The Wandering Jew — Complete
beasts, be also upheld in his struggle with men, when those men are
perverse and impious?" added the Prophet, with a triumphant, inspired
air.
Whether from belief in his master's conviction, or from inability to
engage in a controversy with him on so delicate a subject, Karl answered
the Prophet, humbly: "you are wiser than I am, master; what you do must
be well done."
"Did you follow this old man and these two young girls all day long?"
resumed the Prophet, after a moment's silence.
"Yes; but at a distance. As I know the country well, I sometimes cut
across a valley, sometimes over a hill, keeping my eye upon the road,
where they were always to be seen. The last time I saw them, I was hid
behind the water-mill by the potteries. As they were on the highway for
this place, and night was drawing on, I quickened my pace to get here
before them, and be the bearer of what you call good news."
"Very good--yes--very good: and you shall be rewarded; for if these
people had escaped me--"
The Prophet started, and did not conclude the sentence. The expression
of his face, and the tones of his voice, indicated the importance of the
intelligence which had just been brought him.
"In truth," rejoined Karl, "it may be worth attending to; for that
Russian courier, all plastered with lace, who came, without slacking
bridle, from St. Petersburg to Leipsic, only to see you, rode so fast,
perhaps, for the purpose--"
Morok abruptly interrupted Karl, and said:
"Who told you that the arrival of the courier had anything to do with
these travellers? You are mistaken; you should only know what I choose
to tell you."
"Well, master, forgive me, and let's say no more about it. So! I will
get rid of my game-bag, and go help Goliath to feed the brutes, for
their supper time draws near, if it is not already past. Does our big
giant grow lazy, master?"
"Goliath is gone out; he must not know that you are returned; above all,
the tall old man and the maidens must not see you here--it would make
them suspect something."
"Where do you wish me to go, then?"
"Into the loft, at the end of the stable, and wait my orders; you may
this night have to set out for Leipsic."
"As you please; I have some provisions left in my pouch, and can sup in
the loft whilst I rest myself."
"Go."
"Master, remember what I told you. Beware of that old fellow with
the gray moustache; I think he's devilish tough; I'm up to these
things--he's an ugly customer--be on your guard!"
"Be quite easy! I am always on my guard," said Morok.
"Then good luck to you, master!"--and Karl, having reached the ladder,
suddenly disappeared.
After making a friendly farewell gesture to his servant, the Prophet
walked up and down for some time, with an air of deep meditation; then,
approaching the box which contained the papers, he took out a pretty
long letter, and read it over and over with profound attention. From
time to time he rose and went to the closed window, which looked upon
the inner court of the inn, and appealed to listen anxiously; for he
waited with impatience the arrival of the three persons whose approach
had just been announced to him.
CHAPTER II. THE TRAVELLERS.
While the above scene was passing in the White Falcon at Mockern, the
three persons whose arrival Morok was so anxiously expecting, travelled
on leisurely in the midst of smiling meadows, bounded on one side by
a river, the current of which turned a mill; and on the other by the
highway leading to the village, which was situated on an eminence, at
about a league's distance.
The sky was beautifully serene; the bubbling of the river, beaten by the
mill-wheel and sparkling with foam, alone broke upon the silence of an
evening profoundly calm. Thick willows, bending over the river, covered
it with their green transparent shadow; whilst, further on, the stream
reflected so splendidly the blue heavens and the glowing tints of the
west, that, but for the hills which rose between it and the sky, the
gold and azure of the water would have mingled in one dazzling sheet
with the gold and azure of the firmament. The tall reeds on the bank
bent their black velvet heads beneath the light breath of the breeze
that rises at the close of day--for the sun was gradually sinking behind
a broad streak of purple clouds, fringed with fire. The tinkling bells
of a flock of sheep sounded from afar in the clear and sonorous air.
Along a path trodden in the grass of the meadow, two girls, almost
children--for they had but just completed their fifteenth year--were
riding on a white horse of medium size, seated upon a large saddle with
a back to it, which easily took them both in, for their figures were
slight and delicate.
A man of tall stature, with a sun-burnt face, and long gray moustache,
was leading the horse by the bridle, and ever and anon turned towards
the girls, with an air of solicitude at once respectful and paternal. He
leaned upon a long staff; his still robust shoulders carried a soldier's
knapsack; his dusty shoes, and step that began to drag a little, showed
that he had walked a long way.
One of those dogs which the tribes of Northern Siberia harness to their
sledges--a sturdy animal, nearly of the size, form, and hairy coat of
the wolf--followed closely in the steps of the leader of this little
caravan, never quitting, as it is commonly said, the heels of his
master.
Nothing could be more charming than the group formed by the girls. One
held with her left hand the flowing reins, and with her right encircled
the waist of her sleeping sister, whose head reposed on her shoulder.
Each step of the horse gave a graceful swaying to these pliant forms,
and swung their little feet, which rested on a wooden ledge in lieu of a
stirrup.
These twin sisters, by a sweet maternal caprice, had been called Rose
and Blanche; they were now orphans, as might be seen by their sad
mourning vestments, already much worn. Extremely, like in feature, and
of the same size, it was necessary to be in the constant habit of seeing
them, to distinguish one from the other. The portrait of her who slept
not, might serve them for both of them; the only difference at the
moment being, that Rose was awake and discharging for that day the
duties of elder sister--duties thus divided between then, according to
the fancy of their guide, who, being an old soldier of the empire, and a
martinet, had judged fit thus to alternate obedience and command between
the orphans.
Greuze would have been inspired by the sight of those sweet faces,
coifed in close caps of black velvet, from beneath which strayed a
profusion of thick ringlets of a light chestnut color, floating down
their necks and shoulders, and setting, as in a frame, their round,
firm, rosy, satin like cheeks. A carnation, bathed in dew, is of no
richer softness than their blooming lips; the wood violet's tender blue
would appear dark beside the limpid azure of their large eyes, in which
are depicted the sweetness of their characters, and the innocence of
their age; a pure and white forehead, small nose, dimpled chin, complete
these graceful countenances, which present a delightful blending of
candor and gentleness.
You should have seen them too, when, on the threatening of rain or
storm, the old soldier carefully wrapped them both in a large pelisse
of reindeer fur, and pulled over their heads the ample hood of this
impervious garment; then nothing could be more lovely than those fresh
and smiling little faces, sheltered beneath the dark-colored cowl.
But now the evening was fine and calm; the heavy cloak hung in folds
about the knees of the sisters, and the hood rested on the back of their
saddle.
Rose, still encircling with her right arm the waist of her sleeping
sister, contemplated her with an expression of ineffable tenderness,
akin to maternal; for Rose was the eldest for the day, and an elder
sister is almost a mother.
Not only, did the orphans idolize each other; but, by a psychological
phenomenon, frequent with twins, they were almost always simultaneously
affected; the emotion of one was reflected instantly in the countenance
of the other; the same cause would make both of them start or blush, so
closely did their young hearts beat in unison; all ingenuous joys, all
bitter griefs were mutually felt, and shared in a moment between them.
In their infancy, simultaneously attacked by a severe illness, like two
flowers on the same steam, they had drooped, grown pale, and languished
together; but together also had they again found the pure, fresh hues of
health.
Need it be said, that those mysterious, indissoluble links which united
the twins, could not have been broken without striking a mortal blow at
the existence of the poor children?
Thus the sweet birds called love-birds, only living in pairs, as if
endowed with a common life, pine, despond, and die, when parted by a
barbarous hand.
The guide of the orphans, a man of about fifty-five, distinguished by
his military air and gait, preserved the immortal type of the warriors
of the republic and the empire--some heroic of the people, who became,
in one campaign, the first soldiers in the world--to prove what the
people can do, have done, and will renew, when the rulers of their
choice place in them confidence, strength, and their hope.
This soldier, guide of the sisters, and formerly a horse-grenadier
of the Imperial Guard, had been nicknamed Dagobert. His grave, stern
countenance was strongly marked; his long, gray, and thick moustache
completely concealed his upper lip, and united with a large imperial,
which almost covered his chin; his meagre cheeks, brick-colored, and
tanned as parchment, were carefully shaven; thick eyebrows, still black,
overhung and shaded his light blue eyes; gold ear-rings reached down to
his white-edged military stock; his topcoat, of coarse gray cloth, was
confined at the waist by a leathern belt; and a blue foraging cap, with
a red tuft falling on his left shoulder, covered his bald head.
Once endowed with the strength of Hercules, and having still the
heart of a lion--kind and patient, because he was courageous and
strong--Dagobert, notwithstanding his rough exterior, evinced for his
orphan charges an exquisite solicitude, a watchful kindness, and a
tenderness almost maternal. Yes, motherly; for the heroism of affection
dwells alike in the mother's heart and the soldiers.
Stoically calm, and repressing all emotion, the unchangeable coolness of
Dagobert never failed him; and, though few were less given to drollery,
he was now and then highly comic, by reason of the imperturbable gravity
with which he did everything.
From time to time, as they journeyed on, Dagobert would turn to bestow
a caress or friendly word on the good white home upon which the orphans
were mounted. Its furrowed sides and long teeth betrayed a venerable
age. Two deep scars, one on the flank and the other on the chest, proved
that his horse had been present in hot battles; nor was it without an
act of pride that he sometimes shook his old military bridle, the brass
stud of which was still adorned with an embossed eagle. His pace was
regular, careful, and steady; his coat sleek, and his bulk moderate; the
abundant foam, which covered his bit, bore witness to that health which
horses acquire by the constant, but not excessive, labor of a long
journey, performed by short stages. Although he had been more than six
months on the road, this excellent animal carried the orphans, with a
tolerably heavy portmanteau fastened to the saddle, as freely as on the
day they started.
If we have spoken of the excessive length of the horse's teeth--the
unquestionable evidence of great age--it is chiefly because he often