The Wandering Jew — Complete
word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!" added Ninny
Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. "I shall wash the wounds of my
adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first
quality."
For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle
of champagne--which made Rose-Pompon laugh heartily.
"And what," resumed she, "will be the name of your journal of
sacristans?"
"It will be called 'Neighborly Love.'"
"Come! that is a very pretty name."
"Wait a little! there is a second title."
"Let us hear it."
"'Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the
Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,' with this motto from the great
Bossuet: 'Those who are not for us are against us.'"
"That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he
shakes his cane."
"Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I
only reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere."
"Bah! actor's jealousy," said Rose-Pompon.
"Naughty girl!" cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.
"But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is
somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?"
"My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In
chief is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and
support, and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a
life I'll lead!"
At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to
the greengrocer, saying: "For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!"
"My!" said Rose-Pompon; "it is for the little mysterious old man, who
has such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?"
"I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome," said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. "Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?"
"Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle," said Rose-Pompon, "a
little old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never
sleeps there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for
hours, without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without
any one knowing what he does there."
"He is a conspirator," said Ninny Moulin, laughing, "or else a comer."
"Poor dear man," said Mother Arsene, "what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast."
"And what is the name of this mysterious chap?" asked Dumoulin.
"M. Charlemagne," said the greengrocer. "But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns."
"Where's the horns?"
"There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with
his neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm."
"M. Rodin!" ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending
three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. "You
say, that this gentleman calls himself--"
"M. Charlemagne--do you know him?" asked the greengrocer.
"What the devil does he do here, under a false name?" said Jacques
Dumoulin to himself.
"You know him?" said Rose-Pompon, with impatience. "You are quite
confused."
"And this gentleman has two rooms in this house, and comes here
mysteriously," said Jacques Dumoulin, more and more surprised.
"Yes," resumed Rose-Pompon; "you can see his windows from Philemon's
dove-cote."
"Quick! quick! let me go into the passage, that I may not meet him,"
said Dumoulin.
And, without having been perceived by Rodin, he glided from the shop
into the passage, and thence mounted to the stairs, which led to the
apartment occupied by Rose-Pompon.
"Good-morning, M. Charlemagne," said Mother Arsene to Rodin, who made
his appearance on the threshold. "You come twice in a day; that is
right, for your visits are extremely rare."
"You are too polite, my good lady," said Rodin, with a very courteous
bow; and he entered the shop of the greengrocer.
(21) There are, really, ordinances, full of a touching interest for the
canine race, which forbid the harnessing of dogs.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEN.
Rodin's countenance, when he entered Mother Arsene's shop, was
expressive of the most simple candor. He leaned his hands on the knob of
his umbrella, and said: "I much regret, my good lady, that I roused you
so early this morning."
"You do not come often enough, my dear sir, for me to find fault with
you."
"How can I help it, my good lady? I live in the country, and only come
hither from time to time to settle my little affairs."
"Talking of that sir, the letter you expected yesterday has arrived
this morning. It is large, and comes from far. Here it is," said the
greengrocer, drawing it from her pocket; "it cost nothing for postage."
"Thank you, my dear lady," said Rodin, taking the letter with apparent
indifference, and putting it into the side-pocket of his great-coat,
which he carefully buttoned over.
"Are you going up to your rooms, sir?"
"Yes, my good, lady."
"Then I will get ready your little provisions," said Mother Arsene; "as
usual, I suppose, my dear sir?"
"Just as usual."
"It shall be ready in the twinkling of an eye, sir."
So saying, the greengrocer took down an old basket; after throwing
into it three or four pieces of turf, a little bundle of wood, and some
charcoal, she covered all this fuel with a cabbage leaf; then, going to
the further end of the shop, she took from a chest a large round loaf,
cut off a slice, and selecting a magnificent radish with the eye of a
connoisseur, divided it in two, made a hole in it, which she filled with
gray salt joined the two pieces together again, and placed it carefully
by the side of the bread, on the cabbage leaf which separated the
eatables from the combustibles. Finally, taking some embers from the
stove, she put them into a little earthen pot, containing ashes, which
she placed also in the basket.
Then, reascending to her top step, Mother Arsene said to Rodin: "Here is
your basket, sir."
"A thousand thanks, my good lady," answered Rodin, and plunging his
hand into the pocket of his trousers, he drew forth eight sous, which he
counted out only one by one to the greengrocer, and said to her, as he
carried off his store: "Presently, when I come down again, I will return
your basket as usual."
"Quite at your service, my dear sir, quite at your service," said Mother
Arsene.
Rodin tucked his umbrella under his left arm, took up the greengrocer's
basket with his right hand, entered the dark passage, crossed the little
court and mounted with light step to the second story of a dilapidated
building; there, drawing a key from his pocket, he opened a door, which
he locked carefully after him. The first of the two rooms which he
occupied was completely unfurnished, as for the second, it is impossible
to imagine a more gloomy and miserable den. Papering so much worn, torn
and faded, that no one could recognize its primitive color, bedecked
the walls. A wretched flock-bed, covered with a moth-fretted blanket; a
stool, and a little table of worm-eaten wood; an earthenware stove, as
cracked as old china; a trunk with a padlock, placed under the bed--such
was the furniture of this desolate hole. A narrow window, with dirty
panes, hardly gave any light to this room, which was almost deprived
of air by the height of the building in front; two old cotton pocket
handkerchiefs, fastened together with pins, and made to slide upon a
string stretched across the window, served for curtains. The plaster
of the roof, coming through the broken and disjointed tiles, showed the
extreme neglect of the inhabitant of this abode. After locking his door,
Rodin threw his hat and umbrella on the bed, placed his basket on the
ground, set the radish and bread on the table, and kneeling down before
his stove, stuffed it with fuel, and lighted it by blowing with vigorous
lungs on the embers contained in his earthen pot.
When, to use the consecrated expression, the stove began to draw, Rodin
spread out the handkerchiefs, which served him for curtains; then,
thinking himself quite safe from every eye, he took from the side-pocket
of his great-coat the letter that Mother Arsene had given him. In doing
so, he brought out several papers and different articles; one of these
papers, folded into a thick and rumpled packet, fell upon the table,
and flew open. It contained a silver cross of the Legion of Honor, black
with time. The red ribbon of this cross had almost entirely lost its
original color. At sight of this cross, which he replaced in his pocket
with the medal of which Faringhea had despoiled Djalma, Rodin shrugged
his shoulders with a contemptuous and sardonic air; then, producing his
large silver watch, he laid it on the table by the side of the letter
from Rome. He looked at this letter with a singular mixture of suspicion
and hope, of fear, and impatient curiosity. After a moment's reflection,
he prepared to unseal the envelope; but suddenly he threw it down again
upon the table, as if, by a strange caprice, he had wished to prolong
for a few minutes that agony of uncertainty, as poignant and irritating
as the emotion of the gambler.
Looking at his watch, Rodin resolved not to open the letter, until the
hand should mark half-past nine, of which it still wanted seven minutes.
In one of those whims of puerile fatalism, from which great minds have
not been exempt, Rodin said to himself: "I burn with impatience to open
this letter. If I do not open it till half-past nine, the news will be
favorable." To employ these minutes, Rodin took several turns up and
down the room, and stood in admiring contemplation before two old
prints, stained with damp and age, and fastened to the wall by rusty
nails. The first of these works of art--the only ornaments with which
Rodin had decorated this hole--was one of those coarse pictures,
illuminated with red, yellow, green, and blue, such as are sold at
fairs; an Italian inscription announced that this print had been
manufactured at Rome. It represented a woman covered with rags, bearing
a wallet, and having a little child upon her knees; a horrible hag of
a fortune-teller held in her hands the hand of the little child, and
seemed to read there his future fate, for these words in large blue
letters issued from her mouth: "Sara Papa" (he shall be Pope).
The second of these works of art, which appeared to inspire Rodin with
deep meditations, was an excellent etching, whose careful finish and
bold, correct drawing, contrasted singularly with the coarse coloring
of the other picture. This rare and splendid engraving, which had cost
Rodin six louis (an enormous expense for him), represented a young boy
dressed in rags. The ugliness of his features was compensated by the
intellectual expression of his strongly marked countenance. Seated on
a stone, surrounded by a herd of swine, that he seemed employed in
keeping, he was seen in front, with his elbow resting on his knee, and
his chin in the palm of his hand. The pensive and reflective attitude
of this young man, dressed as a beggar, the power expressed in his large
forehead, the acuteness of his penetrating glance, and the firm lines
of the mouth, seemed to reveal indomitable resolution, combined with
superior intelligence and ready craft. Beneath this figure, the emblems
of the papacy encircled a medallion, in the centre of which was the
head of an old man, the lines of which, strongly marked, recalled in
a striking manner, notwithstanding their look of advanced age, the
features of the young swineherd. This engraving was entitled THE YOUTH
of SIXTUS V.; the color print was entitled The Prediction.(22)
In contemplating these prints more and more nearly, with ardent and