The Wandering Jew — Complete
laid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardly
enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous
manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power
is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to
try to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly."
At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them,
Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness;
his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled
with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance,
expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood
red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close
set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of
such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:
"What is the matter, prince? You frighten me."
Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in
rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear
of yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber
mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the
violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian,
was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he
was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to
dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.
"In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?" cried Rodin.
"Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!" exclaimed Djalma, with
menacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage
to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode
about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought
for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he
endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth,
whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild
beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved
a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of
sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by
horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those
gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must
make of Djalma what he really was a hero.
Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity
of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable
circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit's
great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma's fury was calmed thus
instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed
of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance
remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more
formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin:
"Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies."
"In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?"
"Kill the cowards!"
"Kill them! you must not think of it."
"Faringhea will aid me."
"Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not
kill an enemy like a hunted tiger."
"One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed
dog," replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.
"Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous," said Rodin,
in a grave voice; "what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures
as cowardly as they are wicked?"
"To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty."
"So prince, you seek for revenge."
"I do not revenge myself on a serpent," said the Indian, with haughty
bitterness; "I crush it."
"But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that
manner. If we have cause of complaint--"
"Women and children complain," said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: "men
strike."
"Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes
your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good
reason, punishes."
"In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner."
"Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies,
have you not?--Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the
venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that
she were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from their
hands--what would you do then?"
The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation,
Rodin continued: "I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that
in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would
conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if
the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either
right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until
she has pronounced, I must be silent."
Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,
Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: "A man with a letter, not finding
you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes
from the Abbe d'Aigrigny.
"Certainly," answered Rodin. "That is," he added, "with the prince's
permission."
Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.
"You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning
a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it
to be sent on."
A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he
delivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.
CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.
When Faringhea had quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe
d'Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking
for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the
pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he
sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with
both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements
of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by
the exclamations.
"Oh! dear me! how vexatious!"
"What is the matter?" asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in
which he had been plunged for some minutes.
"Alas! my dear prince!" replied Rodin, "the most vulgar and puerile
accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have
forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very
poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely
impossible for me to read this most important letter--and an immediate
answer is expected--most simple and categorical--a yes or a no. Times
presses; it is really most annoying. If," added Rodin, laying great
stress on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince
might remark it; "if only some one would render me the service to read
it for me; but there is no one--no--one!"
"Father," said Djalma, obligingly, "shall I read it for you. When I have
finished it, I shall forget what I have read."
"You?" cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared
to him extravagant and dangerous; "it is impossible, prince, for you to
read this letter."
"Then excuse my having offered," said Djalma mildly.
"And yet," resumed Rodin, after a moment's reflection, and as if
speaking to himself, "why not?"
And he added, addressing Djalma: "Would you really be so obliging, my
dear prince? I should not have ventured to ask you this service."
So saying, Rodin delivered the letter to Djalma, who read aloud as
follows: "'Your visit this morning to Saint-Dizier House can only be
considered, from what I hear, as a new act of aggression on your part.
"'Here is the last proposition I have to make. It may be as fruitless as
the step I took yesterday, when I called upon you in the Rue Clovis.
"'After that long and painful explanation, I told you that I would write
to you. I keep my promise, and here is my ultimatum.
"'First of all, a piece of advice. Beware! If you are determined to
maintain so unequal a struggle, you will be exposed even to the hatred
of those whom you so foolishly seek to protect. There are a thousand
ways to ruin you with them, by enlightening them as to your protects. It
will be proved to them, that you have shared in the plat, which you
now pretend to reveal, not from generosity, but from cupidity.'" Though
Djalma had the delicacy to feel that the least question on the subject
of this letter would be a serious indiscretion, he could not forbear
turning his head suddenly towards the Jesuit, as he read the last
passage.
"Oh, yes! it relates to me. Such as you see me, my dear prince," added
he, glancing at his shabby clothes, "I am accused of cupidity."
"And who are these people that you protect?"
"Those I protect?" said Rodin feigning some hesitation, as if he
had been embarrassed to find an answer; "who are those I protect?
Hem--hem--I will tell you. They are poor devils without resources; good
people without a penny, having only a just cause on their side, in a
lawsuit in which they are engaged. They are threatened with destruction
by powerful parties--very powerful parties; but, happily, these latter
are known to me, and I am able to unmask them. What else could have
been? Being myself poor and weak, I range myself naturally on the side
of the poor and weak. But continue, I beg of you."
Djalma resumed: "'You have therefore every-thing to fear if you persist
in your hostility, and nothing to gain by taking the side of those whom
you call your friends. They might more justly be termed your dupes, for
your disinterestedness would be inexplicable, were it sincere. It must
therefore conceal some after-thought of cupidity.
"'Well! in that view of the case, we can offer you ample
compensation--with this difference, that your hopes are now entirely
founded on the probable gratitude of your friends, a very doubtful
chance at the best, whereas our offers will be realized on the instant.
To speak clearly, this is what we ask, what we exact of you. This very
night, before twelve, you must have left Paris, and engage not to return
for six months.'" Djalma could not repress a movement of surprise, and
looked at Rodin.
"Quite natural," said the latter; "the cause of my poor friends would be
judged by that time, and I should be unable to watch over them. You see
how it is, my dear prince," added Rodin, with bitter indignation. "But
please continue, and excuse me for having interrupted you; though,
indeed, such impudence disgusts me."
Djalma continued: "'That we may be certain of your removal from Paris
for six months, you will go to the house of one of our friends in
Germany. You will there be received with generous hospitality, but
forcibly detained until the expiration of the term.'"
"Yes, yes! a voluntary prison," said Rodin.
"'On these conditions, you will receive a pension of one thousand francs
a month, to begin from your departure from Paris, ten thousand francs
down, and twenty thousand at the end of the six months--the whole to
be completely secured to you. Finally, at the end of the six months, we
will place you in a position both honorable and independent.'"
Djalma having stopped short, with involuntary indignation, Rodin said to
him: "Let me beg you to continue, my dear prince. Read to the end,
and it will give you some idea of what passes in the midst of our
civilization."
Djalma resumed: "'You know well enough the course of affairs, and what
we are, to feel that in providing for your absence, we only wish to get
rid of an enemy, not very dangerous, but rather troublesome. Do not be