The Wandering Jew — Complete
so as to occupy the least surface possible; then, passing to the other
side, he will lightly tickle the sleeper, whom he seems to magnetize,
till the latter shrinks back involuntarily, and ends by turning round,
and leaving the sheet folded behind him. Should he awake, and strive to
seize the robber, he catches at a slippery form, which slides through
his hands like an eel; should he even succeed in seizing him, it would
be fatal--the dagger strikes him to the heart, he falls bathed in his
blood, and the assassin disappears."--E. S.
CHAPTER XIX. THE SMUGGLER
The tempest of the morning has long been over. The sun is verging
towards the horizon. Some hours have elapsed, since the Strangler
introduced himself into Djalma's cabin, and tattooed him with a
mysterious sign during his sleep.
A horseman advances rapidly down a long avenue of spreading trees.
Sheltered by the thick and verdant arch, a thousand birds salute the
splendid evening with songs and circlings; red and green parrots climb,
by help of their hooked beaks, to the top of pink-blossomed acacias;
large Morea birds of the finest and richest blue, whose throats and
long tails change in the light to a golden brown, are chasing the prince
oriels, clothed in their glossy feathers of black and orange; Kolo
doves, of a changeable violet hue, are gently cooing by the side of the
birds of paradise, in whose brilliant plumage are mingled the prismatic
colors of the emerald and ruby, the topaz and sapphire.
This avenue, a little raised, commanded a view of a small pond, which
reflected at intervals the green shade of tamarind trees. In the calm,
limpid waters, many fish were visible, some with silver scales and
purple fins, others gleaming with azure and vermilion; so still were
they that they looked as if set in a mass of bluish crystal, and, as
they dwelt motionless near the surface of the pool, on which played a
dazzling ray of the sun, they revelled in the enjoyment of the light
and heat. A thousand insects--living gems, with wings of flame--glided,
fluttered and buzzed over the transparent wave, in which, at an
extraordinary depth, were mirrored the variegated tints of the aquatic
plants on the bank.
It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the exuberant nature of
this scene, luxuriant in the sunlight, colors, and perfumes, which
served, so to speak, as a frame to the young and brilliant rider, who
was advancing along the avenue. It was Djalma. He had not yet perceived
the indelible marks, which the Strangler had traced upon his left arm.
His Japanese mare, of slender make, full of fire and vigor, is black
as night. A narrow red cloth serves instead of saddle. To moderate the
impetuous bounds of the animal, Djalma uses a small steel bit, with
headstall and reins of twisted scarlet silk, fine as a thread.
Not one of those admirable riders, sculptured so masterly on the frieze
of the Parthenon, sits his horse more gracefully and proudly than this
young Indian, whose fine face, illumined by the setting sun, is radiant
with serene happiness; his eyes sparkle with joy, and his dilated
nostrils and unclosed lips inhale with delight the balmy breeze, that
brings to him the perfume of flowers and the scent of fresh leaves, for
the trees are still moist from the abundant rain that fell after the
storm.
A red cap, similar to that worn by the Greeks, surmounting the
black locks of Djalma, sets off to advantage the golden tint of his
complexion; his throat is bare; he is clad in his robe of white muslin
with large sleeves, confined at the waist by a scarlet sash; very full
drawers, in white cotton stuff, leave half uncovered his tawny and
polished legs; their classic curve stands out from the dark sides of the
horse, which he presses tightly between his muscular calves. He has no
stirrups; his foot, small and narrow, is shod with a sandal of morocco
leather.
The rush of his thoughts, by turns impetuous and restrained, was
expressed in some degree by the pace he imparted to his horse--now bold
and precipitate, like the flight of unbridled imagination--now calm and
measured, like the reflection which succeeds an idle dream. But, in
all this fantastic course, his least movements were distinguished by a
proud, independent and somewhat savage grace.
Dispossessed of his paternal territory by the English, and at first
detained by them as a state-prisoner after the death of his father--who
(as M. Joshua Van Dael had written to M. Rodin) had fallen sword in
hand--Djalma had at length been restored to liberty. Abandoning the
continent of India, and still accompanied by General Simon, who had
lingered hard by the prison of his old friend's son, the young Indian
came next to Batavia, the birthplace of his mother, to collect the
modest inheritance of his maternal ancestors. And amongst this property,
so long despised or forgotten by his father, he found some important
papers, and a medal exactly similar to that worn by Rose and Blanche.
General Simon was not more surprised than pleased at this discovery,
which not only established a tie of kindred between his wife and
Djalma's mother, but which also seemed to promise great advantages for
the future. Leaving Djalma at Batavia, to terminate some business there,
he had gone to the neighboring island of Sumatra, in the hope of finding
a vessel that would make the passage to Europe directly and rapidly;
for it was now necessary that, cost what it might, the young Indian also
should be at Paris on the 13th February, 1832. Should General Simon
find a vessel ready to sail for Europe, he was to return immediately, to
fetch Djalma; and the latter, expecting him daily, was now going to the
pier of Batavia, hoping to see the father of Rose and Blanche arrive by
the mail boat from Sumatra.
A few words are here necessary on the early life of the son of Kadja
sing.
Having lost his mother very young, and brought up with rude simplicity,
he had accompanied his father, whilst yet a child, to the great tiger
hunts, as dangerous as battles; and, in the first dawn of youth, he had
followed him to the stern bloody war, which he waged in defence of his
country. Thus living, from the time of his mother's death, in the
midst of forests and mountains and continual combats, his vigorous and
ingenuous nature had preserved itself pure, and he well merited the name
of "The Generous" bestowed on him. Born a prince, he was--which by no
means follows--a prince indeed. During the period of his captivity,
the silent dignity of his bearing had overawed his jailers. Never a
reproach, never a complaint--a proud and melancholy calm was all that
he opposed to a treatment as unjust as it was barbarous, until he was
restored to freedom.
Having thus been always accustomed to a patriarchal life, or to a war of
mountaineers, which he had only quitted to pass a few months in prison,
Djalma knew nothing, so to speak, of civilized society. Without its
exactly amounting to a defect, he certainly carried his good qualities
to their extreme limits. Obstinately faithful to his pledged word,
devoted to the death, confiding to blindness, good almost to a complete
forgetfulness of himself, he was inflexible towards ingratitude,
falsehood, or perfidy. He would have felt no compunction to sacrifice
a traitor, because, could he himself have committed a treason, he would
have thought it only just to expiate it with his life.
He was, in a word, the man of natural feelings, absolute and entire.
Such a man, brought into contact with the temperaments, calculations,
falsehoods, deceptions, tricks, restrictions, and hollowness of a
refined society, such as Paris, for example, would, without doubt,
form a very curious subject for speculation. We raise this hypothesis,
because, since his journey to France had been determined on, Djalma had
one fixed, ardent desire--to be in Paris.
In Paris--that enchanted city--of which, even in Asia, the land of
enchantment, so many marvelous tales were told.
What chiefly inflamed the fresh, vivid imagination of the young Indian,
was the thought of French women--those attractive Parisian beauties,
miracles of elegance and grace, who eclipsed, he was informed, even the
magnificence of the capitals of the civilized world. And at this very
moment, in the brightness of that warm and splendid evening, surrounded
by the intoxication of flowers and perfumes, which accelerated the
pulses of his young fiery heart, Djalma was dreaming of those exquisite
creatures, whom his fancy loved to clothe in the most ideal garbs.
It seemed to him as if, at the end of the avenue, in the midst of that
sheet of golden light, which the trees encompassed with their full,
green arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a host
of adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tips
of their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carried
away by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep,
manly, and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him in
the excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the dark
vault of the avenue, shone full upon him.
For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,
which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stopped
a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It was
indeed a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling
lustre, this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white
and flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare,
who covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick
mane floated on the evening breeze.
But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma
soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.
He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed
the reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly
stopping, stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the
direction of the personage, whom it could see approaching through the
coppice.
This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.
He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a
very low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-marked
features, and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.
In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. "You are Prince
Djalma?" said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfully
to his hat.
"What would you?" said the Indian.
"You are the son of Kadja-sing?"
"Once again, what would you?"
"The friend of General Simon?"
"General Simon?" cried Djalma.
"You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since you
expect his return from Sumatra?"
"Yes, but how do you know all this?" said the Indian looking at the
Smuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.
"Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?"
"Are you sent by him?"
"Perhaps," said Mahal, with a distrustful air. "But are you really the
son of Kadja-sing?"
"Yes, I tell you--but where have you seen General Simon?"
"If you are the son of Kadja-sing," resumed Mahal, continuing to regard
Djalma with a suspicious eye, "what is your surname?"
"My sire was called the 'Father of the Generous,'" answered the young
Indian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.
These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity of
Djalma; but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed:
"You must have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon,
written from Sumatra?"
"Yes; but why so many questions?"
"To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and to