The Wandering Jew — Complete
to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders.
Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d'Aigrigny,
who went out.
"Come, reverend father," said the doctor, "we must begin again. This
time do not move."
Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his
eyes, and presented his chest. It was a strange, lugubrious, almost
fantastic spectacle. The three priests, in their long black gowns,
leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing
through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping
up his blood by some magic charm. A sickening odor of burnt flesh began
to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight
crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving
way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of
his chest. The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine;
a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples.
Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his
stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.
Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as
the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his
strength and courage from the hope--we had almost said the certainty--of
life. Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of
this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments,
his one fixed idea never left him. During the rare intervals of
suffering--for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity--Rodin
still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances,
and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose. Dr.
Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects
of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe
with less difficulty.
Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some
new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him
to suspend the operation.
"I must tell you, reverend father," answered the doctor, "that it is not
half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful--"
Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.
"Gentlemen, stop a moment," said Dr. Baleinier; "keep down your moxas,
but do not blow the fire."
So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon
the skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still
sharp and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding
the paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic
signs, part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the
torture, a luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it
amidst his sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote
the following, which was instantly delivered to Father d'Aigrigny: "Send
B. immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with
regard to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant." Father
d'Aigrigny went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached
a little nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad
odor of the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted,
having long cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.
"Come, reverend father," said the doctor to Rodin, "continue to be
admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a
bitter moment to go through--and then I have good hope."
The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d'Aigrigny
returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father
replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began
to blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture
was so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his
teeth, started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest,
that, after a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a
scream of terrific pain--but it was free, loud, sonorous.
"The chest is free!" cried the doctor, in triumph. "The lungs have
play--the voice returns--he is saved!--Blow, gentlemen, blow; and,
reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall be delighted to
hear you, for it will give you relief. Courage! I answer for the result.
It is a wonderful cure. I will publish it by sound of trumpet."
"Allow me, doctor," whispered Father d'Aigrigny, as he approached Dr.
Baleinier; "the cardinal can witness, that I claimed beforehand the
publication of this affair--as a miraculous fact."
"Let it be miraculous then," answered Dr. Baleinier, disappointed--for
he set some value on his own work.
On hearing he was saved, Rodin though his sufferings were perhaps worse
than ever, for the fire had now pierced the scarf-skin, assumed almost
an infernal beauty. Through the painful contraction of his features
shone the pride of savage triumph; the monster felt that he was becoming
once more strong and powerful, and he seemed conscious the evils that
his fatal resurrection was to cause. And so, of still writhing beneath
the flames, he pronounced these words, the first that struggled from his
chest: "I told you I should live!"
"You told us true," cried the doctor, feeling his pulse; "the
circulation is now full and regular, the lungs are free. The reaction is
complete. You are saved."
At this moment, the last shreds of cotton had burnt out. The trivets
were withdrawn, and on the skeleton trunk of Rodin were seen four large
round blisters. The skin still smoked, and the raw flesh was visible
beneath. In one of his sudden movements, a lamp had been misplaced, and
one of these burns was larger than the other, presenting as it were to
the eye a double circle. Rodin looked down upon his wounds. After
some seconds of silent contemplation, a strange smile curled his lips.
Without changing his position, he glanced at Father d'Aigrigny with an
expression impossible to describe, and said to him, as he slowly
counted the wounds touching them with his flat and dirty nail:
"Father d'Aigrigny, what an omen!--Look here! one Rennepont--two
Renneponts--three Renneponts--four Renneponts--where is then the
fifth!--Ah! here--this wound will count for two. They are twins."(41)
And he emitted a little dry, bitter laugh. Father d'Aigrigny, the
cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood the sense of these
mysterious and fatal words, which Rodin soon completed by a terrible
allusion, as he exclaimed, with prophetic voice, and almost inspired
air: "Yes, I say it. The impious race will be reduced to ashes, like
the fragments of this poor flesh. I say it, and it will be so. I said I
would live--and I do live!"
(41) Jacques Rennepont being dead, and Gabriel out of the field, in
consequence of his donation, there remained only five persons of the
family--Rose and Blanche, Djalma, Adrienne, and Hardy.
CHAPTER XXXI. VICE AND VIRTUE.
Two days have elapsed since Rodin was miraculously restored to life. The
reader will not have forgotten the house in the Rue Clovis, where the
reverend father had an apartment, and where also was the lodging of
Philemon, inhabited by Rose-Pompon. It is about three o'clock in the
afternoon. A bright ray of light, penetrating through a round hole in
the door Mother Arsene's subterraneous shop, forms a striking contrast
with the darkness of this cavern. The ray streams full upon a melancholy
object. In the midst of fagots and faded vegetables, and close to a
great heap of charcoal, stands a wretched bed; beneath the sheet, which
covers it, can be traced the stiff and angular proportions of a corpse.
It is the body of Mother Arsene herself, who died two days before, of
the cholera. The burials have been so numerous, that there has been
no time to remove her remains. The Rue Clovis is almost deserted. A
mournful silence reigns without, often broken by the sharp whistling of
the north wind. Between the squalls, one hears a sort of pattering. It
is the noise of the large rats, running to and fro across the heap of
charcoal.
Suddenly, another sound is heard, and these unclean animals fly to hide
themselves in their holes. Some one is trying to force open the door,
which communicates between the shop and the passage. It offers but
little resistance, and, in a few seconds, the worn-out lock gives
way, and a woman enters. For a short time she stands motionless in the
obscurity of the damp and icy cave. After a minute's hesitation, the
woman advances and the ray of light illumines the features of the
Bacchanal Queen. Slowly, she approached the funeral couch. Since the
death of Jacques, the alteration in the countenance of Cephyse had gone
on increasing. Fearfully pale, with her fine black hair in disorder,
her legs and feet naked, she was barely covered with an old patched
petticoat and a very ragged handkerchief.
When she came near the bed, she cast a glance of almost savage assurance
at the shroud. Suddenly she drew back, with a low cry of involuntary
terror. The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet
to the head of the corpse. But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the
side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud.
Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things,
and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised
in the miserable shop. First, she seized a basket, and filled it with
charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an
earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.
"It is not all, it is not all," said Cephyse, as she continued to search
with an unquiet air.
At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint,
steel and matches. She placed these articles on the top of the basket,
and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other. As she
passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a
strange smile: "I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do
me much good."
Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up
the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the
front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged. With the
exception of the windows of Philemon's apartment, where Rose-Pompon had
so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows
of the house were open. There had been deaths on the first and second
floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up
with coffins.
The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers
formerly occupied by Rodin. Arrived at the landing-place she ascended
another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an
old rope for a rail. She at length reached the half-rotten door of
a garret, situated in the roof. The house was in such a state of
dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain,
and allowed it to penetrate into this cell, which was not above ten feet
square, and lighted by an attic window. All the furniture consisted of
an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out
from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout
broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch.
Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress,
with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white
hands. When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola
raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow