The Wandering Jew — Complete
"There is indeed something terrible," said the old man, "in such a
passion, in such a heart."
"At other times," resumed the marshal, "it is against Mdlle. de
Cardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself.
I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with him
from Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that he
suspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide."
"Unfortunate boy!"
"Well, father," said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; "it is
at the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all my
solicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them."
"Of quitting them?"
"Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendship
or family," said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that his
father exclaimed, with deep emotion: "What can this duty be?"
"Father," said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtful
silence, "who made me what I am? Who gave me the ducal title, and the
marshal's baton?"
"Napoleon."
"For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, when
from the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.
"I cursed his weakness," said Father Simon, sadly; "the demi-god sank
into a man."
"But for me, father--for me, the soldier, who have always fought beside
him, or under his eye--for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank in
the army to the highest--for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marks
of affection--for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend--and
there was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him. When
he was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me that
favor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who had
robbed his son of the crown which France had given him."
"And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing your
admiration, I understood your gratitude. The projects of exile, the
conspiracies--I approved them all--you know it."
"Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspired
seventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father's sword."
"Napoleon II!" exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surprise
and extreme anxiety; "the king of Rome!"
"King? no; he is no longer king. Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.
They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightened
them. Everything frightens them. Do you know what they are doing with
the son of the Emperor?" resumed the marshal, with painful excitement.
"They are torturing him--killing him by inches!"
"Who told you this?"
"Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true. Yes; the son of the
Emperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death. With
his eyes turned towards France, he waits--he waits--and no one comes--no
one--out of all the men that his father made as great as they once were
little, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling,
till he dies."
"But you think of him?"
"Yes; but I had first to learn--oh! there is no doubt of it, for I have
not derived all my information from the same source--I had first to
learn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; for
one day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as he
was, showed him to me in his cradle, and said: 'My old friend, you will
be to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves our
France.'"
"Yes, I know it. Many times you have repeated those words to me, and,
like yourself, I have been moved by them."
"Well, father! suppose, informed of the sufferings of the son of
the Emperor, I had seen--with the positive certainty that I was not
deceived--a letter from a person of high rank in the court of Vienna,
offering to a man that was still faithful to the Emperor's memory, the
means of communicating with the king of Rome, and perhaps of saving him
from his tormentors--"
"What next?" said the workman, looking fixedly at his son. "Suppose
Napoleon II. once at liberty--"
"What next?" exclaimed the marshal. Then he added, in a suppressed
voice: "Do you think, father, that France is insensible to the
humiliations she endures? Do you think that the memory of the Emperor
is extinct? No, no; it is, above all, in the days of our country's
degredation, that she whispers that sacred name. How would it be, then,
were that name to rise glorious on the frontier, reviving in his son? Do
you not think that the heart of all France would beat for him?"
"This implies a conspiracy--against the present government--with
Napoleon II. for a watchword," said the workman. "This is very serious."
"I told you, father, that I was very unhappy; judge if it be not so,"
cried the marshal. "Not only I ask myself, if I ought to abandon my
children and you, to run the risk of so daring an enterprise, but I
ask myself if I am not bound to the present government, which, in
acknowledging my rank and title, if it bestowed no favor, at least did
me an act of justice. How shall I decide?--abandon all that I love, or
remain insensible to the tortures of Emperor--of that Emperor to the
son of the whom I owe everything--to whom I have sworn fidelity, both
to himself and child? Shall I lose this only opportunity, perhaps, of
saving him, or shall I conspire in his favor? Tell me, if I exaggerate
what I owe to the memory of the Emperor? Decide for me, father! During a
whole sleepless night, I strove to discover, in the midst of this chaos,
the line prescribed by honor; but I only wandered from indecision to
indecision. You alone, father--you alone, I repeat, can direct me."
After remaining for some moments in deep thought, the old man was about
to answer, when some person, running across the little garden, opened
the door hastily, and entered the room in which were the marshal and his
father. It was Olivier, the young workman, who had been able to effect
his escape from the village in which the Wolves had assembled.
"M. Simon! M. Simon!" cried he, pale, and panting for breath. "They are
here--close at hand. They have come to attack the factory."
"Who?" cried the old man, rising hastily.
"The Wolves, quarrymen, and stone-cutters, joined on the road by a crowd
of people from the neighborhood, and vagabonds from town. Do you not
hear them? They are shouting, 'Death to the Devourers!'"
The clamor was indeed approaching, and grew more and more distinct.
"It is the same noise that I heard just now," said the marshal, rising
in his turn.
"There are more than two hundred of them, M. Simon," said Olivier; "they
are armed with clubs and stones, and unfortunately the greater part of
our workmen are in Paris. We are not above forty here in all; the women
and children are already flying to their chambers, screaming for terror.
Do you not hear them?"
The ceiling shook beneath the tread of many hasty feet.
"Will this attack be a serious one?" said the marshal to his father, who
appeared more and more dejected.
"Very serious," said the old man; "there is nothing more fierce than
these combats between different unions; and everything has been done
lately to excite the people of the neighborhood against the factory."
"If you are so inferior in number," said the marshal, "you must begin by
barricading all the doors--and then--"
He was unable to conclude. A burst of ferocious cries shook the windows
of the room, and seemed so near and loud, that the marshal, his father,
and the young workman, rushed out into the little garden, which was
bounded on one side by a wall that separated it from the fields.
Suddenly whilst the shouts redoubled in violence, a shower of large
stones, intended to break the windows of the house, smashed some of the
panes on the first story, struck against the wall, and fell into the
garden, all around the marshal and his father. By a fatal chance, one
of these large stones struck the old man on the head. He staggered, bent
forward, and fell bleeding into the arms of Marshal Simon, just as arose
from without, with increased fury, the savage cries of, "Death to the
Devourers!"
CHAPTER IV. THE WOLVES AND THE DEVOURERS.
It was a frightful thing to view the approach of the lawless crowd,
whose first act of hostility had been so fatal to Marshal Simon's
father. One wing of the Common Dwelling-house, which joined the
garden-wall on that side, was next to the fields. It was there that the
Wolves began their attack. The precipitation of their march, the halt
they had made at two public-houses on the road, their ardent impatience
for the approaching struggle, had inflamed these men to a high pitch of
savage excitement. Having discharged their first shower of stones, most
of the assailants stooped down to look for more ammunition. Some of
them, to do so with greater ease, held their bludgeons between their
teeth; others had placed them against the wall; here and there, groups
had formed tumultuously round the principal leaders of the band; the
most neatly dressed of these men wore frocks, with caps, whilst
others were almost in rags, for, as we have already said, many of the
hangers-on at the barriers, and people without any profession, had
joined the troop of the Wolves, whether welcome or not. Some hideous
women, with tattered garments, who always seem to follow in the track of
such people, accompanied them on this occasion, and, by their cries and
fury, inflamed still more the general excitement. One of them, tall,
robust, with purple complexion, blood shot eyes, and toothless jaws,
had a handkerchief over her head, from beneath which escaped her yellow,
frowsy hair. Over her ragged gown, she wore an old plaid shawl, crossed
over her bosom, and tied behind her back. This hag seemed possessed
with a demon. She had tucked up her half-torn sleeves; in one hand
she brandished a stick, in the other she grasped a huge stone; her
companions called her Ciboule (scullion).
This horrible hag exclaimed, in a hoarse voice: "I'll bite the women of
the factory; I'll make them bleed."
The ferocious words were received with applause by her companions, and
with savage cries of "Ciboule forever!" which excited her to frenzy.
Amongst the other leaders, was a small, dry pale man, with the face of
a ferret, and a black beard all round the chin; he wore a scarlet Greek
cap, and beneath his long blouse, perfectly new, appeared a pair of neat
cloth trousers, strapped over thin boots. This man was evidently of a
different condition of life from that of the other persons in the troop;
it was he, in particular, who ascribed the most irritating and insulting
language to the workmen of the factory, with regard to the inhabitants
of the neighborhood. He howled a great deal, but he carried neither
stick nor stone. A full-faced, fresh-colored man, with a formidable bass
voice, like a chorister's, asked him: "Will you not have a shot at those
impious dogs, who might bring down the Cholera on the country, as the
curate told us?"
"I will have a better shot than you," said the little man, with a
singular, sinister smile.
"And with what, I'd like to see?"
"Probably, with this," said the little man, stooping to pick up a
large stone; but, as he bent, a well-filled though light bag, which he
appeared to carry under his blouse, fell to the ground.
"Look, you are losing both bag and baggage," said the other; "it does
not seem very heavy."
"They are samples of wool," answered the man with the ferret's face, as
he hastily picked up the bag, and replaced it under his blouse; then he
added: "Attention! the big blaster is going to speak."
And, in fact, he who exercised the most complete ascendency over this
irritated crowd was the terrible quarryman. His gigantic form towered