The Wandering Jew — Complete
"Oh, what happiness!" cried Rose.
"You see, you were wrong to suspect the poor old man, Dagobert," added
Blanche. "You treated him so harshly!"
"Possibly so; but I am not sorry for it."
"And why?"
"I have my reasons; and one of the best is that, when I saw him came in,
and go sidling and creeping round about us, I felt chilled to the marrow
of my bones, without knowing why. Had I seen a serpent crawling towards
you, I should not have been more frightened. I knew, of course, that he
could not hurt you in my presence; but I tell you, my children, in spite
of the services he has no doubt rendered us, it was all I could do to
refrain from throwing him out of the window. Now, this manner of proving
my gratitude is not natural, and one must be on one's guard against
people who inspire us with such ideas."
"Good Dagobert, it is your affection for us that makes you so
suspicious," said Rose, in a coaxing tone; "it proves how much you love
us."
CHAPTER LV. THE IMPROVISED HOSPITAL
Among a great number of temporary hospitals opened at the time of the
cholera in every quarter of Paris, one had been established on the
ground-floor of a large house in the Rue du Mont-Blanc. The vacant
apartments had been generously placed by their proprietor at the
disposal of the authorities; and to this place were carried a number
of persons, who, being suddenly attacked with the contagion, were
considered in too dangerous a state to be removed to the principal
hospitals.
Two days had elapsed since Rodin's visit to Marshal Simon's daughters.
Shortly after he had been expelled, the Princess de Saint-Dizier had
entered to see them, under the cloak of being a house-to-house visitor
to collect funds for the cholera sufferers.
Choosing the moment when Dagobert, deceived by her lady-like demeanor,
had withdrawn, she counselled the twins that it was their duty to go
and see their governess, whom she stated to be in the hospital we now
describe.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning. The persons who had watched
during the night by the sick people, in the hospital established in
the Rue du Mont-Blanc, were about to be relieved by other voluntary
assistants.
"Well, gentlemen," said one of those newly arrived, "how are we getting
on? Has there been any decrease last night in the number of the sick?"
"Unfortunately, no; but the doctors think the contagion has reached its
height."
"Then there is some hope of seeing it decrease."
"And have any of the gentlemen, whose places we come to take, been
attacked by the disease?"
"We came eleven strong last night; we are only nine now."
"That is bad. Were these two persons taken off rapidly?"
"One of the victims, a young man of twenty-five years of age, a cavalry
officer on furlough, was struck as it were by lightning. In less than a
quarter of an hour he was dead. Though such facts are frequent, we were
speechless with horror."
"Poor young man!"
"He had a word of cordial encouragement and hope for every one. He had
so far succeeded in raising the spirits of the patients, that some of
them who were less affected by the cholera than by the fear of it, were
able to quit the hospital nearly well."
"What a pity! So good a young man! Well, he died gloriously; it requires
as much courage as on the field of battle."
"He had only one rival in zeal and courage, and that is a Young priest,
with an angelic countenance, whom they call the Abbe Gabriel. He is
indefatigable; he hardly takes an hour's rest, but runs from one to
the other, and offers himself to everybody. He forgets nothing. The
consolation; which he offers come from the depths of his soul, and are
not mere formalities in the way of his profession. No, no, I saw him
weep over a poor woman, whose eyes he had closed after a dreadful agony.
Oh, if all priests were like him!"
"No doubt, a good priest is most worthy of respect. But! who is the
other victim of last night?"
"Oh! his death was frightful. Do not speak of it. I have still the
horrible scene before my eyes."
"A sudden attack of cholera?"
"If it had only been the contagion, I should not so shudder at the
remembrance."
"What then did he die of?"
"It is a string of horrors. Three days ago, they brought here a man, who
was supposed to be only attacked with cholera. You have no doubt heard
speak of this personage. He is the lion-tamer, that drew all Paris to
the Porte-Saint-Martin."
"I know the man you mean. Called Morok. He performed a kind of play with
a tame panther."
"Exactly so; I was myself present at a similar scene, which a stranger,
an Indian, in consequence of a wager, was said at the time, jumped upon
the stage and killed the panther."
"Well, this Morok, brought here as a cholera-patient, and indeed with
all the symptoms of the contagion, soon showed signs of a still more
frightful malady."
"And this was--"
"Hydrophobia."
"Did he become mad?"
"Yes; he confessed, that he had been bitten a few days before by one
of the mastiffs in his menagerie; unfortunately, we only learnt this
circumstance after the terrible attack, which cost the life of the poor
fellow we deplore."
"How did it happen, then?"
"Morok was in a room with three other patients. Suddenly seized with a
sort of furious delirium, he rose, uttering ferocious cries, and rushed
raving mad into the passage. Our poor friend made an attempt to stop
him. This kind of resistance increased the frenzy of Morok, who threw
himself on the man that crossed his path, and, tearing him with his
teeth, fell down in horrible convulsions."
"Oh! you are right. 'Twas indeed frightful. And, not withstanding every
assistance this victim of Morok's--"
"Died during the night, in dreadful agony; for the shock had been so
violent, that brain-fever almost instantly declared itself."
"And is Morok dead?"
"I do not know. He was to be taken to another hospital, after being fast
bound in the state of weakness which generally succeeds the fit. But,
till he can be removed he has been confined in a room upstairs."
"But he cannot recover."
"I should think he must be dead by this time. The doctors did not give
him twenty-four hours to live."
The persons engaged in this conversation were standing in an
ante-chamber on the ground-floor, in which usually assembled those who
came to offer their voluntary aid to the sick. One door of this room
communicated with the rest of the hospital, and the other with the
passage that opened upon the courtyard.
"Dear me!" said one of the two speakers, looking through the window.
"See what two charming girls have just got out of that elegant carriage.
How much alike they are! Such a resemblance is indeed extraordinary."
"No doubt they are twins. Poor young girls! dressed in Mourning. They
have perhaps lost father or mother."
"One would imagine they are coming this way."
"Yes, they are coming up the steps."
And indeed Rose and Blanche soon entered the antechamber, with a timid,
anxious air, though a sort of feverish excitement was visible in their
looks. One of the two men that were talking together, moved by the
embarrassment of the girls, advanced toward them, and said, in a tone of
attentive politeness: "Is there anything I can do for you, ladies?"
"Is not this, sir," replied Rose, "the infirmary of the Rue du Mont
Blanc?"
"Yes, miss."
"A lady, called Madame Augustine du Tremblay, was brought here, we are
told, about two days ago. Could we see her?"
"I would observe to you, miss, that there is some danger in entering the
sick-wards."
"It is a dear friend that we wish to see," answered Rose, in a mild and
firm tone, which sufficiently expressed that she was determined to brave
the danger.
"I cannot be sure, miss," resumed the other, "that the person you seek
is here; but, if you will take the trouble to walk into this room on the
left, you will find there the good Sister Martha; she has the care
of the women's wards, and will give you all the information you can
desire."
"Thank you, sir," said Blanche, with a graceful bow; and she and her
sister entered together the apartment which had been pointed out to
them.
"They are really charming," said the man, looking after the two sisters,
who soon disappeared from his view. "It would be a great pity if--"
He was unable to finish. A frightful tumult, mingled with cries of alarm
and horror, rose suddenly from the adjoining rooms. Almost instantly,
two doors were thrown open, and a number of the sick, half-naked, pale,
fleshless, and their features convulsed with terror, rushed into the
antechamber, exclaiming: "Help! help! the madman!" It is impossible to
paint the scene of despairing and furious confusion which followed this
panic of so many affrighted wretches, flying to the only other door, to
escape from the perils they dreaded, and there, struggling and trampling
on each other to pass through the narrow entrance.
At the moment when the last of these unhappy creatures succeeded in
reaching the door, dragging himself along upon his bleeding hands, for
he had been thrown down and almost crushed in the confusion--Morok,
the object of so much terror--Morok himself appeared. He was a horrible
sight. With the exception of a rag bound about his middle, his wan form
was entirely naked, and from his bare legs still hung the remnants of
the cords he had just broken. His thick, yellow hair stood almost on
end, his beard bristled, his savage eyes rolled full of blood in their
orbits, and shone with a glassy brightness; his lips were covered with
foam; from time to time, he uttered hoarse, guttural cries. The veins,
visible on his iron limbs were swollen almost to bursting. He bounded
like a wild beast, and stretched out before him his bony and quivering
hands. At the moment Morok reached the doorway, by which those he
pursued made their escape, some persons, attracted by the noise, managed
to close this door from without, whilst others secured that which
communicated with the sick-ward.
Morok thus found himself a prisoner. He ran to the window to force it
open, and threw himself into the courtyard. But, stopping suddenly, he
drew back from the glittering panes, seized with that invincible horror
which all the victims of hydrophobia feel at the sight of any shining
object, particularly glass. The unfortunate creatures whom he had
pursued, saw him from the courtyard exhausting himself in furious
efforts to open the doors that just had been closed upon him. Then,
perceiving the inutility of his attempts, he uttered savage cries, and
rushed furiously round the room, like a wild beast that seeks in vain to
escape from its cage.
But, suddenly, those spectators of this scene, who had approached
nearest to the window, uttered a loud exclamation of fear and anguish.
Morok had perceived the little door which led to the closet occupied by
Sister Martha, where Rose and Blanche had entered a few minutes before.
Hoping to get out by this way, Morok drew the door violently towards
him, and succeeded in half opening it, notwithstanding the resistance he
experienced from the inside. For an instant the affrighted crowd saw the
stiffened arms Of Sister Martha and the orphans, clinging to the door,
and holding it back with all their might.
CHAPTER LVI. HYDROPHOBIA.
When the sick people, assembled in the courtyard, saw the desperate
efforts of Morok to force the door of the room which contained Sister
Martha and the orphans, their fright redoubled. "It is all over, Sister
Martha!" cried they.
"The door will give way."
"And the closet has no other entrance."
"There are two young girls in mourning with her."
"Come! we must not leave these poor women to encounter the madman.
Follow me, friends!" cried generously one of the spectators, who was