The Wandering Jew — Complete
displayed them, for the sole purpose of acting up to his name (he was
called Jovial), by playing a mischievous trick, of which the dog was the
victim.
This latter, who, doubtless for the sake of contrast, was called
Spoil-sport (Rabat-joie), being always at his master's heels, found
himself within the reach of Jovial, who from time to time nipped him
delicately by the nape of the neck, lifted him from the ground, and
carried him thus for a moment. The dog, protected by his thick coat,
and no doubt long accustomed to the practical jokes of his companion,
submitted to all this with stoical complacency; save that, when he
thought the jest had lasted long enough, he would turn his head and
growl. Jovial understood him at the first hint, and hastened to set him
down again. At other times, just to avoid monotony, Jovial would gently
bite the knapsack of the soldier, who seemed, as well as the dog, to be
perfectly accustomed to his pleasantries.
These details will give a notion of the excellent understanding that
existed between the twin sisters, the old soldier, the horse, and the
dog.
The little caravan proceeded on its ways anxious to reach, before night,
the village of Mockern, which was now visible on the summit of a hill.
Ever and anon, Dagobert looked around him, and seemed to be gathering up
old recollections; by degrees, his countenance became clouded, and
when he was at a little distance from the mill, the noise of which had
arrested his attention, he stopped, and drew his long moustache several
times between his finger and thumb, the only sign which revealed in him
any strong and concentrated feeling.
Jovial, having stopped short behind his master, Blanche, awakened
suddenly by the shock, raised her head; her first look sought her
sister, on whom she smiled sweetly; then both exchanged glances of
surprise, on seeing Dagobert motionless, with his hands clasped and
resting on his long staff, apparently affected by some painful and deep
emotion.
The orphans just chanced to be at the foot of a little mound, the summit
of which was buried in the thick foliage of a huge oak, planted half
way down the slope. Perceiving that Dagobert continued motionless and
absorbed in thought, Rose leaned over her saddle, and, placing her
little white hand on the shoulder of their guide, whose back was turned
towards her, said to him, in a soft voice, "Whatever is the matter with
you, Dagobert?"
The veteran turned; to the great astonishment of the sisters, they
perceived a large tear, which traced its humid furrow down his tanned
cheek, and lost itself in his thick moustache.
"You weeping--you!" cried Rose and Blanche together, deeply moved. "Tell
us, we beseech, what is the matter?"
After a moments hesitation, the soldier brushed his horny hand across
his eyes, and said to the orphans in a faltering voice, whilst he
pointed to the old oak beside them: "I shall make you sad, my poor
children: and yet what I'm going to tell you has something sacred in it.
Well, eighteen years ago, on the eve of the great battle of Leipsic,
I carried your father to this very tree. He had two sabre-cuts on the
head, a musket ball in his shoulder; and it was here that he and I--who
had got two thrust of a lance for my share--were taken prisoners; and by
whom, worse luck?--why, a renegado! By a Frenchman--an emigrant marquis,
then colonel in the service of Russia--and who afterwards--but one day
you shall know all."
The veteran paused; then, pointing with his staff to the village of
Mockern, he added: "Yes, yes, I can recognize the spot. Yonder are the
heights where your brave father--who commanded us, and the Poles of
the Guard--overthrew the Russian Cuirassiers, after having carried
the battery. Ah, my children!" continued the soldier, with the utmost
simplicity, "I wish you had, seen your brave father, at the head of our
brigade of horse, rushing on in a desperate charge in the thick of a
shower of shells!--There was nothing like it--not a soul so grand as
he!"
Whilst Dagobert thus expressed, in his own way, his regrets and
recollections, the two orphans--by a spontaneous movement, glided gently
from the horse, and holding each other by the hand, went together to
kneel at the foot of the old oak. And there, closely pressed in each
other's arms, they began to weep; whilst the soldier, standing behind
them, with his hands crossed on his long staff, rested his bald front
upon it.
"Come, come you must not fret," said he softly, when, after a pause of
a few minutes, he saw tears run down the blooming cheeks of Rose and
Blanche, still on their knees. "Perhaps we may find General Simon in
Paris," added he; "I will explain all that to you this evening at the
inn. I purposely waited for this day, to tell you many things about
your father; it was an idea of mine, because this day is a sort of
anniversary."
"We weep because we think also of our mother," said Rose.
"Of our mother, whom we shall only see again in heaven," added Blanche.
The soldier raised the orphans, took each by the hand, and gazing from
one to the other with ineffable affection, rendered still the more
touching by the contrast of his rude features, "You must not give way
thus, my children," said he; "it is true your mother was the best of
women. When she lived in Poland, they called her the Pearl of Warsaw--it
ought to have been the Pearl of the Whole World--for in the whole world
you could not have found her match. No--no!"
The voice of Dagobert faltered; he paused, and drew his long gray
moustache between finger and thumb, as was his habit. "Listen, my
girls," he resumed, when he had mastered his emotion; "your mother could
give you none but the best advice, eh?"
"Yes Dagobert."
"Well, what instructions did she give you before she died? To think
often of her, but without grieving?"
"It is true; she told us than our Father in heaven, always good to poor
mothers whose children are left on earth, would permit her to hear us
from above," said Blanche.
"And that her eyes would be ever fixed upon us," added Rose.
And the two, by a spontaneous impulse, replete with the most touching
grace, joined hands, raised their innocent looks to heaven, and
exclaimed, with that beautiful faith natural to their age: "Is it not
so, mother?--thou seest us?--thou hearest us?"
"Since your mother sees and hears you," said Dagobert, much moved, "do
not grieve her by fretting. She forbade you to do so."
"You are right, Dagobert. We will not cry any more."--And the orphans
dried their eyes.
Dagobert, in the opinion of the devout, would have passed for a very
heathen. In Spain, he had found pleasure in cutting down those monks of
all orders and colors, who, bearing crucifix in one hand, and poniard
in the other, fought not for liberty--the Inquisition had strangled her
centuries ago--but, for their monstrous privileges. Yet, in forty years,
Dagobert had witnessed so many sublime and awful scenes--he had been
so many times face to face with death--that the instinct of natural
religion, common to every simple, honest heart, had always remained
uppermost in his soul. Therefore, though he did not share in the
consoling faith of the two sisters, he would have held as criminal any
attempt to weaken its influence.
Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed: "That's right, my
pretty ones: I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and
yesterday--laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of
being so much engrossed with your own talk. Yes, yes, my little ladies!
you seem to have had famous secrets together these last two days--so,
much the better, if it amuses you."
The sisters colored, and exchanged a subdued smile, which contrasted
with the tears that yet filled their eyes, and Rose said to the soldier,
with a little embarrassment. "No, I assure you, Dagobert, we talk of
nothing in particular."
"Well, well; I don't wish to know it. Come, rest yourselves, a few
moments more, and then we must start again; for it grows late, and we
have to reach Mockern before night, so that we may be early on the road
to-morrow."
"Have we still a long, long way to go?" asked Rose.
"What, to reach Paris? Yes, my children; some hundred days' march. We
don't travel quick, but we get on; and we travel cheap, because we have
a light purse. A closet for you, a straw mattress and a blanket at your
door for me, with Spoil-sport on my feet, and a clean litter for old
Jovial, these are our whole traveling expenses. I say nothing about
food, because you two together don't eat more than a mouse, and I have
learnt in Egypt and Spain to be hungry only when it suits."
"Not forgetting that, to save still more, you do all the cooking for us,
and will not even let us assist."
"And to think, good Dagobert, that you wash almost every evening at our
resting-place. As if it were not for us to--"
"You!" said the soldier, interrupting Blanche, "I, allow you to chap
your pretty little hands in soap-suds! Pooh! don't a soldier on a
campaign always wash his own linen? Clumsy as you see me, I was the best
washerwoman in my squadron--and what a hand at ironing! Not to make a
brag of it."
"Yes, yes--you can iron well--very well."
"Only sometimes, there will be a little singe," said Rose, smiling.
"Hah! when the iron is too hot. Zounds! I may bring it as near my cheek
as I please; my skin is so tough that I don't feel the heat," said
Dagobert, with imperturbable gravity.
"We are only jesting, good Dagobert!"
"Then, children, if you think that I know my trade as a washerwoman, let
me continue to have your custom: it is cheaper; and, on a journey, poor
people like us should save where we can, for we must, at all events,
keep enough to reach Paris. Once there, our papers and the medal you
wear will do the rest--I hope so, at least."
"This medal is sacred to us; mother gave it to us on her death-bed."
"Therefore, take great care that you do not lose it: see, from time to
time, that you have it safe."
"Here it is," said Blanche, as she drew from her bosom a small bronze
medal, which she wore suspended from her neck by a chain of the same
material. The medal bore on its faces the following inscriptions:
Victim
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
----
Paris
February the, 13th, 1682.
At Paris.
Rue Saint Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
----
PRAY FOR ME!
"What does it mean, Dagobert?" resumed Blanche, as she examined the
mournful inscriptions. "Mother was not able to tell us."
"We will discuss all that this evening; at the place where we sleep,"
answered Dagobert. "It grows late, let us be moving. Put up the medal
carefully, and away!--We have yet nearly an hour's march to arrive at
quarters. Come, my poor pets, once more look at the mound where your
brave father fell--and then--to horse! to horse!"
The orphans gave a last pious glance at the spot which had recalled to
their guide such painful recollections, and, with his aid, remounted
Jovial.
This venerable animal had not for one moment dreamed of moving; but,
with the consummate forethought of a veteran, he had made the best use
of his time, by taking from that foreign soil a large contribution of
green and tender grass, before the somewhat envious eyes of Spoil-sport,
who had comfortably established himself in the meadow, with his snout
protruding between his fore-paws. On the signal of departure, the dog
resumed his post behind his master, and Dagobert, trying the ground with