The Wandering Jew — Complete
make corpses that walk about. Hid in the shadow of the organ-loft,
Faringhea was reflecting deeply on these things, when footsteps were
heard, and Rodin entered the chapel, accompanied by his socius, the
little one-eyed father.
Whether from absence of mind, or that the shadow of the orange-loft
completely concealed the half-caste, Rodin dipped his fingers into the
font without perceiving Faringhea, who stood motionless as a statue,
though a cold sweat streamed from his brow. The prayer of Rodin was,
as may be supposed, short; he was in haste to get to the Rue
Saint-Francois. After kneeling down with Father Caboccini for a few
seconds, he rose, bowed respectfully to the altar, and returned towards
the door, followed by his socius. At the moment Rodin approached the
font he perceived the tall figure of the half-caste standing out from
the midst of the dark shadow; advancing a little, Faringhea bowed
respectfully to Rodin, who said to him, in a low voice; "Come to me at
two o'clock."
So saying, Rodin stretched forth his hand to dip it into the holy water;
but Faringhea spared him the trouble, by offering him the sprinkling
brush, which generally stood in the font.
Pressing between his dirty fingers the damp hairs of the brush,
which the half-caste held by the handle, Rodin wetted his thumb and
forefinger, and, according to custom, traced the sign of the cross upon
his forehead. Then, opening the door of the chapel, he went out, after
again repeating to Faringhea: "Come to me at two o'clock."
Thinking he would also make use of the sprinkling-brush, which,
Faringhea, still motionless, held with a trembling hand, Father
Caboccini stretched out his fingers to reach it, when the half-breed,
as if determined to confine his favors to Rodin, hastily withdrew the
instrument. Deceived in his expectation, Father Caboccini lost no time
in following Rodin, whom he was not to leave that day for a single
moment, and, getting into a hackney-coach with him, set out for the Rue
Saint-Francois. It is impossible to describe the look which the half
breed fixed upon Rodin as the latter quitted the chapel. Left alone in
the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half
crouching, with his face buried in his hands. As the coach drew near
the quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius
de Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of
triumph, were visible on the countenance of Rodin. Two or three times he
opened his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates
of death of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time
to time he thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had
wished to hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.
The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and
his look had a strange and crafty expression. At last the coach entered
the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the
old house, which had been closed for a century and a half. Rodin sprang
from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently
at the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more
prudently to the ground. No answer was returned to the loud knocking
of Rodin. Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again. This time, as he
listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching. They stopped at
some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.
"It is keeping one upon red-hot coals," said Rodin, for he felt as
if there was a burning fire in his chest. He again shook the door
violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.
Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath
the porch. The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief. Upon
his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to
dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.
"Who are you, gentlemen?" said Samuel.
"I am the bearer of a power of attorney from the Abbe Gabriel, the only
living representative of the Rennepont family," answered Rodin,
hastily. "This gentleman is my secretary," added he, pointing to Father
Caboccini, who bowed.
After looking attentively at Rodin, Samuel resumed: "I recognize you,
sir. Please to follow me." And the old guardian advanced towards the
house in the garden, making a sign to the two reverend fathers to
follow.
"That confounded old man kept me so long at the door," said Rodin to his
socius, "that I think I have caught a cold in consequence. My lips and
throat are dried up, like parchment baked at the fire."
"Will you not take something, my dear, good father? Suppose you were to
ask this man for a glass of water," cried the little one-eyed priest,
with tender solicitude.
"No, no," answered Rodin; "it is nothing. I am devoured by impatience.
That is all."
Pale and desolate, Bathsheba, the wife of Samuel, was standing at the
door of the apartment she occupied with her husband, in the building
next the street. As the Jew passed before her, he said, in Hebrew: "The
curtains of the Hall of Mourning?"
"Are closed."
"And the iron casket?"
"Is prepared," answered Bathsheba, also in Hebrew.
After pronouncing these words, completely unintelligible to Rodin
and Caboccini, Samuel and Bathsheba exchanged a bitter smile,
notwithstanding the despair impressed on their countenances.
Ascending the steps, followed by the two reverend fathers, Samuel
entered the vestibule of the house, in which a lamp was burning. Endowed
with an excellent local memory, Rodin was about to take the direction
of the Red Saloon, in which had been held the first convocation of the
heirs, when Samuel stopped him, and said: "It is not that way."
Then, taking the lamp, he advanced towards a dark staircase, for the
windows of the house had not been un-bricked.
"But," said Rodin, "the last time, we met in a saloon on the ground
floor."
"To-day, we must go higher," answered Samuel, as he began slowly to
ascend the stairs.
"Where to? higher!" said Rodin, following him.
"To the Hall of Mourning," replied the Jew, and he continued to ascend.
"What is the Hall of Mourning?" resumed Rodin, in some surprise.
"A place of tears and death," answered the Israelite; and he kept on
ascending through the darkness, for the little lamp threw but a faint
light around.
"But," said Rodin, more and more astonished, and stopping short on the
stairs, "why go to this place?"
"The money is there," answered Samuel, and he went on,
"Oh? if the money is there, that alters the case," replied Rodin; and he
made haste to regain the few steps he had lost by stopping.
Samuel continued to ascend, and, at a turn of the staircase, the two
Jesuits could see by the pale light of the little lamp, the profile of
the old Israelite, in the space left between the iron balustrade and the
wall, as he climbed on with difficulty above them. Rodin was struck with
the expression of Samuel's countenance. His black eyes, generally
so calm, sparkled with ardor. His features, usually impressed with a
mixture of sorrow, intelligence, and goodness, seemed to grow harsh and
stern, and his thin lips wore a strange smile.
"It is not so very high," whispered Rodin to Caboccini, "and yet my legs
ache, and I am quite out of breath. There is a strange throbbing too in
my temples."
In fact, Rodin breathed hard, and with difficulty. To this confidential
communication, good little Father Caboccini, in general so full of
tender care for his colleague, made no answer. He seemed to be in deep
thought.
"Will we soon be there?" said Rodin, impatiently, to Samuel.
"We are there," replied the Israelite.
"And a good thing too," said Rodin.
"Very good," said the Jew.
Stopping in the midst of a corridor, he pointed with the hand in which
he held the lamp to a large door from which streamed a faint light. In
spite of his growing surprise. Rodin entered resolutely, followed
by Father Caboccini and Samuel. The apartment in which these three
personage, now found themselves was very large. The daylight only
entered from a belvedere in the roof, the four sides of which had been
covered with leaden plates, each of which was pierced with seven holes,
forming a cross, thus:
*
* * *
*
*
*
Now, the light being only admitted through these holes, the obscurity
would have been complete, had it not been for a lamp, which burned on a
large massive slab of black marble, fixed against one of the walls.
One would have taken it for a funeral chamber, for it was all hung with
black curtains, fringed with white. There was no furniture, save the
slab of black marble we have already mentioned. On this slab was an iron
casket, of the manufacture of the seventeenth century, admirably adorned
with open work, like lace made of metal.
Addressing Rodin, who was wiping his forehead with his dirty
handkerchief, and looking round him with surprise, but not fear, Samuel
said to him: "The will of the testator, however strange it may appear,
is sacred with me, and must be accomplished in all things."
"Certainly," said Rodin; "but what are we to do here?"
"You will know presently, sir. You are the representative of the only
remaining heir of the Rennepont family, the Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont?"
"Yes, sir, and here are my papers," replied Rodin.
"To save time," resumed Samuel, "I will, previous to the arrival of the
magistrate, go through the inventory of the securities contained in
this casket, which I withdrew yesterday from the custody of the Bank of
France."
"The securities are there?" cried Rodin, advancing eagerly towards the
casket.
"Yes, sir," replied Samuel, "as by the list. Your secretary will call
them over, and I will produce each in turn. They can then be replaced
in the casket, which I will deliver up to you in presence of the
magistrate."
"All this seems perfectly correct," said Rodin.
Samuel delivered the list to Father Caboccini, and approaching the
casket, touched a spring, which was not seen by Rodin. The heavy lid
flew open, and, while Father Caboccini read the names of the different
securities, Samuel showed them to Rodin, who returned them to the old
Jew, after a careful examination. This verification did not last long,
for this immense fortune was all comprised, as we already know, in eight
government securities, five hundred thousand francs in bank-note,
thirty five thousand francs in gold, and two hundred and fifty francs in
silver--making in all an amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one
hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. When Rodin had counted the
last of the five hundred bank-notes, of a thousand francs each, he
said, as he returned them to Samuel: "It is quite right. Two hundred and
twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs!"
He was no doubt almost choked with joy, for he breathed with difficulty,
his eyes closed, and he was obliged to lean upon Father Caboccini's arm,
as he said to him in an altered voice: "It is singular. I thought myself
proof against all such emotions; but what I feel is extraordinary."
The natural paleness of the Jesuit increased so much, and he seemed
so much agitated with convulsive movements, that Father Caboccini
exclaimed: "My dear father, collect yourself; do not let success
overcome you thus."
Whilst the little one-eyed man was, attending to Rodin, Samuel carefully
replaced the securities in the iron casket. Thanks to his unconquerable
energy, and to the joy he felt at seeing himself so near the term of his
labors, Rodin mastered this attack of weakness, and drawing himself up,
calm and proud, he said to Caboccini: "It is nothing. I did not survive