The Wandering Jew — Complete
still blessed with health, and he rushed towards the steps to return to
the ante-chamber.
"It's too late! it's only exposing yourself in vain," cried many
persons, holding him back by force.
At this moment, voices were heard, exclaiming: "Here is the Abbe
Gabriel."
"He is coming downstairs. He has heard the noise."
"He is asking what is the matter."
"What will he do?"
Gabriel, occupied with a dying person in a neighboring room, had,
indeed, just learned that Morok, having broken his bonds, had succeeded
in escaping from the chamber in which he had been temporarily confined.
Foreseeing the terrible dangers which might result from the escape of
the lion-tamer, the missionary consulted only his courage, and hastened
down, in the hope of preventing greater misfortunes. In obedience to
his orders, an attendant followed him, bearing a brazier full of hot
cinders, on which lay several irons, at a white heat, used by the
doctors for cauterizing, in desperate cases of cholera.
The angelic countenance of Gabriel was very pale; but calm intrepidity
shone upon his noble brow. Hastily crossing the passage, and making his
way through the crowd, he went straight to the ante-chamber door. As
he approached it, one of the sick people said to him, in a lamentable
voice; "Ah, sir! it is all over. Those who can see through the window
say that Sister Martha is lost."
Gabriel made no answer, but grasped the key of the door. Before entering
the room, however, he turned to the attendant, and said to him in a firm
voice: "Are the irons of a white heat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then wait here, and be ready. As for you, my friends," he added,
turning to some of the sick, who shuddered with terror, "as soon as
I enter shut the door after me. I will answer for the rest. And you;
friend, only bring your irons when I call."
And the young missionary turned the key in the lock. At this juncture,
a cry of alarm, pity, and admiration rose from every lip, and the
spectators drew back from the door, with an involuntary feeling of
fear. Raising his eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its assistance at this
terrible moment, Gabriel pushed open the door, and immediately closed it
behind him. He was alone with Morok.
The lion-tamer, by a last furious effort, had almost succeeded in
opening the door, to which Sister Martha and the orphans were clinging,
in a fit of terror, uttering piercing cries. At the sound of Gabriel's
footsteps, Morok turned round suddenly. Then, instead of continuing
his attack on the closet, he sprang, with a roar and a bound, upon the
new-comer.
During this time, Sister Martha and the orphans, not knowing the
cause of the sudden retreat of their assailant, took advantage of the
opportunity to close and bolt the door, and thus placed themselves
in security from a new attack. Morok, with haggard eye, and teeth
convulsively clinched, had rushed upon Gabriel, his hands extended
to seize him by the throat. The missionary stood the shock valiantly.
Guessing, at a glance, the intention of his adversary, he seized him
by the wrists as he advanced, and, holding him back, bent him down
violently with a vigorous hand. For a second, Morok and Gabriel remained
mute, breathless, motionless, gazing on each other; then the missionary
strove to conquer the efforts of the madman, who, with violent jerks,
attempted to throw himself upon him, and to seize and tear him with his
teeth.
Suddenly the lion-tamer's strength seemed to fail, his knees quivered,
his livid head sank upon his shoulder, his eyes closed. The missionary,
supposing that a momentary weakness had succeeded to the fit of rage,
and that the wretch was about to fall, relaxed his hold in order to lend
him assistance. But no sooner did he feel himself at liberty, thanks
to his crafty device, than Morok flung himself furiously upon Gabriel.
Surprised by this sudden attack, the latter stumbled, and at once felt
himself clasped into the iron arms of the madman. Yet, with redoubled
strength and energy, struggling breast to breast, foot to foot, the
missionary in his turn succeeded in tripping up his adversary, and,
throwing him with a vigorous effort, again seized his hands, and now
held him down beneath his knee. Having thus completely mastered him,
Gabriel turned his head to call for assistance, when Morok, by a
desperate strain, succeeded in raising himself a little, and seized with
his teeth the left arm of the missionary. At this sharp, deep, horrible
bite, which penetrated to the very bone, Gabriel could not restrain a
scream of anguish and horror. He strove in vain to disengage himself,
for his arm was held fast, as in a vice, between the firm-set jaws of
Morok.
This frightful scene had lasted less time than it has taken in the
description, when suddenly the door leading to the passage was violently
opened, and several courageous men, who had learned from the patients
to what danger the young priest was exposed, came rushing to his
assistance, in spite of his recommendation not to enter till he should
call. The attendant was amongst the number, with the brazier and the hot
irons. Gabriel, as soon as he perceived him, said to him in an agitated
voice: "Quick, friend! your iron. Thank God I had thought of that."
One of the men who had entered the room was luckily provided with a
blanket; and the moment the missionary succeeded in wresting his arm
from the clinched teeth of Morok, whom he still held down with his knee,
this blanket was thrown over the madman's head, so that he could now be
held and bound without danger, notwithstanding his desperate resistance.
Then Gabriel rose, tore open the sleeve of his cassock, and laying bare
his left arm, on which a deep bite was visible, bleeding, of a bluish
color, he beckoned the attendant to draw near, seized one of the hot
irons, and, with a firm and sure hand, twice applied the burning metal
to the wound, with a calm heroism which struck all the spectators, with
admiration. But soon so many various emotions, intrepidly sustained,
were followed by a natural reaction. Large drops of sweat stood upon
Gabriel's brow; his long light hair clung to his temples; he grew deadly
pale, reeled, lost his senses, and was carried into the next room to
receive immediate attention.
An accidental circumstance, likely enough to occur, had converted one
of the Princess de Saint-Dizier's falsehoods into a truth. To induce
the orphans to go to the hospital, she had told them Gabriel was there,
which at the time she was far from believing. On the contrary, she would
have wished to prevent a meeting, which, from the attachment of the
missionary to the girls, might interfere with her projects. A little
while after the terrible scene we have just related, Rose and Blanche,
accompanied by Sister Martha, entered a vast room, of a strange and
fatal aspect, containing a number of women who had suddenly been seized
with cholera.
These immense apartments, generously supplied for the purpose of a
temporary hospital, had been furnished with excessive luxury. The room
now occupied by the sick women, of whom we speak, had been used for
a ball-room. The white panels glittered with sumptuous gilding, and
magnificent pier-glasses occupied the spaces between the windows,
through which could be seen the fresh verdure of a pleasant garden,
smiling beneath the influence of budding May. In the midst of all
this gilded luxury, on a rich, inlaid floor of costly woods, were seen
arranged in regular order four rows of beds, of every shape and kind,
from the humble truckle-bed to the handsome couch in carved mahogany.
This long room was divided into two compartments by a temporary
partition, four or five feet in height. They had thus been able to
manage the four rows of beds. This partition finished at some little
distance from either end of the room, so as to leave an open space
without beds, for the volunteer attendants, when the sick did not
require their aid. At one of these extremities of the room was a lofty
and magnificent marble chimney piece, ornamented with gilt bronze.
On the fire beneath, various drinks were brewing for the patients. To
complete the singular picture, women of every class took their turns in
attending upon the sick, to whose sighs and groans they always responded
with consoling words of hope and pity. Such was the place, strange and
mournful, that Rose and Blanche entered together, hand in hand, a short
time after Gabriel had displayed such heroic courage in the struggle
against Morok. Sister Martha accompanied Marshal Simon's daughters.
After speaking a few words to them in a whisper, she pointed out to them
the two divisions in which the beds were arranged, and herself went to
the other end of the room to give some orders.
The orphans, still under the impression of the terrible danger from
which Gabriel had rescued them without their knowing it, were both
excessively pale; yet their eyes were expressive of firm resolution.
They had determined not only to perform what they considered an
imperative duty, but to prove themselves worthy of their valiant father;
they were acting too for their mother's sake, since they had been told
that, dying in Siberia without receiving the sacrament, her eternal
felicity might depend on the proofs they gave of Christian devotion.
Need we add that the Princess de Saint-Dizier, following the advice of
Rodin, had, in a second interview, skillfully brought about without the
knowledge of Dagobert, taken advantage of the excitable qualities
of these poor, confiding, simple, and generous souls, by a fatal
exaggeration of the most noble and courageous sentiments. The orphans
having asked Sister Martha if Madame Augustine du Tremblay had been
brought to this asylum within the last three days, that person had
answered, that she really did not know, but, if they would go through
the women's wards, it would be easy for them to ascertain. For the
abominable hypocrite, who, in conjunction with Rodin, had sent these
two children to encounter a mortal peril, had told an impudent falsehood
when she affirmed that their governess had been removed to this
hospital. During their exile, and their toilsome journey with Dagobert,
the sisters had been exposed to many hard trials. But never had they
witnessed so sad a spectacle as that which now offered itself to their
view.
The long row of beds, on which so many poor creatures writhed in agony,
some uttering deep groans, some only a dull rattle in the throat, some
raving in the delirium of fever, or calling on those from whom they were
about to part forever--these frightful sights and sounds, which are
too much even for brave men, would inevitably, (such was the execrable
design of Rodin and his accomplices) make a fatal impression on these
young girls, urged by the most generous motives to undertake this
perilous visit. And then--sad memory! which awoke, in all its deep and
poignant bitterness, by the side of the first beds they came to--it was
of this very malady, the Cholera, that their mother had died a painful
death. Fancy the twins entering this vast room, of so fearful an
aspect, and, already much shaken by the terror which Morok had inspired,
pursuing their search in the midst of these unfortunate creatures, whose
dying pangs reminded them every instant of the dying agony of their
mother! For a moment, at sight of the funeral hall, Rose and Blanche had
felt their resolution fail them. A black presentiment made them regret
their heroic imprudence; and, moreover, since several minutes they had
begun to feel an icy shudder, and painful shootings across the temples;
but, attributing these symptoms to the fright occasioned by Morok, their
good and valiant natures soon stifled all these fears. They exchanged