The Wandering Jew — Complete
"Hardy's workmen are coming; you are their comrade, and have no interest
in deceiving them. They will believe you. Join with me in persuading
them--"
"To what?"
"To leave this factory, in which they grow effeminate and selfish, and
forget their brothers."
"But if they leave the factory, how are they to live?"
"We will provide for that--on the great day."
"And what's to be done till then?"
"What you have done last night--drink, laugh, sing, and, by way of work,
exercise themselves privately in the use of arms.'
"Who will bring these workmen here?"
"Some one has already spoken to them. They have had printed papers,
reproaching them with indifference to their brothers. Come, will you
support me?"
"I'll support you--the more readily as I cannot very well support
myself. I only cared for Cephyse in the world; I know that I am on a bad
road; you are pushing me on further; let the ball roll!--Whether we
go to the devil one way or the other is not of much consequence. Let's
drink."
"Drink to our next night's fun; the last was only apprenticeship."
"Of what then are you made? I looked at you, and never saw you either
blush or smile, or change countenance. You are like a man of iron."
"I am not a lad of fifteen. It would take something more to make me
laugh. I shall laugh to-night."
"I don't know if it's the brandy; but, devil take me, if you don't
frighten me when you say you shall laugh tonight!"
So saying, the young man rose, staggering; he began to be once more
intoxicated.
There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" The host made his appearance.
"What's the matter?"
"There's a young man below, who calls himself Olivier. He asks for M.
Morok."
"That's right. Let him came up." The host went out.
"It is one of our men, but he is alone," said Morok, whose savage
countenance expressed disappointment. "It astonishes me, for I expected
a good number. Do you know him?"
"Olivier? Yes--a fair chap, I think."
"We shall see him directly. Here he is." A young man, with an open,
bold, intelligent countenance, at this moment entered the room.
"What! old Sleepinbuff!" he exclaimed, at sight of Morok's companion.
"Myself. I have not seen you for an age, Olivier."
"Simple enough, my boy. We do not work at the same place."
"But you are alone!" cried Morok; and pointing to Sleepinbuff, he added:
"You may speak before him--he is one of us. But why are you alone?"
"I come alone, but in the name of my comrades."
"Oh!" said Morok, with a sigh of satisfaction, "they consent."
"They refuse--just as I do!"
"What, the devil! they refuse? Have they no more courage than women?"
cried Morok, grinding his teeth with rage.
"Hark ye," answered Olivier, coolly. "We have received your letters,
and seen your agent. We have had proof that he is really connected with
great societies, many members of which are known to us."
"Well! why do you hesitate?"
"First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a
movement."
"I tell you they are."
"He--tells you--they are," said Sleepinbuff, stammering "and I (hic!)
affirm it. Forward! March!"
"That's not enough," replied Olivier. "Besides, we have reflected upon
it. For a week the factory was divided. Even yesterday the discussion
was too warm to be pleasant. But this morning Father Simon called to
him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to
one mind. We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall
see."
"Is that your final word?"
"It is our last word."
"Silence!" cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing
himself on his tottering legs. "It is like the noise of a crowd not far
off." A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more
and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.
"What is that?" said Olivier, in surprise.
"Now," replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, "I remember the host
told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory. If
you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy's other workmen, as
I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you,
instead of against you."
"This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy's workmen against
the other!" cried Olivier; "you hoped that we should make common cause
with these people against the factory, and that--"
The young man had not time to finish. A terrible outburst of shouts,
howls, and hisses shook the tavern. At the same instant the door was
abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the
chamber, exclaiming: "Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy's
factory?"
"I do," said Olivier.
"Then you are lost. Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are
Devourers here from M. Hardy's, and offering them battle--unless the
Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side."
"It was a trap, there can be no doubt of it!" cried Olivier, looking at
Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; "if my mates had come, we
were all to be let in."
"I lay a trap, Olivier?" stammered Jacques Rennepont. "Never!"
"Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!" cried the angry
crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.
"Come!" exclaimed the host. Without giving Olivier time to answer, he
seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no
very great height from the ground, he said to him: "Make your escape by
this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time."
As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror:
"Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do? A minute more, and
you are lost. Do you not hear them? They have entered the yard; they are
coming up."
Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled
in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook
beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and
piercing: "Battle to the Devourers!"
"Fly, Olivier!" cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.
Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room,
which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open
with a frightful crash.
"Here they are!" cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm. Then,
running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for,
with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.
The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant
the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves
had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in
the yard and on the staircase. Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by
others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into
the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them
were armed with long sticks. A blaster, of Herculean strength and
stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged
ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn
goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the
movements. With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance,
he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and
exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:
"Where are the Devourers?--the Wolves will eat 'em up!"
The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying: "There is
no one here, my friends--no one. Look for yourselves."
"It is true," said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the
room; "where are they, then? We were told there were a dozen of them
here. They should have marched with us against the factory, or there'd
'a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!"
"If they have not come," said another, "they will come. Let's wait."
"Yes, yes; we will wait for them."
"We will look close at each other."
"If the Wolves want to see the Devourers," said Morok, "why not go and
howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of
the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle."
"They will give you--battle," repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.
"Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers," added Morok.
"Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who's afraid!"
cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced
towards Morok.
A number of voices joined in with, "Who says the Wolves are afraid of
the Devourers?"
"It would be the first time!"
"Battle! battle! and make an end of it!"
"We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so
well off?"
"They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a
shaft, like dogs to turn spits," cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud's.
"And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,"
added another.
"Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and
dogs!" cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.
"The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to
go to mass!--it is abominable.
"And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its
abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country."
"True? he said that in his sermon."
"Our wives heard it."
"Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the
country!"
"Hooray, for a fight!" cried the crowd in chorus.
"To the factory, my brave Wolves!" cried Morok, with the voice of a
Stentor; "on to the factory!"
"Yes! to the factory! to the factory!" repeated the crowd, with furious
stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the
room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.
These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he
whispered to Morok: "It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands
of it."
"We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these
fellows the slip on the road," answered Morok. Then he cried aloud,
addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: "Brandy!--let
us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat." He
threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with
several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.
"What! glasses?" cried Morok. "Do jolly companions, like we are, drink
out of glasses?" So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the
neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed
it to the gigantic quarryman.
"That's the thing!" said the latter. "Here's in honor of the
treat!--None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the
Wolves' teeth!"
"Here's to your health, mates!" said Morok, distributing the bottles.
"There will be blood at the end of all this," muttered Sleepinbuff, who,
in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal
incitements. Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting
the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M. Hardy's
factory.
Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen
to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority),
did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along
the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism
by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with
their cries. At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster,
brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with
sticks and stones. Their heads still warmed by their recent libations
of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy. Their
countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible. This unchaining of