The Wandering Jew — Complete
supper by the hope of gaining ten florins.
"Put that iron bar in the stove," added the Prophet, "to make it
red-hot."
"Yes, master."
"You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster's, and return here to
wait for me."
"Yes, master.
"You will keep the fire up in the stove."
"Yes, master."
Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: "You say
the old man is busy washing under the porch?"
"Yes, master."
"Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire--the burgomaster--and return
here to wait my orders." So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and
disappeared.
CHAPTER IV. MOROK and DAGOBERT
Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that
imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.
When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be
astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of
sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and
trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself
to all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his
apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he
had industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle
always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to
receive a sabre-cut--the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the
stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in
the cloth.
Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement,
you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine
military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a
housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other
such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning,
with a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy.
We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert,
given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he
was considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the
Imperial Guard.
They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In
the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers
to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half
the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed
their horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged
valiantly that day without receiving any wound--for he counted as a mere
memento the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted
in awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.
"You donkey! my new breeches!" the grenadier had exclaimed, when he
saw the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the
Austrian through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he
showed a stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it
was not so with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform.
He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair
this accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of
his housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play
the tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his
cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment
itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the
stitches.
This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the
captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight
of the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position,
with his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots
by his side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the
coolness of a tailor upon his own shop-board.
Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the
detachment, calling to arms. "To horse!" cries the captain, in a voice
of thunder.
In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes
mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the
unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out,
and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.
A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had
attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero
foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day
had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he
hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene
of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor
of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner,
with his own hand.
After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its
position, the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their
success, and ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that
he might thank him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could
have dispensed with this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to
obey.
Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this
tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his
naked feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his
charger.
The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of
the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the
whole mystery. "Ha, my old comrade!" he exclaimed, "thou art like King
Dagobert--wearing thy breeches inside out."
In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain's was received with
peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his
saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his
sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and
returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after
he had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day,
Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert.
Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the
great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious
eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.
In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray
top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand,
and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief,
spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of
water. Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and
blue colors, two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly
visible. No wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying
their pots of beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the
singular occupation of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with
the forbidding countenance--for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh
and grim expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.
The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began
to put him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite
natural. At this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving
the soldier, eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching,
he said to him in French, in a rather sly tone: "It would seem, comrade,
that you have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?"
Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a
frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.
Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: "If I do not deceive myself,
you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your
military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I
find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats."
Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap,
with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry
style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him
more than he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet
continued: "I am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor
dumb; why, then, will you not answer me?"
Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full
in the face, and said to him in a rough voice: "I don't know you: I
don't wish to know you! Chain up your curb!" And he betook himself again
to his washing.
"But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine
together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I
assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil."
The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw
in the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him,
something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.
"I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me--we could
talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and
when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable--particularly when they
know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I'd
send her to your school."
The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado
were legible in the Prophet's looks. Thinking that, with such an
adversary, the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to
avoid a quarrel at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of
the porch, hoping thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore
trial of his temper. A flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the
brute-tamer. The white circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to
dilate. He ran his crooked fingers two or three times through his yellow
beard, in token of satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the
soldier, accompanied by several idlers from the common-room.
Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the
impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break
the washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought
better of it.
Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and
insolent tone: "It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!"
Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: "I tell this
Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall
see what answer he'll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him
a lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!" he added, with mock
compunction; "but the Lord has enlightened me--I am his creature, and I
ought to make his work respected."
The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of
the idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a
performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the
company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not
help saying in the German language: "I know German. Speak in German--the
rest will understand you."
New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure
had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most
concerned.
The Prophet resumed in German: "I said that you were not civil, and I
now say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?"
"Nothing!" said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another
piece of linen.
"Nothing!" returned Morok; "that is very little. I will be less brief,
and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly
to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and
deserves to be taught manners if he does so."
Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert's forehead and cheeks; his