The Wandering Jew — Complete

ardor of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body to body, face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and exclaimed: "A butchery with knives?--never!" His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried: "After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or the vanity of a fencer. This pitiful renegade--this traitor to his country--whom I have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble marquis!--shame of your ancient house--disgrace to the rank of gentleman, old or new--ah! it is not hypocrisy, it is not calculation, as I at first thought--it is fear! You need the noise of war, and the eyes of spectators to give you courage--" "Sir--have a care!" said Father d'Aigrigny, stammering through his clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-"Must I then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your face?" cried the exasperated marshal. "Oh! this is too much! too much!" said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed piece of the blade that lay at his feet. "It is not enough!" said the marshal, panting for breath. "There, Judas!" and he spat in his face. "If you will not fight now," added the marshal, "I will beat you like a dog, base child-murderer!" On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already insulted man, Father d'Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only the frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage. In an instant, Father d'Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants, mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how they dealt their blows. He would have seen two heads--frightful, livid, convulsed--rising, falling, now here, now there--arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like serpents--and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of the marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from time to time the sudden gleam of the steel. He would have heard only a dull stamping, and now and then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most, the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other. One of them--it was Father d'Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself with a violent effort, and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal murmured: "My children! Dagobert!" "I have killed him," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a weak voice; "but I feel--that I am wounded--to death." Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to his bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing inwards. "Oh! I die--I choke," said Father d'Aigrigny, whose features were already changing with the approach of death. At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet voice: "May I come in?" At this dreadful irony, Father d'Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him. "Monster of hell!" he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of rage and agony. "Thou art the cause of my death." "I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would be fatal to you," answered Rodin with a frightful smile. "Only a few days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from this old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which is well--for the Scripture says: 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.' And then this Marshal Simon might have had some claim on his daughter's inheritance. And, between ourselves, my dear father, what was I to do? It was necessary to sacrifice you for the common interest; the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for me to-morrow. But I am not so easily caught napping." "Before I die," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a failing voice, "I will unmask you." "Oh, no, you will not," said Rodin, shaking his head with a knowing air; "I alone, if you please, will receive your last confession." "Oh! this is horrible," moaned Father d'Aigrigny, whose eyes were closing. "May God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!--Alas! at this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great sinner--" "And, above all, a great fool," said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders, and watching with cold disdain the dying moments of his accomplice. Father d'Aigrigny had now but a few minutes more to live. Rodin perceived it, and said: "It is time to call for help." And the Jesuit ran, with an air of alarm and consternation, into the courtyard of the house. Others came at his cries; but, as he had promised, Rodin had only quitted Father d'Aigrigny as the latter had breathed his last sigh. That evening, alone in his chamber, by the glimmer of a little lamp, Rodin sat plunged in a sort of ecstatic contemplation, before the print representing Sixtus V. The great house-clock struck twelve. At the last stroke, Rodin drew himself up in all the savage majesty of his infernal triumph, and exclaimed: "This is the first of June. There are no more Renneponts!--Methinks, I hear the hour from the clock of St. Peter's at Rome striking!" CHAPTER LXVII. A MESSAGE. While Rodin sat plunged in ambitious reverie, contemplating the portrait of Sixtus V., good little Father Caboccini, whose warm embraces had so much irritated the first mentioned personage, went secretly to Faringhea, to deliver to him a fragment of an ivory crucifix, and said to him with his usual air of jovial good-nature: "His Excellency Cardinal Malipieri, on my departure from Rome, charged me to give you this only on the 31st of May." The half-caste, who was seldom affected by anything, started abruptly, almost with an expression of pain. His face darkened, and bending upon the little father a piercing look, he said to him: "You were to add something." "True," replied Father Caboccini; "the words I was to add are these: 'There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'" "It is well," said the other. Heaving a deep sigh, he joined the fragment of the ivory crucifix to a piece already in his possession; it fitted exactly. Father Caboccini looked at him with curiosity, for the cardinal had only told him to deliver the ivory fragment to Faringhea, and to repeat the above words. Being somewhat mystified with all this, the reverend father said to the half-caste: "What are you going to do with that crucifix?" "Nothing," said Faringhea, still absorbed in painful thought. "Nothing?" resumed the reverend father, in astonishment. "What, then, was the use of bringing it so far?" Without satisfying his curiosity, Faringhea replied: "At what hour to morrow does Father Rodin go to the Rue Saint Francois?" "Very early." "Before leaving home, he will go to say prayers in the chapel?" "Yes, according to the habit of our reverend fathers." "You sleep near him?" "Being his socius, I occupy the room next to his." "It is possible," said Faringhea, after a moment's silence, "that the reverend father, full of the great interests which occupy his mind, might forget to go to the chapel. In that case, pray remind him of this pious duty." "I shall not fail." "Pray do not fail," repeated Faringhea, anxiously. "Be satisfied," said the good little father; "I see that you take great interest in his salvation." "Great interest." "It is very praiseworthy in you. Continue as you have begun, and you may one day belong, completely to our Company," said Father Caboccini, affectionately. "I am as yet but a poor auxiliary member," said Faringhea, humbly; "but no one is more devoted to the Society, body and soul. Bowanee is nothing to it." "Bowanee! who is that, my good friend?" "Bowanee makes corpses which rot in the ground. The Society makes corpses which walk about." "Ah, yes! Perinde ac cadaver--they were the last words of our great saint, Ignatius de Loyola. But who is this Bowanee?" "Bowanee is to the Society what a child is to a man," replied the Asiatic, with growing excitement. "Glory to the Company--glory! Were my father its enemy, I would kill my father. The man whose genius inspires me most with admiration, respect, and terror--were he its enemy, I would kill, in spite of all," said the half-caste, with an effort. Then, after a moment's silence, he looked full in Caboccini's face, and added: "I say this, that you may report my words to Cardinal Malipieri, and beg him to mention them to--" Faringhea stopped short. "To whom should the cardinal mention your words?" asked Caboccini. "He knows," replied the half-caste, abruptly. "Good night!" "Good-night, my friend! I can only approve of your excellent sentiments with regard to our Company. Alas! it is in want of energetic defenders, for there are said to be traitors in its bosom." "For those," said Faringhea, "we must have no pity." "Certainly," said the good little father; "we understand one another." "Perhaps," said the half-caste. "Do not, at all events, forget to remind Father Rodin to go to chapel to-morrow morning." "I will take care of that," said Father Caboccini. The two men parted. On his return to the house, Caboccini learned that a courier, only arrived that night from Rome, had brought despatches to Rodin. CHAPTER LXVIII. THE FIRST OF JUNE. The chapel belonging to the house of the reverend fathers in the Rue de Vaugirard, was gay and elegant. Large panes of stained glass admitted a mysterious light; the altar shone with gold and silver; and at the entrance of this little church, in an obscure corner beneath the organ loft, was a font for holy water in sculptured marble. It was close to this font, in a dark nook where he could hardly be seen, that Faringhea knelt down, early on the 1st of June, as soon indeed as the chapel doors were opened. The half-caste was exceedingly sad. From time to time he started and sighed, as if agitated by a violent internal struggle. This wild, untamable being, possessed with the monomania of evil and destruction, felt, as may be imagined, a profound admiration for Rodin, who exercised over him a kind of magnetic fascination. The half-caste, almost a wild beast in human form, saw something supernatural in the infernal genius of Rodin. And the latter, too sagacious not to have discovered the savage devotion of this wretch, had made, as we have seen, good use of him, is bringing about the tragical termination of the loves of Adrienne and Djalma. But what excited to an incredible degree the admiration of Faringhea, was what he knew of the Society of Jesus. This immense, occult power, which undermined the world by its subterraneous ramifications, and reached its ends by diabolical means, had inspired the half-caste with a wild enthusiasm. And if anything in the world surpassed his fanatical admiration for Rodin, it was his blind devotion to the Company of Ignatius de Loyola, which, as he said, could