The Wandering Jew — Complete
"We may yet save him," muttered the crowd.
"Quick, quick," resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman; "help me,
brother. Let us carry him to a neighboring house, where he can have
immediate aid."
The quarryman obeyed with readiness. Whilst the missionary lifted Father
d'Aigrigny by holding him under the arms, the quarryman took the legs
of the almost inanimate body. Together, they carried him outside of the
choir. At sight of the formidable quarryman, aiding the young priest
to render assistance to the man whom he had just before pursued with
menaces of death, the multitude felt a sudden thrill of compassion.
Yielding to the powerful influence of the words and example of Gabriel,
they felt themselves deeply moved, and each became anxious to offer
services.
"Mr. Curate, he would perhaps be better on a chair, that one could carry
upright," said Ciboule.
"Shall I go and fetch a stretcher from the hospital?" asked another.
"Mr. Curate, let me take your place; the body is too heavy for you."
"Don't trouble yourself," said a powerful man, approaching the
missionary respectfully; "I can carry him alone."
"Shall I run and fetch a coach, Mr. Curate?" said a young vagabond,
taking off his red cap.
"Right," said the quarryman; "run away, my buck!"
"But first, ask Mr. Curate if you are to go for a coach," said Ciboule,
stopping the impatient messenger.
"True," added one of the bystanders; "we are here in a church, and Mr.
Curate has the command. He is at home."
"Yes, yes; go at once, my child," said Gabriel to the obliging young
vagabond.
Whilst the latter was making his way through the crowd, a voice said:
"I've a little wicker-bottle of brandy; will that be of any use?"
"No doubt," answered Gabriel, hastily; "pray give it here. We can rub
his temples with the spirit, and make him inhale a little."
"Pass the bottle," cried Ciboule; "but don't put your noses in it!"
And, passed with caution from hand to hand, the flask reached Gabriel in
safety.
Whilst waiting for the coming of the coach, Father d'Aigrigny had
been seated on a chair. Whilst several good-natured people carefully
supported the abbe, the missionary made him inhale a little brandy. In a
few minutes, the spirit had a powerful influence on the Jesuit; he made
some slight movements, and his oppressed bosom heaved with a deep sigh.
"He is saved--he will live," cried Gabriel, in a triumphant voice; "he
will live, my brothers!"
"Oh! glad to hear it!" exclaimed many voices.
"Oh, yes! be glad, my brothers!" repeated Gabriel; "for, instead of
being weighed down with the remorse of crime, you will have a just and
charitable action to remember. Let us thank God, that he has changed
your blind fury into a sentiment of compassion! Let us pray to Him, that
neither you, nor those you love, may ever be exposed to such frightful
danger as this unfortunate man has just escaped. Oh, my brothers!" added
Gabriel, as he pointed to the image of Christ with touching emotion,
which communicated itself the more easily to others from the expression
of his angelic countenance; "oh, my brothers! let us never forget, that
HE, who died upon that cross for the defence of the oppressed, for
the obscure children of the people like to ourselves, pronounced those
affectionate words so sweet to the heart; 'Love ye one another!'--Let
us never forget it; let us love and help one another, and we poor
people shall then become better, happier, just. Love--yes, love ye one
another--and fall prostrate before that Saviour, who is the God of all
that are weak, oppressed, and suffering in this world!"
So saying, Gabriel knelt down. All present respectfully followed his
example, such power was there in his simple and persuasive words. At
this moment, a singular incident added to the grandeur of the scene. We
have said that a few seconds before the quarryman and his band entered
the body of the church, several persons had fled from it. Two of these
had taken refuge in the organ-loft, from which retreat they had viewed
the preceding scene, themselves remaining invisible. One of these
persons was a young man charged with the care of the organ, and quite
musician enough to play on it. Deeply moved by the unexpected turn of an
event which at first appeared so tragical, and yielding to an artistical
inspiration, this young man, at the moment when he saw the people
kneeling with Gabriel, could not forbear striking the notes. Then a sort
of harmonious sigh, at first almost insensible, seemed to rise from the
midst of this immense cathedral, like a divine aspiration. As soft and
aerial as the balmy vapor of incense, it mounted and spread through the
lofty arches. Little by little the faint, sweet sounds, though still as
it were covered, changed to an exquisite melody, religious, melancholy,
and affectionate, which rose to heaven like a song of ineffable
gratitude and love. And the notes were at first so faint, so covered,
that the kneeling multitude had scarcely felt surprise, and had yielded
insensibly to the irresistible influence of that enchanting harmony.
Then many an eye, until now dry and ferocious, became wet with
tears--many hard hearts beat gently, as they remembered the words
pronounced by Gabriel with so tender an accent: "Love ye one another!"
It was at this moment that Father d'Aigrigny came to himself--and opened
his eyes. He thought himself under the influence of a dream. He had
lost his senses in sight of a furious populace, who, with insult and
blasphemy on their lips, pursued him with cries of death even to the
sanctuary of the temple. He opened his eyes--and, by the pale light of
the sacred lamps, to the solemn music of the organ, he saw that crowd,
just now so menacing and implacable, kneeling in mute and reverential
emotion, and humbly bowing their heads before the majesty of the shrine.
Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders
of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d'Aigrigny, who by
degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining. By
the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house
in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this
dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the
reader thither.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE PATIENT.
At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall,
with only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door,
you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian
blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this
courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at
the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly
comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which
betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father
d'Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular
fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square
caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The
youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was
pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two
companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at
once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly
in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in
soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules
of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade
their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood
never quitted each other a moment.
"I fear," said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun,
and speaking of an absent person, "I fear, that the continual agitation
to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked
with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous
relapse which now makes us fear for his life."
"They say," resumed the other, "that never was there seen anxiety like
to his."
"And moreover," remarked the young priest, bitterly, "it is painful to
think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal,
by obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before
yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two
fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive
the last sacraments."
"His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,"
answered one of the fathers, "and that he would have the last duties
performed when he thought necessary."
"The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here
dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and
yet he continues to live."
"I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M.
Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier," resumed the youngest father; "he
had hardly a moment's consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him
a lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the
fate which had confined him to his bed."
"It is said," resumed the other, "that Father Rodin made answer to
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an
exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder"--at
these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they
had been all moved by the same spring--"it is said, that Father Rodin
made answer to his eminence: 'I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT
TO LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.'"
"I did not hear that," said the young priest, with an indignant air;
"but if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is--"
Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a
sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: "It
is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has
been slandered."
"It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words," said
the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.
One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers
exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: "Oh! here is
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin."
"May this visit of his eminence," said the young priest, calmly, "be
more profitable to Father Rodin than the last!"
Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment
occupied by Rodin.
Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at
the Princess de Saint-Dizier's, now on his way to Rodin's apartment, was
dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored
satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had
taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics.
Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at
a little gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to
whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber,
and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table
were many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate's
countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow
and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes
appeared still darker than usual.
Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times
stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone,
he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much
attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this
careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably