The Wandering Jew — Complete
Blessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him.
The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his first
look down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped from
his trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeeded
this moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. de
Blessac: "Wretch!" he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But,
pausing as in the act to strike: "No!" he added, with fearful calmness.
"It would be to soil my hands."
He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose.
"It is not worth while chastising a wretch," said M. Hardy; "But I will
press your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask a
traitor and a coward."
"Sir!" cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; "I am at your
orders--and--"
He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door,
which opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of the
efforts of the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: "I tell you, I
must speak instantly to your master."
On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M.
Hardy, forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all,
fell back a step, and exclaimed: "Madame Duparc! you here! What is the
matter?"
"Oh, sir! a great misfortune--"
"Margaret!" cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.
"She is gone, sir!"
"Gone!" repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt had
fallen at his feet. "Margaret gone!"
"All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!" said the
unhappy woman, in a failing voice.
"Gone! Margaret! It is not true. You deceive me," cried M. Hardy.
Refusing to hear more, wild, despairing, he rushed out of the house,
threw himself into his carriage, to which the post-horses were still
harnessed, waiting for M. de Blessac, and said to the postilion: "To
Paris! as fast as you can go!"
As the carriage, rapid as lightning, started upon the road to Paris, the
wind brought nearer the distant sound of the war-song of the Wolves,
who were rushing towards the factory. In this impending destruction, see
Rodin's subtle hand, administering his fatal blows to clear his way up
to the chair of St. Peter to which he aspired. His tireless, wily course
can hardly be darker shadowed by aught save that dread coming horror
the Cholera, whose aid he evoked, and whose health the Bacchanal Queen
wildly drank.
That once gay girl, and her poor famished sister; the fair patrician and
her Oriental lover; Agricola, the workman, and his veteran father; the
smiling Rose-Pompon, and the prematurely withered Jacques Rennepont;
Father d'Aigrigny, the mock priest; and Gabriel, the true disciple;
with the rest that have been named and others yet to be pictured, in the
blaze of the bolts of their life's paths, will be seen in the third and
concluding part of this romance entitled,
"THE WANDERING JEW: REDEMPTION."
BOOK VIII.
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.
I. The Wandering Jew's Chastisement II. The Descendants of
the Wandering Jew III. The Attack IV. The Wolves and the
Devourers V. The Return VI. The Go-Between VII. Another
Secret VIII. The Confession IX. Love X. The Execution XI.
The Champs-Elysees XII. Behind the Scenes XIII. Up with the
Curtain XIV. Death
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.
CHAPTER I. THE WANDERING JEW'S CHASTISEMENT.
'Tis night--the moon is brightly shining, the brilliant stars are
sparkling in a sky of melancholy calmness, the shrill whistlings of a
northerly wind--cold, bleak, and evil-bearing--are increasing: winding
about, and bursting into violent blasts, with their harsh and hissing
gusts, they are sweeping the heights of Montmartre. A man is standing
on the very summit of the hill; his lengthened shadow, thrown out by
the moon's pale beams, darkens the rocky ground in the distance. The
traveller is surveying the huge city lying at his feet--the City of
Paris--from whose profundities are cast up its towers, cupolas, domes,
and steeples, in the bluish moisture of the horizon; while from the very
centre of this sea of stones is rising a luminous vapor, reddening the
starry azure of the sky above. It is the distant light of a myriad
lamps which at night, the season for pleasure, is illuminating the noisy
capital.
"No!" said the traveller, "it will not be. The Lord surely will not
suffer it. Twice is quite enough. Five centuries ago, the avenging hand
of the Almighty drove me hither from the depths of Asia. A solitary
wanderer, I left in my track more mourning, despair, disaster, and
death, than the innumerable armies of a hundred devastating conquerors
could have produced. I then entered this city, and it was decimated. Two
centuries ago that inexorable hand which led me through the world again
conducted me here; and on that occasion, as on the previous one, that
scourge, which at intervals the Almighty binds to my footsteps, ravaged
this city, attacking first my brethren, already wearied by wretchedness
and toil. My brethren! through me--the laborer of Jerusalem, cursed by
the Lord, who in my person cursed the race of laborers--a race always
suffering, always disinherited, always slaves, who like me, go on, on,
on, without rest or intermission, without recompense, or hope; until at
length, women, men, children, and old men, die under their iron yoke of
self-murder, that others in their turn then take up, borne from age to
age on their willing but aching shoulders. And here again, for the third
time, in the course of five centuries, I have arrived at the summit of
one of the hills which overlooks the city; and perhaps I bring
again with me terror, desolation, and death. And this unhappy city,
intoxicated in a whirl of joys, and nocturnal revelries, knows nothing
about it--oh! it knows not that I am at its very gate. But no! no! my
presence will not be a source of fresh calamity to it. The Lord, in
His unsearchable wisdom, has brought me hither across France, making me
avoid on my route all but the humblest villages, so that no increase
of the funeral knell has, marked my journey. And then, moreover, the
spectre has left me--that spectre, livid and green, with its deep
bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its moist and icy
hand abandoned mine--it disappeared. And yet I feel the atmosphere of
death surrounding me still. There is no cessation; the biting gusts
of this sinister wind, which envelop me in their breath, seem by their
envenomed breath to propagate the scourge. Doubtless the anger of the
Lord is appeased. Maybe, my presence here is meant only as a threat,
intending to bring those to their senses whom it ought to intimidate. It
must be so; for were it otherwise, it would, on the contrary, strike a
loud-sounding blow of greater terror, casting at once dread and death
into the very heart of the country, into the bosom of this immense city.
Oh, no! no! the Lord will have mercy; He will not condemn me to this new
affliction. Alas! in this city my brethren are more numerous and more
wretched than in any other. And must I bring death to them? No! the Lord
will have mercy; for, alas! the seven descendants of my sister are at
last all united in this city. And must I bring death to them? Death!
instead of that immediate assistance they stand so much in need of? For
that woman who, like myself, wanders from one end of the world into the
other, has gone now on her everlasting journey, after having confounded
their enemies' plots. In vain did she foretell that great evils still
threatened those who are akin to me through my sister's blood. The
unseen hand by which I am led, drives that woman away from me, even as
though it were a whirlwind that swept her on. In vain she entreated and
implored at the moment she was leaving those who are so dear to me.--At
least, 0 Lord, permit me to stay until I shall have finished my task!
Onward! A few days, for mercy's sake, only a few days! Onward! I leave
these whom I am protecting on the very brink of an abyss! Onward!
Onward!! And the wandering star is launched afresh on its perpetual
course. But her voice traversed through space, calling me to the
assistance of my own! When her voice reached me I felt that the
offspring of my sister were still exposed to fearful dangers: those
dangers are still increasing. Oh, say, say, Lord! shall the descendants
of my sister escape those woes which for so many centuries have
oppressed my race? Wilt Thou pardon me in them? Wilt Thou punish me
in them? Oh! lead them, that they may obey the last wishes of their
ancestor. Guide them, that they may join their charitable hearts, their
powerful strength, their best wisdom, and their immense wealth, and work
together for the future happiness of mankind, thereby, perhaps, enabled
to ransom me from my eternal penalties. Let those divine words of
the Son of Man, 'Love ye one another!' be their only aim; and by the
assistance of their all-powerful words, let them contend against and
vanquish those false priests who have trampled on the precepts of love,
of peace, and hope commanded by the Saviour, setting up in their stead
the precepts of hatred, violence, and despair. Those false shepherds,
supported ay the powerful and wealthy of the world, who in all times
have been their accomplices, instead of asking here below a little
happiness for my brethren, who have been suffering and groaning for
centuries, dare to utter, in Thy name, O Lord! that the poor must always
be doomed to the tortures of this world, and that it is criminal in
Thine eyes that they should either wish for or hope a mitigation of
their sufferings on earth, because the happiness of the few and the
wretchedness of nearly all mankind is Thine almighty will. Blasphemies!
is it not the contrary of these homicidal words that is more worthy of
the name of Divine will? Hear, me, O Lord! for mercy's sake. Snatch from
their enemies the descendants of my sister, from the artisan up to
the king's son. Do not permit them to crush the germ of a mighty and
fruitful association, which, perhaps, under Thy protection, may take its
place among the records of the happiness of mankind. Suffer me, O Lord!
to unite those whom they are endeavoring to divide--to defend those whom
they are attacking. Suffer me to bring hope to those from whom hope has
fled, to give courage to those who are weak, to uphold those whom evil
threatens, and to sustain those who would persevere in well-doing. And
then, perhaps, their struggles, their devotedness, their virtues, this
miseries might expiate my sin. Yes, mine--misfortune, misfortune alone,
made me unjust and wicked. O Lord! since Thine almighty hand hath
brought me hither, for some end unknown to me, disarm Thyself, I implore
Thee, of Thine anger, and let not me be the instrument of Thy vengeance!
There is enough of mourning in the earth these two years past--Thy
creatures have fallen by millions in my footsteps. The world is
decimated. A veil of mourning extends from one end of the globe to the
other. I have traveled from Asia even to the Frozen Pole, and death has
followed in my wake. Dost Thou not hear, O Lord! the universal wailings
that mount up to Thee? Have mercy upon all, and upon me. One day, grant
me but a single day, that I may collect the descendants of my sister
together, and save them!" And uttering these words, the wanderer fell
upon his knees, and raised his hands to heaven in a suppliant attitude.
Suddenly, the wind howled with redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings
changed to a tempest. The Wanderer trembled, and exclaimed in a voice of
terror, "O Lord! the blast of death is howling in its rage. It appears
as though a whirlwind were lifting me up. Lord, wilt Thou not, then,