The Wandering Jew — Complete
by those from whom the men in black and gray had taken some one to fill
the coffins.
Unceasingly were the coffins filled, and day and night did those men
work, but by day more than by night, for, as soon as it was dusk, came
a gloomy file of vehicles of all kinds--the usual hearses were not
sufficient; but cars, carts, drays, hackney-coaches, and such like,
swelled the funeral procession; different to the other conveyances,
which entered the streets full and went away empty--these came empty but
soon returned full. During that period, the windows of many houses were
illuminated, and often the lights remained burning till the morning. It
was "the season." These illuminations resembled the gleaming rays which
shine in the gay haunts of pleasure; but there were tapers instead
of wax candles, and the chanting of prayers for the dead replaced
the murmur of the ball-room. In the streets, instead of the facetious
transparencies which indicate the costumers, there swung at intervals
huge lanterns of a blood-red color, with these words in black letters:
"Assistance for those attacked with the cholera." The true places for
revelry, during the night, were the churchyards; they ran riot--they,
usually so desolate and silent, during the dark, quiet hours, when the
cypress trees rustle in the breeze, so lonely, that no human step dared
to disturb the solemn silence which reigned there at night, became on
a sudden, animated, noisy, riotous, and resplendent with light. By
the smoky flames of torches, which threw a red glare upon the dark
fir-trees, and the white tombstones, many grave-diggers worked merrily,
humming snatches of some favorite tune. Their laborious and hazardous
industry then commanded a very high price; they were in such request
that it was necessary to humor them. They drank often and much; they
sang long and loud; and this to keep up their strength and spirits good,
absolute requisites in such an employment. If, by chance, any did not
finish the grave they had begun, some obliging comrade finished it for
them (fitting expression!), and placed them in it with friendly care.
Other distant sounds responded to the joyous strains of the grave
diggers; public-houses had sprung up in the neighborhood of the
churchyards, and the drivers of the dead, when they had "set down their
customers," as they jocosely expressed themselves, enriched with their
unusual gratuities, feasted and made merry like lords; dawn often found
them with a glass in their hands, and a jest on their lips; and, strange
to say, among these funeral satellites, who breathed the very atmosphere
of the disease, the mortality was scarcely perceptible. In the
dark, squalid quarters of the town, where, surrounded by infectious
exhalations, the indigent population was crowded together, and miserable
beings, exhausted by severe privation, were "bespoke" by the cholera, as
it was energetically said at the time, not only individuals, but whole
families, were carried off in a few hours; and yet, sometimes, oh,
merciful Providence! one or two little children were left in the cold
and empty room, after the father and mother, brother and sister, had
been taken away in their shells.
Frequently, houses which had swarmed with hard working laborers, were
obliged to be shut up for want of tenants; in one day, they had been
completely cleared by this terrible visitation, from the cellars, where
little chimney-sweepers slept upon straw, to the garret, on whose cold
brick floor lay stretched some wan and half-naked being, without work
and without bread. But, of all the wards of Paris, that which perhaps
presented the most frightful spectacle during the progress of the
cholera, was the City; and in the City, the square before the cathedral
of Notre-Dame was almost every day the theatre of dreadful scenes: for
this locality was frequently thronged with those who conveyed the sick
from the neighboring streets to the Great Hospital. The cholera had
not one aspect, but a thousand. So that one week after Rodin had
been suddenly attacked, several events combining the horrible and the
grotesque occurred in the square of Notre Dame.
Instead of the Rue d'Arcole, which now leads directly to the square, it
was then approached on one side, by a mean, narrow lane, like all the
other streets of the City, and terminating in a dark, low archway. Upon
entering the square the principal door of the huge Cathedral was to the
left of the spectator, and facing him were the Hospital buildings.
A little beyond, was an opening which gave to view a portion of the
parapet of the Quay Notre-Dame. A placard had been recently stuck on
the discolored and sunken wail of the archway; it contained these words,
traced in large characters.(37)
"VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE!
"The Working-men carried to the hospitals are poisoned, because the
number of patients is too great; every night, Boats filled with corpses,
drop down the Seine.
"Vengeance and Death to the murderers of the People!"
Two men, enveloped in cloaks, and half-hidden in the deep shadow of the
vault, were listening with anxious curiosity to the threatening murmur,
which rose with increasing force from among a tumultuous assembly,
grouped around the Hospital. Soon, cries of "Death to the
doctors!--Vengeance!" reached the ears of the persons who were in ambush
under the arch.
"The posters are working," said one; "the train is on fire. When once
the populace is roused, we can set them on whom we please."
"I say," replied the other man, "look over there. That Hercules, whose
athletic form towers above the mob, was cue of the most frantic leaders
when M. Hardy's factory was destroyed."
"To be sure he was; I know him again. Wherever mischief is to be done,
you are sure to find those vagabonds.
"Now, take my advice, do not let us remain under this archway," said
the other man; "the wind is as cold as ice, and though I am cased in
flannel--"
"You are right, the cholera is confoundedly impolite. Besides,
everything is going on well here; I am likewise assured that the whole
of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine is ready to rise in the republican cause;
that will serve our ends, and our holy religion will triumph over
revolutionary impiety. Let us rejoin Father d'Aigrigny."
"Where shall we find him?"
"Near here, come--come."
The two hastily disappeared.
The sun, beginning to decline, shed its golden rays upon the blackened
sculptures of the porch of Notre-Dame, and upon its two massy towers,
rising in imposing majesty against a perfectly blue sky, for during
the fast few days, a north-east wind, dry and cold, had driven away
the lightest cloud. A considerable number of people, as we have already
stated, obstructed the approach to the Hospital; they crowded round the
iron railings that protect the front of the building, behind which was
stationed a detachment of infantry, the cries of "Death to the doctors!"
becoming every moment more threatening. The people who thus vociferated.
belonged to an idle, vagabond, and depraved populace--the dregs of the
Paris mob; and (terrible spectacle!) the unfortunate beings who were
forcibly carried through the midst of these hideous groups entered the
Hospital, whilst the air resounded with hoarse clamors, and cries of
"Death." Every moment, fresh victims were brought along in litters,
and on stretchers; the litters were frequently furnished with coarse
curtains, and thus the sick occupants were concealed from the public
gaze; but the stretchers, having no covering, the convulsive movements
of the dying patients often thrust aside the sheet, and exposed to
view their faces, livid as corpses. Far from inspiring with terror the
wretches assembled round the Hospital, such spectacles became to them
the signal for savage jests, and atrocious predictions upon the fate of
these poor creatures, when once in the power of the doctors.
The big blaster and Ciboule, with a good many of their adherents, were
among the mob. After the destruction of Hardy's factory, the quarryman
was formally expelled from the union of the Wolves, who would have
nothing more to do with this wretch; since then, he had plunged into
the grossest debauchery, and speculating on his herculean strength, had
hired himself as the officious champion of Ciboule and her compeers.
With the exception therefore of some chance passengers, the square of
Notre-Dame was filled with a ragged crowd, composed of the refuse of
the Parisian populace--wretches who call for pity as well as blame;
for misery, ignorance, and destitution, beget but too fatally vice and
crime. These savages of civilization felt neither pity, improvement, nor
terror, at the shocking sights with which they were surrounded; careless
of a life which was a daily struggle against hunger, or the allurements
of guilt, they braved the pestilence with infernal audacity, or sank
under it with blasphemy on their lips.
The tall form of the quarryman was conspicuous amongst the rest; with
inflamed eyes and swollen features, he yelled at the top of his voice:
"Death to the body-snatchers! they poison the people."
"That is easier than to feed them," added Ciboule. Then, addressing
herself to an old man, who was being carried with great difficulty
through the dense crowd, upon a chair, by two men, the hag continued:
"Hey? don't go in there, old croaker; die here in the open air instead
of dying in that den, where you'll be doctored like an old rat."
"Yes," added the quarryman; "and then they'll throw you into the water
to feast the fishes, which you won't swallow any more."
At these atrocious cries, the old man looked wildly around, and uttered
faint groans. Ciboule wished to stop the persons who were carrying him,
and they had much difficulty in getting rid of the hag. The number
of cholera-patients arriving increased every moment, and soon neither
litters nor stretchers could be obtained, so that they were borne along
in the arms of the attendants. Several awful episodes bore witness
to the startling rapidity of the infection. Two men were carrying a
stretcher covered with a blood-stained sheet; one of them suddenly felt
himself attacked with the complaint; he stopped short, his powerless
arms let go the stretcher; he turned pale, staggered, fell upon the
patient, becoming as livid as him; the other man, struck with terror,
fled precipitately, leaving his companion and the dying man in the
midst of the crowd. Some drew back in horror, others burst into a savage
laugh.
"The horses have taken fright," said the quarryman, "and have left the
turn-out in the lurch."
"Help!" cried the dying man, with a despairing accent; "for pity's sake
take me in."
"There's no more room in the pit," said one, in a jeering tone.
"And you've no legs left to reach the gallery," added another.
The sick man made an effort to rise; but his strength failed him; he
fell back exhausted on the mattress. A sudden movement took place among
the crowd, the stretcher was overturned, the old man and his companion
were trodden underfoot, and their groans were drowned in the cries of
"Death to the body-snatchers!" The yells were renewed with fresh fury,
but the ferocious band, who respected nothing in their savage fury,
were soon after obliged to open their ranks to several workmen, who
vigorously cleared the way for two of their friends carrying in their
arms a poor artisan. He was still young, but his heavy and already
livid head hung down upon the shoulder of one of them. A little child
followed, sobbing, and holding by one of the workmen's coats. The
measured and sonorous sound of several drums was now heard at a distance
in the winding streets of the city: they were beating the call to
arms, for sedition was rife in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The drummers