The Wandering Jew — Complete
"At Cardoville Castle? It is very possible, sir. I was there when a
shipwreck took place."
"And that day I called you by your name, and you asked me what I
wanted. I replied: 'Nothing now, brother--hereafter, much.' The time has
arrived. I have come to ask for much."
"My dear sir," said Rodin, still impassible, "before we continue this
conversation, which appears hitherto tolerably obscure, I must repeat my
wish to be informed to whom I have the advantage of speaking. You have
introduced yourself here under pretext of a commission from Mynheer
Joshua Van Dael, a respectable merchant of Batavia, and--"
"You know the writing of M. Van Dael?" said Faringhea, interrupting
Rodin.
"I know it perfectly."
"Look!" The half-caste drew from his pocket (he was shabbily dressed in
European clothes) a long dispatch, which he had taken from one Mahal the
Smuggler, after strangling him on the beach near Batavia. These papers
he placed before Rodin's eyes, but without quitting his hold of them.
"It is, indeed, M. Van Dael's writing," said Rodin, and he stretched
out his hard towards the letter, which Faringhea quickly and prudently
returned to his pocket.
"Allow me to observe, my dear sir, that you have a singular manner of
executing a commission," said Rodin. "This letter, being to my address,
and having been entrusted to you by M. Van Dael, you ought--"
"This letter was not entrusted to me by M. Van Dael," said Faringhea,
interrupting Rodin.
"How, then, is it in your possession?"
"A Javanese smuggler betrayed me. Van Dael had secured a passage to
Alexandria for this man, and had given him this letter to carry with him
for the European mail. I strangled the smuggler, took the letter, made
the passage--and here I am."
The Thug had pronounced these words with an air of savage boasting; his
wild, intrepid glance did not quail before the piercing look of Rodin,
who, at this strange confession, had hastily raised his head to observe
the speaker.
Faringhea thought to astonish or intimidate Rodin by these ferocious
words; but, to his great surprise, the socius, impassible as a corpse,
said to him, quite simply: "Oh! they strangle people in Java?"
"Yes, there and elsewhere," answered Faringhea, with a bitter smile.
"I would prefer to disbelieve you; but I am surprised at your sincerity
M.--, what is your name?"
"Faringhea."
"Well, then, M. Faringhea, what do you wish to come to? You have
obtained by an abominable crime, a letter addressed to me, and now you
hesitate to deliver it."
"Because I have read it, and it may be useful to me."
"Oh! you have read it?" said Rodin, disconcerted for a moment. Then he
resumed: "It is true, that judging by your mode of possessing yourself
of other people's correspondence, we cannot expect any great amount of
honesty on your part. And pray what have you found so useful to you in
this letter?"
"I have found, brother, that you are, like myself, a son of the Good
Work."
"Of what good work do you speak" asked Rodin not a little surprised.
Faringhea replied with an expression of bitter irony. "Joshua says to
you in his letter--'Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft
and audacity, union between us, who have the world for our country, the
brethren for our family, Rome for our queen.'"
"It is possible that M. Van Dael has written thus to me Pray, sir, what
do you conclude from it?"
"We, too, have the world for our country, brother, our accomplices for
our family, and for our queen Bowanee."
"I do not know that saint," said Rodin, humbly.
"It is our Rome," answered the Strangler. "Van Dael speaks to you of
those of your Order, who, scattered over all the earth, labor for
the glory of Rome, your queen. Those of our band labor also in divers
countries, for the glory of Bowanee."
"And who are these sons of Bowanee, M. Faringhea?"
"Men of resolution, audacious, patient, crafty, obstinate, who, to make
the Good Work succeed, would sacrifice country and parents, and sister
and brother, and who regard as enemies all not of their band!"
"There seems to be much that is good in the persevering and exclusively
religious spirit of such an order," said Rodin, with a modest and
sanctified air; "only, one must know your ends and objects."
"The same as your own, brother--we make corpses."(13)
"Corpses!" cried Rodin.
"In this letter," resumed Faringhea, "Van Dael tells you that the
greatest glory of your Order is to make 'a corpse of man.' Our work also
is to make corpses of men. Man's death is sweet to Bowanee."
"But sir," cried Rodin, "M. Van Dael speaks of the soul, of the will, of
the mind, which are to be brought down by discipline."
"It is true--you kill the soul, and we the body. Give me your hand,
brother, for you also are hunters of men."
"But once more, sir,--understand, that we only meddle with the will, the
mind," said Rodin.
"And what are bodies deprived of soul, will, thought, but mere corpses?
Come--come, brother; the dead we make by the cord are not more icy and
inanimate than those you make by your discipline. Take my hand, brother;
Rome and Bowanee are sisters."
Notwithstanding his apparent calmness, Rodin could not behold, without
some secret alarm, a wretch like Faringhea in possession of a long
letter from Van Dael, wherein mention must necessarily have been made of
Djalma. Rodin believed, indeed, that he had rendered it impossible for
the young Indian to be at Paris on the morrow, but not knowing what
connection might have been formed, since the shipwreck, between the
prince and the half-caste, he looked upon Faringhea as a man who might
probably be very dangerous. But the more uneasy the socius felt in
himself, the more he affected to appear calm and disdainful. He replied,
therefore: "This comparison between Rome and Bowanee is no doubt very
amusing; but what, sir, do you deduce from it?"
"I wish to show you, brother, what I am, and of what I am capable, to
convince you that it is better to have me for a friend than an enemy."
"In other terms, sir," said Rodin, with contemptuous irony, "you belong
to a murderous sect in India, and, you wish, by a transparent allegory,
to lead me to reflect on the fate of the man from whom you have stolen
the letter addressed to me. In my turn, I will take the freedom just
to observe to you, in all humility, M. Faringhea, that here it is not
permitted to strangle anybody, and that if you were to think fit to make
any corpses for the love of Bowanee, your goddess, we should make you a
head shorter, for the love of another divinity commonly called justice."
"And what would they do to me, if I tried to poison any one?"
"I will again humbly observe to you, M. Faringhea, that I have no time
to give you a course of criminal jurisprudence; but, believe me, you
had better resist the temptation to strangle or poison any one. One word
more: will you deliver up to me the letters of M. Van Dael, or not?"
"The letters relative to Prince Djalma?" said the half-caste, looking
fixedly at Rodin, who, notwithstanding a sharp and sudden twinge,
remained impenetrable, and answered with the utmost simplicity: "Not
knowing what the letters which you, sir, are pleased to keep from me,
may contain, it is impossible for me to answer your question. I beg, and
if necessary, I demand, that you will hand me those letters--or that you
will retire."
"In a few minutes, brother, you will entreat me to remain."
"I doubt it."
"A few words will operate--this miracle. If just now I spoke to you
about poisoning, brother, it was because you sent a doctor to Cardoville
Castle, to poison (at least for a time) Prince Djalma."
In spite of himself, Rodin started almost imperceptibly, as he replied:
"I do not understand you."
"It is true, that I am a poor foreigner, and doubtless speak with an
accent; I will try and explain myself better. I know, by Van Dael's
letters, the interest you have that Prince Djalma should not be here to
morrow, and all that you have done with this view. Do you understand me
now?"
"I have no answer for you."
Two cautious taps at the door here interrupted the conversation. "Come
in," said Rodin.
"The letter has been taken to its address, sir," said the old servant,
bowing, "and here is the answer."
Rodin took the paper, and, before he opened it, said courteously to
Faringhea: "With your permission, sir?"
"Make no ceremonies," said the half-caste.
"You are very kind," replied Rodin, as, having read the letter he
received, he wrote hastily some words at the bottom, saying: "Send this
back to the same address."
The servant bowed respectfully, and withdrew.
"Now can I continue"' asked the half-caste, of Rodin.
"Certainly."
"I will continue, then," resumed Faringhea:
"The day before yesterday, just as the prince, all wounded as he
was, was about, by my advice, to take his departure for Paris, a fine
carriage arrived, with superb presents for Djalma, from an unknown
friend. In this carriage were two men--one sent by the unknown
friend--the other a doctor, sent by you to attend upon Djalma, and
accompany him to Paris. It was a charitable act, brother--was it not
so?"
"Go on with your story, sir."
"Djalma set out yesterday. By declaring that the prince's wound would
grow seriously worse, if he did not lie down in the carriage during all
the journey, the doctor got rid of the envoy of the unknown friend, who
went away by himself. The doctor wished to get rid of me too; but Djalma
so strongly insisted upon it, that I accompanied the prince and doctor.
Yesterday evening, we had come about half the distance. The doctor
proposed we should pass the night at an inn. 'We have plenty of time,'
said he, 'to reach Paris by to-morrow evening'--the prince having told
him, that he must absolutely be in Paris by the evening of the 12th. The
doctor had been very pressing to set out alone with the prince. I knew
by Van Dael's letter, that it was of great importance to you for Djalma
not to be here on the 13th; I had my suspicions, and I asked the
doctor if he knew you; he answered with an embarrassed air, and then my
suspicion became certainty. When we reached the inn, whilst the doctor
was occupied with Djalma, I went up to the room of the former, and
examined a box full of phials that he had brought with him. One of them
contained opium--and then I guessed--"
"What did you guess, sir?"
"You shall know. The doctor said to Djalma, before he left him: 'Your
wound is doing well, but the fatigue of the journey might bring on
inflammation; it will be good for you, in the course of to-morrow, to
take a soothing potion, that I will make ready this evening, to have
with us in the carriage.' The doctor's plan was a simple one," added
Faringhea; "to-day the prince was to take the potion at four or five
o'clock in the afternoon--and fall into a deep sleep--the doctor to grow
uneasy, and stop the carriage--to declare that it would be dangerous to
continue the journey--to pass the night at an inn, and keep close watch
over the prince, whose stupor was only, to cease when it suited your
purposes. That was your design--it was cleverly planned--I chose to make
use of it myself, and I have succeeded."
"All that you are talking about, my dear sir," said Rodin, biting his
nails, "is pure Hebrew to me."
"No doubt, because of my accent. But tell me, have you heard speak of
array--mow?"
"No."
"Your loss! It is an admirable production of the Island of Java, so
fertile in poisons."
"What is that to me?" said Rodin, in a sharp voice, but hardly able to
dissemble his growing anxiety.
"It concerns you nearly. We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding
blood," resumed Faringhea; "to pass the cord round the neck of our