The Wandering Jew — Complete
no doubt of it. Margaret was gone to America. Her mother had exacted
from her, in expiation of her fault, that she should not even write to
him one word of farewell--to him, for whom she had sacrificed her duty
as a wife. Margaret had obeyed.
Besides, she had often said to him: "Between my mother and you, I should
not hesitate."
She had not hesitated. There was therefore no hope, not the slightest;
even if an ocean had not separated him from Margaret, he knew enough
of her blind submission to her mother, to be certain that all relations
between them were broken off forever. It is well. He will no longer
reckon upon this heart--his last refuge. The two roots of his life have
been torn up and broken, with the same blow, the same day, almost at the
same moment. What then remains for thee, poor sensitive plant, as thy
tender mother used to call thee? What remains to console thee for the
loss of this last love--this last friendship, so infamously crushed? Oh!
there remains for thee that one corner of the earth, created after
the image of thy mind that little colony, so peaceful and flourishing,
where, thanks to thee, labor brings with it joy and recompense. These
worthy artisans, whom thou hast made happy, good, and grateful, will
not fail thee. That also is a great and holy affection; let it be thy
shelter in the midst of this frightful wreck of all thy most sacred
convictions! The calm of that cheerful and pleasant retreat, the sight
of the unequalled happiness of thy dependents, will soothe thy poor,
suffering soul, which now seems to live only for suffering. Come! you
will soon reach the top of the hill, from which you can see afar, in the
plain below, that paradise of workmen, of which you are the presiding
divinity.
M. Hardy had reached the summit of the hill. At that moment the
conflagration, repressed for a short time, burst forth with redoubled
fury from the Common Dwelling-house, which it had now reached. A bright
streak, at first white, then red, then copper-colored, illuminated
the distant horizon. M. Hardy looked at it with a sort of incredulous,
almost idiotic stupor. Suddenly, an immense column of flame shot up in
the thick of a cloud of smoke, accompanied by a shower of sparks, and
streamed towards the sky, casting a bright reflection over all the
country, even to M. Hardy's feet. The violence of the north wind,
driving the flames in waves before it, soon brought to the ears of M.
Hardy the hurried clanging of the alarm-bell of the burning factory.
(35) We wish it to be understood, that the necessities of our story
alone have made the Wolves the assailants. While endeavoring to paint
the evils arising the abuse of the spirit of association, we do not wish
to ascribe a character of savage hostility to one sect rather than to
the other to the Wolves more than to the Devourers. The Wolves, a club
of united stone-cutters, are generally industrious, intelligent workmen,
whose situation is the more worthy of interest, as not only their
labors, conducted with mathematical precision, are of the rudest and
most wearisome kind, but they are likewise out of work during three or
four months of the year, their profession being, unfortunately, one of
those which winter condemns to a forced cessation. A number of Wolves,
in order to perfect themselves in their trade, attend every evening a
course of linear geometry, applied to the cutting of stone, analogous
to that given by M. Agricole Perdignier, for the benefit of carpenters.
Several working stone-cutters sent an architectural model in plaster to
the last exhibition.
CHAPTER VI. THE GO-BETWEEN.
A few days have elapsed since the conflagration of M. Hardy's factory.
The following scene takes place in the Rue Clovis, in the house where
Rodin had lodged, and which was still inhabited by Rose-Pompon, who,
without the least scruple, availed herself of the household arrangements
of her friend Philemon. It was about noon, and Rose-Pompon, alone in
the chamber of the student, who was still absent, was breakfasting very
gayly by the fireside; but how singular a breakfast! what a queer fire!
how strange an apartment!
Imagine a large room, lighted by two windows without curtains--for as
they looked on empty space, the lodger had fear of being overlooked.
One side of this apartment served as a wardrobe, for there was suspended
Rose-Pompon's flashy costume of debardeur, not far from the boat-man's
jacket of Philemon, with his large trousers of coarse, gray stuff,
covered with pitch (shiver my timbers!), just as if this intrepid
mariner had bunked in the forecastle of a frigate, during a voyage
round the globe. A gown of Rose Pompon's hung gracefully over a pair of
pantaloons, the legs of which seemed to come from beneath the petticoat.
On the lowest of several book-shelves, very dusty and neglected, by the
side of three old boots (wherefore three boots?) and a number of empty
bottles, stood a skull, a scientific and friendly souvenir, left to
Philemon by one of his comrades, a medical student. With a species of
pleasantry, very much to the taste of the student-world, a clay pipe
with a very black bowl was placed between the magnificently white teeth
of this skull; moreover, its shining top was half hidden beneath an
old hat, set knowingly on one side, and adorned with faded flowers
and ribbons. When Philemon was drunk, he used to contemplate this bony
emblem of mortality, and break out into the most poetical monologues,
with regard to this philosophical contrast between death and the mad
pleasures of life. Two or three plaster casts, with their noses and
chins more or less injured, were fastened to the wall, and bore witness
to the temporary curiosity which Philemon had felt with regard to
phrenological science, from the patient and serious study of which he
had drawn the following logical conclusion:--That, having to an alarming
extent the bump of getting into debt, he ought to resign himself to the
fatality of this organization, and accept the inconvenience of creditors
as a vital necessity. On the chimney-piece, stood uninjured, in all
its majesty, the magnificent rowing-club drinking-glass, a china teapot
without a spout, and an inkstand of black wood, the glass mouth of which
was covered by a coat of greenish and mossy mould. From time to time,
the silence of this retreat was interrupted by the cooing of pigeons,
which Rose-Pompon had established with cordial hospitality in the little
study. Chilly as a quail, Rose-Pompon crept close to the fire, and at
the same time seemed to enjoy the warmth of a bright ray of sunshine,
which enveloped her in its golden light. This droll little creature was
dressed in the oddest costume, which, however, displayed to advantage
the freshness of her piquant and pretty countenance, crowned with its
fine, fair hair, always neatly combed and arranged the first thing in
the morning. By way of dressing-gown, Rose-Pompon had ingeniously
drawn over her linen, the ample scarlet flannel shirt which belonged to
Philemon's official garb in the rowing-club; the collar, open and turned
down, displayed the whiteness of the young girl's under garment, as
also of her neck and shoulders, on whose firm and polished surface the
scarlet shirt seemed to cast a rosy light. The grisette's fresh and
dimpled arms half protruded from the large, turned-up sleeves; and her
charming legs were also half visible, crossed one over the other, and
clothed in neat white stockings, and boots. A black silk cravat formed
the girdle which fastened the shirt round the wasp-like waist of
Rose-Pompon, just above those hips, worthy of the enthusiasm of a modern
Phidias, and which gave to this style of dress a grace very original.
We have said, that the breakfast of Rose-Pompon was singular. You shall
judge. On a little table placed before her, was a wash-hand-basin, into
which she had recently plunged her fresh face, bathing it in pure water.
From the bottom of this basin, now transformed into a salad-bowl, Rose
Pompon took with the tips of her fingers large green leaves, dripping
with vinegar, and crunched them between her tiny white teeth, whose
enamel was too hard to allow them to be set on edge. Her drink was
a glass of water and syrup of gooseberries, which she stirred with a
wooden mustard-spoon. Finally, as an extra dish, she had a dozen olives
in one of those blue glass trinket-dishes sold for twenty-five sous. Her
dessert was composed of nuts, which she prepared to roast on a red-hot
shovel. That Rose-Pompon, with such an unaccountable savage choice of
food, should retain a freshness of complexion worthy of her name, is one
of those miracles, which reveal the mighty power of youth and health.
When she had eaten her salad, Rose-Pompon was about to begin upon her
olives, when a low knock was heard at the door, which was modestly
bolted on the inside.
"Who is there?" said Rose-Pompon.
"A friend--the oldest of the old," replied a sonorous, jovial voice.
"Why do you lock yourself in?"
"What! is it you, Ninny Moulin?"
"Yes, my beloved pupil. Open quickly. Time presses."
"Open to you? Oh, I dare say!--that would be pretty, the figure I am!"
"I believe you! what does it matter what figure you are? It would be
very pretty, thou rosiest of all the roses with which Cupid ever adorned
his quiver!"
"Go and preach fasting and morality in your journal, fat apostle!"
said Rose--Pompon, as she restored the scarlet shirt to its place, with
Philemon's other garments.
"I say! are we to talk much longer through the door, for the greater
edification of our neighbors?" cried Ninny Moulin. "I have something of
importance to tell you--something that will astonish you--"
"Give me time to put on my gown, great plague that you are!"
"If it is because of my modesty, do not think of it. I am not over nice.
I should like you very well as you are!"
"Only to think that such a monster is the favorite of all the
churchgoers!" said Rose-Pompon, opening the door as she finished
fastening her dress.
"So! you have at last returned to the dovecot, you stray girl!" said
Ninny Moulin, folding his arms, and looking at Rose-Pompon with comic
seriousness. "And where may you have been, I pray? For three days the
naughty little bird has left its nest."
"True; I only returned home last night. You must have called during my
absence?"
"I came, every day, and even twice a day, young lady, for I have very
serious matters to communicate."
"Very serious matters? Then we shall have a good laugh at them."
"Not at all--they are really serious," said Ninny Moulin, seating
himself. "But, first of all, what did you do during the three days that
you left your conjugal and Philemonic home? I must know all about it,
before I tell you more."
"Will you have some olives?" said Rose-Pompon, as she nibbled one of
them herself.
"Is that your answer?--I understand!--Unfortunate Philemon!"
"There is no unfortunate Philemon in the case, slanderer. Clara had a
death in her house, and, for the first few days after the funeral she
was afraid to sleep alone."
"I thought Clara sufficiently provided against such fears."
"There you are deceived, you great viper! I was obliged to go and keep
the poor girl company."
At this assertion, the religious pamphleteer hummed a tune, with an
incredulous and mocking air.
"You think I have played Philemon tricks?" cried Rose-Pompon, cracking a
nut with the indignation of injured innocence.
"I do not say tricks; but one little rose-colored trick."
"I tell you, that it was not for my pleasure I went out. On the
contrary--for, during my absence, poor Cephyse disappeared."
"Yes, Mother Arsene told me that the Bacchanal-Queen was gone on a
journey. But when I talk of Philemon, you talk of Cephyse; we don't
progress."