The Wandering Jew — Complete
all the spectators. Leaning forward like the marchioness, and gazing
upon this scene of fearful interest, the lady still held mechanically in
her hand the Indian bouquet preserved since the morning. Suddenly,
Morok raised a wild shout, as he rushed towards Death, who answered this
exclamation by a dreadful roar, and threw herself upon her master with
so much fury, that Adrienne, in alarm, believing the man lost, drew
herself back, and covered her fact with her hands. Her flowers slipped
from her grasp, and, falling upon the stage, rolled into the cavern in
which Morok was struggling with the panther.
Quick as lightning, supple and agile as a tiger, yielding to the
intoxication of his love, and to the wild ardor excited in him by the
roaring of the panther, Djalma sprang at one bound upon the stage, drew
his dagger, and rushed into the cavern to recover Adrienne's nosegay. At
that instant, Morok, being wounded, uttered a dreadful cry for help; the
panther, rendered still more furious at sight of Djalma, make the most
desperate efforts to break her chain. Unable to succeed in doing so, she
rose upon her hind legs, in order to seize Djalma, then within reach of
her sharp claws. It was only by bending down his head, throwing himself
on his knees, and twice plunging his dagger into her belly with the
rapidity of lightning, that Djalma escaped certain death. The panther
gave a howl, and fell with her whole weight upon the prince. For a
second, during which lasted her terrible agony, nothing was seen but a
confused and convulsive mass of black limbs, and white garments
stained with blood--and then Djalma rose, pale, bleeding, for he was
wounded--and standing erect, his eye flashing with savage pride, his
foot on the body of the panther, he held in his hand Adrienne's bouquet,
and cast towards her a glance which told the intensity of his love.
Then only did Adrienne feel her strength fail her--for only superhuman
courage had enabled her to watch all the terrible incidents of the
struggle.
BOOK IX.
XV. The Constant Wanderer XVI. The Luncheon XVII. Rendering
the Account XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame XIX. The Cholera
Masquerade XX. The Defiance XXI. Brandy to the Rescue XXII.
Memories XXIII. The Poisoner XXIV. In the Cathedral XXV. The
Murderers XXVI. The Patient XXVII. The Lure XXVIII. Good
News XXIX. The Operation XXX. The Torture XXXI. Vice and
Virtue XXXII. Suicide
CHAPTER XV. THE CONSTANT WANDERER.
It is night. The moon shines and the stars glimmer in the midst of a
serene but cheerless sky; the sharp whistlings of the north wind, that
fatal, dry, and icy breeze, ever and anon burst forth in violent gusts.
With its harsh and cutting breath, it sweeps Montmartre's Heights. On
the highest point of the hills, a man is standing. His long shadow is
cast upon the stony, moon-lit ground. He gazes on the immense city,
which lies outspread beneath his feet. PARIS--with the dark outline of
its towers, cupolas, domes, and steeples, standing out from the limpid
blue of the horizon, while from the midst of the ocean of masonry, rises
a luminous vapor, that reddens the starry azure of the sky. It is the
distant reflection of the thousand fires, which at night, the hour of
pleasures, light up so joyously the noisy capital.
"No," said the wayfarer; "it is not to be. The Lord will not exact it.
Is not twice enough?
"Five centuries ago, the avenging hand of the Almighty drove me hither
from the uttermost confines of Asia. A solitary traveller, I had left
behind me more grief, despair, disaster, and death, than the innumerable
armies of a hundred devastating conquerors. I entered this town, and it
too was decimated.
"Again, two centuries ago, the inexorable hand, which leads me through
the world, brought me once more hither; and then, as the time before,
the plague, which the Almighty attaches to my steps, again ravaged this
city, and fell first on my brethren, already worn out with labor and
misery.
"My brethren--mine?--the cobbler of Jerusalem, the artisan accursed by
the Lord, who, in my person, condemned the whole race of workmen,
ever suffering, ever disinherited, ever in slavery, toiling on like me
without rest or pause, without recompense or hope, till men, women,
and children, young and old, all die beneath the same iron yoke--that
murderous yoke, which others take in their turn, thus to be borne from
age to age on the submissive and bruised shoulders of the masses.
"And now, for the third time in five centuries, I reach the summit of
one of the hills that overlook the city. And perhaps I again bring with
me fear, desolation, and death.
"Yet this city, intoxicated with the sounds of its joys and its
nocturnal revelries, does not know--oh! does not know that I am at its
gates.
"But no, no! my presence will not be a new calamity. The Lord, in his
impenetrable views, has hitherto led me through France, so as to
avoid the humblest hamlet; and the sound of the funeral knell has not
accompanied my passage.
"And, moreover, the spectre has left me--the green, livid spectre, with
its hollow, bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its damp
and icy hands was no longer clasped in mine--and it disappeared.
"And yet--I feel that the atmosphere of death is around me.
"The sharp whistlings of that fatal wind cease not, which, catching me
in their whirl, seem to propagate blasting and mildew as they blow.
"But perhaps the wrath of the Lord is appeased, and my presence here is
only a threat--to be communicated in some way to those whom it should
intimidate.
"Yes; for otherwise he would smite with a fearful blow, by first
scattering terror and death here in the heart of the country, in the
bosom of this immense city!
"Oh! no, no! the Lord will be merciful. No! he will not condemn me to
this new torture.
"Alas! in this city, my brethren are more numerous and miserable than
elsewhere. And should I be their messenger of death?"
"No! the Lord will have pity. For, alas! the seven descendants of my
sister have at length met in this town. And to them likewise should I be
the messenger of death, instead of the help they so much need?
"For that woman, who like me wanders from one border of the earth to the
other, after having once more rent asunder the nets of their enemies,
has gone forth upon her endless journey.
"In vain she foresaw that new misfortunes threatened my sister's family.
The invisible hand, that drives me on, drives her on also.
"Carried away, as of old, by the irresistible whirlwind, at the moment
of leaving my kindred to their fate, she in vain cried with supplicating
tone: 'Let me at least, O Lord, complete my task!'--'GO ON!--'A few
days, in mercy, only a few poor days!'--'GO ON'--'I leave those I love
on the brink of the abyss!'--'GO ON! GO ON!'
"And the wandering star--again started on its eternal round. And her
voice, passing through space, called me to the assistance of mine own.
"When that voice readied me, I knew that the descendants of my sister
were still exposed to frightful perils. Those perils are even now on the
increase.
"Tell me, O Lord! will they escape the scourge, which for so many
centuries has weighed down our race?
"Wilt thou pardon me in them? wilt thou punish me in them? Oh, that they
might obey the last will of their ancestor!
"Oh, that they might join together their charitable hearts, their valor
and their strength, their noble intelligence, and their great riches!
"They would then labor for the future happiness of humanity--they would
thus, perhaps, redeem me from my eternal punishment!
"The words of the Son of Man, LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER, will be their only
end, their only means.
"By the help of those all-powerful words, they will fight and conquer
the false priests, who have renounced the precepts of love, peace, and
hope, for lessons of hatred, violence, and despair.
"Those false priests, who, kept in pay by the powerful and happy of this
world, their accomplices in every age, instead of asking here below for
some slight share of well-being for my unfortunate brethren, dare in
thy name, O Lord God, to assert that the poor are condemned to endless
suffering in this world--and that the desire or the hope to suffer less
is a crime in thine eyes--because the happiness of the few, and the
misery of nearly the whole human race, is (O blasphemy!) according to
thy will. Is not the very contrary of those murderous words alone worthy
of divinity!
"In mercy, hear me, Lord! Rescue from their enemies the descendants of
my sister--the artisan as the king's son. Do not let them destroy the
germ of so mighty and fruitful an association, which, with thy blessing,
would make an epoch in the annals of human happiness!
"Let me unite them, O Lord, since others would divide them--defend them,
since others attack; let me give hope to those who have ceased to hope,
courage to those who are brought low with fear--let me raise up the
falling, and sustain those who persevere in the way of the righteous!
"And, peradventure, their struggles, devotion, virtue, and grief, may
expiate my fault--that of a man, whom misfortune alone rendered unjust
and wicked.
"Oh! since Thy Almighty hand hath led me hither--to what end I know
not--lay aside Thy wrath, I beseech Thee--let me be no longer the
instrument of Thy vengeance!
"Enough of woe upon the earth! for the last two years, Thy creatures
have fallen by thousands upon my track. The world is decimated. A veil
of mourning extends over all the globe.
"From Asia to the icy Pole, they died upon the path of the wanderer.
Dost Thou not hear the long-drawn sigh that rises from the earth unto
Thee, O Lord?
"Mercy for all! mercy for me!--Let me but unite the descendants of my
sister for a single day, and they will be saved!"
As he pronounced these words, the wayfarer sank upon his knees, and
raised to heaven, his supplicating hands. Suddenly, the wind blew with
redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings were changed into the roar of a
tempest.
The traveller shuddered; in a voice of terror he exclaimed: "The blast
of death rises in its fury--the whirlwind carries me on--Lord! Thou art
then deaf to my prayer?"
"The spectre! oh, the spectre! it is again here! its green face
twitching with convulsive spasms--its red eyes rolling in their orbits.
Begone! begone!--its hand, oh! its icy hand has again laid hold of mine.
Have mercy, heaven!"
"GO ON!"
"Oh, Lord! the pestilence--the terrible plague--must I carry it into
this city?--And my brethren will perish the first--they, who are so
sorely smitten even now! Mercy!"
"GO ON!"
"And the descendants of my sister. Mercy! Mercy!"
"GO ON!"
"Oh, Lord, have pity!--I can no longer keep my ground; the spectre drags
me to the slope of the hill; my walk is rapid as the deadly blast that
rages behind me; already do I behold the city gates. Have mercy, Lord,
on the descendants of my sister! Spare them; do not make me their
executioner; let them triumph over their enemies!"
"GO ON! GO ON!"
"The ground flies beneath my feet; there is the city gate. Lord, it is
yet time! Oh, mercy for that sleeping town! Let it not waken to cries
of terror, despair, and death! Lord, I am on the threshold. Must it
be?--Yes, it is done. Paris, the plague is in thy bosom. The curse--oh,
the eternal curse!"
"GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!"
CHAPTER XVI. THE LUNCHEON.
The morning after the doomed traveller, descending the heights of
Montmartre, had entered the walls of Paris, great activity reigned in
St. Dizier House. Though it was hardly noon, the Princess de St. Dizier,
without being exactly in full dress (she had too much taste for that),
was yet arrayed with more care than usual. Her light hair, instead of