The Wandering Jew — Complete
So saying, Sleepinbuff burst into a bitter laugh, which sent an icy
shudder through the spectators of this scene.
"My good fellow," said Morok, coolly, "listen to me, and follow my
advice."
"Thank you! I know your advice--and, instead of listening to you, I
prefer speaking to my poor Cephyse. Before I go down to the moles, I
should like to tell her what weighs on my heart."
"Jacques," replied Cephyse, "do not talk so. I tell you, you shall not
die."
"Why, then, my brave Cephyse, I shall owe my life to you," returned
Jacques, in a tone of serious feeling, which surprised the spectators.
"Yes," resumed he, "when I came to myself, and saw you so poorly clad,
I felt something good about my heart--do you know why?--it was because
I said to myself, 'Poor girl! she has kept her word bravely; she has
chosen to toil, and want, and suffer--rather than take another love--who
would have given her what I gave her as long as I could'--and that
thought, Cephyse, refreshed my soul. I needed it, for I was burning--and
I burn still," added he, clinching his fists with pain; "but that made
me happy--it did me good--thanks, my good, brave Cephyse--yes, you are
good and brave--and you were right; for I never loved any but you in the
wide world; and if, in my degradation, I had one thought that raised me
a little above the filth, and made me regret that I was not better--the
thought was of you! Thanks then, my poor, dear love," said Jacques,
whose hot and shining eyes were becoming moist; "thanks once again," and
he reached his cold hand to Cephyse; "if I die, I shall die happy--if I
live, I shall live happy also. Give me your hand, my brave Cephyse!--you
have acted like a good and honest creature."
Instead of taking the hand which Jacques offered her, Cephyse, still
kneeling, bowed her head, and dared not raise her eyes to her lover.
"You don't answer," said he, leaning over towards the young girl; "you
don't take my hand--why is this?"
The unfortunate creature only answered by stifled sobs. Borne down with
shame, she held herself in so humble, so supplicating an attitude, that
her forehead almost touched the feet of her lover.
Amazed at the silence and conduct of the Bacchanal Queen, Jacques
looked at her with increasing agitation; suddenly he stammered out with
trembling lips, "Cephyse, I know you. If you do not take my hand, it is
because--"
Then, his voice failing, he added, in a dull tone, after a moment's
silence, "When, six weeks ago, I was taken to prison, did you not say to
me, 'Jacques, I swear that I will work--and if need be, live in horrible
misery--but I will live true!' That was your promise. Now, I know you
never speak false; tell me you have kept your word, and I shall believe
you."
Cephyse only answered by a heart-rending sob, as she pressed the knees
of Jacques against her heaving bosom. By a strange contradiction, more
common than is generally thought--this man, degraded by intoxication
and debauchery, who, since he came out of prison, had plunged in every
excess, and tamely yielded to all the fatal incitements of Morok, yet
received a fearful blow, when he learned, by the mute avowal of
Cephyse, the infidelity, of this creature, whom he had loved in spite of
degradation. The first impulse of Jacques was terrible. Notwithstanding
his weakness and exhaustion, he succeeded in rising from his seat, and,
with a countenance contracted by rage and despair, he seized a knife,
before they had time to prevent him, and turned it upon Cephyse. But at
the moment he was about to strike, shrinking from an act of murder, he
hurled the knife far away from him, and falling back into the chair,
covered his face with his hands.
At the cry of Ninny Moulin, who had, though late, thrown himself upon
Jacques to take away the knife, Cephyse raised her head: Jacques's
woeful dejection wrung her heart; she rose, and fell upon his neck,
notwithstanding his resistance, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs,
"Jacques, if you knew! if you only knew--listen--do not condemn me
without hearing me--I will tell you all, I swear to you--without
falsehood--this man," and she pointed to Morok, "will not dare deny what
I say; he came, and told me to have the courage to--"
"I do not reproach you. I have no right to reproach you. Let me die
in peace. I ask nothing but that now," said Jacques, in a still weaker
voice, as he repulsed Cephyse. Then he added, with a grievous and
bitter smile, "Luckily, I have my dose. I knew--what I was doing--when I
accepted the duel with brandy."
"No, you shall not die, and you shall hear me," cried Cephyse, with a
bewildered air; "you shall hear me, and everybody else shall hear me.
They shall see that it is not my fault. Is it not so, gentlemen? Do I
not deserve pity? You will entreat Jacques to forgive me; for if driven
by misery--finding no work--I was forced to this--not for the sake of
any luxury--you see the rags I wear--but to get bread and shelter for my
poor, sick sister--dying, and even more miserable than myself--would you
not have pity upon me? Do you think one finds pleasure in one's infamy?"
cried the unfortunate, with a burst of frightful laughter; then she
added, in a low voice, and with a shudder, "Oh, if you knew, Jacques! it
is so infamous, so horrible, that I preferred death to falling so low
a second time. I should have killed myself, had I not heard you were
here." Then, seeing that Jacques did not answer her, but shook his
head mournfully as he sank down though still supported by Ninny
Moulin, Cephyse exclaimed, as she lifted her clasped hands towards him,
"Jacques! one word--for pity's sake--forgive me!"
"Gentlemen, pray remove this woman," cried Morok; "the sight of her
causes my friend too painful emotions."
"Come, my dear child, be reasonable," said several of the guests, who,
deeply moved by this scene, were endeavoring to withdraw Cephyse from
it; "leave him, and come with us; he is not in any danger."
"Gentlemen! oh, gentlemen!" cried the unfortunate creature, bursting
into tears, and raising her hands in supplication; "listen to me--I
will do all that you wish me--I will go--but, in heaven's name, send
for help, and do not let him die thus. Look, what pain he suffers! what
horrible convulsions!"
"She is right," said one of the guests, hastening towards the door; "we
must send for a doctor."
"There is no doctor to be found," said another; "they are all too busy."
"We will do better than that," cried a third; "the Hospital is just
opposite, and we can carry the poor fellow thither. They will give him
instant help. A leaf of the table will make a litter, and the table
cloth a covering."
"Yes, yes, that is it," said several voices; "let us carry him over at
once."
Jacques, burnt up with brandy, and overcome by his interview with
Cephyse, had again fallen into violent convulsions. It was the dying
paroxysm of the unfortunate man. They were obliged to tie him with the
ends of the cloth, so as to secure him to the leaf which was to serve
for a litter, which two of the guests hastened to carry away. They
yielded to the supplication of Cephyse, who asked, as a last favor, to
accompany Jacques to the Hospital. When the mournful procession quitted
the great room of the eating-house, there was a general flight among the
guests. Men and women made haste to wrap themselves in their cloaks, in
order to conceal their costumes. The coaches, which had been ordered in
tolerable number for the return of the masquerade, had luckily
arrived. The defiance had been fully carried out, the audacious bravado
accomplished, and they could now retire with the honors of war. Whilst a
part of the guests were still in the room, an uproar, at first distant,
but which soon drew nearer, broke out with incredible fury in the square
of Notre Dame.
Jacques had been carried to the outer door of the tavern. Morok and
Ninny Moulin, striving to open a passage through the crowd in the
direction of the Hospital, preceded the litter. A violent reflux of
the multitude soon forced them to stop, whilst a new storm of savage
outcries burst from the other extremity of the square, near the angle of
the church.
"What is it then?" asked Ninny Moulin of one of those ignoble figures
that was leaping up before him. "What are those cries?"
"They are making mince-meat of a poisoner, like him they have thrown
into the river," replied the man. "If you want to see the fun, follow me
close," added he, "and peg away with your elbows, for fear you should be
too late."
Hardly had the wretch pronounced these words than a dreadful shriek
sounded above the roar of the crowd, through which the bearers of the
litter, preceded by Morok, were with difficulty making their way. It
was Cephyse who uttered that cry. Jacques (one of the seven heirs of the
Rennepont family) had just expired in her arms! By a strange fatality,
at the very moment that the despairing exclamation of Cephyse announced
that death, another cry rose from that part of the square where they
were attacking the poisoner. That distant, supplicating cry, tremulous
with horrible alarm, like the last appeal of a man staggering beneath
the blows of his murderers, chilled the soul of Morok in the midst of
his execrable triumph.
"Damnation!" cried the skillful assassin, who had selected drunkenness
and debauchery for his murderous but legal weapons; "it is the voice of
the Abbe d'Aigrigny, whom they have in their clutches!"
CHAPTER XXIII. THE POISONER.
It is necessary to go back a little before relating the adventure of
Father d'Aigrigny, whose cry of distress made so deep an impression upon
Morok just at the moment of Jacques Rennepont's death. We have said that
the most absurd and alarming reports were circulating in Paris; not only
did people talk of poison given to the sick or thrown into the public
fountains, but it was also said that wretches had been surprised in the
act of putting arsenic into the pots which are usually kept all ready
on the counters of wine-shops. Goliath was on his way to rejoin Morok,
after delivering a message to Father d'Aigrigny, who was waiting in a
house on the Place de l'Archeveche. He entered a wine-shop in the Rue
de la Calandre, to get some refreshment, and having drunk two glasses
of wine, he proceeded to pay for them. Whilst the woman of the house was
looking for change, Goliath, mechanically and very innocently, rested
his hand on the mouth of one of the pots that happened to be within his
reach.
The tall stature of this man and his repulsive and savage countenance
had already alarmed the good woman, whose fears and prejudices had
previously been roused by the public rumors on the subject of poisoning;
but when she saw Goliath place his hand over the mouth of one of her
pots, she cried out in dismay: "Oh! my gracious! what are you throwing
into that pot?" At these words, spoken in a loud voice, and with the
accent of terror, two or three of the drinkers at one of the tables
rose precipitately, and ran to the counter, while one of them rashly
exclaimed: "It is a poisoner!"
Goliath, not aware of the reports circulated in the neighborhood, did
not at first understand of what he was accused. The men raised their
voices as they called on him to answer the charge; but he, trusting to
his strength, shrugged his shoulders in disdain, and roughly demanded
the change, which the pale and frightened hostess no longer thought of
giving him.
"Rascal!" cried one of the men, with so much violence that several of
the passers-by stopped to listen; "you shall have your change when you
tell us what you threw in the pot!"
"Ha! did he throw anything into the wine-pot?" said one of the passers
by.
"It is, perhaps, a poisoner," said another.
"He ought to be taken up," added a third.