The Wandering Jew — Complete
"It is written," replied the secretary, a few moments later.
"Proceed, then," said his master. Rodin continued
"'NOTE, No. VI. "'ADRIENNE RENNEPONT DE CARDOVILLE.
"'Distantly related (without knowing it) to Jacques Rennepont, alias
Sleepinbuff, and Gabriel Rennepont, missionary priest. She will soon
be twenty-one years of age, the most attractive person in the
world--extraordinary beauty, though red-haired--a mind remarkable
for its originality--immense fortune--all the animal instincts. The
incredible independence of her character makes one tremble for the
future fate of this young person. Happily, her appointed guardian, Baron
Tripeaud (a baron of 1829 creation, formerly agent to the late Count of
Rennepont, Duke of Cardoville), is quite in the interest, and almost in
the dependence, of the young lady's aunt. We count, with reason, upon
this worthy and respectable relative, and on the Baron Tripeaud, to
oppose and repress the singular, unheard-of designs which this young
person, as resolute as independent, does not fear to avow--and which,
unfortunately, cannot be turned to account in the interest of the affair
in question--for--"
Rodin was here interrupted by two discreet taps at the door. The
secretary rose, went to see who knocked, remained a moment without, and
then returned with two letters in his hand, saying: "The princess has
profited by the departure of a courier to--"
"Give me the letter!" cried his master, without leaving him time to
finish. "At length," he added, "I shall have news of my mother--"
He had scarcely read the first few lines of the letter, when he grew
deadly pale, and his features took an expression of painful astonishment
and poignant grief. "My mother!" he cried, "oh, heavens! my mother!"
"What misfortune has happened!" asked Rodin, with a look of alarm, as he
rose at the exclamation of his master.
"The symptoms of improvement were fallacious," replied the other,
dejectedly; "she has now relapsed into a nearly hopeless state. And
yet the doctor thinks my presence might save her, for she calls for me
without ceasing. She wishes to see me for the last time, that she
may die in peace. Oh, that wish is sacred! Not to grant it would be
matricide. If I can but arrive in time! Travelling day and night, it
will take nearly two days."
"Alas! what a misfortune!" said Rodin, wringing his hands, and raising
his eyes to heaven.
His master rang the bell violently, and said to the old servant that
opened the door: "Just put what is indispensable into the portmanteau
of my travelling-carriage. Let the porter take a cab, and go for
post horses instantly. Within an hour, I must be on the road. Mother!
mother!" cried he, as the servant departed in haste. "Not to see her
again--oh, it would be frightful!" And sinking upon a chair, overwhelmed
with sorrow, he covered his face with his hands.
This great grief was sincere--he loved tenderly his mother that divine
sentiment had accompanied him, unalterable and pure, through all the
phases of a too often guilty life.
After a few minutes, Rodin ventured to say to his master, as he showed
him the second letter: "This, also, has just been brought from M.
Duplessis. It is very important--very pressing--"
"See what it is, and answer it. I have no head for business."
"The letter is confidential," said Rodin, presenting it to his master.
"I dare not open it, as you may see by the mark on the cover."
At sight of this mark, the countenance of Rodin's master assumed an
indefinable expression of respect and fear. With a trembling hand he
broke the seal. The note contained only the following words: "Leave all
business, and without losing a minute, set out and come. M. Duplessis
will replace you. He has orders."
"Great God!" cried this man in despair. "Set out before I have seen my
mother! It is frightful, impossible--it would perhaps kill her--yes, it
would be matricide!"
Whilst he uttered these words, his eyes rested on the huge globe, marked
with red crosses. A sudden revolution seemed to take place within him;
he appeared to repent of the violence of his regrets; his face, though
still sad, became once more calm and grave. He handed the fatal letter
to his secretary, and said to him, whilst he stifled a sigh: "To be
classed under its proper number."
Rodin took the letter, wrote a number upon it, and placed it in a
particular box. After a moment's silence, his master resumed: "You will
take orders from M. Duplessis, and work with him. You will deliver to
him the note on the affair of the medals; he knows to whom to address
it. You will write to Batavia, Leipsic, and Charlestown, in the sense
agreed. Prevent, at any price, the daughters of General Simon from
quitting Leipsic; hasten the arrival of Gabriel in Paris; and should
Prince Djalma come to Batavia, tell M. Joshua Van Dael, that we count on
his zeal and obedience to keep him there."
And this man, who, while his dying mother called to him in vain, could
thus preserve his presence of mind, entered his own apartments; whilst
Rodin busied himself with the answers he had been ordered to write, and
transcribed them in cipher.
In about three quarters of an hour, the bells of the post-horses were
heard jingling without. The old servant again entered, after discreetly
knocking at the door, and said:
"The carriage is ready."
Rodin nodded, and the servant withdrew. The secretary, in his turn, went
to knock at the door of the inner room. His master appeared, still grave
and cold, but fearfully pale, and holding a letter in his hand.
"This for my mother," said he to Rodin; "you will send a courier on the
instant."
"On the instant," replied the secretary.
"Let the three letters for Leipsic, Batavia and Charlestown, leave
to-day by the ordinary channel. They are of the last importance. You
know it."
Those were his last words. Executing merciless orders with a merciless
obedience, he departed without even attempting to see his mother. His
secretary accompanied him respectfully to his carriage.
"What road, sir?" asked the postilion, turning round on his saddle.
"The road to ITALY!" answered Rodin's master, with so deep a sigh that
it almost resembled a sob.
As the horses started at full gallop, Rodin made a low bow; then he
returned to the large, cold, bare apartment. The attitude, countenance,
and gait of this personage seemed to have undergone a sudden change. He
appeared to have increased in dimensions. He was no longer an automaton,
moved by the mechanism of humble obedience. His features, till now
impassible, his glance, hitherto subdued, became suddenly animated with
an expression of diabolical craft; a sardonic smile curled his thin,
pale lips, and a look of grim satisfaction relaxed his cadaverous face.
In turn, he stopped before the huge globe. In turn, he contemplated
it in silence, even as his master had done. Then, bending over it, and
embracing it, as it were, in his arms, he gloated with his reptile-eye
on it for some moments, drew his coarse finger along its polished
surface, and tapped his flat, dirty nail on three of the places dotted
with red crosses. And, whilst he thus pointed to three towns, in very
different parts of the world, he named them aloud, with a sneer.
"Leipsic--Charlestown--Batavia."
"In each of these three places," he added, "distant as they are from one
another, there exist persons who little think that here, in this
obscure street, from the recesses of this chamber, wakeful eyes are
upon them--that all their movements are followed, all their actions
known--and that hence will issue new instructions, which deeply concern
them, and which will be inexorably executed; for an interest is at
stake, which may have a powerful influence on Europe--on the world.
Luckily, we have friends at Leipsic, Charlestown, and Batavia."
This funny, old, sordid, ill-dressed man, with his livid and death-like
countenance, thus crawling over the sphere before him, appeared still
more awful than his master, when the latter, erect and haughty, had
imperiously laid his hand upon that globe, which he seemed desirous of
subjecting by the strength of his pride and courage. The one resembled
the eagle, that hovers above his prey--the other the reptile, that
envelops its victim in its inextricable folds.
After some minutes, Rodin approached his desk, rubbing his hands briskly
together, and wrote the following epistle in a cipher unknown even to
his master:
"Paris, 3/4 past 9 A.M.
"He is gone--but he hesitated!
"When he received the order, his dying mother had just summoned him
to her. He might, they told him, save her by his presence; and he
exclaimed: 'Not to go to my mother would be matricide!'
"Still, he is gone--but he hesitated. I keep my eye upon him
continually. These lines will reach Rome at the same time as himself.
"P.S.--Tell the Cardinal-Prince that he may rely on me, but I hope for
his active aid in return."
When he had folded and sealed this letter, Rodin put it into his pocket.
The clock struck ten, M. Rodin's hour for breakfast. He arranged and
locked up his papers in a drawer, of which he carried away the key,
brushed his old greasy hat with his sleeve, took a patched umbrella in
his hand, and went out. (1)
Whilst these two men, in the depths of their obscure retreat, were thus
framing a plot, which was to involve the seven descendants of a race
formerly proscribed--a strange mysterious defender was planning how to
protect this family, which was also his own.
1 Having cited the excellent, courageous letters of M. Libri, and the
curious work edited by M. Paulin, it is our duty likewise to mention
many bold and conscientious writings on the subject of the "Society of
Jesus," recently published by the elder Dupin, Michelet, Quinet, Genin,
and the Count de Saint Priest--works of high and impartial intellects,
in which the fatal theories of the order are admirably exposed and
condemned. We esteem ourselves happy, if we can bring one stone towards
the erection of the strong, and, we hope, durable embankment which these
generous hearts and noble minds are raising against the encroachments of
an impure and always menacing flood.--E. S.
BOOK II. INTERVAL.--THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.
XVII. The Ajoupa XVIII. The Tattooing XIX. The Smuggler XX.
M. Joshua Van Dael XXI. The Ruins of Tchandi XXII. The
Ambuscade XXIII. M. Rodin XXIV. The Tempest XXV. The
Shipwreck XXVI. The Departure for Paris XXVII. Dagobert's
Wife XXVIII. The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen XXIX.
Agricola Baudoin XXX. The Return XXXI. Agricola and Mother
Bunch XXXII. The Awakening XXXIII. The Pavilion XXXIV.
Adrienne at her Toilet XXXV. The Interview
INTERVAL.
THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.
The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with huge
boulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, their
foliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from the
background of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resembling
the reflection of a great fire.
From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady,
fertile, and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The rich
meadows, the tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe corn
has been gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint,
which contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of gray
stone or slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midst
of this valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering a
high-road which leads from the north to the west.
It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, every
cottage window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth,