, is saved by the intervention of 
Gabriel. We cannot dwell too strongly on the noble and sublime 
actions performed by this priest, forM. Eugene Sue gives by these, as we 
have already said, the decided lie to those who accuse him of wilfully 
misrepresenting the noble inspiration which a Christian may have in 
giving effect to his belief. 

We will not conclude this faint and ineffective analysis of a work 
full of warmth and life, without adding a few words as to the accessory 
figures whom M. Eugene Sue has grouped around the principal per- 
sonages in his veritable romance. These are, amongst others, 

La Mayeux, a poor hump-backed girl of the lowest class, often 
out of work, and consequently without firing, without bread, almost 
without garments, who undergoes every kind of disgrace with which 
nature and fate overwhelm her with a nobleness and delicacy with 
which a deep and vast sense of duty inspires her. 

Agricola Baudoin, the admirable type of a workman, generous 
and good noble even as the proudest of patricians devoted, brave, 
and intelligent. This type is not purely imaginary ; it is the portrait 
of which the originals are very fortunately numerous. 

Francoise Baudoin, his mother, whose face must always be met 
in a work full of intrigue carried on under the mask of religion, 
Francoise Baudoin is unreservedly under the domination of the Jesuit, 
her confessor. They have profited by her ignorance and credulity 
to lead her on to actions the most reprehensible, and yet making her 
view all as most praiseworthy. It is she who sends Marechal Simon's 
daughters to the convent ; not as the Company of Jesus designs, to 
keep them incarcerated until the day of the reading of the will, but to 
instruct them in the Catholic religion. 

Then we have the Queen-Bacchanal and Rose-Pompon. The 
former is La Mayeux's sister, but as handsome as her younger sister is 
plain, as light as La Mayeux is serious. She becomes the queen of 
public balls and the carnival. Then impelled by misery, and Rodin 
aiding, she falls a step still lower. She expiates her faults by a 
suicide. As to Rose-Pompon, she is as smiling as fair Cephyse, 
as handsome, and not less light. What will be the end of her gri- 
settes life a life cast at random, and passed in all the Chaumieres 
and Hermitages of the Quartier Latin ? This the author has not yet 
told us. 

Finally, we have reached these results. One is dead Couche- 



RES u M. 243 

tout-Nu. The Society of Jesus is substituted also for two others 
Gabriel and Hardy. 

There are only left the two daughters of Marechal Simon, Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville, and Djalnia. They are still struggling. But 
the marechal is already almost hors-de-combat. 

Djalma and Mademoiselle de Cardoville are in full power and 
strength. They love and are reunited. May they escape safe and 
fortunately from the hands of these potent adversaries ! 



PART X. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE COUNCIL. 

THE following scene passes at the Hotel de Saint-Dizier, the day 
after that on which the reconciliation of Marechal Simon and his 
daughters took place. 

The princess was listening to Rodin with the most profound atten- 
tion. The reverend pere was, according to his usual habit, standing 
up and leaning against the mantel-piece, with his hands in the hind 
pocket of his old brown coat : his large shoes, covered with mud, had 
left their print on the Turkey carpet which was in front of the fire- 
place. A deep satisfaction was visible in the cadaverous counte- 
nance of the Jesuit. 

Madame de Saint-Dizier, dressed with a sort of discreet coquettish- 
ness, which beseems a mother of the Church, never took her eyes off 
Rodin, who had completely supplanted Pere d'Aigrigny in the mind 
of the devotee. The phlegm, audacity, keen intelligence, and the 
rude and despotic disposition of the ex-socius, imposed on this haughty 
dame, subjugating and inspiring her with an admiration that was sin- 
cere, almost with a liking ; and even the cynic personal neglect, the 
repartee of this almost brutal priest, pleased her, and was a kind of 
coarse relish, which she preferred to the exquisite manners and per- 
fumed elegance of the handsome Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" Yes, madame," said Rodin, in atone impressed with conviction yet 
guarded, for these worthies do not unmask themselves even amongst their 
accomplices, " yes, madame, the news from our house of retreat at Saint- 
Herem is excellent. M. Hardy, the strong-minded, the free-thinker, 
is at last in the fold of our Holy Catholic, Apostolic, and Romish 
Church." 

Rodin, having uttered these last words hypocritically and nasally, 
the devotee bowed her head reverentially. 

" Grace has reached this impious man," continued Rodin, " and 
touched him so deeply that in his ascetic enthusiasm he is anxious at 
once to pronounce the vows which will bind him to our holy Com* 
pany." 

" So soon, father ? " said the princess, astonished. 

" Our institutes are opposed to this precipitation, unless, indeed, in 
the case of a penitent in articulo mortis (at the point of death), who 



THE COUNCIL. 245 

considers it as vitally beneficial for his salvation to die in our habit, 
and leave us his property, for the greater glory of the Lord." 

" And is M. Hardy in so desperate a condition, mon pere ?" 

" He is devoured by fever. After so many severe shocks, which 
have so miraculously impelled him into the way of salvation," con- 
tinued Rodin, with emphasis, " this man of so frail and delicate a tem- 
perament is at this time almost entirely overcome morally and physic- 
ally. Thus, austerities, macerations, the divine joys of ecstasy, will 
prepare his way very speedily in the path of eternal life ; and, it is 
probable, that before many days " 

And the priest shook his head with a sinister air. 

" So soon as that, father ? " 

" It is almost certain ; and I have, therefore, making use of my 
dispensations, been able to receive the dear penitent, in articulo mortis, 
as a member of our holy Company, to which, according to the rules, 
he has bequeathed his property present and to come. So that from 
this hour he has nothing to think of but the salvation of his soul, an- 
other victim to philosophy snatched from the claws of Satan." 

" Ah, my father ! " exclaimed the devotee, with admiration, " it is 
a miraculous conversion. The Pere d'Aigrigny told me how much 
you had struggled against the influence of the Abbe Gabriel." 

" The Abbe Gabriel," said Rodin, " has been punished for interfer- 
ing in matters that did not concern him, and for other things also. I 
required his interdiction, and he has been interdicted by his bishop, 
and recalled from his curacy. It is said, that by way of passing his 
time, he goes to the temporary hospitals for the cholera patients, to 
give Christian consolation : there is no objection to that But the 
heresy of this perambulating consoler is smelt a league off." 

" He is a dangerous spirit," remarked the princess ; " for he has 
no slight influence over his fellows : and it has required all your ad- 
mirable, irresistible eloquence, to overcome and crush the detestable 
counsels of this Abbe Gabriel, who took it into his head to persuade 
M. Hardy to return to a worldly life. Really, father, you are a Saint 
Chrysostom." 

" Good, good, madame," replied Rodin, very insensible to flattery ; 
<* reserve this for others." 

" I say you are a Saint Chrysostom, mon pere" repeated the 
princess, energetically, " for like him, you deserve the name of Saint 
John with the golden mouth." 

" Come, come, madame," said Rodin, coarsely, and shrugging his 
shoulders, " I, a golden mouth 9 Pooh ! my lips are too livid, and my 
teeth too black. You jest with your golden mouth !" 

" But, father " 

"But, madame, I am not caught with such bird-lime," replied 
Rodin, harshly. " I hate compliments, and never pay them." 

" Your modesty must excuse me, father," said the devotee, hum- 
bly: "I could not resist the happiness of testify ing to you my admira- 
tion ; for as you had predicted, or foreseen a few months back, there 
are already two of the members of the Rennepont family disinterested 
as to the question of the inheritance" 

Rodin looked at Madame de Saint-Dizier with a softer and ap- 



246 THE WANDERING JEW. 

proving air, whon ho heard hrr thus phrase the position of the two de- 
funct heirs. For according to Rodin, M. Hardy, by his donation and 
his self-destroying asceticism, no longer belonged to this world. 

The devotee proceeded : 

" One of these men, a miserable artisan, has hastened his own ml 
by his excess of vice. You have led the other into the way of salva- 
tion, by arousing his loving and tender qualities. Then, let your fore- 
sight have due praise, mon pere, for you said, ' It is to the passions I 
will address myself, in order to arrive at my end.'" 

" Do not glorify me in such a hurry, I beg," interposed Rodin, 
impatiently. " What about your niece, and the Indian, and the two 
daughters of Marechal Simon ? Have these individuals made a Chris- 
tian end? or are they disinterested in the question of the inheritance, 
that we should boast thus soon ? " 

" Certainly not I " 

" Well, then, you see, madame, let us not waste time in congratu- 
lating ourselves on the past, let us think of the future. The great day 
approaches the First of June is not far off. Heaven grant that we do 
not see four of the surviving members of the family continuing tojivo 
in impenitence until this time, and possessing this vast inheritance, 
the means of fresh wickedness in their hands, and a means of glory to 
the Lord, and to His Church, out of the hands of our Company." 

" True, father." 

" Apropos of that, you should see your agents on the subject of 
your niece." 

" I have seen them, father ; and however uncertain may be the 
chance of which I have spoken to you, it is still worth the experiment. 
^sliall know to-day, I hope, if it be legally possible." 

" Perhaps, then, in the strait in which this fresh position may 
place her, we may find means to arrive at her conversion," said Rodin, 
with a strange and hideous smile ; " for until now, since she so fatally 
became reconciled with the Indian, the happiness of these two hea- 
thens appears as unchanging and bright as a diamond, nothing can 
touch it not even Faringhea's tooth. But, let us hope that the Lord 
will dojustice to such vain and guilty happiness." 

This conversation was interrupted by Pere d' Aigrigny, who entered 
the salon with a triumphant air, and exclaimed at the door, 

" Victory !" 

" What mean you ?" inquired the princess. 

" He has gone, went this very night," said Pere d'Aigrigny. 

"Who?" asked Rodin. 

" Marechal Simon," replied Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" At last," said Rodin, nnable to conceal his extreme joy. 

"No doubt it was his conversation with General d'Haitrinoohrt. 
which decided him," cried the devotee ; " for I knew he had an inter- 
view with the general, who, like so many others, believed in the 
reports, more or less founded, which I set afloat. Every means is 
good that may reach the impious," added the princess, by way of 
slightly correcting herself. 

" Have you any details ? " inquired Rodin. 

" I have just left Robert," replied Pere d'Aigrigny: "his descrip- 



THE COUNCIL. . 247 

tion, his age, correspond with the age and description of the marechal, 
he has gone with the papers. One thing, however, greatly surprised 
your emissary." 

" What was that ? " asked Rodin. 

" Up to this time he had had incessantly to combat the marechal's 
hesitation : he had, beside, remarked his gloomy, despairing air. Yes- 
terday, however, he found him with an air so happy, so joyous, that he 
could not help asking the cause of this change." 

" Well ? " said Rodin and the princess at the same time, and 
greatly surprised. 

" t I am really the happiest man in the world,' replied the marechal; 
' for I go with joy and happiness to accomplish a sacred duty.' " 

The three actors in this scene looked at each other in silence. 

" And who could have effected this sudden change in the mare- 
chal's mind ? " said the princess, with a pensive air. " We relied fully 
on annoyances, irritations of all sorts, to throw him into this adventu- 
rous enterprise." 

" I cannot fathom it," said Rodin, after some meditation ; "but, 
no matter, he has gone, and we must not lose a moment in acting with 
his daughters. Has he taken that cursed soldier with him ? " 

" No," said the Pere d'Aigrigny, " unfortunately no. Distrustful, 
and informed of what has passed, he has redoubled his precautions ; 
and a man who might have been so useful to us against him, in any des- 
perate emergency, has been struck by this contagion." 

" Who is that ? " asked the princess. 

" Morok. I might have relied on him in all, for all, and through 
all, and he is lost to us ; for, if he escape this pestilence, it is feared 
that he will fall a victim to a horrible and incurable disease." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" A few days since, he was bitten by one of the large dogs in his 
menagerie, and next day the animal went mad." 

" How horrible ! " exclaimed the princess. " And where is the 
wretched man ? " 

" They have conveyed him to one of the temporary hospitals esta- 
blished in Paris, for only the cholera has as yet declared itself with 
him ; and, I repeat, it is a twofold misfortune, for he was a man de- 
voted, resolute, and ready for any and every thing. But the soldier, 
the guardian of the orphans, will be inaccessible, and yet through him 
only can we reach the daughters of Marechal Simon." 

" That is evident," replied Rodin, musing. 

" Especially since the anonymous letters have aroused his suspi- 
cions," added the Pere d'Aigrigny ; " and " 

"Apropos of anonymous letters," said Rodin, suddenly interrupt- 
ing Pere d'Aigrigny, " there is a circumstance you ought to know, 
and I'll tell you why ? " 

" What "is it about ? " 

" Beside the letters you know of, Marechal Simon has received 
many others of which you are ignorant, and in which, by every possi- 
ble means, it was tried to incite his wrath against you, by reminding 
him of the many causes he had for hating you, and jeering him be- 
cause your sacred character placed you beyond the reach of his ven- 
geance." 



248 THE WANDERING JEW. 

PSre d'Aigrigny looked at Rodin with surprise, and exclaimed, 
turning red in spite of himself, " But for what purpose has your reve- 
rence acted in this way ? " 

" In the first place, to turn away from myself any suspicions that 
might be awakened by these letters; then, in order to increase the 
rage of the mareehal to madness, by incessantly reminding him both 
of the just grounds of his hatred against you, and the impossibility of 
his touching you. This, joined to other exciting causes of anger, 
vexation, and irritation, which the brutal passions of this man of war 
would make to boil within him, must impel him to this crazy enter- 
prise, which is the consequence, and the punishment, of his idolatry for 
a miserable usurper." 

" Yes," said Pere d'Aigrigny, with a constrained air ; " but I 
would observe to your reverence, that it might, perhaps, be dangerous 
thus far to excite Marechal Simon against me." 

" Wherefore ? " inquired Rodin, fixing a piercing glance on Pere 
d'Aigrigny. 

" Because the marechal, urged beyond bearing, and recollecting 
nothing but our mutual hatred, might seek might meet me " 

" Well ; and what then ? " asked Rodin. 

" Well, he might forget that I was a priest ; and then " 

" Ah, you are afraid ? " said Rodin, disdainfully, and interrupting 
d'Aigrigny. 

At these words of Rodin, " You are afraid," the reverend father 
sprung from his seat, then resuming his sang froid, he added, 

" Your reverence is right. Yes, I should be afraid yes, under 
such circumstances, I should be afraid that I might forget I am a 
priest, and recollect only that I have been a soldier." 

" Really?" said Rodin, with supreme contempt; "and are you 
really, then, at this absurd and savage point of honour? Has not 
your cassock extinguished this vivid fire ? And this swordsman, 
whose poor brain, empty and hollow as a drum, I was sure to ferment 
by pronouncing some magic words for such stupid fighters, ' Military 
honour oatli Napoleon II.' So, had this swordsman conducted him- 
self toward you with any violence, it really then would have required 
some effort on your part to have remained calm?" 

And again Rodin fastened his hawk's gaze on the reverend pere. 

" It is useless, I think, for your reverence to make any sucli sup- 
position," said D'Aigrigny, who with difficulty repressed his emotion. 

" As your superior," replied Rodin, sternly, " I have a right to 
ask you what you would have done if Marechal Simon had raised his 
hand against you ? " 

" Sir ! " cried the reverend father. 

" There are no sirs here, we are priests," said Rodin, harshly. 

Pere d'Aigrigny bowed his head, and with difficulty repressed his 
anger. 

" I ask you," continued Rodin pertinaciously, " what would be your 
course if Marechal Simon had struck you ? Is that a plain question ? " 

" Cease, I entreat," said Pere d'Aigrigny. " Cease." 

" Or, if you like it better, Suppose he had smitten you on both 
cheeks," continued Rodin, with cool doggedness. 

Pere d'Aigrigny, pale, his teeth clenched, his hands clasped, was a 



THE COUNCIL. 249 

prey to a kind of vertigo, at the bare supposition of such an outrage, 
whilst Rodin, who had not, unquestionably, urged the question but 
from a strong motive, raised his flaccid eyelids, and seemed to watch 
intently the significant symptoms which developed themselves on the 
disturbed countenance of the ex-colonel. 

The devotee, more and more under the charm of the ex-socius, 
seeing the position of D'Aigrigny was as painful as it was false, felt 
her admiration for Rodin increase. 

At length, the Pere d'Aigrigny, resuming his sang-froid gradually, 
replied to Rodin in a tone of forced calmness, 

" If I had to undergo such an outrage, I would entreat the Lord 
to give me resignation and humility." 

" And assuredly the Lord would hear your prayers," replied 
Rodin, coldly, satisfied with the experiment he had tried on D'Aig- 
rigny. " Besides, you are now forewarned ; and it is very unlikely," 
he added, with an atrocious smile, " that the Marechal Simon will re- 
turn here, in order to put your humility to so rude a test. But if he 
should return," and Rodin again fixed a deep and searching glance on 
the reverend pere, " if he should return, you will display, I doubt 
not, to this brutal swordsman, in spite of his violence, all the resigna- 
tion and humility of a soul that is really Christian." 

Two knocks on the door, discreetly given, interrupted the conver- 
sation. 

A valet-de-chambre entered, bearing on a waiter a large sealed 
envelope, which he handed to the princess, and then left the room. 

Madame de Saint-Dizier, having by a look, requested Rodin's 
leave to open the letter, hastily perused it, and a malignant satisfaction 
overspread her features. 

"There is hope!" she exclaimed, addressing Rodin. "The de- 
mand is strictly legal ; and the consequences may be such as we 
desire. In a word, my niece may from to-morrow be threatened 
with complete destitution. She, so prodigal. What a change for her 
whole life ! " 

" Then, there may be at last some hold on this untameabje charac- 
ter." said Rodin, with a meditative air ; " for until now, all has failed. 
They say, certain happiness makes persons invulnerable ;" and he bit 
his flat and dirty nails. 

w But to obtain the result I desire, I must exasperate the pride of 
my niece ; and it is, therefore, absolutely requisite that I see her, and 
converse with her," added Madame de Saint-Dizier, musingly: 

" Mademoiselle de Cardoville will refuse this interview," remarked 
Pere d'Aigrigny. 

" Perhaps," replied the princess ; " she is so happy, that her au- 
dacity must be at its height. Yes, yes, I know her. I will write to 
her in such a way that she will come." 

" Do you think so ?" said Rodin, with a doubtful air. 

" Do not doubt it, father," replied the princess, " she will come ; 
and once her pride called in question, we may hope for every thing." 

' We must act, then, madame," said Rodin, " and that, too, 
promptly : the moment approaches : hatred and distrust are aroused, 
there is not a moment to lose." 

" As to hatred," replied the princess, " Mademoiselle de Cardo- 



250 THE WANDERING JEW. 

ville has seen how the process she began has ended in reference to 
what she calls her detention in a lunatic asylum, and the sequestration 
of the Simon girls in the convent of Saint-Marie. Thank Heaven, we 
have friends every where ; and I know from good authority, that it 
will be rejected for want of sufficient proofs, in spite of the anxiety 
and interference of certain parliamentary magistrates, who shall be 
marked and well marked." 

" Under these circumstances," replied Rodin, " the departure of 
the marechal gives us great latitude, and we must act immediately 
with these girls." 

" But how ? " inquired the princess. 

" We must first see them," answered Rodin, " talk with them, 
study them, and then act." 

" But the soldier will not leave them for a second," said Pere 
d'Aigrigny. 

" Then," replied Rodin, "we must talk to them before the soldier 
and gain him over to ourselves." 

" He ! The hope is madness ! " cried Pere d'Aigrigny. " You 
do not know his military probity, you do not know the man ! " 

" Not know him ? " said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. " Did 
not Mademoiselle de Cardoville present me to him as her liberator, 
when I denounced you as the soul of this machination ? Was it not 
I who restored to him his ridiculous imperial relic his cross of 
honour, at Dr. Baleinier's ? Was it not I who brought the two girls 
from the convent, and placed them in their father's arms?" 

" Yes," replied the princess ; " but since then, my cursed niece 
has divined all, discovered every thing. She told you herself, fa- 
ther " 

" That she considered me as her mortal enemy," said Rodin. 
" True. But has she said so to the marechal ? Has she named me to 
him ? and, if she has, has the marechal told it to the soldier ? It may 
be so ; but it is not certain : under any circumstances we must ascer- 
tain this. If the soldier treats me as an unmasked foe, we shall see ; 
but at first I shall accost him as a friend." 

" And when ? " asked the devotee. 

" To-morrow morning," replied Rodin. 

" Oh, oh, my dear father ! " exclaimed Madame de Saint-Dizier, 
with affright. " If the soldier takes you for an enemy, beware 1" 

" I am always on my guard, madame. I have made more terrible 
fellows than he hear reason ;" and the Jesuit smiled a ghastly smile, 
and shewed his black teeth, " The cholera for instance I " 

" But if he treats you as an enemy, and refuses to admit you, how 
will you contrive to obtain access to the daughters of Marechal 
Simon?" inquired D'Aigrigny. 

" I really do not know," answered Rodin ; " but as I mean to do 
so, I shall do so." 

" Mon pere," said the princess, suddenly, and after meditating, 
" these young girls have never seen me. If, without giving any 
name, I could get to see them " 

" That, madame, would be perfectly useless, for I must first know 
what I shall resolve upon with respect to these orphan girls. At any 
risk, I will see them, therefore, and have a long conversation with 



HAPPINESS. 251 

them ; then, my plan once decided on, your aid may be useful to me. 
Under any circumstances, be so kind as be ready to-monow morning, 
in order to accompany me, madame." 

" Where to, monpere?" 

11 To Marechal Simon's." 

" To his house ? " 

" Not exactly to his house. You will go in your carriage, I then 
take a hackney-coach. I shall endeavour to get access to these young 
girls ; and during this time, you will await me at some small distance 
from the marechal's abode: if I succeed, if I require your aid, I will 
come to you, and you will receive my instructions, and nothing will 
appear as if concerted between us." 

" Very well, reverend father ; but I really tremble when I think of 
your interview with that brutal soldier," said the princess. 

" The Lord will watch over His servant, madame," replied Rodin. 
"As for you, father," he added, addressing D'Aigrigny, "send off to 
Vienna instantly the note prepared, that it may announce your know- 
ledge of the departure and expected arrival of the marechal. All is 

foreseen. This evening I will write more fully." 

# * * # * * 

Next morning about eight o'clock, Madame de Saint-Dizier, in 
her carriage, and Rodin in his hackney-coach, went towards the house 
of Marechal Simon. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

HAPPINESS. 

MARECHAL Simon had been gone two days. It was eight o'clock 
in the morning, and Dagobert, walking with the greatest care on the 
tips of his toes, that the floor might not creak, crossed the salon which 
led into the bed-chamber of Rose and Blanche, placed his ear dis- 
creetly at the door of the young girls' apartment. Kill-joy followed 
his master in the same fashion, and seemed to walk with equal pre- 
caution. The countenance of the soldier was disturbed and uneasy, 
and he muttered to himself, 

" Let us hope these dear children have heard nothing during the 
night that would alarm them ; and it would be better that they 
should not know of this event until it cannot be longer concealed. It 
might make them very melancholy ; and the poor little dears are so 
gay and so happy, since they knew how dearly their father loves them. 
They bore his departure so well, and they must not be told of the 
misfortune of this night, it would distress them so much." 

Then listening again, the soldier continued, 

"I hear nothing nothing! They always awake early too ; per- 
haps it is their grief." 

Dagobert's reflections were interrupted by two bursts of hearty 



252 THB WANDERING JEW. 

laughter, which suddenly sounded in the interior of the young girls' 
bed-chamber. 

" Come, come ; they are not so sad as I thought," said Dagobert, 
breathing a little more at his ease ; " probably they know nothing." 

The laughter then increased so much, that the soldier, delighted at 
such gaiety so very unusual to his children, felt himself at first quite 
affected, and, for a moment, his eyes became moistened, when he re- 
membered that the orphans had at last resumed the happy serenity of 
their years. Then passing from softness to joy, his ear still listening, 
his body half-bent, his hands on his knees, Dagobert rejoicing, happy, 
his lips betraying a mute pleasure, shaking his head a little, he accom- 
panied, with a still laugh, the increasing hilarity of the two girls. At 
last, as nothing is more contagious than mirth, and the worthy soldier 
felt at his ease, he concluded by laughing out loud and with all his 
might, without knowing why, and only because Rose and Blanche 
laughed with all their heart. 

Kill-joy, unaccustomed to see his master in such high spirits, 
looked at him, first in deep and silent astonishment, and then began to 
bark with an interrogating air. 

At this sound, the laugh of the two girls suddenly ceased, and a 
clear voice, somewhat tremulous from its joyfulness, cried, 

" What, Kill-joy ! is it you who have come to awaken us ?" 

Kill-joy comprehended, shook his tail, laid back his ears, and, 
lying down close at the door, replied by a low whine to the call of his 
young mistress. 

" Monsieur Kill-joy !" said the voice of Rose, who could scarcely 
contain herself from a fresh burst of laughter, " you are very early." 

" Then could you tell us the hour, if you please, Monsieur Kill- 
joy ?" added Blanche. 

" Yes, mesdemoiselles, it has struck eight o'clock," suddenly re- 
sponded the deep voice of Dagobert, who accompanied this joke with 
an immense burst of laughter. 

A slight cry of joyful surprise was heard, then Rose said, 

" Good morning, Dagobert." 

" Good morning, my dears. You are very lazy this morning." 

" That is not our fault ; our dear Augustine has not yet been to 
us," said Rose. " We were waiting for her." 

" That is it," said Dagobert to himself, his features becoming 
overcast. Then he replied aloud, with some embarrassment in his 
tone, for the worthy fellow was a bad hand at falsehood, " My children, 
your gouvernante went out early this morning. She has gone into the 
country on business, and will not come back for some days ; so to-day 
you had better get up by yourselves." 

" That good Madame Augustine !" said Blanche, with interest ; 
" I hope it is not any thing unpleasant that she has gone away so sud- 
denly. Is it, Dagobert ?" 

" No, no, not at all ; it is on business," replied the soldier, " to 
see one of her relations." 

" Oh, so much the better," said Rose. " Well, Dagobert, when we 
call, you may come in." 

" I will return in a quarter of an hour," said tho soldier, walking 



HAPPINESS. 253 

away ; then he thought, " I must put that booby, Jocrisse, on his 
guard, for the fellow is such a babbling blockhead that he will blab 
every thing." 

The name of this supposed dolt will serve as a natural transition to 
let us know the cause of the merry mood of the two sisters, who were 
laughing at the numerous silly tricks of this simpleton. 

The two young girls had risen and were both dressed, having 
assisted each other. Rose had dressed Blanche's hair, and it was 
Blanche's turn to dress Rose's hair. The two young creatures thus 
grouped offered a picture that was very graceful. 

Rose was seated before a toilette, her sister standing behind her 
arranging her soft, chestnut hair. Happy, joyous age ! still so close 
to infancy, that its present felicity soon causes a forgetfulness of past 
suffering ! Then the orphans felt more than joy, it was happiness, 
pure, deep, and, henceforth, unutterable happiness. Their father 
adored them ; their presence, far from being painful to him, filled him 
with delight At last assured himself <af the love of his children, he 
had no longer, thanks to them ! any sorrow to dread. For these three 
beings, so certain of their mutual and ineffaceable affection, what was 
a momentary separation ? 

This stated and understood, we may conceive the innocent gaiety 
of the two sisters, in spite of the departure of their father, and the 
joyous, happy expression which animated their lovely countenances, on 
which was already reviving their colour, which had so much faded : 
their reliance on the future gave them an air of resolution and de- 
cision, which added an additional charm to their lovely features. 

Blanche, whilst arranging her sister's hair, dropped the comb, and 
as she stooped to pick it up, Rose anticipated her, and gave it to her 
saying, 

" If it is broken, you must put it in the basket for the handles." 

And the two girls laughed heartily at these words, which referred 
to a notable absurdity of Jocrisse. The supposed simpleton had broken 
the handle of a cup, and the gouvernante of the young girls reprimand- 
ing him, he had answered, 

" Be easy, madame ; I have put the handle in the basket for 
handles" 

" The basket for handles ?" 

" Yes, madame, it is in that that I put all the handles I break, or 
shall break." 

"Gracious goodness!" said Rose, wiping her eyes, moist with 
mirthful tears, " how ridiculous to laugh at such absurdities I" 

" Yet it is so droll," answered Blanche, " how can we help it?" 

" All I regret is, that our father is not here to laugh also." 

" He is so happy when he hears us merry." 

" We must write to him to-day the story of our basket for handles." 

" And that of the feather-brush, in order to shew him that, accord- 
ing to our promise, we have not any uneasiness during his absence." 

" Write to him, sister ? No. You know very well he will write 
to us, but we cannot reply to him." 

" That's true. Then an idea ! Let us still write to him at 

his address here. Dagobert will put our letters in the post, and, when 
he returns, our father will read our correspondence." 



254 THE WANDERING JEW. 

"You are right What a charming idea! What things \\ \M!! 
write to him, for he loves our little follies so much." 

" And so do we. We must confess that we like nothing better 
than to be gay." 

" Oh, certainly ! The last words of our father have given us so 
much courage, have they not, sister ?" 

" When I hear them, I feel quite brave about his departure." 

" And when he said to us, ' My children, I will confide to you all 
I can confide to you. I had to fulfil a sacred duty, for that I am 
compelled to quit you for some time ; and although I were so blind as 
to doubt your affection, I could not resolve on abandoning you, yet my 
conscience was disquieted, agitated ; my chagrin so overwhelmed me, 
that I had not the strength to make up my mind, and my days passed 
on in hesitations, filled with anguish ; but once certain of your affec- 
tion, all these doubts have suddenly ceased. I have felt that I was not 
sacrificing one duty to another, and so laying up remorse for myself, 
but that it was necessary to accomplish two duties at once, duties both 
sacred, and which I can now fulfil with joy, heart, and happiness.' " 

" Ah, go on, go on, sister!" exclaimed Blanche, rising to approach 
Rose, " it seems as if I heard our father ; and let us recall his words, 
as they will support us if we have any feelings of sorrow at his 
absence." 

" Yes, will they not, sister? But, as our father said besides, 
' Instead of being vexed at my departure, be glad, be proud I leave 
you, in order to effect something noble and generous. Imagine that 
there is, in a certain portion of the world, a poor, suffering, oppressed 
orphan, forsaken by every body ; that the father of this orphan was 
my benefactor ; that 1 swore to him to devote myself to his son ; and 
that now the life of that son is in danger. Say, my children, should 
you be sorry to see me quit you to go to the assistance of this or- 
phan?'" 

" ' Oh, no, no ! dear father,' we replied ; ' for then we should not 
be your daughters,' " said Rose, with excitement ; " * go, and rely 
upon us. We should be too unhappy if we thought that our sorrow 
could weaken your courage go at once! and each day we shall 
repeat with pride, it is to fulfil a noble and great duty that our father 
has left us, and, therefore, it is sweet to us to await him.' " 

" How charming, how comforting is the idea of duty, of devo- 
tion, sister dear I" responded Blanche. " Only see how that gives 
our father the courage to leave us without regret, and gives us the 
courage to await bravely his return." 

" And then with what tranquillity we enjoy this hour ! These 
afflicting dreams, which foretold such sad events, torment us now no 
longer." 

" I told you so, sister, and now we shall be, for the future, quite 
happy." 

" And are you like me ? For I feel myself stronger, more cou- 
rageous, and in a disposition to brave every possible disaster." 

" So do I ; so see how strong we have become ! Our father in the 

centre, you on one side, and I on the other, and " 

" Dagobert as advanced guard, Kill-joy as rear-guard, and then 
the army will be complete." 



HAPPINESS. 255 

" Then let a thousand squadrons conie and attack us," added sud- 
denly a deep and joyous voice, interrupting the young girls, and Dago- 
bert appeared at the door of the room, which was ajar. Happy and 
merry, it was really pleasant to see him. The old fellow had heard a 
little of what was going on before he presented himself to the girls. 

" Ah, Mister Inquisitive, you were listening !" said Rose, gaily, 
as she came out of the apartment with her sister, and entering the 
salon, they both kissed the soldier affectionately. 

" Well, I must say I was listening, and I am only sorry for one 
thing, and that is, that I had not ears as large as Kill-joy, that I might 
have heard more. Good, dear girls, how I love you ! Mordieu ! and 
saying to Dull Care, ' Half-step to the left quick march, and be 
hanged to you!"' 

" Very fine I You'll see he'll tell us to swear presently," said Rose 
to her sister, laughing heartily. 

" Eh, ma foi ! Well, perhaps, occasionally it might be so," re- 
plied the soldier, " it comforts, calms me so ; for if, to enable us to 
sustain the attacks of wretchedness, we could not swear by the five 

hundred names of " 

" Will you be quiet !" said Rose, putting her pretty hand on the 
grey moustache of Dagobert to stop him ; " if Madame Augustine 

heard you now " 

" Poor gouvernante ! so gentle, so timid !" said Blanche. 
" How you would frighten her !" 

" Yes," said Dagobert, trying to conceal his growing embarrassment, 
" but she does not hear us, because she is gone into the country." 

" Good, dear woman," observed Rose, " when speaking to us of 
you, she made use of a word which was very touching, and displayed 
her excellent heart. She did, indeed, for she said, ' Ah, mesdemoi- 
selles, compared with the affection of M. Dagobert, I know that my 
attachment is so recent, that it must seem nothing to you, that you 
are in no need of it, and yet I feel I have a right to devote myself 
to you as he does.' " 

" No doubt, no doubt, she has a worthy heart, a heart of gold," 
replied Dagobert ; then he added, in a lower voice, " It would seem as 
if they turned the conversation on her purposely, poor woman !" 

" Besides, my father made a most proper choice when he selected 
her," said Rose, " the widow of an old soldier, who was in the wars 
with him." 

" At the time when we were so melancholy," said Blanche, " how 
uneasy and how anxious she \vas to comfort us !" 

" Twenty times I have seen the big tears in her eyes, as she looked 
at us," remarked Rose. " Ah ! she loves us tenderly, and we return 
her love. And with reference to this, Dagobert, do you know we have 
a little project when our father returns ?" 

" Hush, sister," said Blanche, laughing ; " Dagobert will not keep 
the secret." 

" Yes, he will though. Won't you, Dagobert ?" 
" Why," said the soldier, whose embarrassment was now extreme, 
" you will do right, perhaps, to say nothing about it." 

" You can't keep any thing from Mademoiselle Augustine." 

" Ab, M. Dagobert, M. Dagobert !" continued Blanche, gaily, 



256 THE WANDERING JEW. 

and menacing the soldier with the end of her finger, " 1 suspect you 
very much of having flirted with our good gouvernante I" 

" I 1 flirted ?" said the soldier. 

The tone, the expression of Dagobert, as he uttered these words, 
was so singular, that the two sisters burst into loud laughter. 

Their mirth was its height, when the door of the salon opened. 

Jocrisse advanced several steps, and then, with a loud voice, an- 
nounced, 

" M. Rodin." 

And at the moment the Jesuit glided swiftly into the apartment, as 
if to take possession of the ground; for once in, he believed his end 
was attained, and his reptile eyes glittered. 

It would be difficult to paint the surprise of the two sisters and the 
anger of the soldier at this unexpected visit. Running to Jocrisse, 
Dagobert seized him by the collar, and exclaimed, 

" Who gave you leave to introduce any one here without first 
asking me ?" 

" Forgive me, Monsieur Dagobert," said Jocrisse, going on his 
knees, and clasping his hands with an air as stupid as it was suppli- 
cating. 

" Be gone ! leave the house ! And you also !" added the soldier, 
with a menacing air, and turning towards Rodin, who was already 
approaching the young girls with his hypocritical air. 

" Will you go?" cried the soldier to Jocrisse, who was still on his 
knees, for owing to this position the man was able to utter a certain 
number of words. 

" Monsieur Dagobert," said Jocrisse, in a doleful voice, " pardon 
me for having introduced this gentleman here without giving you 
notice, but, alas ! my head is all in a whirl in consequence of the mis- 
fortune that has happened to Madame Augustine." 

"What misfortune?" exclaimed Rose and Blanche together, and 
going towards Dagobert with a gesture of uneasiness. 

" Will you get out ?" replied Dagobert, shaking Jocrisse by the 
collar, in order to compel him to rise. 

" Speak, speak !" said Blanche, interposing between the soldier 
and Jocrisse. " What has happened to Madame Augustine ?" 

" Mademoiselle," said Jocrisse, hastily, and in spite of the inter- 
ference of the soldier, " Madame Augustine was attacked with cholera 
last night, and they have " 

Jocrisse was unable to finish, for Dagobert gave him a blow with 
his fist in the jaw, such as he had not bestowed for a long time, and 
then exerting his strength, Avhich was still considerable for his age, the 
old dragoon, with an iron grasp, lifted Jocrisse on his legs, and with a 
violent kick in the seat of honour, sent him headlong into the chamber 
adjacent. 

Then turning to Rodin, with his cheeks inflamed and his eye 
sparkling with rage, Dagobert pointed to the door with an expressive 
gesture, saying, in an angry voice, 

" And now, sir, it's your turn ; and if you do not go, and directly 
too, why " 

" Allow me to pay my respects, my dear sir," said Rodin, go- 
ing backwards towards the door, and bowing to the young girls. 




THE DISMISSAL. 
Vol. 111. P. 166. 



London: Chapman and Hall. February 1, 1846. 



DUTY. 257 



CHAPTER XLV. 

DUTY. 

SLOWLY retreating before the angry fire of Dagobert's glances, 
Ilodin managed to gain the door by a sort of retrograde movement, 
while at the same time he sent out a kind of sidelong, penetrating look 
towards the orphans, who were visibly agitated by the well-concerted 
carelessness of Jocrisse, who, in spite of Dagobert's express prohi- 
bition not to mention before the sisters the calamity which had befallen 
their gouvernante, had thus daringly, and in defiance of his received 
order, presumed to act in direct contradiction to the wishes of his 
superiors. Hastily approaching the soldier Rose exclaimed, " Is it, 
indeed, true that poor dear Madame Augustine has been attacked by 
cholera ? " 

" No, I do not know I believe not," replied the soldier, with hesi- 
tation ; " besides what consequence is it to you ? " 

" Dagobert, you wish to conceal this sad affliction from us," said 
Blanche. " I remember now your embarrassment when you were 
speaking of our gouvernante a little time since." 

" If she is ill, we ought not to forsake her ; she was fu-11 of com- 
miseration for our sorrows, and we ought to have pity on her 
sufferings." 

" Come, sister, let us go to our chamber," said Blanche, advancing 
a step towards the door at which Rodin had paused, and was listening 
to this conversation with deep curiosity, at the same time reflecting 
very seriously. 

" You shall not leave this room," said the soldier, in a decided tone, 
to the two sisters. 

" Dagobert," replied Rose, with firmness, " a sacred duty is in 
question, and it would be cowardice to shrink from it." 

" I tell you that you shall not go out ! " replied the soldier, stamp- 
ing his foot with impatience. 

" My good friend," observed Blanche, with an air as resolute as 
her sister's, and with an excitement that tinted her lovely cheek with 
a rosy hue, " our father, in quitting us, has given us an admirable 
example of devotion to duty, and he will not excuse us if we forget 
his lesson." 

" What ! " exclaimed Dagobert, greatly excited, and going towards 
the two sisters to prevent them from leaving the room, " do you think 
that if your gouvernante had the cholera, I would allow you to go to 
her under the pretext of duty ? Your duty is to live, and live happy, 
for your father's sake, and for my sake into the bargain ; so not another 
word of this mad scheme." 

" We do not run any danger in going to our gouvernante in her 
chamber," said Rose. 

" And if there were any danger," added Blanche, " we ought not 
to hesitate ; so, Dagobert, be good, and let us pass." 

Suddenly Rodin, who had been watching this scene with deep 
72 ' s 



258 THE WANDERING JtW. 

attention and meditation, started, his eye sparkled, and a ray of 
malicious delight lighted up his visage. 

" Dagobert, do not refuse us," said Blanche ; " you would do for 
us what you reproach us for desiring to do to another." 

Dagobert had up to this moment impeded the passage of the Jesuit 
and the two sisters, by putting himself before the door ; after a mo- 
ment's reflection he shrugged his shoulders, moved on one side, and 
said calmly, 

" I was an old fool. Well, young ladies, go. If you find Madame 
Augustine in the house, I permit you to remain with her." 

Surprised at the confident manner and the words of Dagobert, the 
two young ladies remained motionless and undecided. 

" If our gouvernante is not here, where is she then ? " asked Rose. 

" Do you imagine that I will tell you in your present state of 
excitement ? " 

" She is dead!" cried Rose, turning pale. 

" No, no calm yourself," said the soldier quickly. " No, by 
your father I swear no; only at the first attack of the malady she 
desired to be carried out of the house, fearing that those in the house 
might catch the contagion." 

" Good, courageous woman ! " said Rose, much affected ; " and you 
would not " 

" I would not allow you to leave this house ; nor shall you, if I 
have to lock you up in your chamber ! " exclaimed the soldier, stamp- 
ing his foot angrily ; then recollecting that the babbling indiscretion of 
Jocrisse had caused this lamentable chagrin, he added, with great anger, 
"Oh, I'll break my cane over that scoundrel's back !" 

So saying he turned towards the door, where Rodin still remained 
silent and attentive, concealing beneath his usual impassiveness the 
dark designs which he had conceived. 

The two young girls, no longer in doubt as to the departure of their 
gouvernante, and persuaded that Dagobert would not inform them 
whither they had conveyed her, remained pensive and melancholy. 

At the sight of the priest, whom he had for an instant forgotten, 
the old soldier's rage increased, and he said to him savagely, 

" What ! are you still here ? " 

" Allow me to remark to you, my dear sir," replied Rodin, with 
that air of ease and kindness which he so well knew how to assume on 
an occasion, " that you kept before the door, which naturally prevented 
my leaving the apartment." 

" Well, now then, nothing hinders you, so go be off!" 

" I will be o^'with all possible haste, my dear sir, although I think 
I have a right to express my astonishment at such a reception." 

" We are not talking of reception, but departure, so go." 

" I came, my dear sir, to talk with you." 

" I have no time for talking." 

" It is on a very serious subject ! " 

" I have no serious subject, but that of remaining with these 
children." 

"Very well, my dear sir," said Uodin, from the threshold: "I 
will no longer importune you. Excuse my intrusion ; but as the bearer 
of news excellent news, from (he Marcchal Simon.- I came" 



DUTY. 259 

" News of my father ! " said Rose quickly ; and going toward Rodin, 
" Oh, tell us, sir tell us, and quickly ! " 

" You have news of the marechal ! you ? " said Dagobert, cast- 
ing a suspicious glance at Rodirf; " and what is your news then ?" 

But Rodin, without immediately replying to this question, advanced 
from the threshold of the door, and returned to the saloon, looking 
first at Rose, and then at Blanche, with admiration. Then he said, 

" What pleasure it is to me to come and bring some good tidings 
to these dear young ladies ! I see them as I left them, always graceful 
and charming, although not so sad as the day when I brought them 
from that wretched convent where they were kept prisoners. With 
what delight did I see them cast themselves into the arms of their 
valiant and valued father I " 

" That was their place ; but yours is not here," said Dagobert 
rudely, and holding the door open at Rodin's back. 

" Confess, at least, that I was in my place at Doctor Baleinier's," 
said the Jesuit, looking at the soldier with a crafty smile : " you know, 
in that lunatic asylum the day on which I restored to you that 
noble imperial cross, which you so deeply regretted the day when 
that excellent young lady, Mademoiselle de Cardoville, by saying that 
I was her liberator, prevented you from strangling me a trifle, my 
dear sir. Yes, indeed, really, young ladies, as I have the honour to 
tell you," added Rodin, with a smile, " this brave soldier was about 
to strangle me ; for, it must be owned that, in spite of his age, 
and with no desire to offend him, he has an iron gripe. Eh ! eh ! 
eh I the Prussians and Cossacks ought to know that better than my- 
self." 

These few words reminded Dagobert and the young girls of the 
services which Rodin had really rendered them. Although the marechal 
had heard Mademoiselle de Cardoville speak of Rodin as a very dan- 
gerous person, whose dupe she had been, the father of Rose and 
Blanche, incessantly worried and tormented, had not mentioned this 
fact to Dagobert; but the old grenadier, instructed by experience, 
and despite the many appearances favourable to the Jesuit, felt an 
irresistible repugnance for him, and replied harshly, 

' It is no consequence whether my gripe is strong or not, but " 

" If I allude to your harmless vivacity on that occasion, my dear 
sir," said Rodin, in a soft tone, and interrupting Dagobert, whilst 
he advanced still nearer to the two sisters by that kind of creeping, 
reptile step which was peculiar to him, " if I alluded to it, it was from 
recalling, involuntarily, the trifling services which I was but too happy 
to render to you." 

Dagobert looked fixedly at Rodin, who instantly dropped his 
flaccid lid on his repulsive eye. 

" In the first place," said the soldier, after a moment's sileuce, " a 
right-hearted man never refers to services he has rendered, yet you 
have done so already three times." 

" But, Dagobert," said Rose, in a low tone, u if he has news of 
our dear father ? " 

The soldier motioned with his hand, as if to beg the young girl 
to allow him to speak, and then continued, keeping his eye steadily 
fixed on Rodin, 



ii60 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" You arc a knave, and I am not a raw recruit." 

"la knave?" said Rodin, with a stolid air. 

" Decidedly ! You think to come over me with your fine phrase*; 
but it won't do, old gentleman. Listen to what I say. One of 
your black-gown gang stole my cross ; you restored it to me well I 
Some one of your black-gown gang carried off these children ; you 
found them well I You denounced the renegade, D'Aigrigny true. 
But all this only proves two things : the first, that you were rogue 
enough to be the accomplice of such vagabonds ; the second, that 
you were rogue enough to denounce them ; and these two acts are 
both infamous, and 1 suspect you. So now go begone! the sight 
of you is not wholesome for these children." 

" But, my dear sir " 

" There is no but in the question," cried Dagobert, in an angry 
tone. " 1 tell you what, when one of your sort of men pretends to 
perform a good action, it is time to be on one's guard, because it is 
quite sure some mischief is intended, and therefore, don't you see, I 
suspect you ! so be off!" 

" Certainly," replied Rodin coldly, and choking down his extreme 
annoyance and disappointment, for he had reckoned on easily ma- 
naging the soldier. " I admit that you have a right to form your 
own opinion as to my views and motives ; but still, if you only reflect 
for an instant, what interest can I have in deceiving you ? Or if even 
the desire existed, what means have I of indulging it ? " 

" I neither know nor care ; but this I am very sure of, that you 
mean to drive me to do something desperate to you, by insisting upon 
remaining here, whether I will or no." 

" Well I well ! my dear sir, I have had the honour to state the 
purpose of my coming, therefore " 

" You bring tidings of Marechal Simon, I think you say ?" 

" Precisely so ! I am fortunate enough to have very pleasing 
and gratifying intelligence concerning M. le Marechal," replied Rodin, 
again approaching the sisters, as though to regain the ground he had 
lost, and addressing himself to them, he said, " Yes, my dear young 
ladies, I bring you news of your brave and noble father." 

" Then come with me directly," cried Dagobert ; " you can tell 
me all you have heard or know in my own room." 

"How? deprive these dear young ladies of the happiness of 

hearing news which but no, no ; you cannot be so cruel or 

indifferent to their feelings." 

" Bombs and cannons ! " thundered forth Dagobert, pale with 
rage : " have you not sense enough to see that I shrink from turning 
an old man like you out of the room ? but, by the powers above us, 
my patience will be exhausted in a minute, and if you do not take 
yourself away quickly, I shall be obliged to drop you from the top to 
the bottom of the staircase." 

" Come, come !" replied Rodin, mildly ; " don't put yourself into 
a passion with a poor old fellow like myself ; I am not worth it : no, 
no, be calm ; let us go into your room, as you say. I will tell you 
what I have to communicate, and then, you sad, naughty, passionate 
man, you will be vexed and sorry that you hindered these poor dear 
children from sharing in the pleasure of hearing such good news; and 



DUTY. 261 

that shall be your punishment. Mind, I tell you all the punishment 
I shall inflict or desire for you." 

So saying, and with another low bow, Rodin, who could scarcely 
restrain his rage and disappointment, passed by Dagobert, who shut 
the door after him, and made a signal of intelligence to the two 
sisters to remain there till his return. 

* # * * 

* * * * 

" Well, Dagobert! what news of our dear father?" inquired Rose 
eagerly of the soldier, as a quarter of an hour after his quitting the 
room with Rodin he returned to the anxiously expecting sisters. 

" Oh, merely nothing more than that the old wiseacre had con- 
trived to find out that your father was gone and in excellent spirits : 
he is also acquainted with M. Robert. How or in what manner he 
learned all this, is more than I know," added the soldier, with a 
thoughtful, meditative, air ; " but it is an additional reason for being 
on my guard against him, and mistrusting all he says or does." 

" And what were the tidings he brought of our father ? " inquired 
Rose. 

" A friend of this vile deceiver (for I know and feel certain he is 
one), who, he says, knows your father, met him about five-and-twenty 
leagues from hence ; and if that be the case, 'tis just possible the mare- 
cbal might have charged him, upon reaching Paris, either to see you 
himself or send some person to you to let you know that he had 
proceeded thus far safely, was in health, and trusted soon to see you 
again." 

" Oh, what happiness ! " exclaimed Rose. 

" Ah, now, Dagobert ! " cried Blanche ; " you see how wrong you 
were to suspect the poor old man : how could you behave so rudely to 
him?" 

" I don't repent of the reception I gave him, I can tell you." 

" Oh, don't you ? What not now, Dagobert ? " 

" No, I don't. I have my reasons, and the best and strongest is, that 
when I saw him come in just now, and begin twirling and twisting to get 
at you, I felt a sort of cold chill strike to the very marrow of my bones, 
without being able to account for it. If I had perceived a serpent 
crawling towards you, and striving to throw its deadly coil around you 
I could not have shuddered with a more mortal dread. I know very 
well that he can do you no harm in my presence ; but I know not how 
it is, my children, I tell you candidly that, after all the services he has 
rendered us, I had the greatest difficulty in the world to prevent myself 
from throwing him out of the window. Now this is such a very unna- 
tural mode of proving one's gratitude, that I feel sure and certain there 
must be something dangerous about people capable of inspiring such a 
feeling of aversion instead of regard." 

" Dear, good Dagobert ! " said Rose, in a caressing tone, " 'tis the 
excess of your affection for us that renders you so suspicious ; and 
your very mistrust shews your love for us ! " 

" Ah, yes ! " added Blanche, fondly patting the shoulder of the old 
soldier ; " you do love your two children, very, very dearly ; don't 
you, now, Dagobert?" and both sisters fixed their innocent looks upon 



>fi2 THE WANDERING JEW. 

the old man, as though they were about to effect some purpose arranged 
beforehand. 

This was, however, one of Dagobert's suspicious days. So, after 
wistfully gazing from one lovely face to the other, the old soldier shook 
his head and replied, 

" Come, come, young ladies, all this coaxing is not for nothing ; you 
have got some favour to ask of me, I know you have ; so let's have it. 
I'll have no beating about the bush." 

" Well, dear Dagobert," said Rose, " you know we always tell the 
truth." 

" Oh, yes, Dagobert ! " chimed in Blanche, " we only want a very 
little trifle ; nothing but what is quite reasonable, and that you could 
grant quite easily, if you only would ! " 

So saying, each sister approached the soldier who was still stand- 
ing, and resting her clasped hands on his shoulder, looked at him with 
a most insinuating smile. 

" Now, then ! " said Dagobert, looking alternately from side to side, 
" all I have to do is to keep my ground : here is some rather difficult 
affair to bring out. Oh, don't shake your heads I am sure of it ! " 

" Oh, Dagobert, do pray listen patiently and indulgently to the 
little, tiny favour we are going to ask ; you who have so often praised 
us for possessing the courage and resolution becoming the daughters of 
a brave soldier ! " 

" To the point ! to the point ! " said Dagobert, who began to feel 
somewhat uneasy at all these oratorical preliminaries. 

Just as the sisters were about to speak, a gentle knock was heard 
at the door. [The lesson Dagobert had bestowed upon Jocrisse had 
been of the most wholesome description, it having consisted in his im- 
mediate dismissal from the house.] 

" Who is there ? " inquired Dagobert. 

"'Tis I Justin, M. Dagobert," replied a voice. 

" Come in." 

A servant belonging to the household, moreover a faithful, honest 
fellow, appeared at the door. 

" What do you want ?" inquired the soldier. 

" M. Dagobert," replied Justin, " there is lady below in a carriage, 
who has sent her footman to inquire M'hether she can speak to M. le 
Due or the young ladies. She has been informed of M. le Due's ab- 
sence, but mesdemoiselles were at home ; upon which she begged to be 
allowed to see them, saying that her business was to collect alms for a 
charitable purpose." 

" Did you see the lady ? do you know her name ?" 

" I did not think of inquiring, M. Dagobert; but she has quite the 
looks of a great personage ; her carriage is magnificent, and the ser- 
vants wear rich liveries." 

" This lady has come to collect money for a charitable purpose ! " 
said Hose to Dagobert ; " no doubt to aid ?ome benevolent design ; and 
since she has been told that we are at home, it does not seem to me 
that we can refuse to see her." 

" What do you think, Dagobert ? " inquired Blanche. 

" Why," answered the old soldier, " I don't see myself what harm 



THE COLLECTION. 263 

a lady can do ; it is not like that old plotter of mischief I just now got 
rid of; besides, I shall not leave you." Then, addressing Justin, he 
said, " Shew the lady upstairs." 

The man departed. 

" Why, now, Dagobert, I really do believe you suspect something 
about this lady whom you do not even know ! " 

" Ah, my children, what cause had I for mistrusting my own good 
and worthy wife ? but still, she it was who gave you into the power of 
those priests, and that, too, without even thinking that she did wrong, 
but solely in obedience to her scoundrelly confessor." 

" Poor Madame Francoise ! 'tis quite true, Dagobert ; and yet I am 
sure she loved us as tenderly as if we had been her own children ! " 
said Rose, mournfully. 

" When did you hear of her ? " asked Blanche. 

" The day before yesterday. She is fast recovering ; the air of the 
small village in which is situated Gabriel's curacy suits her admirably, 
and while he is away she is keeping his house." 

At this moment the two folding-doors of the salon were thrown 
open, and the Princess de Saint-Dizier entered with a respectful and 
graceful courtesy, holding in her hand one of those scarlet- velvet purses 
employed in Catholic churches in collecting charitable contributions. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE COLLECTION 

WE have already observed that the Princess de Saint-Dizier could, 
upon occasion, assume the most captivating manners and winning ap- 
pearance; having, moreover, preserved all her youthful powers of fasci- 
nation, she knew how and when to put on the irresistible coquetries of 
her earlier days ; and more than once had she called to her aid the 
insinuating smile, the dulcet voice, which had subdued so many hearts, 
to further her present schemes of fanatical bigotry 'and aggrandisement. 
And so artfully did Madame de Saint-Dizier unite the grace and dig- 
nity of the high-bred woman with the soft simplicity of a warm-hearted, 
unpretending individual, that in no one instance did the victim she 
sought to entrap escape her seducing assumption of character. 

Such was the Princess de Saint-Dizier as she presented herself 
before the daughters of Marechal Simon and Dagobert. She was ad- 
mirably dressed in a robe of grey watered silk, which concealed the some- 
what superabundant embonpoint of her figure. She wore a becoming 
small black velvet hat, and a profusion of light curls shaded her still 
handsome countenance, while the insinuating smile, which played upon 
her lips and bestowed a look of amenity and benevolence to her fea- 
tures, displayed her white and even teeth. 

Spite of the habitual timidity of the sisters, they, as well as Dago- 
bert, found themselves unable to withstand the charm of look and 
manner in their visitor, who, advancing towards Rose and Blanche, 
gracefully couriered, and said, in a tone of honeyed softness, 



264 THE WANDERING JEW. 

".Have I the honour to speak to the Mesdemoiselles de Ligny ?" 

But little accustomed to have themselves addressed by their father's 
honoured title, the sisters gaxed at each other in silent embarrassment, 
which was at length relieved by Dagobert, who, perceiving their hesi- 
tation, took upon himself to reply to the interrogatory by saying, 

" These young ladies, madame, are the daughters of Marechal 
Simon, but they are seldom called by any other name than that of 
Simon." 

" Ah !" cried Madame de Saint-Dizier, " such amiable modesty 
well becomes these pretty j'oung girls, and well accords with what I 
have heard of them. Let me hope, however, they will pardon me for 
addressing them by a name which recalls one of the most brilliant vic- 
tories achieved by their brave lather." 

At these flattering and conciliatory words, Hose and Blanche cast 
a grateful look towards Madame de Saint-Dizier, while even Dagobert, 
gratified and proud of praises addressed equally to the marechal and 
his daughters, felt his confidence in their visitor rapidly increase. 

Still speaking in her winningly soft and well-modulated voice, the 
princess continued, 

" I come to you, my young friends, in full confidence that you 
who have had the opportunity of witnessing the continued exercise of 
charity and every noble virtue on the part of your father, will bestow 
your aid in behalf of those unfortunate beings stricken with that awe- 
fully dreadful disease the cholera. I myself am one of the patronesses 
of an institution for that purpose, and whatever assistance you may 
think proper to bestow, I can only assure you it will be most thank- 
fully received." 

" Tis we who should thank you, madame," replied Blanche, with 
graceful eagerness, " for having deigned to associate us in your good 
work." 

" Allow me," said Rose, " to fetch all we have it in our power to 
offer, and to present it with the sincerest wishes that our mite may be 
serviceable." 

Then exchanging a look with her sister, Rose quitted the apart- 
ment and entered the Jidjoining chamber, which formed their bed- 
room. 

" Be seated, madame, if you please," said Dagobert, more and 
more charmed by the words and manners of the princess ; " pray 
take a chair while Rose is gone to fetch her money-bag." 

Then, after the princess had sat down on the seat offered her by 
the old soldier, he hastily added, 

" You must excuse my making so free as to call one of the daugh- 
ters of Marechal Simon by her name, just as if she was my own child ; 
but you see, madame, I was with their blessed mother when they were 
born, and they seem as natural to me as if they were my own children." 

" And, indeed, madam* 1 , 1 ' continued Blanche, " next to our dear 
father, there is nobody we love and respect so much as our dear, good 
Dagobert, who is the best, the tenderest, and most devoted friend we 
possess." 

" I can well believe all you say, my dear young friend," replied the 
artful woman, " for well do you and your charming sister appeal- 
calculated to inspire an attachment and devotion such as I am per- 




Lc 
. i , 



THE CONTRIBUTION. 
Vol. III. H. -.lit. 



THE COLLECTION. 265 

suaded your worthy guardian here feels for you." Then turning 
towards Dagobert, the princess added, with one of her most winning 
smiles, " A devotion as honourable to those who inspire it as those who 
experience it." 

" True, madame, quite true," said Dagobert ; " I feel that I am 
every way honoured and flattered by being permitted to devote all my 
poor energies to the welfare and preservation of the noble marechal's 
dear children. But here comes Rose with her little hoard." 

As he spoke, the being he named appeared at the entrance of the 
.apartment bearing a small but well-filled purse, made of green silk. 
This she presented to the princess, who had already watched the 
entrance-door with the impatience of a person who expects the coming 
of an individual who appears not according to promise. This move- 
ment, however, escaped the notice of Dagobert. 

" We are very sorry, madame," said Rose, " that we cannot make 
a better offering to your charitable institution, but, in truth, all the 
money we possess in the world is in that purse." 

" Gold !" exclaimed the visitor, as she perceived a number of louis 
glitter through the meshes of the purse ; " let me assure you, young 
ladies, that what 3-011 are pleased to style a humble offering has not its 
fellow mid the rich and great." Then, bestowing on the sisters one of 
her most insinuating glances, the princess added, " This sum was 
doubtless devoted to affording some fresh pleasure, amusement, or an 
additional ornament for your toilette, the merit of the gift becomes 
therefore the greater. I see plainly I had not too highly estimated 
the goodness and generosity of your natures ; but when I see you thus 
voluntarily impose on yourselves privations ordinarily so painful to 
young persons of your age " 

" Oh, no, madame!" interrupted Rose; " pray let me assure you, 
that the trifle we are enabled to offer is no sacrifice on the part of 
either my sister or myself." 

" And I believe you," replied the princess, with a smile of winning 
sweetness ; " loveliness such as it has pleased Nature to endow you with 
may well feel indifferent as to the artificial aid of the most studied 
toilette, while minds generous and noble as yours would naturally 
prefer the delights of benevolence to every mean and earthly enjoy- 
ment." 

"Madame!" 

" Come, come, young ladies," said Madame de Saint-Dizier, 
smiling, and assuming her motherly air, " don't let my commendation 
embarrass you. At my age, flattery avails but little, and what I say 
to you is meant as though speaking to my own daughters, for you may 
suppose I am quite old enough to be your mother, nay, your grand- 
mother even." 

" And, indeed, madame," said Rose, " you may quite believe that it 
would render my sister and myself so pleased and proud to think our 
trifling assistance had enabled you to relieve any of the unfortunate 
beings in whose behalf you are so charitably exerting yourself, for I 
make no doubt you frequently meet with most painful and distressing 
cases." 

" True, my dear young lady," answered the pretended charitable 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

visitant ; " we do, indeed, meet, the most harrowing facts a* connreted 
with the objects of our sympathy : but then again we are consoled and 
comforted by observing the deep interest which all classes of society 
take in their misfortunes, as well as the pity so spontaneously and 
generously bestowed ; and I can assure you, that in my office of col- 
lector of charitable donations I have a better chance than others of 
appreciating the noble devotion I meet with, as well as the promptitude 
to rush to the aid of their suffering fellow-creatures. Indeed, I may 
venture to assert, that so contagious is benevolence that " 

" There, young ladies !" exclaimed Dagobert, triumphantly inter- 
rupting the princess, in the excess of his desire to construe the last- 
spoken words as favourable to the opposition he had evinced to the 
sisters' desire of visiting their sick gouvernante ; " now are you con- 
vinced after this good lady has spoken so sensibly ? You hear her 
say, that in some cases devotion becomes contagious. Now, nothing 
is more to be dreaded and avoided than contagion, and for that 
reason " 

Here the soldier was interrupted by the entrance of a servant to 
announce that a person was waiting to sec him. 

The princess veiled her satisfaction at this little hindcrance to the 
old man's train of reasoning under an air of the most natural indiffer- 
ence and unconcern, although the fact of Dagobcrt's being called away 
had been arranged previously to her own coming, and anxiously ex- 
pected by her for some time, as affording her the opportunity of 
working out her errand during the temporary absence of the old 
soldier from the young creatures he so tenderly and sedulously 
guarded. While Dagobert, much annoyed at being obliged to quit 
the room, said to the princess, with a look of intelligence, 

" Pray, madaine, let me thank you for your excellent remarks 
touching the contagion attendant upon over-zeal and devotion. I 
should also esteem it a favour if, ere you go, you would first say a little 
more on the same subject ; by repeating your former observations to 
these young ladies, you will render them a great service, as well as 
infinitely oblige their latin i and myself. I am compelled to leave you 
for a short time, madame, but I shall quickly return, for I would thank 
you again and again for setting the minds of these dear children at rest 
on a subject we do not happen to agree upon." Then going close up 
to the sisters, Dagobert whispered, " You cannot do better, my 
children, than listen to this excellent lady." Then bowing low and 
respectfully to the princess, he quitted the room. 

Directly the door had closed on the old soldier, the feigned visi- 
tant, although impatient to profit by the absence of Dagobert to earn- 
out the instructions she had just received from Rodin, said, in the 
calmest voice and most natural, unembarrassed manner, 

" I did not quite comprehend the last words of your old friend, or 
rather he, I think, misunderstood mine. When 1 spoke to you but 
now of the generous contagion of feeling, I was very far from intending 
to blame that feeling, for which, on the contrary, I experience tin- 
greatest possible admiration." 

" Oh, yes, madame," responded Rose, quickly, " I am sure you do, 
and it was so \ve understood von to mean." 



THE COLLECTION. 267 

" And if you only knew, madame," added Blanche, exchanging a 
significant glance with her sister, " how exactly your words apply to 
our own position at this precise moment." 

" I was quite certain of being well understood by such hearts as 
yours," resumed the charitable visitant ; " doubtless devotion is con- 
tagious, but then it is the cant again of generosity and heroism. You 
can scarcely credit the noble and affecting instances I daily witness ; 
how I am hourly struck by the most touching and affecting acts of 
courageous tenderness, of noble devotion. But so it is," continued 
Madame de Saint-Dizier, piously rolling her eyes, " and let all praise 
and glory be, as justly due, given to the Lord above, who deigns to 
rule and direct the hearts of His weak and erring family here on earth; 
but bless God it is as it is, and that I am enabled, my dear young 
ladies, with truth to say, that all ranks and conditions vie with each 
other in deeds of purest Christian charity. If you could but see, even 
in the temporary hospitals established for the purpose of bestowing the 
earliest succours on such as are stricken by contagion, what emulation, 
what eager devotion and disregard of self prevails ! poor and rich, 
young and old, females of all ages, flock round the unfortunate beings 
who are the objects of our care, and esteem themselves but too happy 
in being permitted to watch by their sick pillow, or, if needs must be, 
whisper words of soft consolation to such as are encompassed within 
the black shadow of death." 

" You see, dear Blanche," said Rose, addressing her sister, " that 
it is for persons to whom they are utterly unknown that so many noble- 
minded persons so unhesitatingly risk their lives." 

" Most assuredly it is," replied the pious visitant. " Only yester- 
day I was moved even to tears while visiting a temporary hospital 
established not far from your abode, nay, I may say close to your 
house. One large chamber was filled with a number of poor desti- 
tute creatures, brought there almost in a dying state. All at once I 
saw a lady, a friend of mine, enter, accompanied by her two daughters, 
as young, as charming, and as charitably disposed as yourselves. 
Without a moment's delay or hesitation, the three placed themselves at 
the service of the medical attendants, received their directions, and 
waited upon the unfortunate patients with a zeal and tenderness not to 
be surpassed by the most lowly worshippers of our most blessed 
religion." 

The sisters exchanged a look of indescribable earnestness and deep 
fervour as they listened to words so calculated to excite their enthu- 
siastic minds, and fan into a flame the heroic sentiments of their 
generous natures. Their sudden alarm and evident emotion, upon 
learning the malady with which their gouvernante had been attacked, 
were not lost upon Rodin, whose quick penetration had at once per- 
ceived the important use to which this incident might be turned, and 
upon this hint Madame de Saint-Dizier had been duly instructed to 
act. 

Continuing, therefore, to regard the orphans with a closely ob- 
servant eye, in order to discover the effect of her words, the charitable 
messenger said, 

" You may feel quite sure that foremost in the ranks of those bent 
upon this mission of charity are to be found the ministers of our holy 



268 THE WANDERING JEW. 

religion. This very morning, while visiting the benevolent establish- 
ment I mentioned to you as being situated in your immediate neigh- 
bourhood, I was struck, in common with all present, at the sight of a 
young priest, or rather some angelic being descended from on high to 
afford the poor suffering females collected within its walls the comforts 
of religion. But he must have been more than human, I am sure ; 
and if you could only have seen the Abbe Gabriel under the trying 

and distressing circumstances I did, you would, like me " 

"Gabriel! the Abbe Gabriel!" exclaimed the sisters, as they 
exchanged looks of joyful surprise. 

"Do you know him ?" inquired the feigned philanthropist, with 
apparent astonishment. 

" Well do we know him, dear madame, as the preserver of our lives." 
" Yes, indeed, during a fearful storm at sea, when the vessel was 
utterly wrecked, and we should have perished but for him." 

"Is it possible?" cried Madame de Saint-Dizier, affecting still 
greater amazement ; " but are you quite sure we mean the same 
person ? " 

" Oh, no, madame ! we cannot possibly be mistaken. You describe 
a being precisely resembling our Gabriel all courage, and the most 
heavenly forgetfulness of self!" 

" And, besides," added Rose, with innocent warmth, " it is impos- 
sible to mistake our Gabriel, for he is beautiful as the archangel whose 
name he bears ! " 

" With such long, light curling hair!" cried Blanche. 
" And eyes of blue so soft and tender," continued Rose, " that it is 
impossible to look at him without being touched to the heart !'' 

"Oh, then it must be he! "replied the visitant; "and you can 
fully conceive the almost adoration he excites, and the almost incre- 
dible ardour and zealous charity created by his noble and saint-like 
example. How I wish you could have heard him this morning ! with 
what tender emotion he praised the conduct of those noble-minded 
women, who generously risked contagion itself to succour and console 
their sisters in trouble and mortal sickness ! Alas ! although I well 
know that the Almighty has enjoined lowliness and humility to his 
followers, I am obliged to confess that, as I listened to the Abbe 
Gabriel this morning, 1 could not prevent myself, all unworthy as I 
was, from being moved by a sort of holy pride as I ventured to take my 
poor share in the praises so beautifully expressed. More especially 
when he said, with so touching a look and voice, That he seemed to 
recognise a dearly loved sister in those kind and devoted beings who 
thus ventured to kneel beside the sick bed of such as all else had, 
perhaps, forsaken, that they might arrest the parting breath, or whisper 
peace to the departing soul ! ' " 

"Sister!" cried Blanche to Rose, "do you hear those words? 
Oh, how happy ought those to be who have deserved such com- 
mendations ! " 

"Yes, happy, indeed ! " exclaimed the princess, with well-assumed 
enthusiasm ; " well may we indulge in such a pride as that occasioned 
by those holy praises, which seem as though uttered by the inspiration 
of God Himself." 

" Madame ! " said Rose, whose cheeks w.cre flushed, and whose 



THE COLLECTION. 269 

heart beat with the excitement created by the words of the affected 
devotee, " we have lost our mother, and our other parent is absent, but 
I feel assured that we can nowhere seek a friend more capable of 
advising us than yourself, whose heart is as noble as your disposition is 
kind and feeling." 

"What advice do you require, my dear child?" asked Madame 
de Saint-Dizier, in her most insinuating tone and manner; "let me 
say my dear child, since the difference between our ages well warrants 
its application." 

" Indeed, madame," interrupted Blanche, " we shall be delighted if 
you will call us both your children." Then, after slightly hesitating, 
she continued, " My sister wishes to ask your opinion on a subject we 
would fain know our duty upon." 

" We had a kind and faithful friend, who lived with us as our 
instructress and companion ; unhappily during the past night she has 
been seized with the cholera." 

" How very dreadful ! " exclaimed the devotee, feigning the utmost 
sympathy. " And how is she now?" 

" Alas, madame, we do not know ! " 

" Not know ? Why, is it possible you have not been to see her ? " 

" Pray do not accuse us of either indifference or ingratitude," said 
Blanche, mournfully : " indeed, madame, it is not our fault that we are 
not at this minute beside our suffering friend." 

" And who prevents your going to her ? " 

" Dagobert ! that dear, kind old man you saw here when you first 
came in." 

" And wherefore should he object to your performing an act of 
positive duty, as well as gratitude, to your faithful guide and 
preceptress ? " 

" You consider, then, dear madame, that it is our duty to visit our 
sick friend, do you not ? " 

Instead of immediately replying to this direct appeal, Madame de 
Saint-Dizier continued to gaze from one sister to the other, as though 
bewildered with amazement; at last she said, 

"Is it possible that young persons apparently so right-minded, and 
richly endowed with every fine quality of the seal, can ask me such a 
question?" 

" I assure you, madame, that our first impulse was to hasten to our 
poor gouvernante; but then, Dagobert, whose excessive love for us 
makes him apprehensive of almost every thing, feared there might be 
some risk, and so forbade our going." 

" Besides," added Rose, " when our dear father quitted us, he 
placed us absolutely under Dagobert's charge, so that the recollection 
of his entire responsibility, joined to his tender solicitude for us, makes 
our worthy Dagobert think more than is need I'd I of the danger we 
should incur in visiting our poor sick preceptress." 

" Certainly," replied the devotee, " the scruples of your excellent 
friend are quite natural, as well as excusable ; but his fears are, as you 
justly observe, wholly unfounded. For some time past I, as well as 
many of my friends, have been in the daily habit of visiting these 
temporary hospitals, yet neither they nor myself have experienced the 
smallest ill effect. Besides, the cholera is now proved beyond a doubt 



270 THE WANDERING JEW. 

to be without contagion, so that you may make yourselves quitr easy 
as regards the absence of all danger in paying a visit to your suffering 
friend." 

" Whether there be danger or no, inadame," said Rose ; " it is 
enough for us to be told that duty summons us to the sick bed of our 
gouvernante." 

" I doubt it not, my dear young friends ; and, indeed, your sick 
friend might well accuse you of ingratitude, or even cowardice, in 
abstaining from visiting her. But," continued Madame de Saint- 
Dizier, with well-assumed fervour, " it is not alone of earthly opinion 
we should stand in awe, we must seek to deserve and obtain the 
pardon of the Lord from whom proceed these awful manifestations of 
wrath, as well as His favour and protection for ourselves and those 
belonging to us. You have had the misfortune to lose your mother, I 
believe ? " 

" Alas, yes I madame ! " 

" Well, my dear young friends, then let us console ourselves with 
the assurance of her being among the number of the elect in heaven ; 
for of course," added the princess, as though thinking aloud, " your 
dear parent died a Christian death, and on her death-bed received the 
last sacraments of our holy Mother Church ? " 

" We were living in the very wilds of Siberia at the time we lost 
her," said Rose, sorrowfully, " and she died of cholera. Besides 
which, madame, there was no priest at all near enough to our abode 
to have been able to attend her last moments, if even she had 
wished it." 

" Gracious heavens ! " almost shrieked the princess, with an 
alarmed and agitated manner ; " then your poor mother expired 
without the aid or consolations of a minister of our blessed religion ':" 

"My sister and myself watched beside her after we had buried 
her in the grave dug for her by Dagobert," said Rose, while her . 
filled with tears, " and we all prayed to God to take her into heaven, 
as well at least as we knew how to pray." 

' My poor dear children ! " cried the devotee, in a voice expressive 
of the deepest affliction. 

" What ails you, madame ?" asked the orphans, much startled at this 
sudden emotion. 

" Alas, my poor girls ! spite of the many virtues which adorned 
your excellent mother, I grieve to tell you that she has not yet been 
received into heaven ! " 

" What mean you, madame ? " 

" Having, unhappily, died without the last sacraments having been 
administered, her soul is condemned to wander in purgatory until the 
day of the Lord's mercy, although her deliverance may be considerably 
hastened by means of the prayers which the church says daily for the 
redemption of souls from purgatory." 

Madame de Saint-Dizier assumed an air so melancholy and full of 
mournful conviction, as she pronounced these words, that the poor 
girls, whose hearts were imbued with the deepest and truest filial 
affection, readily believed the princess's alarms for their mother's 
eternal repose were sincere ; and with ingenuous sorrow bewailed their 
having been hitherto kept in ignorance of the horrors of purgatory. 



THE COLLECTION. 271 

The devotee, perceiving by the unfeigned grief and distress de- 
picted on the countenances of the sisters that her infamous deception 
had worked the desired effect, added, in a soothing tone, " You must 
not allow yourselves to despair, my children ; the Lord will, sooner or 
later, receive your mother into the joys of Paradise. But are there 
no means by which the deliverance of her precious soul can be accele- 
rated through your endeavours ? " 

" Oh tell us if there be, dear madame, we implore you !" cried the 
weeping girls ; " we can think of nothing but to pray God, night and 
day, to pardon our dear mother for dying without a priest, and to 
receive her into heaven. If there be aught else, we beseech you to 
direct us what we can do." 

" Poor children ! how much they interest me ! " said the princess, 
with pretended emotion, as she pressed a hand of each within her own. 
" Take comfort, I say again," resumed she. " You can do much for 
your mother's repose ; and, in preference to every other intercessor, 
you may obtain the Lord's favour for her, whereby her soul may be 
delivered from purgatory, and admitted into the realms of everlasting 
felicity." 

" But tell us what we must do, dear madame, to obtain this great, 
this inestimable blessing !" exclaimed both sisters at once. 

" By deserving the mercy of the Lord by your praiseworthy and 
edifying conduct ; and in no manner can you render yourselves more 
acceptable in his sight than by discharging your debt of duty and gra- 
titude to your poor gouvernante ; and I feel quite assured that so 
striking a proof of Christian zeal, as the Abbe Gabriel would call it, 
would be most efficaciously counted equal to the release of your 
mother's spirit from the pains of purgatory ; for, in His infinite mercy, 
the Almighty ever lends a favourable ear to daughters interceding for 
their mother, and who, to obtain that prayer, offer to Heaven some 
great or holy action." 

" Ah !" exclaimed Blanche, " it is not alone of our sick gou- 
vernante we have to think." 

" Here comes Dagobert !" said Rose, hastily, as she listened to 
the ascending steps of the soldier, as he heavily mounted the staircase. 

" Recover yourselves I be calm ! Say not a word of this to your 
worthy friend \vhen he enters," said the princess, hastily ; " he would 
be unnecessarily uneasy, and, foreboding dangers where none existed, 
would in all probability place obstacles in the way of your generous 
resolution." 

" But how shall we be able to discover whither our gouvernante 
has been conveyed ?" inquired Rose. 

" Oh, we shall find that out, I doubt not. Rely upon me," 
whispered the false adviser ; " I will see you again very shortly, when 
we will devise our plot, our plot to obtain the speedy deliverance of 
your poor mother from the miseries she now endures." 

Scarcely had Madame de Saiut-Dizier pronounced these last 
words, with every appearance of the tenderest solicitude, than the old 
soldier entered the room, his countenance beaming with joy and 
content : indeed, so delighted did he seem with the subject of his 
thoughts, that he failed to observe the agitation the sisters could not 
immediately subdue. 



272 THE WANDERING JEW. 

Anxious to divert the attention of the old soldier, the 
arose, and, proceeding towards him, said, " I would not take uiy 
leave of these young ladies without expressing to you the high 
opinion I entertain of the great qualifications and amiable dispositions 
with which the Almighty has endowed them." 

" I am not the less pleased, niadame, to find such is your opinion, 
that it happens precisely to agree with my own. Let me hope that 
you have lectured the little headstrong things well, and explained 
clearly to them all about the contagion of devotion." 

" Make yourself perfectly easy, my good sir," said the devotee, 
exchanging a look of intelligence with the sisters ; " I have said all 
that was needful on the subject, and we now understand each other 
thoroughly !" 

These words effectually satisfied Dagobert; and Madame de Saint- 
Dizier, after having taken an affectionate leave of the orphans, re- 
turned to her carriage, and proceeded to rejoin Rodin, who was 
waiting for her in a Jiacre a little way off, in order to learn the result 
of her interview with her destined victims. 



CHAPTER XL VII. 

THE TEMPORARY HOSPITAL. 

AMONGST a great number of temporary hospitals opened at the 
period of the cholera in all the quarters of Paris, there was one very 
extensive in a vast ground-floor of a house in the Rue du Mont Blanc. 
This apartment, empty at the time, had been generously placed by the 
proprietor at the disposition of the authorities. To this place they 
conveyed indigent patients, who, suddenly attacked by contagion, were 
considered in too alarming a state to be immediately conveyed to the 
hospitals. It must be said, to the praise of the Parisian population, 
not only voluntary gifts of every kind were forwarded to these branch 
establishments, but persons of every condition, of rank, in humble life, 
artisans, artists, gave their services, night and day, in order to establish 
regularity, to exercise an active superintendence in these extra hos- 
pitals, and to come to the assistance of the medical men, that they 
might enforce their prescriptions with respect to the cholera-patients. 

Females of every class shared in this generous contention to be of 
service to their fellow-creatures in affliction ; and if nothing were to 
be so much respected as the susceptibilities of modesty, we should 
quote, amongst a thousand instances, that of two young and charming 
women, one of whom belonged to the aristocracy and the other to the 
upper classes of the citizens, who for four or five days, during which 
the epidemic raged with the utmost violence, came every morning to 
share with the admirable Sisters of Charity the perilous and humble 
Cares which they bestowed on the indigent sick who were brought to 
one of the temporary hospitals of a certain quarter of Paris. 

These traits of brotherly charity, and many others which have 
taken place in our time, shew how vain and interested are the 



THE TEMPORARY HOSPITAL. 273 

impudent pretensions of certain of the Ultramontane party. To hear 
them, it would seem as if they and their monks only, by virtue of their 
being wholly detached from all terrestrial affairs, are capable of giving 
to the world those wonderful examples of self-denial and of ardent 
charity which are the pride of humanity. To hear them, it would seem 
as if there were in society nothing comparable to the courage and de- 
votion of the priest who goes to administer to a dying fellow-creature. 
Nothing is more admirable than the Trappist, who (if we are to 
believe them) pushes his evangelical self-denial so far as to break up 
and cultivate the land belonging to his order ! Is not this ethereal ? 
is it not divine ? To till, sow the earth, whose results are for ourselves ! 
This is really heroic, and we admire the thing as much as we possibly 
can. 

However, whilst we recognise all that is good in a good priest, we 
ask, with all humility, whether they were monks, clerks, or priests 
those doctors of the poor who, at all hours of the day and night, hast- 
ened to the wretched couch of the afflicted ; those doctors who during 
the cholera risked their lives a thousand times, with as much disinterest- 
edness as intrepidity ; those learned persons, those young practi- 
tioners, who, from love of science and humanity, solicited as a favour, 
as an honour, that they might go and brave death in Spain, when the 
yellow fever was decimating the population ? Was it celibacy, was 
it disgust of the world, that gave such strength of mind to so 
raauy generous men ? Did they hesitate to sacrifice their lives, 
occupied as they were with their pleasures, or the sweet cares of 
their families ? No, not one of them for this reason renounced the 
pleasures of life. The majority of them had wives and children, 
and it was because they knew the joys of paternity that they had 
the courage to expose themselves to death to save the wives and 
children of their brethren. If they did, in truth, act so valiantly for 
good, it was because they lived according to the eternal views of the 
Creator, who made men for society, and not for the sterile isolation of 
the cloister. 

Are they Trappists, those millions of cultivators of the earth, those 
offsprings of the soil, who till and water with their sweat those lands 
which are not t/ieir own, and that for wages inadequate to the first 
wants of their children ? 

In fine (this may seem puerile, perhaps, but we hold it to be incon- 
testable), are they monks, clerks, or priests those intrepid men who, at 
all hours of the night and day, rush with fabulous intrepidity into the 
midst of the flames of the furnace, scaling burning rafters, fiery walls, 
to preserve property which does not belong to them ; to save persons 
unknown to them ; and that simply without pride, or advancement, or 
fame, or any other reward than the daily bread they eat ; without any 
honorary mark of distinction beyond the soldier's- uniform which they 
wear ; and that moreover, without in the least pretending to a monopoly 
of courage and devotion, or of being some day canonised and en- 
shrined ? And yet we think that so many hardy sappers, who have 
risked their lives in twenty fires, who have snatched from the flames 
old men, women, and children, who have preserved whole cities from 
the ravages of fire, have at least as much merit before God and their 

73 T 



274 THE WANDERING JEW. 

fellow-creatures as Saint Polycarp, Saint Fructueux, Saint Prive, and 
others more or less sanctified. 

No, no; thanks to the moral doctrines of all ages, all people, and 
all systems of philosophy, thanks to the progressive emancipation of 
humanity, the sentiments of charity, devotion, and fraternity, are 
almost become natural instincts, and develope themselves wonderfully 
in mankind, when it is in that condition of relative happiness for which 
God has endowed and created it. 

No, no ; certain Ultramontane intriguants and disturbers do not 
comprise solely, as they would have us believe, the monopoly of de- 
votion of man to man, the self-denial of the creature for the 
creature, in theory and practice. Marcus Aurelius is equal to Saint 
John, Plato to St. Augustin, Confucius to Saint Chrysostom. From 
antiquity to our times, maternity, friendship, love, science, glory, and 
liberty, have, irrespective of all orthodoxy, an army of glorious martyrs 
to oppose to the saints and martyrs of the calendar. Yes, we repeat, 
the monastic orders, who the most pique themselves on their dovotion 
to humanity, have never done more for their fellow-creatures than 
during the period of the cholera did so many gay young men, so many 
pleasing and delightful women, so many heathen artists, so many free- 
thinking men of letters, so many materialist misled men. 

***** 

Two days had passed since the visit of Madame de Saint-Dizier 
to the orphan girls. It was about ten o'clock in the morning. The 
persons who had voluntarily been in attendance during the night at 
the provisional hospital in the Rue du Mont Blanc were just being 
relieved by other volunteer assistants. 

" Well, gentlemen," said one of the new arrivals ; " what is the 
state of things ? Has there been any decrease to-night in the number 
of patients ?" 

" Unfortunately no ; but the doctors think that the contagion has 
now attained its extreme degree of intensity." 

" Then we may hope to see a decrease." 

" And amongst those whom we replace has any one been at- 
tacked ?" 

" Yesterday eleven of us came, to-day we are but nine." 

" That is sad intelligence. And who are the two persons who 
have been so suddenly smitten ?" 

" One of the victims is a young man of five-and-twenty, a cavalry 
officer on leave, and who has been affected as though by a lightning 
stroke. He was dead in less than a quarter of an hour; and, although 
such circumstance is by no means unprecedented, yet we have been all 
greatly affected by it." 

" Poor young man !" 

" He had a wort! of warm encouragement, of hope, for all. He 
had so completely revived the hopes of many, that several among them 
who had less the cholera than the fear of cholera have left the hospital 
almost cured." 

" What a pity ! Such a worthy young man ! Yet he died a 
glorious death ; for there is as much courage required to die thus as in 
battle." 



THE TEMPORARY HOSPITAL. 275 

" There was only one to rival him in zeal and courage, a young 
priest of angelic appearance, named the Abbe Gabriel. He is inde- 
fatigable ; he hardly reposes for a few hours ; running from one to the 
other, and doing every thing for every body : he forgets none. His 
spiritual consolations, which he gives from the inmost depths of his 
heart, are not the mere lip-words which he deals out professionally. 
No, no, I have seen him weep at the death of a poor woman whose 
eyes he had closed after a* distressing scene of agony. Oh, if all 
priests resembled him !" 

" Yes, indeed, a good priest is so worthy of respect ! And who is 
the other victim of the past night?" 

" Ob, it was a fearful death ! Let us not talk of it ; I have still the 
horrid picture before my eyes." 

" An attack of violent cholera?" 

" If the unhappy patient had died only of this contagion, you 
would not have seen me so horrified at the recollection." 

" Of what, then, did he die?" 

" It is really a fearful tale. Three days ago they brought hither a 
man whom they believed to be suffering solely from cholera. You 
have no doubt heard speak of this person, the tamer of wild beasts who 
attracted all Paris to the Porte Saint-Martin ? " 

" I know the man you speak of, his name is Morok ; he played 
a scene with a black tamed panther." 

" Precisely so ; and I was present at a very singular representation, 
at the end of which a stranger, an Indian, for a bet, as I have heard, 
jumped on to the stage and killed the panther." 

"Well, then, only imagine that at Morok's menagerie he having 
been first brought hither as a cholera patient, and, indeed, presenting all 
the symptoms of the contagion a fearful distemper suddenly broke out." 

" A distemper?" 

" Hydrophobia." 

" And he has gone mad ?" 

" Yes ; he declared he had been bitten a few days ago by one of 
the bull-dogs who guard his menagerie. Unfortunately, he only made 
this confession after the terrible attack which cost the life of the unfor- 
tunate young man whom we so deeply regret." 

" How did that happen ?" 

" Morok was in a chamber with three other patients. Suddenly 
seized with a kind or delirium, he got up, uttering horrid cries, and 
rushed like a madman into the corridor. The unfortunate young man 
whom we lament presented himself, and endeavoured to stop him. 
The struggle still more excited Morok's frenzy, and he threw 
himself on him, biting and tearing him, until at last he dropped down 
in horrible convulsions." 

" Ah ! indeed, it is fearful. And in spite of every assistance 
Morok's victim " 

" Died in the night in the midst of terrible suffering, for the excite- 
ment was so great that a brain-fever rapidly declared itself." 

" And is Morok dead?" 

" I do not know : he was to have been sent to an hospital yester- 
day after having been manacled during his fit, which usually follows 



276 THE WANDERING JEW. 

these violent crises; but in the meantime, until he could be taken 
hence, he was shut up in a chamber at the top of the house." 

' But there can be no hope for him." 

" He must be dead ; the doctors declared that he had not four- 
and-twenty hours to live." 

The persons who carried on this conversation were in an ante- 
chamber situated on the ground-floor, in which those persons assem- 
bled who came voluntarily to offer their help and assistance. On one 
side this apartment communicated with the rooms of the hospital, and 
on the other with the vestibule, of which the window opened on to 
the court-yard. 

"Oh!" said one of the persons looking through the window, 
"only see what channing young persons have just alighted from that 
handsome carriage I how extremely they are alike ! really the resem- 
blance is extraordinary !" 

" Twin sisters, no doubt. Poor young girls ! they are in mourn- 
ing ; perhaps they have lost a mother or father." 

" They seem to be coming this way." 

" Yes, they are ascending the steps." 

And at this moment Rose and Blanche entered the ante-chamber 
with a timid and disturbed air, although a feverish and determined ex- 
citement sparkled in their eyes. 

One of the two individuals who had been conversing, moved by 
the embarrassment of the young girls, advanced towards them with 
a tone of kind politeness. 

" Do you seek any one, young ladies?" 

" Is not this the temporary hospital of the Rue du Mont Blanc ?" 

" It is." 

" A female named Madame Augustine du Tremblay, we are told, 
was brought here two days since ; could we see her ? " 

" I must observe to you, young ladies, that there is some da Sr 
in entering into the apartments of the patients." 

" It is a very dear friend whom we desire to see," replied Rose, 
in a firm and gentle tone which spoke a disregard of danger. 

" I really cannot tell you with certainty, mademoiselle," replied 
the gentleman, " whether the person you inquire for is here or not : 
but if you will take the trouble to enter the room on the left hand 
you will find the worthy Sister Martha there who superintends the 
women's wards, and will give you all the information you may desire." 

" Thanks, sir," said Blanche, curtseying gracefully, and with her 
sister she entered into the apartment that had been pointed out to her. 

" Really they are very charming girls," said the gentleman, look- 
ing after the two sisters as they quitted the room ; " it would be very 
terrible if " 

He could not finish. 

Suddenly a tremendous uproar, mingled with cries of horror and 
alarm, was heard in the adjacent rooms. At the same moment two 
of the doors which communicated with the antechamber opened vio- 
lently, and a great number of patients, the majority of whom were 
half-naked, ghastly, and meagre, their faces drawn with fear, rushed 
hastily into the apartment, crying, 



THE TEMPORARY HOSPITAL. 277 

" Help ! help ! a madman !" 

It is impossible to describe the desperate rush and struggle which 
followed this panic of affrighted persons as they pushed forward to 
the only door of the antechamber, in order to escape the danger 
they dreaded, and there contending and battling, and then going on 
their hands and knees, trying to crawl out in order to escape by this 
narrow issue. 

At the moment when the last of these frightened creatures conr 
trived to reach the door, dragging himself along, completely ex- 
hausted, and with bleeding hands, for he had been knocked down, 
and almost squeezed to death during the melee, Morok the object of 
so much alarm Morok appeared. 

He presented a horrid sight : a rag of a quilt was round his 
loins his meagre and corpse-like loins naked as well as his legs, 
around which were still the fragments of the ligatures that had con- 
fined him, and which he had broken. His matted, thick, yellow hair, 
was hanging straight over his face, his beard seemed to stand on end, 
his eyes rolled fiercely and bloodshot in their orbit, glaring with unna- 
tural lustre ; the foam gathered on his lips, and from time to time he 
uttered hoarse, guttural sounds ; the veins of his iron limbs were 
swollen almost to bursting, and he advanced by leaps like a wild beast, 
extending his bony and clenched hands. 

At the moment when Morok had almost reached the issue by which 
those whom he pursued had contrived to escape, several persons in 
full health who had been attracted by the noise managed to close the 
door from without, as well as those which communicated with the 
wards of the hospital. 

Morok found himself a prisoner. 

He then ran towards the window to try and break it and thus 
make his way into the court-yard, but suddenly stopping, he receded 
before the dazzling brilliancy of the windows seized with the invin- 
cible horror which all persons attacked with hydrophobia experience 
at the sight of shining objects, and particularly glasses. 

Presently the sick persons whom he had pursued, huddled together 
in the court-yard, saw him through the window exhaust himself in 
furious efforts to open the doors which had been closed upon him. 
Then recollecting the uselessness of his attempts he uttered fierce cries, 
and began to turn rapidly about in the apartment like a wild beast 
which vainly seeks some issue from its cage. 

Suddenly the spectators of this scene, who were looking through 
the windows, gave a loud shriek of anguish and affright. 

Morok perceived the small door which led to the little apartment 
occupied by Sister Martha, and into which Rose and Blanche had 
but a few moments |before retired. Morok, hoping to get out this 
way, pulled violently at the handle of the door, and contrived to open 
it halfway, in spite of the resistance he experienced from the other 
side. 

For a moment the alarmed crowd saw in the courtyard the out- 
stretched arms of Sister Martha and the orphan girls clinging to the 
door, and preventing it from being opened, with all their might. 



5>78 THE WANDERING JEW. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

HYDROPHOBIA. 

AT the siglit of the violent and deadly struggles of Morok to 
force open the door of the chamber into which the orphan girls had 
flown for refuge, in company with Sister Martha, the terror of the 
numerous individuals belonging to the hospital who were assembled 
in agonising suspense in the adjoining court increased to a fearful 
degree. 

" Sister Martha is lost !" exclaimed they in affrighted tones. 
" The door is incapable of offering a long resistance !" 
" And there is no other means of quitting the room !" 
" Two young females dressed in deep mourning are with Sister 
Martha." 

" Oh ! but," exclaimed a voice among the spectators, " it will 
never do to leave three helpless women exposed to the fury of this 
madman ! Come on, friends !" continued the intrepid individual, rush- 
ing up the flight of steps which led to the small antechamber known 
as Sister Martha's room. 

" Hold ! hold !" cried a number of voices, " 'tis now too late to 
rescue those you would save ; it would be folly to expose yourself in 
vain," and with these words several persons tightly grasped the daring 
man who was thus venturing his life, and forcibly held him back. 

At this instant a cry arose of " Here is the Abbe Gabriel I He 
is always the first to rush to the succour of the distressed ; see, he 
is coming from the rooms above. No doubt the noise has reached 
him !" 

" He stops a minute to inquire the cause of all this disturbance ! " 
" What can he be going to do?" 

It chanced that Gabriel, who had been engaged in administering 
religious consolation to a dying patient, had just learned that Morok, 
having succeeded in freeing himself from his bonds, had managed to 
escape by means of a small skylight in the chamber in which he had 
been temporarily confined ; and foreseeing the dreadful mischief 
likely to result from such a circumstance, the young missionar}', listen- 
ing only to the noble impulse of his own courage, hastened forwards 
in the hope of preventing the evils he anticipated. By his orders 
one of the hospital servants followed him, carrying a brazier filled 
with burning embers, in the midst of which weie several irons heated 
to a white heat ; these irons were employed as cauteries by many of 
the surgeons during very severe cases of cholera. 

A deadly paleness overspread the heavenly countenance of Gabriel, 
but a calm intrepidity dwelt on his fine forehead. Hurrying towards 
the scene of danger, and hastily dispersing those who flocked around and 
intercepted his passage, he directed his course towards the antecham- 
ber, but just as he approached it one of the patients cried in a dis- 
tressing tone, 

" Ah ! M. 1'AbbS, it is useless your risking your life ; those per- 



HVDBOPHOBIA. 279 

sons who can see into the apartment from the court say that Sister 
Martha is lost !" 

Gabriel replied not, but quickly seized the key of the door ; ere, 
however, he entered the chamber into which he was aware Morok had 
shut himself, he turned towards the servant carrying the brazier, and 
said in a firm and steady voice, 

" Are those irons thoroughly heated ?" 

" Oh, yes, M. 1'Abbe, observe how white they are." 

" Then await me here, and be ready at my first summons. As for 
you, my friends," continued he, addressing the poor, trembling crowd, 
who were literally shivering with terror, he said to them, " directly I 
have gone into that room, shut the door, and keep it closed I will 
be answerable for all consequences; and mind," repeated he to the 
person who stood with the brazier, "come immediately I call you 
but not an instant before !" 

And then the young missionary, without further delay, undid the 
door. 

At this instant a cry of terror, pity, and admiration, burst simul- 
taneously from the spectators of this scene, while those who had been 
nearest the entrance of the fatal chamber rushed precipitately, under 
the influence of involuntary alarm, to a spot of greater safety. 

Casting his eyes upwards, as though invoking the protection of 
Heaven in the imminent peril to which he was about to expose him- 
self, Gabriel pushed the door open entered the room and as quickly 
closed it again ; thus shutting himself in with Morok! who, by a last 
frenzied effort had managed almost entirely to pull open the door to 
which Sister Martha and the orphans clung with agonising dread, 
while they wildly shrieked aloud for help. 

At the sound of Gabriel's footsteps Morok turned quickly round, 
and at once abandoning his intention of forcing an entrance to the 
inner closet, he at once sprung furiously on the young missionary. In 
the meantime Sister Martha and the orphans, ignorant of the cause 
of the sudden retreat of their aggressor, availed themselves of the re- 
spite thus afforded to them to shoot a bolt withinside the door, and thus 
effectually to secure themselves from a fresh attack. 

With haggard glare, and teeth convulsively clenched, Morok threw 
himself with extended bands on Gabriel with the intention of seizing 
him by the throat, but the missionary, whose rapid glance had well 
divined the coming shock, received it with unflinching firmness, and at 
the moment when his infuriated adversary darted on him he caught 
him by the two wrists and forcibly and vigorously compelled him to 
lower his uplifted arms. 

For a brief space Morok and Gabriel remained gazing on each 
other, breathless, silent, and motionless, then resuming the deadly 
struggle, the missionary throwing back his head, and assuming an 
attitude of resolute defiance, strove to prevent the endeavours of the 
wretched madman to seize him with his teeth, while he strove by con- 
tinued springs and convulsive bounds to break from his hold. 

Suddenly the beast-tamer seemed to become weak, his knees bent 
under him, his head grew livid violet, and fell on his shoulder, his eyes 
closed. The missionary, believing that a temporary weakness had suc- 
ceeded to the fit of madness, and that he was about to sink, ceased his 



280 THE WANDERING JEW. 

grasp of him in order to give him aid. Feeling himself free, owing to 
his ruse, Morok suddenly sprang up in order to throw himself fiercely 
on Gabriel. Off his guard at this sudden attack, the missionary stag- 
gered as he felt himself seized and enfolded in the iron grasp of this 
madman. 

Still redoubling his energy and efforts, struggling breast to breast, 
foot to foot, Gabriel in his turn made his enemy recede, and with a 
vigorous effort contrived to throw him, and again grasped him by 
the hands to hold him down with his knee, almost without motion. 
Having in this way completely mastered him Gabriel turned away his 
head to summon aid, when Morok with a desperate effort contrived to 
sit up and seize the left arm of the missionary between his teeth. 
At this sharp, deep, and terrific bite, which cut through his flesh, 
the missionary could not repress a cry of pain and affright : in vain 
did he try to disengage himself, his arm remained as if fixed in a vice 
between the convulsed jaws of Morok, who still maintained his hold. 

This frightful scene lasted less time than is necessary to describe it, 
when suddenly the door leading to the vestibule opened, and several 
resolute persons, having heard from the affrighted patients the danger 
which the young priest ran, rushed to his succour, in spite of the 
desire he had expressed that no one should enter until he called. 

The man who carried the small stove and the red-hot irons was 
with those who entered, and Gabriel, when he perceived him said, 

" Quick, quick, my friend, your irons I thought of them through 
a providence." 

One of the men who came in had fortunately brought a blanket 
with him, and at the moment when the missionary contrived to extri- 
cate his arm from the teeth of Morok, whom he still kept down with 
his knee, they cast the blanket over the madman's head, who was then 
covered and bound without danger, and in spite of his desperate re- 
sistance. 

Gabriel then arose, and tearing open the sleeve of his cassock, 
and baring his left arm, where there was visible a severe bite, bleed- 
ing, and of a blue colour, he made a sign to the man to approach; 
seized one of the red-hot irons, and twice with firm and sure hand 
applied the brand to his wound, with a heroic calmness which excited 
the admiration of all who beheld him. 

But suddenly so many emotions, so intrepidly contended \vith, 
had a certain reaction; and Gabriel's brows were covered with heavy 
drops of perspiration ; his long, brown hair clung to his temples, and 
he turned pale ; and staggering, lost all consciousness, so that he was 
obliged to be conveyed to an adjacent apartment in order to have cer- 
tain restoratives applied. 



By a singular chance the falsehood of Madame de Saint-Dizier 
had been borne out, although without her knowledge. In order to 
incline the orphans the more surely to go to the temporary hospital, 
she had told them that Gabriel was there, which she did not believe, 
for she had, on the contrary, endeavoured to prevent their meeting, as 
it might be injurious to her projects, knowing as she did the attachment 
of the young missionary for the youthful orphans. 



HYDROPHOBIA. 281 

A short time after the terrible scene we have related, Rose and 
Blanche, accompanied by Sister Martha, entered into a large apart- 
ment with a most repulsive appearance, into which a great number of 
females suddenly seized with cholera had been admitted. 

This vast chamber, generously lent to be converted into a tempo- 
rary hospital, was richly decorated. The room then occupied by the 
sick women had served as a reception-room, and the white panels 
shone with sumptuous gildings; glasses magnificently framed sepa- 
rated the spaces between the windows, through which were seen fresh 
grass-plots in a delightful garden, already verdant and beautiful with 
the early blossoms of May. 

In the midst of this splendour, these gilded cornices, on a floor 
formed of precious wood richly inlaid, were regularly laid four rows of 
beds of all shapes, the gifts of different persons, from the humble 
truckle-couch to the rich bed of carved mahogany. 

This long apartment had been divided into two by a temporary 
wainscot running the whole length, and about four or five feet high, 
and thus they had contrived to establish the four rows of beds. This 
division ended a little way from each extremity of the apartment, and 
there were no beds in this reserved space, in which were the volunteer 
assistants when the sick had no occasion for their attentions. At one 
of these extremities was a high and magnificent marble chimney-piece, 
ornamented with gold bronze, on which were warmed different drinks. 
As a final trait to this picture with so singular an appearance, females 
belonging to Lhe most different conditions of life voluntarily undertook 
in turns to watch the sick, whose sobs and groans were always received 
by them with the consoling language of pity and hope. 

Such was the place, at once singular and gloomy, into which 
Rose and Blanche hand-in-hand entered, some time after Gabriel had 
displayed such heroism in his struggle with Morok. 

Sister Martha accompanied the daughters of Marechal Simon, and 
after having said a few words to them in a low voice, she pointed 
out to each of them one side of the division where the beds were 
ranged, then turned away to the other end of the apartment in order 
to give some directions. 

The orphans, still under the effects of the extreme excitement 
caused by the peril from which Gabriel had saved them without their 
knowledge, were excessively pale, yet was their firm resolution in 
their eyes. Not only had they to accomplish for themselves an im- 
perious duty of gratitude, and shew themselves worthy of their brave 
sire, but there was also the salvation of their mother, whose eternal 
felicity might depend, as they had been told, on the proofs of Chris- 
tian devotion which they gave to the Lord. It is unnecessary to add 
that the Princess de Saint-Dizier, following Rodin's instructions, had 
in a second interview, cleverly contrived between herself and the two 
sisters without Dagobert's knowledge, by turns abused, excited, and 
fanaticised these poor, confiding, simple-minded, and generous girls, 
by urging to the most pitiable exaggeration all that was elevated and 
courageous in their nature. 

The orphans having asked Sister Martha if Madame Augustine 
du Tremblay had been brought to this asylum within the last three 
days, the sister had replied that she did not know, but that by going 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

through the women's wards they might easily learn if the person was 
there whom they sought. 

The infamous devotee, Rodin's accomplice, who had cast the 
two children into the midst of such mortal peril, had mendaciously 
affirmed that their gouvernante had been conveyed to this hospital. 

Marechal Simon's daughters had, both during their exile and 
during their painful journey with Dagobert, been exposed to very rude 
trials, but never had such] a terrible sight as that which now presented 
itself been offered to their view. 

The long row of beds, in which so many human creatures were 
lying, some writhing in pain and uttering deep groans, others giving 
forth the last deep sighs of agony, and others in the delirium of fever 
sobbing or calling loudly on the beings from whom death was about to 
separate them ; this spectacle, fearful even for men accustomed to ill- 
ness, could not fail, according to the execrable idea of Rodin and his 
infamous accomplices, to cause a fatal impression on these two young 
girls, whom an excitement of feeling as generous and without reflec- 
tion had compelled to this disastrous visit. 

Then, to add to this fatal circumstance, which only occurred to 
them in all its poignant and profound bitterness when at the bedside of 
the first female they saw, it was cholera that fearful death that had 
carried off the mother of the orphans ! 

Our readers will imagine the two sisters arriving in these vast 
apartments of such foreboding aspect, already much agitated by the 
terror with which Morok had inspired them, and commencing their 
sad search amongst those unfortunates, whose sufferings, whose agonies, 
whose death reminded them at each moment of the sufferings, agony, 
and death of their mother. 

For one moment (at the sight of this funereal chamber Rose and 
Blanche felt their resolution give way ; a dark presentiment made 
them regret their heroic imprudence, and then they had for some 
minutes felt the painful shudderings of a chill and feverish attack, then 
their temples beat violently at intervals : but attributing these symp- 
tom*, of whose danger they were ignorant, to the results of the fright, 
which Morok had caused, all that was noble and courageous in them 
repelled these alarms, they exchanged an affectionate look, their cou- 
rage revived, and both Rose on one side of the division, and Blanche 
on the other, began their painful search separately. 

Gabriel, conveyed into the surgeon's apartment, had soon recovered. 
Thanks to his presence of mind and courage, his wound cicatrised so 
promptly could not have any serious consequences, and the wound 
dressed, he insisted on returning to the women's ward, for it was there 
that he was giving pious consolations to a dying female, when he 
was told of the frightful dangers that might result from Morok's 
escape. 

A few moments before the missionary entered this apartment, Rose 
and Blanche bad arrived almost together at the termination of their 
distressing search ; the one having traversed the left, and the other 
the right-hand division of the chamber. 

The two sisters had not yet rejoiiu d each other. Their steps had 
become more and more uncertain : as they advanced they were 
obliged to lean from time to time against the beds they passed ; their 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

strength was fast failing. Overcome by a giddiness, by pain and 
fright, they seemed only to move mechanically. 

Alas ! the orphan girls had been simultaneously struck with terrible 
symptoms of cholera. In consequence of that kind of physiological 
phenomenon of which we have already spoken, a phenomenon very 
frequent with twins, and which had already several times displayed 
itself during two or three maladies, under which they had suffered at 
the same time ; once again this mysterious cause, submitting their 
organisation to simultaneous sensations and occurrences, seemed to 
resemble two flowers on the same stem, which by turns bud, blossom, 
and wither together. 

Then the appearance of all the sufferings, all the agonies at which 
the orphans were present, as they traversed the long chamber, had 
conspired to accelerate the developement of this overwhelming dis- 
temper. Rose and Blanche had already in their pain-stricken, ago- 
nised countenances, the deadly imprint of the contagion as they came 
forth, each on one side of the subdivision of the apartment which they 
had traversed, without finding their gouvernante. 

Rose and Blanche, separated until then by the high and long 
division, had not seen each other, but when at length they met a heart- 
rending scene ensued. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

To the bright bloom of Rose and Blanche had succeeded a livid 
paleness, while their soft blue eyes, already sinking in their orbits, 
looked unnaturally large from the dark halos which surrounded them ; 
their lips, lately so vermilion, had now assumed a dark violet hue, 
resembling that which had usurped the delicate transparent colouring 
of their cheeks and rosy tips of their slender fingers. One might 
have fancied that the bright red blood, so short a time ago coursing 
freely in their veins, had been changed by the blue frozen breath of 
death into the corpse-like lividness which now covered their lovely 
features. 

As the sisters, tottering and almost sinking at every step, at length 
met at the termination of the screen, a cry of mutual terror and dis- 
may arose from each, at the sight of the fearful inroads disease had 
already made in the countenance of both. "Why," they exclaimed, 
almost in the same breath "and you, too, dearest sister, are ill as 
I am ! " Then rushing into each other's arms they burst into tears, 
and tenderly gazing upon one another, said, " My sweet Rose, bow 
very pale you look ! " 

" And so do you, dear Blanche." 

" Do you feel a sort of icy shivering steal through your veins, as 
though your blood were changed to icicles ?" 

" Oh yes ! and my strength seems gone. I can scarcely distin- 
guish one object from another." 



284 THE WANDERING JEW. 

' My throat and chest seem to burn like fire ! " 

' Can it be, dearest sister, that the hand of death is on us ? " 

! At least, we shall, I trust, be permitted to die together." 

' But what will become of our dear father ? " 

' And Dagobert ? " 

' Ah, dear sister !" exclaimed Rose, (whose brain was evidently 
growing delirious), as she threw her arms around Blanche's neck, 
" Our dream was true see see the Angel Gabriel has come to 
fetch us ! " 

And by a singular coincidence, Gabriel, at this moment entered 
the sort of half circle formed at each extremity of the saloon. 

" Merciful heaven 1 " exclaimed the young priest, " what do I 
see ? the daughters of Marechal Simon ? " And springing forward, he 
received the poor girls in his arms just as their own strength had for- 
saken them, and that their languid heads, half-closed eyes, and difficult 
respiration, too truly betokened the rapid approach of death. 

Sister Martha, who was close at hand, quickly answered Gabriel's 
cry for assistance, and by the aid of this excellent woman the dying 
sisters were carried to the bed reserved for the doctor, whose turn it 
was to watch the sick during the night. 

Apprehensive lest this afflicting scene might operate unfavourably 
on the many sufferers already writhing under similar agonies as those 
which distorted the delicate limbs of Rose and Blanche, Sister Martha 
drew a large curtain so as to separate the orphans entirely from the 
rest of the saloon. 

So firmly had they clasped each other's hands during the violence 
of the convulsions which racked their tender forms, that it was found 
impossible to loosen their spasmodic grasp ; and thus tenderly and 
lovingly entwined they lay, while the usual remedies were applied, 
remedies powerless, alas ! to avert the deadly malady with which they 
were seized, but which, at least, seemed to afford a temporary cessation 
of their dreadful sufferings, and to restore a ray of reason and memory 
to their disordered and wandering brains. 

At this moment Gabriel, standing at the head of their bed, contem- 
plated them with ineffable tenderness and sorrow ; the purest pity filled 
his heart, while tears of genuine grief trickled down his cheeks as he 
thought, with a shudder of impending evil, of the singular chance 
which thus rendered him a witness of the death of his two young and 
interesting relatives, so lately preserved by his intervention from the 
horrors of shipwreck and a watery grave ; and in despite of his firm 
reliance on the wisdom of an all-wise superintending Providence, the 
missionary felt a cold chill creep over him, and an indefinite dread 
take possession of his mind, as he reflected on the melancholy fate of 
the young and innocent sisters ; the death of Jacques Rennepont, and 
the wily arts by which M. Hardy had been induced to bury himself 
amid the cloistered solitudes of Saint Herein, and almost at his last 
gasp to become a member of the order of Jesus ; and a fearful asso- 
ciation of ideas presented themselves to the young priest, as he men- 
tally counted over the names of four members of the Rennepont 
family, who had been in rapid succession borne down by a continuance 
of adverse circumstances ; and with increased alarm he asked himself 
how ii came to pass, that a fatality so favourable to the base interests 







THE DEATH OK ROSE AND BLANCHE. 



Vol. III. P. 



1 r.ii'Tii.in .in.i Hall .laimarv I. I>1'. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 285 

of the followers of Ignatius Loyola should thus have occurred. The 
surprise of the young missionary would, however, have given way to 
the most profound horror, had he known the part Rodin and his 
accomplices had taken in effecting the death of Jacques Rennepont, 
by exciting the evil passions and vices of the unfortunate man, through 
the medium of Morok ; as well as the diabolical schemes concocted 
by Rodin, and executed by Madame de Saint-Dizier, who, by working 
upon the noble and devoted natures of Rose and Blanche, had insti- 
gated them to an act of overstrained heroism, ending in their death. 

Struggling momentarily to arouse themselves from the deep lethargy 
in which their senses had been plunged by the various remedies so 
ineffectually applied, the sisters half opened their large blue eyes, 
already covered with the thick mists of approaching dissolution, and 
suddenly perceiving the tender heavenly compassion with which Gabriel 
was observing them, the poor girls, whose brains still wandered, 
exclaimed delightedly, 

" Sister I sister ! see, see ! the archangel has kept his promise I- 
there he is, just as he appeared to us in our dream when we were in 
Germany! yes and as he came to us three days ago^! Look, dear 
sister, his face is sweet and gentle as then it looked ! He has come 
from heaven to fetch us." 

" Alas, alas ! but will our dying rescue our dear mother from the 
misery of purgatory? Holy, heavenly spirit, entreat the Lord to 
receive our beloved mother and ourselves." 

Until then, stupified by grief and half choked with tears, Gabriel 
had been unable to articulate a single word ; but as the orphans 
uttered their touching prayer, he exclaimed, 

" Cease, my children, to entertain fears for the eternal blessedness 
of your mother. Never did a more pure or saint-like spirit return to 
its Almighty Giver. How frequently have I heard my adopted parent 
speak of her rare virtues and noble character, rendering her so justly 
the pride and pattern of all who heard her name. Trust me, she has 
had her reward, and abundantly has her Heavenly Father blessed her 
for all her suffering so courageously supported while on this earth." 

" Do you hear ? " exclaimed Rose, while a bright flash of joy 
momentarily illumined the livid features of both sisters. " Our mother 
is blessed and accepted in heaven !" 

" Assuredly she is ! " continued Gabriel ; " but come, my poor 
children, dismiss these distressing ideas try to rouse yourselves 
you must not think of dying, remember your poor father's sufferings 
if he were to lose you ! " 

" Ah yes, our father ! " cried Blanche, with a sudden [start ; then 
in mingled words of reason and the wildest excitement that would 
have touched the hardest heart, she added, " Alas, alas ! what will he 
do, when at his return he finds not his children ? Father, dearest 
father ! oh forgive your poor girls indeed, indeed, we did not think 
we were acting wrong we wished to imitate your noble example, 
and to perform a devoted and generous action in coming hither to 
succour our poor Madame Augustine our excellent, faithful gouver- 
nante. And we little expected to die so soon and so suddenly ; only 
yesterday we were so gay and happy ! " 



286 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Dear, good angel ! will you not appear to our beloved father in 
a dream, as you did to us, and tell him that, when dying, our lust 
thoughts were of him? And that Dagobert knew nothing of 
our coming hither? therefore beg our father not to be angry 
with him." 

" Holy spirit !" murmured the other dying girl, in a voice so 
feeble as to be scarcely articulate, " I entreat of you to go to Dago- 
bert also and tell him, that on our death-bed we ask his pardon 
for the grief we know our death will cause him." 

" And beg of our kind old friend," added Rose, trying to smile, 
" to pet our poor faithful dog Kill-joy for us I " 

" And let me further beseech you, oh good and pitying angel, to 
appear also to two persons we dearly love and who have ever shewn 
us so much kindness and affection. Carry the assurances of our love 
and gratitude to that sweet Mademoiselle de Cardoville, and her 
good friend La Mayeux. And when we are in heaven, we will watch 
over and bless all whom we have loved, and who have loved us " 
faintly articulated Blanche. " And now may God, in His great good- 
ness receive us to His presence and permit us to rejoin our 
beloved mother never again to part from her." 

" Ah, good archangel, you have promised us this you remember 
in our dream you said, ' Poor children, who have journeyed from afar, 
you have traversed the earth, but to find everlasting rest with your 
departed and angelic mother 1 ' " 

" Oh, this is, indeed, dreadful !" exclaimed Gabriel, covering his 
agonised face with his hands ; " thus to die so young ! so innocent I 
and no hope, no means of saving them. Almighty Dispenser of all 
things, Thy ways are, indeed, inscrutable ! Alas, alas ! why should 
these poor children be thus stricken by so cruel a death ?" 

Uttering a deep sigh, Rose made another strong effort for speech, 
while she indistinctly murmured, 

"Let us be buried together, that as in life we were never 
parted so in death we may still be near each other " 

And unable to articulate further, the sisters held their suppliant 
hands towards Gabriel, while their dying glances were fixed with 
beseeching earnestness on his countenance. 

" Oh, ye martyrs of the purest and most generous devotion !" cried 
the missionary, casting towards heaven his tear-fraught eyes, "ye 
angelic beings I treasures of candour and ingenuous innocence ! 
ascend ! ascend to those realms whither your Almighty Father 
summons, deeming, no doubt, this cold, bad world unworthy to 
possess you !" 

" Sister 1 father !" were the last faint sounds that escaped the lips 
of the expiring sufferers. Then, as if by a last impulse, the sisters, by 
an instinctive movement, tried to fold their arms around each other 
their heavy eyelids were partially raised, as if to enjoy one parting look, 
a shivering seized their limbs, and, then, as if exhausted by the 
paroxysm, they fell back motionless, while the last faint sigh issued 
from their half-closed lips, now exhibiting all the pale lividness and 
violet tint of the frightful malady to which they had fallen victims. 

And thus perished Rose and Blanche Simon. 



THE GUARDIAN ANOEL. 287 

After piously closing the eyelids of the poor orphans, Gabriel and 
Sister Martha reverentially knelt beside the bed, and offered up 
prayers for the repose of their souls. 

Suddenly a loud and tumultuous noise was heard in the vast 
salon ; and amid the heavy tramp of hurried steps, loud imprecations, 
and mournful cries, the curtain was hastily withdrawn from the bed of 
death, and Dagobert, pale, dishevelled, and distracted, broke in upon 
the solemn scene. 

But at the sight which met his eyes, at the spectacle of his children 
thus extended, dead and motionless, with priest and sister of charity 
praying beside their insensible remains, the poor old soldier, petrified 
with horror, and struck to the heart with an agony too mighty for 
words, uttering a wild shriek of anguish, endeavoured to reach the bed, 
but in vain, and ere Gabriel, who had risen and was hastening 
towards him, could catch him in his arms, Dagobert had fallen back- 
wards with fearful violence, his grey head striking heavily on the 
floor. 

# * * # 

# # * 

# * * * 

It is night dark, gloomy, and stormy ! One o'clock in the 
morning has just resounded from the church of Montmartre. 

On the day preceding that night the remains of Hose and Blanche 
had been conveyed to the cemetery of Montmartre, both, according to 
their last desire, enclosed in one coffin. 

Through the thick darkness which covered the field of death a pale 
glimmering light was stealing stealthily along. It was the gravedigger ! 
The man walked with more than his usual caution, picking his way by 
means of a dark lanthorn ; but this increase of precaution arose from 
his having a companion, who walked feebly and unsteadily, his figure 
enveloped in a large cloak, while the manner in which he held down 
his head, and the handkerchief repeatedly pressed to his eyes, told that 
he wept with a bitter and sincere grief that refused to be comforted. 

This individual was Samuel, the aged Jew, and guardian of the 
house in the Rue Saint-Fran9ois. 

And so, also, had the old man come mysteriously to hold secret 
discourse with the digger of graves, and to obtain a great favour at his 
hands by means of a golden bribe, too weighty for refusal, on the 
night of the funeral obsequies of Jacques Rennepont, the first to die 
among the seven heirs to the disputed inheritance. 

The favour sought and obtained was as singular as fearful. 

After having traversed many of the thickly shaded cypress paths, 
densely studded with graves, the Jew and his conducter arrived at a 
small kind of open fence situated near the western wall of the cemetery. 
The night was so pitchy dark that nothing could be discerned beyond 
the small spot illumined by the faint rays of the lanthorn. 

After moving his lanthorn about for some time, sometimes sweeping 
it along the damp ground, and occasionally holding it up, as though in 
search of some object to direct his search by, the gravedigger seemed 
to have found what he was searching for ; and, shewing to Samuel a 
large yew-tree, whose widely-spreading branches extended far on all 



288 THE WANDERING JEW. 

sides, he pointed to a newly raised mound of earth at its feet, saying, 
" That's it !" 

" Are you quite sure ?" 

" Oh, yes I two bodies in the same coffin. That is a thing we 
don't often have here." 

" Alas, alas I" sighed forth the old Jew, with a bitter groan, " both 
in one coffin, said you ?" 

" And now, then, since you know the spot," inquired the grave- 
digger, " what do you want further with me ? " 

Samuel replied not, but, falling on his knees, piously kissed the 
earth forming the new-made grave. Then, rising with tears streaming 
down his aged cheeks, he approached the gravedigger and whispered a 
few, very few words in his ear; but the whisper was so feeble, it 
scarcely reached him for whom it was intended, and yet the two indi- 
viduals were alone in the darkness and solitude of the deserted 
cemetery. And so did these men pursue their discourse, while the 
dark veil of Night covered them, and her silence dwelt around. 

The gravedigger, as though terrified by Samuel's proposition, at 
first peremptorily refused the request made to him, whatever it was. 
But the Jew employing, alternately, persuasion, prayers, entreaties, 
tears, and even the temptation of gold, for its jingling could be dis- 
tinctly heard, the gravedigger, after a long resistance, at length 
appeared vanquished ; and, although still involuntarily shuddering at 
the idea of what Samuel had proposed to him, he said in an agitated 
voice, 

" To-morrow night, then, about two o'clock ! " 

" I will be behind this wall," said Samuel, displaying, by the aid of 
the lanthorn, the latticed fence, which was low ; " and, by way of 
giving you notice of my being there, I will throw three stones into 
the cemetery." 

" That will do," answered the gravedigger shuddering, and wiping 
away the drops of cold sweat which trickled down his brow; "I shall 
recollect three stones thrown over that low fence into the ceme- 
tery." And then, as if he had regained a portion of his youthful 
strength, Samuel, spite of his extreme age, managed, by the grave- 
digger's aid, and by availing himself of the inequalities in the forma- 
tion of the stone wall, to climb over the lowest part of it, and disap- 
pear ; while the gravedigger hastened homewards with all imaginable 
speed, occasionally glancing over his shoulder with a look of intense 
horror, as though he fancied himself pursued by some supernatural 
being. 

On the night that witnessed the funeral obsequies of Rose and 
Blanche, Rodin wrote the two following notes. The first, addressed to 
his mysterious correspondent at Rome, alluded to the death of Jacques 
Rennepont, with those of Rose and Blanche Simon, the inveiglement 
of M. Hardy, and the renunciation of all Gabriel's claims, thereby 
reducing the number of claimants to two, Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
and Djalma. 

This first billet written by Rodin, and addressed to Rome, merely 
contained these words : 

" Take FIVE from SEVEN there remain TWO. Communicate 



RUJN. 289 

this result to the Cardinal Prince, and let him be active and stirring 
for I am advancing on on on /" 

While the second note, written in a feigned hand, was directed and 
sent by a safe and sure mode of communication to Marechal Simon, 
whose hands it was certain to reach. It merely contained these words : 

" If there be yet time, return with all speed your children are 
dead ! Their murderer will be pointed out to you." 



CHAPTER L. 

RUIN. 

IT was the day after the death of Marechal Simon's daughters. 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville was still ignorant of the sad end of her 
young relatives ; her features were radiant with happiness ; never had 
she looked so lovely never did her eyes appear more brilliant, her 
complexion of a more dazzling whiteness, her lips of a more humid 
coral. According to her custom (eccentric it must be allowed) of 
dressing herself in a picturesque manner, Adrienne wore, although it 
was about three o'clock in the afternoon, a pale green gown, a very 
full petticoat, of which the sleeves and corsage were slashed with pink, 
and laced up with white of excessive delicacy. A light net of pearl 
concealed the thick roll of hair at the back of Adrienne's head, forming 
a kind of Oriental head-dress of delightful originality, and which suited 
admirably with the long curls of the young lady, which encircled her 
face and fell almost as low as her finely rounded bosom. 

To the expression of unutterable happiness which overspread the 
features of Mademoiselle de Cardoville was united a certain resolute, 
jesting, satirical air, which was not habitual to her. Her well-formed 
head seemed to be still more gracefully erect on her lovely white neck, 
and it seemed as though an ill-repressed ardour dilated her small pink 
and intelligent nostrils, and that she was awaiting with the utmost 
impatience the moment for an aggressive and ironical encounter. 

Not far from Adrienne was La Mayeux, who had resumed in the 
house the situation she at first occupied. The young seamstress was 
in mourning for her sister ; her countenance expressed a deep but 
softened sorrow. She looked at Mademoiselle de Cardoville with 
surprise, for she had never before seen the countenance of the young 
patrician express so much boldness and satire. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville had not the slightest coquetry, in the 
narrow and vulgar acceptation of the word, and j^et she cast a glance 
at the mirror before which she was standing ; then, after having re- 
stored its elastic curl to one of her locks of golden hair by rolling it 
round her ivory finger, she removed with her hand several imper- 
ceptible folds formed by the wrinkling of the thick material about her 
elegant corsage. This movement, and that which she made as she half 
turned her back to the glass to see if her gown was properly adjusted, 
74 u 



290 THE WANDERING JEW. 

revealed by a serpentine undulation all the elegance, all the graces 
of her figure, so delicate, well turned, and 

" Small by degrees and beautifully less ;" 

for, in spite of the sculptural and full richness of her back and shoul- 
ders, as white, firm, and lustrous as penselic marble, Adrienne was 
also one of those who could make a girdle of her bracelet. 

These delicious little womanish coquetries performed with indescrib- 
able grace, Adrienne, turning towards La Mayeux, whose surprise 
increased at every moment, said to her with a smile, 

" My gentle Madeleine, do not laugh at what I am going to say. 
What should you think of a tableau, which will represent me as you 
now see me ?" 

" Really, mademoiselle " 

"What! mademoiselle still?" said Adrienne, in a tone of gentle 
reproach. 

" But, Adrienne," continued La Mayeux, " I should say it was a 
very charming tableau, and (as you always are) that you were dressed 
with exquisite taste." 

" Then you do not find me any better to-day than on other days ? 
Dear poetess, allow me to say that it is not on my own account that I 
ask this question," added Adrienne gaily. 

" I thought so," replied La Mayeux, with a gentle smile. " Well, 
then, in truth it is impossible to conceive a more becoming toilette. 
This gown, of apple-green and pale pink, heightened by the gentle 
brilliancy of the white ornaments, which harmonise so precisely with 
the hue of your hair, all combine, so that in my life I declare I never 
saw a more attractive tableau" 

What La Mayeux said she felt, and was happy she could so express 
herself, for as we have said, how deep was the admiration of this soul 
of poetry for all that was beautiful ! 

" Well," observed Adrienne gaily, "I am delighted that you think 
me better to-day than any other day, my dear." 

" Only " continued La Mayeux, hesitating. 

" Only ? " said Adrienne, looking at the young work-girl with an 
interrogative air. 

"Only, my dear," said La Mayeux, "if I have never seen you look 
more decidedly handsome, at the same time I never saw your features 
so expressive of resolute satirical determination than at this moment. 
You have the air of impatient defiance." 

" That is precisely what I desire, my dear little Madeleine," said 
Adrienne, throwing her arms round La Mayeux's neck with tender joy : 
"I must embrace you, to shew my delight at being so well understood 
for if I have, as you say so well, that provoking air, it is because I am 
expecting my dear aunt." 

"Madame the Princess de Saint-Dizier ? " exclaimed La Mayeux, 
in a tone of fear ; " that great lady who was so wicked, and behaved so 
shamefully to you ? " 

" Precisely so, my dear ; she has requested an interview, and I 
shall be delighted to receive her." 

" Delighted ! " 

" Delighted rather an affected delight a little satirical or so 



RUIN. 291 

a little in malice perchance," replied Adrienne gaily. " Only imagine, 
she regrets her flirtations, her beauty, her youth ! indeed, her very 
embonpoint distresses her, the dear pious woman ! and she hates to see 
me handsome, beloved, loving, and thin ; yes, above all things, 
thin," added Mademoiselle de Cardoville, laughing very heartily, and 
then adding, " You really cannot imagine, my dear, the hateful envy, 
the savage despair, which a stout elderly female of ridiculous preten- 
sions feels at the sight of a young thin woman." 

" My dear friend," said La Mayeux seriously, * ; you jest surely ; 
and yet somehow, I don't know how, but the coming of the princess 
really alarms me." 

" Dear, susceptible creature, be of good heart," replied Adrienne, 
affectionately: "this woman I do not fear any longer. In order to 
prove this to her, and at the same time to make her as wretched as 
possible, I mean to treat her, monster of hypocrisy as she is all 
wickedness and infamy she who comes here, no doubt, with some 
abominable design I will treat her as if she were some inoffensive 
and ridiculous person ; in a word, like a fat woman ! " And again 
Adrienne laughed with all her might. 

A valet-de-chambre entered, and, interrupting Adrienne's mirth, 
said to her, 

" Madame la Princesse de Saint-Dizier begs to know if mademoi- 
selle will receive her?" 

" Certainly," said Mademoiselle de Cardoville. 

The servant left the room. 

La Mayeux was about to leave the apartment, when Adrienne 
retained her, taking her hand, and saying in an accent of serious ten- 
derness, " My dear, remain, I beg of you." 

" You desire it ? " 

" Yes, I desire it for the sake of my vengeance," replied Adrienne, 
with a smile, u and to prove to Madame de Saint-Dizier that I have a 
tender frieiid ; and, in fact, that I enjoy all earthly blisses at the same 
time." 

"But, Adrieone," observed La Mayeux, "only reflect that " 

"Hush, my dear, here is the princess; remain I ask it as a 
favour, as a personal service. Your wonderful instinct of heart will, 
perchance, detect the secret aim of her visit; the presentiments of your 
affection have already enlightened me as to the plots of that odious 
Rodin : did they not? " 

With such an entreaty, La Mayeux could not hesitate she re- 
mained, but was going from the fire-side, when Adrienne took her by 
the hand and made her sit down in the arm-chair she occupied by the 
hearth, saying to her, 

" My dear Madeleine, keep your place, you owe nothing to Ma- 
dame de Saint-Dizier ; it is different with me, for she comes to me as 
a visitor." 

Adrienne had scarcely pronounced these words than the princess 
entered, with her head erect, her imposing air (and, as we have already 
said, she had one of the most imposing airs in the world), her step 
firm, and her demeanour haughty. 

The most perfect characters, the most philosophical minds, yield 
almost always at some time to puerile weaknesses; a ferocious 



292 THE WANDERING JEW. 

envy, excited by the beauty, the mind of Adrienne, had always had a 
great share in the hatred of the princess for her niece, although it was 
impossible to think of rivalry with Adrienne, and she never had seri- 
ously thought of such a thing. Madame do Saint-Dizier could not 
help, when she was coming to the interview she had requested, devot- 
ing a great deal of attention to her toilette, and of being laced, tied, 
and bound in to a triple extent in her shot-silk dress a compression 
which rendered her countenance much more suffused than usual. In 
a word, the crowd of jealous and hateful sentiments which animated 
her against Adrienne had, at the mere thought of this meeting, excited 
so much perturbation into a mind usually calm and controlled, that 
instead of a simple and plain toilette which, as a woman of tact and 
taste, she usually wore, the princess had the false gout to wear a gown 
a la gorge de pigeon, and a garnet-coloured bonnet, ornamented with 
a magnificent plume of the bird of paradise. Hatred, envy, pride of 
triumph (the devotee was thinking of the perfidious skill with which 
she had incited the daughters of Marechal Simon to almost certain 
death), the execrable hope, so ill concealed, of succeeding in fresh 
plots, were all displayed in the countenance of the Princess de Saint- 
Dizier when she entered her niece's hotel. 

Adrieune, without advancing a step to her aunt, yet rose very politely 
from the sofa on which she was sitting, made a half-courtesy full of 
grace and dignity, and then seated herself again, pointing out to the 
princess an arm-chair placed in front of the fire-place, one corner of 
which was occupied by La Mayeux, while she (Adrienne) was on the 
other side, saying, 

" Pray, madarne, be seated." 

The princess turned very red, remained standing, and cast a regard 
of haughty and insolent surprise at La Mayeux, who, faithful to the 
desire of Adrienne, had bowed slightly when Madame de Saint-Dizier 
entered, without offering her her seat. The young seamstress had 
acted thus both from reflection and the voice of her conscience, which 
told her that the real superiority of position did not belong to this 
base, hypocritical, and wicked princess, but to herself, La Mayeux, so 
good, so devoted. 

" Pray, madame, sit down," repeated Adrienne, in a soft tone, and 
pointing to the vacant seat. 

" The conversation I have requested with you, mademoiselle," 
replied the princess, " must be secret." 

" I have no secrets, madame, from my dearest friend ; and you can, 
therefore, speak before mademoiselle." 

" I know of old," retorted Madame Saint-Dizier, with bitter irony, 
'that in all things you care very little for secrecy, and are very facile 
in the choice of what you call your friends. But you will permit me 
to act differently from you. If you have no secrets, mademoiselle, I 
have, and I do not make a confidante of the first comer ;" and the 
devotee cast another contemptuous glance on La Mayeux. 

Madeleine, hurt at the insolent tone of the princess, replied gently 
and simply, 

"I do not at present perceive, madame, any difference so very 
humiliating between the first and the last comer to the house of Made- 
moiselle de Cardoville." 



RUIN. 293 

" What ! she talks ? " said the princess, in a tone of proud and 
impertinent pity. 

" At least, madame, she replies," retorted La Mayeux, in her soft 
tone. 

" Do you comprehend that I wish to converse with you alone, ma- 
demoiselle ? " said the devotee to her niece impatiently. 

"Excuse me I do not comprehend you, madame," replied 
Adrienne, with an astonished air ; " mademoiselle, who honours me 
with her friendship, will be so kind as to be present at this interview 
you have requested of me. I say she will kindly do so, because, doubt- 
less, it will require all the concession of kind regard to be resigned to 
hear for my sake all the gracious, benevolent* charming things 
which I have no doubt you intend to communicate to me." 

" But, mademoiselle " said the princess quickly. 

" Permit me to interrupt you, madame," said Adrienne, in a tone 
of amenity, and as if she were addressing to the devotee the most 
flattering compliments. "In order to place you on terms of perfect 
confidence with mademoiselle, allow me to inform you that she is fully 
aware of all the pious perfidies, the holy infamies, the religious indig- 
nities, of which you were anxious, but failed, to make me the victim ; 
she knows, too, that you are a mother of the Church, such as there are 
very few ; may I then hope, madame, that now your delicate and 
interesting reserve will cease?" 

" Really," replied the princess with angry amaze, " I do not know 
whether I am asleep or awake !" 

"Ah, indeed!" said Adrienne, in a tone of alarm; "the doubt 
you display as to the state of your faculties is very alarming, madame. 
Your blood mounts into your head no doubt, for your face is very 
much flushed; you seem oppressed compressed depressed; per- 
haps (we may say so amongst women), perhaps you are laced a little 
too tight, madame ? " 

These words, uttered by Adrienne with all the affectionate seeming 
of interest and simplicity, all but choked the princess, who, in spite of 
herself, became crimson, and cried out as she suddenly seated herself: 

"Well thus be it so, mademoiselle; I prefer such a reception to 
any other it puts me at my ease as you say " 

"Does it not, madame?" added Adrienne, with a smile; "at least 
we can frankly say all we have on our minds which must at least 
have for you the charm of novelty. Come now, between ourselves, 
own that you feel much obliged to me for having thus put you in a 
position to throw aside, if for a moment only, that odious mask of devo- 
tion, mildness, and benignity, which must weigh on you so heavily." 

W T hen she thus heard the sarcasms of Adrienne (an innocent and 
excusable revenge, if we reflect on all the ill which the princess had 
done, or desired to do, to her niece), La Mayeux felt her heart pierced, 
for she (and with reason) dreaded, more than did Adrienne, the prin- 
cess, who replied with much sangfroid : 

" A thousand thanks, mademoiselle, for your kind intentions and 
your feelings towards me ; I appreciate them as they deserve, and as I 
ought, and I trust, without keeping you in expectation, to prove it 
to you." 



294 THE WANDERING JEW. 

" Yes, yes, madame," replied Adrienne with earnestness, " tell us 

all about it I am so impatient so curious " 

" And yet," said the princess, feigning in her turn an ironical and 
bitter concern, " you are a thousand leagues off from guessing what I 
am about to tell you." 

" Really ? Indeed, madame, I feel that your candour, your 
modesty are in your way," retorted Adrienne, with the same biting 
affability ; " for there are very few things you can do or say that 
would surprise me, madame. Do you not know that from you I 
expect every and any thing?" 

" Perhaps, mademoiselle," said the devotee, pronouncing he 
words very slowly ; " if, for instance, I told you that in four-and 
twenty hours by to-morrow, say you were reduced to actual want." 
This was so unexpected, that Mademoiselle de Cardoville made a 
gesture of surprise, and La Mayeux shuddered. 

"Ah, mademoiselle!" said the princess, with triumphant joy, and 
in a tone that was affectionately cruel, as she saw the increasin 
surprise of her niece. " Come, confess that I do surprise you, 
although, as you said, very few things on my part could astonish you. 
How right you were to have given to our conversation the tone you 
did, else I should have required all sorts of apologies and intro- 
ductions before I could have said to you, ' Mademoiselle, to-morrow 
you will be as poor as you are rich to-day,' whilst now 1 can say this 
quite easily, quite simply." 

Her first surprise over, Adrienne replied, smiling, with a calmness 
which amazed the devotee, 

"Well, I confess frankly, madame, that I have been surprised; 
for I expected from you one of those base infamies in which you 
excel, some perfidy well plotted and most cruel. But how could I 
suppose that you would make so much ceremony for such a trifle ?" 

"To be ruined completely ruined!" exclaimed the devotee; 
" ruined by this time to-morrow : you, so daringly prodigal, to see 
not only your income, but this hotel, your furniture, horses, jewels, 
all, every thing, even to those absurd costumes of which you are so 
vain, sequestrated ! Do you call that a trifle ? You, who squander 
with indifference thousands of louis, to see yourself reduced to a mere 
humble allowance, less than the wages you give to one of your women ! 
Do you call that a trifle ?" 

To the intense disappointment of her aunt, Adrienne, who ap- 
peared more and more tranquillised, was about to reply to her aunt, 
when the door opened, and, without being announced, Djalma 
entered. 

An engrossing and proud tenderness overspread the radiant brow 
of Adrienne at the sight of the prince ; and it is impossible to depict 
the look of triumphant and haughty happiness which she turned on 
Madame de Saint-Dizier. 

Never had Djalma appeared more decidedly handsome ; never had 
more perfect bliss displayed itself in a human countenance. The 
Indian wore a long robe of white cachemire with a thousand stripes of 
purple and gold ; his turban was the same colour and material, and a 
magnificent flowered shawl was fastened round his waist. 



RECOLLECTIONS. 295 

At the sight of the Indian, whom she had not hoped to meet at 
Mademoiselle de Cardoville's, the Princess de Saint-Dizier could not at 
first conceal her great astonishment. There, then, were Madame de 
Saint-Dizier, Adrienne, La Mayeux, and Djalma, present at the foU 
lowing scene. 



CHAPTER LI. 

BECOLLECTIONS. 

DJALMA, never having seen Madame de Saint-Dizier before at 
Adrienne's, had appeared at first very much surprised at her presence. 
The princess, silent for a moment, contemplated in turns, with deep 
hatred and implacable envy, those two beings so handsome, so young, 
so loving, so happy ; and then she shuddered suddenly, as if a souvenir 
of great importance presented itself suddenly to her mind, and for 
several seconds she remained deeply absorbed in thought. 

Adrienne and Djalma profited by this pause to gaze on each 
other with an ardent idolatry which filled their eyes with a humid 
flame, and then, on a movement of Madame de Saint-Dizier, who ap- 
peared to have shaken oft' her momentary reverie, mademoiselle said to 
the young Indian, with a smile, 

" My dear cousin, I wish to repair a forgetfulness I confess a 
voluntary one (you shall learn why), by speaking to you, for the first 
time, of one of my relatives, to whom I have the honour of presenting 
you Madame the Princess de Saint-Dizier." 

Djalma bowed. 

Mademoiselle de Cardoville continued rapidly, at the moment 
when her aunt was about to reply, 

" Madame de Saint-Dizier came here to communicate most gra- 
ciously an event the most fortunate for me, and of which I will pre- 
sently inform you, my dear cousin, unless this good princess is desirous 
of anticipating me in the pleasure of doing so. :> 

The unexpected arrival of Djalma, the recollections which sud- 
denly occurred to the princess, no doubt greatly modified her first 
plans; for, instead of continuing the conversation as to Adrienne's 
ruined fortunes, Madame de Saint-Dizier replied, with a smiling air 
which concealed some evil design, 

" I should be miserable, prince, to deprive my amiable and dear 
niece of the pleasure of announcing to you presently the good news to 
which she alludes, and of which, as a loving kinswoman, I hastened to 
inform her. Here are a few notes on the subject (and the princess 
handed a paper to Adrienne), which I hope will prove satisfactorily 
the reality of what I have announced to her." 

" A thousand thanks, my dearest aunt," said Adrienne, taking the 
paper with the utmost indifference ; " this precaution, this proof, were 
superfluous. You know I can always take your word, when it is in 
reference to any good-will towards me," 



296 THE WANDERING JEW. 

In spite of his ignorance of the refined treacheries, the smooth 
cruelties, of civilisation, Djalma was endowed with that exquisite tact 
which is a part of all uncultivated and easily excited natures, and he 
felt a kind of moral disquietude when he listened to this exchange of 
affected amenities. He did not penetrate their inverted sense, but yet 
they sounded as it were false in his ears ; and, either from instinct or 
presentiment, he experienced a powerful prejudice against Madame de 
Saint-Dizier. 

The devotee, reflecting on the seriousness of the incident she was 
about to bring forward, could scarcely contain her internal agitation, 
which was evidenced by the increasing suffusion of her cheeks, her 
bitter smile, and the wicked joy in her eye ; and then, at the sight of 
this woman, Djalma could not overcome an increasing antipathy, and 
remained silent, attentive, and his handsome features even lost their 
original serenity. 

La Mayeux also experienced a sort of increasing uneasiness while 
she continued alternately to gaze with fearful, timid glances on the 
princess, or supplicatingly towards Adrienne, as though imploring of 
her to cease a conversation from which the young needlewoman fore- 
saw the most painful results. 

But, unfortunately, Madame de Saint-Dizier had then too much 
interest in prolonging the interview, while Mademoiselle de Cardoville, 
deriving firm courage, and animated by still greater energy and con- 
fidence by the presence of the man she adored, seemed to revel in the 
dear delight of torturing her false, treacherous aunt by the sight of an 
affection which had resisted all the arts of herself and her accomplices 
to overthrow. 

After a momentary silence, Madame de Saint-Dizier resumed, in a 
soft, insinuating tone of voice, 

" My dear prince, you can scarcely imagine how delighted I was 
to learn by public report (for I assure you nothing else is talked of), 
I say, how excessively gratified I felt upon hearing of your intense 
adoration of my dear niece here; for, really, without being aware of 
it, you have relieved me from a very awkward dilemma !" 

Djalma's only answer was to regard Mademoiselle de Cardoville 
with a look at once surprised and sad, as though he thus mutely ques- 
tioned her as to what her aunt could possibly mean. 

Fully comprehending the appeal, Madame de Saint-Dizier replied 
to it, by saying, 

" I will be more explicit, since I perceive you do not fully com- 
prehend my last observation. But, to come to the point, you perceive 
that, as the nearest relation to this dear, giddy girl" looking towards 
Adrienne " I was more or less responsible for her conduct in the eyes 
of the world; and behold! just as my difficulties with regard to my 
niece had reached their height, you, prince, most opportunely arrive to 
my assistance from the uttermost parts of the globe, boldly and cou- 
rageously to take upon yourself a charge which so infinitely puzzled 
and embarrassed me. Oh, really, your conduct is most charming, 
and, as far as myself and niece are concerned, most exemplary, 
leaving the astonished world at a loss which to admire most, your 
courage or your simplicity !" 

Having thus spoken, the princess cast a glance of almost fiendish 



RECOLLECTIONS. 297 

malice towards Adrienne, and with an air of deadly defiance seemed to 
await her reply. 

" Pray pay particular attention to my good aunt, dear cousin !" 
answered Mademoiselle de Cardoville, with a calm and smiling manner. 
" From the instant that our affectionate relative became a witness of 
our mutual happiness, and found us, instead of being wretched, as our 
enemies would have had us, full of trust and confidence in each other, 
her heart overflowed with delight ; and you have yet to know in what 
manner my good aunt relieves the over-fulness of her tender feelings. 
But have a little patience, and you will be able to judge for yourself." 
Then, with the most natural air imaginable, Adrienne continued, " I 
know not how it is, dear cousin ; but talking of the outpourings of my 
aunt's affectionate heart reminds me (without, certainly, there being 
the slightest connexion between the two subjects) of what you were 
relating to me you know, cousin concerning a species of viper 
found in your country ; how, in vainly attempting to bite, they break 
the teeth used in filtering the venom they inject into their victims, so 
that they are compelled to swallow their own deadly poison, and con- 
sequently perish by the very means intended for the destruction of 
others. Now, dear aunt, I am quite sure that your kind, sympathising 
nature will pity and compassionate these poor, disappointed, and 
baffled vipers!" 

Casting a look of implacable hatred on her niece, Madame de 
Saint-Dizier replied, in a tone of ill-restrained agitation, 

" I confess I do not precisely understand either the moral or the 
application of your 'fact in natural history,' for such, I presume, 
you desire it to be considered. May I inquire your opinion, prince ?" 

But Djalma answered not. Leaning on the chimney-piece, he 
continued sternly and searchingly to gaze on the features of the 
princess, while his mind seemed each moment to feel an increase of 
aversion and disgust for her. 

" Dearest aunt !" exclaimed Adrienne, in a voice of feigned though 
gentle reproach, " have I then presumed too far on your kind and 
pitying nature ? Is it possible you have no sympathy with or com- 
passion for the unfortunate vipers ? Alas ! alas ! for whom or for 
what, then, can your commiseration be excited ? But, to be sure," 
added Adrienne, as though merely uttering her thoughts aloud, " they 
are too insignificant, too contemptible, to excite the notice of one who 
always flies at high and noble game." Then, perceiving the almost 
uncontrollable fury of her aunt, Adrienne gaily cried, " But let us not 
waste our precious time any more than our sympathies upon objects so 
undeserving to engross them ; but I beseech of you at once, dear, kind 
aunt, to favour us with the many tender speeches I doubt not the sight 
of my cousin's and my own"happiness has inspired a mind like yours !" 

" Why, then, my beloved and amiable niece, since you so much 
desire it, I will speak with the candour you desire ; first, congratulating 
this dear, kind, young man for having ventured hither, even from the 
wilds of India, to take the charge of you off my hands ; and with a 
blind confidence above all praise lias the worthy nabob relieved me of 
the stern necessity of controlling your actions, and even, poor, giddy 
girl ! from being compelled to having recourse to such measures as 
passing you off in the world as having thoroughly lost your senses, as 



298 THE WANDERING JEW. 

confining you as a confirmed lunatic in a private madhouse, not that 
you were mad, but because it was absolutely necessary to gloss over 
your irregularities and excesses under the mask of lunacy. You cannot 
Lave forgotten that you positively went such fearful lengths as to have 
men privately concealed in your sleeping apartment ; and that upon 
one occasion we were publicly and openly scandalised by the police 
even finding a young man hid in your chamber. Upon that occasion, 
you know, we were obliged to call in the friendly co-operation of our 
worthy friend Dr. Baleinier ; and it was only by his noble and generous 
conduct in immediately conducting you to one of his asylums, and 
keeping you there a sufficient time, that the offended world learned to 
pity instead of despise you, believing, from the report I so industriously- 
circulated, that you were afflicted with a flighty madness that ren- 
dered unfair to question your conduct or criticise your actions. Let's 
see, what was the name of the man dragged out of the recess where 
you had hidden him ? Come, help me to recollect it ; you can, if you 
like, I know. Ah, he was a very handsome young fellow ! and, 
moreover, a great writer of poetry. He was called Agricol 
Baudoin ! Now I have it, though, you little, faithless, capricious 
thing ! you pretend to have forgotten all about him. Ah, my dear 
prince, if you seek notoriety, you could not possibly go a more certain 
way to obtain it than by espousing this young lady ; for never was a 
name or a person more the subject of general conversation than my 
niece has made herself." 

And at these words, as hateful as unlocked for, Adrienne, Djalma, 
and La Mayeux, all remained mute and motionless, tinder their different 
feelings of resentment. The princess seeing no further occasion for 
concealing her fiendish joy and triumphant hatred, exclaimed, with 
flushed features and sparkling eyes, as she arose, and addressing herself 
to Adrienne, cried, in a loud, exulting voice, 

" Yes, 'tis true every word I have uttered, and I dare you, made- 
moiselle, to contradict a syllable I have advanced ! Was there, or was 
there not, a low, working man a mere common artisan, fouud by the 
police in your bed-chamber, leaving but one conclusion to be drawn, 
that he was at that time your favoured lover ?" 

At this vile accusation, the bright transparency of Djalma's amber 
complexion became suddenly livid and almost leaden in its hue his 
large, fixed, and dilated eyes became encircled with white his upper 
lip, red as blood itself, became rigidly drawn up, so as to display the 
convulsive clenching of his pearly teeth. In a word, the whole ex- 
pression of his countenance became in a moment so fearfully threat- 
ening and savage that La Mayeux shuddered as she beheld it. 

Carried away by his impetuous and overboiling rage, the young 
Indian experienced the same paroxysm of unreflecting rage, the same 
maddening whirlwind of fury, as causes the blood to rush with boiling 
eagerness to the brain of the man of unsullied honour and undaunted 
courage when some dastardly assailant strikes him the purposely dealt 
blow to provoke him. And if, during this terrible moment, rapid in 
its duration as the lightning which cleaves the sky, action had suc- 
ceeded to thought in the mind of Djalma, all present would have 
perished by an explosion as frightful and sudden as that caused by the 
springing of a mine beneath our feet. 



RECOLLECTIONS. 299 

Djalma would have destroyed the princess, because she accused 
Adrienne of a vile act of treachery and wrong Adrienne herself, be- 
cause she had even been the object of a suspicion La Mayeux, for 
having witnessed the accusation while his own life would have been 
sacrificed as useless after being so basely and treacherously deceived. 
But, O prodigy ! his wrathful, bloodshot, infuriated look no sooner 
encountered the mild, calm, dignified glances of Adrienne, impressed 
with all the serene confidence of conscious virtue and innocence, than 
the ferocious anger of the young man disappeared as instantaneously as 
it had manifested itself. And even more than this, to the profound 
astonishment of the princess and La Mayeux, in proportion as the 
looks of Djalma were more and more riveted on Adrienne as they 
became, in a manner, more penetrating and influenced by increased 
reason and intelligence, so did the countenance of the young Indian 
become, as it were, utterly changed, and the so lately convulsed and 
threatening features of Djalma became sweet and gentle, and reflected, 
as it were on a mirror, the peace and security which had returned to 
his heart from the close contemplation of a soul as pure and spotless 
as that which irradiated the lovely face of Adrienne. Let us endea- 
vour to give some natural explanation of a moral change so delightful 
to La Mayeux, so full of discomfiture for the princess. 

Scarcely had the venomous lips of Madame de Saint-Dizier dis- 
tilled their poison into the ears of the young Indian than he quitted 
his reclining position by the chimney-piece, and, in the first burst of his 
fury, advanced towards the princess ; then, as if desirous of restraining 
the violence of his fury, he grasped the marble as though he would 
reduce it to atoms, a convulsive agitation shook his frame, while his 
features were rendered scarcely recognisable by the distortions of 
passion and unbridled rage. 

On her side, when Adrienne heard the vile charge made by her 
aunt, she too, yielding to the first impulse of irritated and outraged 
feelings, had partly arisen from her chair with flashing eyes and looks 
that threatened annihilation, but, comforted and immediately strength- 
ened and assured by the consciousness of her own purity, her lovely 
face quickly resumed its usual expression of sweetness and tenderness, 
and it was precisely then her eyes encountered those of Djalma ; and 
for an instant the feelings produced in the mind of Adrienne were* 
rather those of sorrow than of anger : but as she again considered the 
menacing and fearful expression of Djalma's physiognomy, she said, 
mentally, " Can a gross and vulgar-minded insult like the present thus 
excite him? Surely he must himself suspect my innocence!" But to 
this idea, as cruel as it was short-lived, succeeded the most ecstatic joy 
when the eyes of Adrienne, long and steadily fixed on those of the Indian, 
saw, as if by magic, the ferocious expression of those features soften 
into a look of adoring love and confidence, as radiant with happiness 
as they had erewhile been threatening. 

And thus did the fiendish design of Madame de Saint-Dizier fall 
harmlessly to the ground before the noble, dignified look of sincere and 
confiding love visible on the countenance of her she sought to traduce. 
Nor was this all. At the very moment when a witness to this expres- 
sive scene, so marvellously evincing the wonderful sympathy existing 



300 THE WANDERING JEW. 

between these two beings, who without even a word, and by a mere 
exchange of looks, had comprehended all, explained all, and became 
perfectly reassured, the princess was almost suffocating with rage, 
Adrienne, with a bewitching smile and a playfulness of manner wholly 
irresistible, extended her beautiful hand to Djalma, who, kneeling 
before her, imprinted on it a kiss so ardent and energetic as brought 
the bright, carnation blush of maiden modesty, mingled with the 
purest happiness, to the cheek of the fair girl before him. 

The Indian then placing himself on the ermine rug at Madame de 
Cardoville's feet, in an attitude full of grace and respect, leaned his 
chin on the palm of one of his hands, and in mute adoration contem- 
plated Adrienne silently, as leaning towards him, smiling and happy, 
she gazed, as the song goes, " in his eyes of eyes," with as much en- 
thralling love as if the devotee, choking with hate, had not been 
there. 

Adrienne soon, as if something were wanting to her bliss, beck- 
oned to La Mayeux and made her sit beside her, and then, with a 
hand clasped in that of her excellent friend, Mademoiselle de Cardo- 
ville, smiled at Djalma adoring at her feet, and|then cast a look on the 
princess, who was more and more in amaze, so sweet, firm, and calm, 
as depicted most nobly the invincible quietude of her happiness and 
the immeasurable height of her contempt for calumny, that Madame 
de Saint -Dizier, overwhelmed, overcome, stammered out several 
scarcely intelligible words in a voice that shook with anger,"and then, 
completely losing all self-command, rushed hastily towards the door. 

But at that moment La Mayeux, who feared some plot, some 
treachery, or perfidious espionage, resolved, after having exchanged a 
glance with Adrienne, to follow the princess to her carriage. 

The angry disappointment of Madame de Saint-Dizier, when she 
saw herself thus accompanied and watched by La Mayeux, appeared 
to Mademoiselle de Cardoville so comic, that she could not refrain 
from bursting into loud laughter; and at the sound of this con- 
temptuous mirth the devotee, choked with rage and despair, quitted the 
house on which she had hoped to bring trouble and misfortune. 

Adrienne and Djalma were left alone. 

Before we continue the scene which passed between them, a few 
retrospective words are requisite. 

It will be easily believed, that from the moment when Mademoiselle 
de Cardoville and the Indian had been brought more closely into 
communion, after so many crosses, their days glided on in unutterable 
happiness. Adrienne occupied herself particularly in bringing forth, 
one by one as it were, all the generous qualities of Djalma, of which 
she had read such glowing details in the books of travellers. 

The young girl had undertaken this tender and patient study of 
Djalma's character, not only in order to justify the intense love she 
felt, but also because this trial, to which she had assigned a time, might 
aid her in tempering the excess of Djalma's love, a task the more meri- 
torious for Adrienne, as she herself experienced the same passionate 
sentiments. With these two beings,i| so perfectly endowed by the 
Creator, the passions and the dreams of the soul formed an equilibrium 
and maintained their mutual spring marvellously, God having endowed 







LOVE AND HATRED. 

Vol. HI. P. aoo. 



THE TRIAL. 301 

these two lovers with exceeding beauty of person and admirable 
beauty of heart, as if to render legitimate the irresistible attraction 
which drew them to each other. 

What was to be the term of this trial which Adrienne imposed on 
Djalma and herself was what Mademoiselle de Cardoville intended to 
tell Djalma in this interview, after the sudden departure of Madame de 
Saint-Dizier. 



CHAPTER LII. 

THE TRIAL. 

MADEMOISELLE DE CARDOVILLE and Djalma remained alone. 
Such was the perfect confidence which had succeeded in the 
Indian's mind to his first movement of ungovernable rage when he 
heard the infamous calumny of Madame de Saint-Dizier, that when 
alone with Adrienne he did not say one word in reference to this 
unworthy accusation. 

On her side the young lady was too proud, and had too much con- 
sciousness of the purity of her love, to condescend to any explanation 
with Djalma. She would have thought it alike offensive to him and 
to herself. 

The two lovers then began their conversation as if the incident 
referred to by the devotee had never occurred. 

The same disdain was extended to the notes which, according to 
the princess, were to prove the impending ruin of Adrienne. The 
young lady had placed the paper on a small table near her without 
reading it. With a gesture filled with grace, she made a motion to 
Djalma to sit beside her, which he obeyed, quitting not without regret 
the place he had occupied at the young lady's feet. 

" My friend," said Adrienne to him in a soft and serious tone, 
" you have often and impatiently asked me when the termination of the 
trial which we have imposed on each other would arrive ; it has nearly 
arrived now." 

Djalma started, unable to repress a slight cry of happiness and sur- 
prise, but this exclamation, almost tremblingly uttered, was so sweet, 
so gentle, that it seemed rather the first sound of unutterable gratitude 
than the passionate utterance of happiness. 
Adrienne continued, 

" Separated, surrounded by snares and falsehoods, mutually de j 
ceived as to our sentiments, yet still we loved each other ; in this we 
followed an irresistible and sure attraction stronger than opposing 
events, but afterwards during the past days in the long retreat, during 
which we have lived isolated from all and of all, we have learned to 
esteem and honour each other the more. Given up to ourselves free 
both of us we have had the courage to resist all the burning impulses 
of passion in order that we might hereafter give ourselves to it without 
remorse. During these days our hearts have been open to each other, 



302 THE WANDERING JEW. 

and we have therein read all all. Thus, Djalma, I believe in you, and 
you believe in me ; I find in you what you find in me do you not? 
every possible, desirable, and human guarantee for our happiness. 
But to our love there is wanting a consecration, and in the eyes of 
the world in which we are called to live there is but one only 
marriage, and that binds for the whole of life." 
Djalma looked at the young girl with surprise. 
" Yes, an entire lifetime; and yet, who can answer for ever to the 
sentiments of all their life?" continued the young girl ; " a God who 
knows the future of all hearts alone can irrevocably bind certain 
beings for their happiness: but alas! to the eyes of human creatures, 
the future is impenetrable. Thus when we are unable to answer safely 
for more than the sincerity of a present sentiment, is it not to commit 
a mad, selfish, and impious action to take upon us bonds that are indis- 
soluble ?" 

" It is sad to think so," said Djalma, after a moment's reflection, 
" but it is true," and he looked at the young lady with an expression 
of increasing surprise. 

Adrienne continued in a tone of considerable emotion: 
" Do not mistake my thought, my dear friend ; the love of two 
beings, who like us, after a thousand trials of the heart, and soul, and 
mind, have found in each other all the assurances of desirable happi- 
ness a love like ours, is indeed so noble, so great, so divine, that it 
cannot be without divine consecration. I have not the religion of 
the mass like my venerable aunt ; but I have the religion of God ; 
from Him our love has emanated; He should be piously glorified for it, 
and it is therefore by invoking Him with profoundest gratitude that we 
ought not to swear to love each other for ever, not to belong to 
each other for ever." 

" What mean you ?" cried Djalma. 

" No," continued Adrienne, " for no person can utter such an oath 
without falsehood or madness; but we may, in the sincerity of our 
soul, swear to do both of us loyally all that is humanly possible in order 
that our love may last perpetually, and that we may be for ever united. 
We ought not to take upon us these indissoluble bonds ; for if we 
always love, of M'hat use are these chains ? If our love ceases, of 
what use are these chains, which are therefore but intolerable tyranny ? 
I ask you this, my dear friend." 

Djalma only replied by a gesture of respect, which shewed his 
wish that Adrienne should continue. 

" And then," she resumed with a mixture of tenderness and pride, 
" from respect for your dignity and my own, my dear friend, I will 
never take an oath to observe the law made by man against woman 
frith haughty and brutal egotism a law which seems to deny the soul, 
the heart, and mind of woman a law with which she cannot comply 
without being enslaved or perjured a law which as a maiden deprives 
her of her name; as a wife, declares her in a state of insensible imbe- 
cility, as it imposes on her a degrading state of tutelage ; as a mother, 
refuses her every right and power over her children ; and, finally, as 
a human creature, renders her subservient, places fetters for ever on her 
at the good pleasure of another human creature, her equal and the 
same before God I You know, my dear friend," added the young 



THE TRIAL. 303 

girl, with impassioned excitement, " you know how much I honour 
you you whose father was called the Father of the Generous; and I 
do not therefore fear that your noble and generous heart would never 
exercise these tyrannical rights against me ; but in my life I ever 
told a lie, and our love is too holy, too celestial, to be submitted to 
a consecration bought by twofold perjury : no, I never will take an 
oath to observe a law which my dignity and my reason revolt at. 
Soon the rights of women will be re-established ; soon divorce will be 
law ; and I will observe these usages because they accord with my own 
feelings, ray own heart, with what is just, what is possible, what is 
human." Then interrupting herself, Adrienne added with emotion so 
deep, so gentle, that a tear glistened in her lovely eyes, " Oh, if you 
you knew, my friend, what your love is to me ; if you knew how 
precious, how sacred to me is your happiness, you would excuse, 
you would comprehend these generous superstitions of a loving and 
loyal heart, which would see a sad presage in a lying and perjured 
consecration : what I wish is to fix and retain you by attraction, to 
enchain you by happiness, and leave you free, to be indebted for you 
to yourself alone." 

Djalnia had listened to the young girl with fixed and passionate 
attention. Proud and noble-minded, he idolised her proud and noble 
disposition. After a moment's reflective silence he said, in his sweet 
and sonorous voice, and in a tone that was almost solemn, 

" Like you, lying, perjury, and iniquity, revolt me ; like you, I 
think that a man degrades himself in accepting the right to be tyran- 
nical and cowardly, however resolved he may be not to use this 
right ; like you, it would be impossible for me to think that it was not 
to your heart only, but to the eternal constraint of an indissoluble 
union, that I owed all that I would only have from yourself alone ; 
like you, I think there is no true dignity but in perfect freedom. 
But you have said that you desire a divine consecration to love so 
great, so holy, and if you reject oaths that you could not take without 
madness, perjury, there are others which your reason your heart 
could and would accept : who then shall give us this divine consecra- 
tion ? Before whom shall we pronounce these oaths ?" 

" In a very few days, my friend, I think I can, I believe, I shall 
be able to tell you. Every evening after your departure, I had no 
other thought but this ; to find some means for plighting ourselves, 
you and myself, in the eyes of God, but irrespective of the laws 
and in those limits only which reason approves, without offence to all 
that is required by the habits of the world in which it may hereafter 
suit us to live, and whose apparent susceptibilities must not be wounded. 
Yes, my dear friend, when you shall know in what noble hands I shall 
confide the office of uniting us, who it is that will thank and glorify 
God for this union a sacred union which will still leave us free that 
it may leave us worthy, you will say, as I do, I am sure, that never 
were purer hands than will be laid on us. Excuse me, my dear friend, 
all this is very serious, as serious as our happiness, as serious as our 
love. If my words seem to you strange, my ideas unreasonable, say, 
oh ! say it, my friend, and we will seek and find a better mode of 
reconciling what we owe to God, what we owe to the world, with 
what we owe to ourselves. They say that lovers are always mad," 



304 THE WANDERING JEW. 

added the young lady, with a smile, " whilst I say there are none 
more sensible than real lovers." 

" When I hear you speak thus of our happiness," said Djalma, v itli 
deep emotion, " and ^pi-ak with that serious and calm tenderness, it 
appears as if I saw before me a mother incessantly occupied with the 
future of her adored child endeavouring to surround it with every 
thing that can make, it courageous, strong, and noble-hearted trying 
to turn from its path all that is base and unworthy. You ask me to 
contradict you, Adrienne, if your ideas seem strange to me. But you 
forget, then, that that which makes my faith, my confidence in our 
love, is, that I experience it with the same views as yourself. What 
offends you offends me, what revolts you revolts me ; and when but 
now you quoted to me the laws of this country, which in a woman 
respect not even a mother, I thought with pride, that in our barbarous 
countries, where a woman is a slave, at least she is free when she be- 
comes a mother no, no, these laws were not made for you or for me. 
Does it not prove the holy respect which you bear to our love, that 
you desire to elevate it above all those unworthy servilities which would 
thus stain it ? And, Adrienne, I must tell you that I have often heard 
the priests in my country say that there were beings inferior to the 
divinities, but superior to other creatures ; I did not believe these 
priests then here I believe them !" 

These last words were pronounced, not with an accent of flattery, 
but in a tone of the most sincere conviction ; with that sort of passionate 
veneration, of almost timorous fervour, which characterise the believer, 
when he speaks of his belief. But what is impossible to render, is the 
undescribable harmony of these almost pious words, and the soft and 
serious tone of the young Indian's voice. It is impossible to paint the 
expression of loving and intense melancholy which gave an irresistible 
charm to his handsome features. 

Adrienne had listened to Djalma with an indescribable mixture of 
joy, gratitude, and pride. Then laying her hands upon her heart, as if 
to repress its violent pulsation, she said, looking at the prince with deep 
affection : 

" Yes, yes ! always good, always just, always great ! Oh ! my 
heart! my heart, how it beats proud and rejoicingly! Be blessed, 
O mon Dieu ! for having created me for this adored lover! Ah! 
the extent of happy, ardent, and free love, is not yet known ! Oh ! 
thanks to us two, Djalma the day on which our hands are united, 
what hymns of happiness and gratitude will mount to heaven ! " 



As she spoke thus, Adrienne (in Djalma's dazzled eyes) became 
more and more an ideal being, as, yielding to the force of her love, she 
cast on him her radiant glances. 

Then, overcome by the intensity of his own passion, the Indian, 
throwing himself at the feet of his mistress, exclaimed, 

" Oh, do not speak to me thus ! What years of my life would I 
not give to hasten the day of happiness ! " 

" Nay, nay, not years they belong to me ! " 

" Adrienne, dost thou love me ? " 

The lovely girl made no reply, but her look spoke for her ; and 



AMBITION. 305 

Djalma, taking both her hands in his, exclaimed in impassioned 
accents, 

"To-day this happy day why delay it?" 

" Because our love, in order to have no reserve, ought to be con- 
secrated by the benediction of God ! " 

" Are we not free ?" 

" Yes, yes, beloved, we are free ; but let us prove worthy of our 
liberty." 

" Adrienne, have pity ! " 

" And I ask pity of you ; yes, pity for the sanctity of our love : do 
not profane it in the flower that would be to see it soon wither I 
Courage, my friend, for yet some days, and heaven without remorse, 
without regrets " 

" But until then hell nameless tortures for you do not know, 
no, you do not know, when, after each day I quit this house, that your 
recollection follows me, surrounds, burns me ! It seems as though it 
were your breath that inflames me and destroys my sleep and each 
night I sob and call for you, as I did when I believed you did not 
love me and yet I know now that you are mine, that you really love 
me ! But to see you to see you each day more beautiful, more 
adorable, and yet each day to leave you more deeply enslaved, adoring 
you do not know " 

Djalma could not proceed. Adrienne had also experienced " the 
charming agonies of love," and perhaps more acutely than Djalma, and 
she felt now all the strength and all the weakness of passion. But 
with an effort she suddenly quitted her seat, and went towards the 
apartment in which La Mayeux usually remained, calling for her as 
she proceeded. 

A second had scarcely elapsed ere Mademoiselle, de Cardoville, in 
tears and most unutterably lovely, clasped La Mayeux in her arms, 
whilst Djalma knelt at the threshold of the door, which he did not, 
from respect, venture to cross. 



CHAPTER LIII. 

AMBITION. 

A VERY few days had elapsed since the interview lately recorded 
between Djalma and Adrienue, and Rodin was alone in the same 
apartment in the Rue Vangerard that had witnessed his firm endurance 
of the severe remedies applied by Dr. Baleinior ; his hands were plunged 
into the recesses of the back pockets of his old great-coat, while, with 
head bent forwards on his breast, the Jesuit was evidently buried in 
profound thought. The alternations of his step from slow to rapid 
pacing of the floor alone indicating the agitation of his mind. 

" As regards Rome," muttered Rodin to himself, " I feel quite 
easy, every thing is progressing as I could wish. The abdication is in 
a manner agreed upon, and, if I can only pay the price demanded, the 

75 x 



306 THE WANDERING JEW. 

cardinal prince promises me a majority of nine voices at the approach- 
ing conclave. Our GENERAL is on my side. The doubts entertained 
respecting my sincerity by Cardinal Malipieri have either died away of 
themselves or have found no support in Rome. Still I am not wholly 
without uneasiness touching the correspondence Father d' Aigrigny is said 
to hold with Malipieri. I have been unable to discover any thing certain 
respecting it. No matter, this old soldier is a condemned man, his affairs 
are drawing to a crisis; a little patience, and he will be executed !" 

And here the livid lips of Rodin were distorted by one of those 
fiendish laughs that gave to his whole countenance an almost diabolical 
expression. After a pause he resumed : 

"The funeral obsequies of that free-thinker and philanthropic 
friend to mankind in general, and the working classes in particular, 
took place at Saint-Herem the day before yesterday. Fran9ois Hardy 
ceased to live while revelling in the delight of one of his absurd fits of 
crazy enthusiasm called religious ecstasy ! I had his formal deed of 
gift before ; but this event makes the thing irrevocable. Living men 
sometimes recall their bequests the dead never do." 

For a few seconds Rodin remained silent and reflective, then said 
with pointed energy, 

" There remain then only this red-haired girl and her love-sick 
Mulatto. To-day is the twenty -seventh of May. The first of June is close 
at hand, and as yet this pair of loving foois have resisted all my endea- 
vours to bring them to my wishes. The princess imagined she had 
hit upon such a clever idea, and certainly I was of her opinion ; it 
seemed such a sure stroke to recall the finding of Agricola Baudoin 
in the chamber of her crack-brained niece. And at first the Indian 
tiger roared with savage jealousy; but scarcely had the loving turtle- 
dove cooed out a repetition of her fond notes, than the weak and 
imbecile savage came crouching to her feet, drawing back the claws 
previously sharpened by a well -aimed appeal to his violent and 
vindictive feelings. 'T is a pity quite a pity ! Something ought to 
have come of that." 

And again Rodin resumed his rapid pacing the floor. 

" Nothing is more surprising," said he, " than the singular produc- 
tion of one idea from another! How strange that my applying the 
simile of a turtle-dove to this red-haired wench should have brought 
back to my mind the recollection of that infamous old woman called 
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, who was courted and followed by that 
fat fool Jacques Dumoulin ; but whom, I trust, will be carried off by 
the Abbe Corbinet for our benefit and advantage. I want to know 
how comes it that the employment of a single term brings this hideous 
old hag back to my thoughts ? I have often observed, that in the same 
manner as a rhymester is indebted to the most singular chances for 
some of his best rhymes, so the beginning of our most brilliant ideas 
may frequently be traced to some association as absurd as that which 
has just occurred to me; as ridiculous as the very thought of bringing 
together the images of an old witch like La Sainte-Colombe and a 
young beauty such as Adrieune de Cardoville. The two suit each 
other about as well as a ring would a cat, or a necklace adorn a fish. 
Well, well, I must try what niy brain can produce out of these jumbled 
notions." 



AMBITION. 307 

Scarcely had these words escaped the lips of Rodin than he started, 
and a malignant joy gleamed over his hideous features, which was suc- 
ceeded by a sort of meditative surprise, such as the philosopher or the 
student might be supposed to experience when astonished and de- 
lighted by some unexpected discovery ; and with head erect, expanded 
gaze, sparkling eye, his hollow, flaccid cheeks distended by a sort of 
proud and exulting feeling, Rodin stood ; his tall, gaunt figure drawn 
up to its utmost height, his arms folded, as with an air of indescribable 
triumph he exclaimed, 

" Surely the workings of the mind are wonderful admirable; far 
beyond our poor powers to comprehend them ! Oh, the inexplicable 
links which unite the chain of human reasoning ! To think that from 
a mere word or term of derisive reproach should emanate an idea as 
great, as vast, and luminous! Comes this singular faculty of the 
strength or infirmity of our mental powers ? I know not ; but it is 
strange passing strange ! But now I compared this red-haired girl 
to a dove ; by the chain of ideas thus engendered I was carried on to 
recollection of the detestable old hag who has trafficked in the souls 
and bodies of so many of her fellow-creatures. Then mere common- 
place phrases came into my head a ring to a cat, a necklace to a 
fish ! and suddenly, at the word NECKLACE, a sudden light sprung to 
my eyes and cleared away the mist and darkness in which all my 
attempts to disunite these invulnerable lovers have hitherto been 
wrapped. Yes, the talismanic word, NECKLACE, has unlocked that 
portion of my brain which has been blocked up by stupidity and want 
of judgment for I know not how long." 

And again pacing the room with increased rapidity, Rodin 
continued, 

" Yes, yes, it is a thing worth trying ; and the more I reflect upon 
it, the more feasible does the project appear to me. The only thing is 
about that old hag, De la Sainte-Colombe ; by what means shall I ? 
Oh ! there is that great fat simpleton, Jacques Dumoulin right ! And 
then the other, where to find her? or if found, how prevail on her? 
Ah! there's the difficulty! Now comes a stumbling-block in my 
way. 1 was rather too hasty in calling out ' Victory ! ' ' 

And then with renewed energy Rodin recommenced his rapid pace 
up and down the room, biting his nails with a sort of intensity of 
thought and fixedness of idea which manifested itself after a time by 
sending large drops of perspiration to his brow, trickling down his 
meagre, sallow cheeks, as the Jesuit continued his agitated walk. The 
increased tension of his mind sometimes overcoming him so much that 
he would suddenly stop, and then, vehemently stamping on the ground, 
resume his troubled march, sometimes raising his eyes upwards as if 
seeking some inspiration ; then, while he gnawed the nails of his right 
hand, he continually rubbed down his bald scull with his left hand, 
giving utterance to various exclamations expressive of vexation, anger, 
or hope, sometimes as though sanguine of success, at others, breathing 
utter despair. Had the cause of all these painful meditations been a 
less atrocious one, it might have afforded a curious and interesting 
spectacle to have been an invisible witness of the workings of a mind 
so powerful, so dangerous ; to follow the rapid succession of thoughts 
and desires as impressed upon his agitated countenance, as it worked 



308 THE WANDERING JEW. 

and varied according to the different lights in which his mental vision 
reviewed the project upon winch lie had concentrated all his resources, 
and employed all the strength and zeal of his masterly spirit. 

Apparently his deliberations were bringing the subject of his 
reverie to a satisfactory conclusion ; for all at once Rodin ex- 
claimed, 

" True, true I it is venturesome, bold, and hazardous ; but, at 
least, it can instantly be put in practice, and, should success attend it, 
the advantages will be incalculable. Who can undertake to foretell 
all the consequences of the explosion of a mine ? " -Then, yielding to 
an enthusiasm which was by no means natural to him, the Jesuit, with 
Hashing eyes and exulting mien, exclaimed, " Oh, the passions, the 
passions ! what a magnificent key-board for such as possess a finger 
firm yet light and skilful enough to touch it properly ! And what a 
stupendous gilt is the power of commanding and arranging our 
thoughts ! What a field of mental wonders does it not embrace ! 
Let those who talk largely of the miraculous process by which an 
acorn becomes an oak, a grain of wheat an ear, henceforward bow 
in silence to the superior operation of thought ; for while the grain 
of wheat must have months ere it can become an ear, and the acorn 
demand a century ere the tree it gives birth to attains maturity, while 
from merely the combination of a few letters, forming the word 
NECKLACE ay, from that single word, dropped as it were by 
accident into my brain a few minutes ago has sprung up an im- 
mense, a gigantic structure, which, like the oak, has a thousand rami- 
fications and roots, shooting upwards and stretching downwards where 
none see them. And all for the great glory of the Lord ! Yes, for 
that alone do I thus toil, and rack my understanding to devise what 
is fittest to be done; but then it is that the Lord may be served ac- 
cording to my notions and views, when I reach, as reach I must, the 
aim and end of my ambition, for these Rennepouts will have passed 
away like so many shadows ; and what difference can it make to moral 
order, whether the whole family be expunged from the face of the 
earth or not? Who would ever dream of putting the lives of such 
insignificant beings in the same scales as the interests of such a cause 
as ours, whilst the splendid inheritance my daring hand casts into the 
balance will cause me to ascend to a height from whence even mo- 
narchs are controlled and people compelled to obey ? " Then, bursting 
into a fit of savage laughter, Rodin resumed, as he precipitately tra- 
versed the chamber to and fro, " Only let me reach the good fortune 
of Sixtus V. that is all and the world shall see, to her infinite asto- 
nishment, what spiritual dominion and authority are when placed in 
such hands as mine, of a priest who has reached the age of fifty 
years, forswearing all the temptations of this life, and who, even if 
he should ascend the papal chair, would still live on his frugal, self- 
denying, anchorite's life ! " 

The expression of Rodin's features was really frightful to behold 
as he pronounced these words. All the sanguinary, sacrilegious, and 
vile ambition recorded in the histories of those popes whose crimes have 
obtained for them a disgraceful notoriety, seemed to glow in characters 
of blood on the forehead of this worthy follower of Ignatius. A thirst 
for dominion seemed to inflame the impure blood of the Jesuit, a 



AMBITION. 309 

burning fever consumed him, and large drops of thick, clammy per- 
spiration stood on his agitated features. 

All at once, the sound of a travelling carriage entering the court- 
yard of the house in the Rue de Vangerard attracted the attention of 
Rodin, who, vexed with himself for having given way to so much ex- 
citement, drew from his pocket a dirty handkerchief composed of red 
and white checks ; this he dipped in a glass of water and bathed his 
forehead, temples, and cheeks, gradually approaching the window as 
he did so to endeavour to make out, by peeping through the half- 
open blinds, who was the traveller whose arrival had put all his am- 
bitioxis reveries to flight. 

A projecting portico before the door at which the carriage had 
stopped, however, effectually screened it from the scrutinising glance 
of Rodin. 

" No matter," said he, gradually recovering his ordinary coolness 
and self-possession, " I shall soon know who has arrived. Let me 
write at once to that fellow, Jacques Dumoulin, to come hither imme- 
diately ; he served me well and faithfully as regarded that wretched 
girl who lived in the Rue Clovis, and almost cracked the tympanum 
of my ears by screaming out her songs from Beranger. Dumoulin 
may again render me a considerable assistance ; I have him in my 
power, and he dare not refuse." So saying, Rodin seated himself 
before his desk and began to write. 

A few seconds had scarcely elapsed when some person tapped at 
his door, doubly locked, though contrary to the established rules of 
his order ; but from time to time, by dint of his power and influence, 
Rodin contrived to obtain his general's permission to be relieved of 
the troublesome presence of a socius, always protesting the necessity 
for his being allowed entire freedom from all restraint, the better to 
work out the Company's good ; and by this means Rodin had con- 
trived to evade most of the disagreeable and stringent regulations of 
the society to which he belonged. 

A servant entered and delivered a letter to Rodin, who, calmly 
taking it from him, held it in his hand without opening it, and said, 
with an air of indifference, 

" What carriage was that which just now arrived?" 

" It came from Rome, reverend father," replied the servant, bowing. 

"From Rome?" repeated Rodin, eagerly; and spite of himself a 
vague inquietude spread itself over his features : then, in a calmer 
manner, he added, still holding the unopened letter in his hands, 
" And who was in the carriage ? do you happen to know ? " 

" A reverend father belonging to our holy Company." 

Spite of his intense curiosity for Rodin well knew that a re- 
verend messenger thus travelling post was always the bearer of some 
important mission he asked not another question ; but changing the 
subject, merely said, " From whence comes this letter?" 

" From our holy establishment at Saint-Herem, reverend father." 

Looking more attentively at the hand-writing, Rodin recognised 
it as that of D'Aigrigny, who had been intrusted to watch the last 
moments of M. Hardy. The letter contained these words, 

" I despatch an express to your reverence for the purpose of com- 
municating a fact more astonishing than important. After the fu- 



310 THE WANDERING JEW. 

iieral rites had been performed over the remains of M. Francois 
Hardy, the coffin containing the body was placed temporarily in a 
vault of our chapel, preparatory to its being possible to convey it to 
the cemetery of the neighbouring town. This morning, when some of 
our people went down to the vault for the purpose of commencing the 
necessary preparations for the removal of the corpse, the coffin with its 
contents had disappeared." 

Rodin started with surprise, and exclaimed, " Most strange ! " 
Then he continued the perusal of the letter. 

" All our attempts to discover any traces of this singular and 
sacrilegious act have utterly failed ; but the chapel, standing (as you 
know) at a distance from the main building, and being wholly unpro- 
tected, nothing could have been easier than for any person to enter it 
without occasioning the least alarm. All we have been enabled to ascer- 
tain is, that a four-wheeled carriage must have been employed by the 
persons concerned in the affair, as marks of the wheels were visible on 
the ground, which had been saturated by the late heavy rains ; but, at a 
short distance from the chapel, these marks were lost in the thick sand 
which here abounds, and further discovery rendered impossible." 

" Who could it have been?" murmured Rodin, with a thoughtful 
air and look ; " and what man could possibly have had sufficient 
interest in the matter to care about carrying off a corpse ? " 

He then resumed the perusal of the letter. 

" Happily the death has been duly and legally attested by a 
medical officer, whom I summoned from Etampes for the purpose of 
verifying the decease, &c. &c. ; consequently, the fact and individuality 
of the death of M. Francois Hardy being regularly established, there 
can be no difficulty in establishing our rights to all property left by 
him, as well as to prove ourselves his lawful heirs to any succession 
that may hereafter arise, he having bestowed on our holy order all 
present and future interest in his possessions, lands, or money, to all 
intents and purposes : but still I deemed it my duty to send imme- 
diate information to your reverence of the strange disappearance of 
the body, in order that you may take what steps may seem best to 
you, &c. &c." 

" D'Aigrigny is right," said Rodin ; " the circumstance is in itself 
more strange than important ; yet it demands being well considered 
and reflected on : it shall be duly weighed and attended to." Turning 
towards the servant from whom he had received the letter, and who 
still stood awaiting further orders ere he ventured to quit the room, 
Rodin said to him, as he gave him the note he had written to Nini- 
Moulin, " Send this letter immediately according to its address, and 
desire the person to wait for an answer ! " 

"I will, father!" 

Just as the servant was quitting the room, a reverend father en- 
tered, saying to Rodin, 

" Father Caboccini from Rome has just arrived, the bearer of a 
most important message to your reverence from our most reverend 
general." 

At these words the blood of Rodin rushed violently to his heart, 
but he preserved the most imperturbable calmness, as he merely 
replied, 



SET A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF. 311 

" Where is Father Caboccini ? " 
" In the next room, your reverence ! " 

" Beg of him to come hither, and then leave us," said Rodin. 
The next minute the Reverend Father Caboccini, the envoy from 
Rome, entered the room, and remained alone with Rodin. 



CHAPTER LIV. 

SET A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF. 

THE Reverend Father Caboccini, the Roman Jesuit who entered 
Rodin's apartment, was a little man, thirty years of age at most, 
plump, rosy, and with stomach which made his black cassock to pro- 
trude conspicuously. The worthy small pere was one-eyed, but his one 
eye was a piercer ; his round visage was joyous and smiling, and splen- 
didly crowned with a thick mass of chestnut hair, curled in tight curls. 
His manner was cordial even to familiarity, and his free and easy 
manners harmonised marvellously with his features. 

In a second Rodin had analysed the Italian emissary, and as he 
knew his Company and the customs of Rome to his fingers' end, he 
experienced momentarily a kind of sinister presentiment at the sight 
of the worthy little pere with such courteous manners ; he would less 
have doubted some long and bony reverend father, with austere and 
sepulchral face, for he knew that the society endeavoured as much as 
possible to set aside the suspicions of the curious by the physiognomy 
and exterior of its agents. If Rodin's forebodings were just, to judge 
by the cordial greetings of this emissary, he was charged with some 
very serious and fatal errand. 

Mistrusting, attentive, with his eye and mind on the alert, like an 
old wolf that smells and anticipates an attack or a surprise, Rodin, 
according to his custom, had slowly and with snake-like movement 
advanced towards the little one-eyed man, in order to examine him 
leisurely and to penetrate accurately beneath his jovial exterior ; but 
the Roman did not give him time, for with a burst of impetuous 
affection he rushed from the door to Rodin's neck, squeezing him in 
his arms with the greatest display of affection, embracing him again 
and again, and then kissing him on both cheeks so vigorously and 
noisily that his resounding kisses echoed from one end of the apart- 
ment to the other. 

Rodin had never in his life been thus encountered, and more and 
more uneasy at the deceit he felt was concealed beneath such warm