So saying, Caboccini was about to suit the action to the word, and to

prostrate himself before Rodin, had not the latter prevented this mode

of adulation by seizing the Roman by the arm and exclaiming, “This is

mere idolatry, father. Pass over my qualities, and tell me what is the

object of your journey.”

“The object, my dear father, fills me with joy and happiness. I have

endeavored to show you my affection by my caresses, for my heart is

overflowing. I have hardly been able to restrain myself during my

journey hither, for my heart rushed to meet you. The object transports,

delights, enchants me--”

“But what enchants you?” cried Rodin, exasperated by these Italian

exaggerations. “What is the object?”

“This rescript of our very reverend and excellent General will inform

you, my clear father.”

Caboccini drew from his pocket-book a folded paper, with three seals,

which he kissed respectfully, and delivered to Rodin, who himself kissed

it in his turn, and opened it with visible anxiety. While he read it the

countenance of the Jesuit remained impassible, but the pulsation of the

arteries on his temples announced his internal agitation. Yet he put the

letter coolly into his pocket, and looking at the Roman, said to him,

“Be it as our excellent General has commanded!”

“Then, father,” cried Caboccini, with a new effusion of tenderness and

admiration, “I shall be the shadow of your light, and, in fact, your

second self. I shall have the happiness of being always with you, day

and night, and of acting as your socius, since, after having allowed

you to be without one for some time, according to your wish, and for the

interest of our blessed Company, our excellent General now thinks fit to

send me from Rome, to fill that post about your person--an unexpected,

an immense favor, which fills me with gratitude to our General, and with

love to you, my dear, my excellent father!”

“It is well played,” thought Rodin; “but I am not so soft, and ‘tis only

among the blind that your Cyclops are kings!”

The evening of the day in which this scene took place between the

Jesuit and his new socius, Ninny Moulin, after receiving in presence

of Caboccini the instructions of Rodin, went straight to Madame de la

Sainte-Colombe’s.

This woman had made her fortune, at the time of the allies taking Paris,

by keeping one of those “pretty milliner’s shops,” whose “pink bonnets”

have run into a proverb not extinct in these days when bonnets are not

known. Ninny Moulin had no better well to draw inspiration from when,

as now, he had to find out, as per Rodin’s order, a girl of an age and

appearance which, singularly enough, were closely resembling those of

Mdlle. de Cardoville.

No doubt of Ninny Moulin’s success in this mission, for the next morning

Rodin, whose countenance wore a triumphant expression, put with his own

hand a letter into the post.

This letter was addressed:

“To M. Agricola Baudoin, “No. 2, Rue Brise-Miche, “Paris.”

CHAPTER LXIII. FARINGHEA’S AFFECTION.

It will, perhaps, be remembered that Djalma, when he heard for the first

time that he was beloved by Adrienne, had, in the fulness of his joy,

spoken thus to Faringhea, whose treachery he had just discovered, “You

leagued with my enemies, and I had done you no harm. You are wicked,

because you are no doubt unhappy. I will strive to make you happy, so

that you may be good. Would you have gold?--you shall have it. Would

you have a friend?--though you are a slave, a king’s son offers you his

friendship.”

Faringhea had refused the gold, and appeared to accept the friendship

of the son of Kadja-sing. Endowed with remarkable intelligence, and

extraordinary power of dissimulation the half-breed had easily persuaded

the prince of the sincerity of his repentance, and obtained credit for

his gratitude and attachment from so confiding and generous a character.

Besides, what motives could Djalma have to suspect the slave, now become

his friend? Certain of the love of Mdlle. de Cardoville, with whom he

passed a portion of every day, her salutary influence would have guarded

him against any dangerous counsels or calumnies of the half-caste, a

faithful and secret instrument of Rodin, and attached by him to the

Company. But Faringhea, whose tact was amazing, did not act so lightly;

he never spoke to the prince of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and waited

unobtrusively for the confidential communications into which Djalma was

sometimes hurried by his excessive joy. A few days after the interview

last described between Adrienne and Djalma, and on the morrow of the day

when Rodin, certain of the success of Ninny Moulin’s mission to Sainte

Colombe, had himself put a letter in the post to the address of Agricola

Baudoin, the half-caste, who for some time had appeared oppressed with a

violent grief, seemed to get so much worse, that the prince, struck with

the desponding air of the man, asked him kindly and repeatedly the cause

of his sorrow. But Faringhea, while he gratefully thanked the prince for

the interest he took in him, maintained the most absolute silence and

reserve on the subject of his grief.

These preliminaries will enable the reader to understand the following

scene, which took place about noon in the house in the Rue de Clichy

occupied by the Hindoo. Contrary to his habit, Djalma had not passed

that morning with Adrienne. He had been informed the evening before,

by the young lady, that she must ask of him the sacrifice of this whole

day, to take the necessary measures to make their marriage sacred and

acceptable in the eyes of the world, and yet free from the restrictions

which she and Djalma disapproved. As for the means to be employed by

Mdlle. de Cardoville to attain this end, and the name of the pure and

honorable person who was to consecrate their union, these were secrets

which, not belonging exclusively to the young lady, could not yet be

communicated to Djalma. To the Indian, so long accustomed to devote

every instant to Adrienne, this day seemed interminable. By turns a

prey to the most burning agitation, and to a kind of stupor, in which

he plunged himself to escape from the thoughts that caused his tortures,

Djalma lay stretched upon a divan, with his face buried in his hands,

as if to shut out the view of a too enchanting vision. Suddenly,

without knocking at the door, as usual, Faringhea entered the prince’s

apartment.

At the noise the half-caste made in entering Djalma started, raised

his head, and looked round him with surprise; but, on seeing the pale

agitated countenance of the slave, he rose hastily, and advancing

towards him, exclaimed, “What is the matter, Faringhea!”

After a moment’s silence, and as if struggling with a painful feeling of

hesitation, Faringhea threw himself at the feet of Djalma, and murmured

in a weak, despairing, almost supplicating voice: “I am very miserable.

Pity me, my good lord!”

The tone was so touching, the grief under which the half-breed suffered

seemed to give to his features, generally fixed and hard as bronze,

such a heart-rending expression, that Djalma was deeply affected, and,

bending to raise him from the ground, said to him, in a kindly voice:

“Speak to me! Confidence appeases the torments of the heart. Trust me,

friend--for my angel herself said to me, that happy love cannot bear to

see tears about him.”

“But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love--weeps tears of blood,”

replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.

“Of what love dost thou speak?” asked Djalma, in surprise.

“I speak of my love,” answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.

“Of your love?” said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half

caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared

to him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that,

until now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a

sorrow.

“My lord,” resumed the half-caste, “you told me, that misfortune had

made me wicked, and that happiness would make me good. In those words,

I saw a presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment

when hatred and treachery departed from it. I, the half-savage, found a

woman, beautiful and young, to respond to my passion. At least I thought

so. But I had betrayed you, my lord, and there is no happiness for

a traitor, even though he repent. In my turn, I have been shamefully

betrayed.”

Then, seeing the surprise of the prince, the half-caste added, as if

overwhelmed with confusion: “Do not mock me, my lord! The most frightful

tortures would not have wrung this confession from me; but you, the son

of a king, deigned to call the poor slave your friend!”

“And your friend thanks you for the confidence,” answered Djalma. “Far

from mocking, he will console you. Mock you! do you think it possible?”

“Betrayed love merits contempt and insult,” said Faringhea, bitterly.

“Even cowards may point at one with scorn--for, in this country, the

sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life

blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh.”

“But are you certain of this treachery?” said Djalma, mildly. Then he

added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:

“Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past! It will only be

another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe

in your repentance and affection. Remember, that I also once thought,

that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me--and yet it

was false. Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false

appearances?”

“Alas, my lord! could I only believe so! But I dare not hope it. My

brain wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore

I have recourse to you.”

“But what causes your suspicions?”

“Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness. The

refusals she gives me in the name of duty. Yes,” added the half-caste,

after a moment’s silence, “she reasons about her love--a proof, that she

has never loved me, or that she loves me no more.”

“On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes

into consideration the interest and the dignity of her love.”

“That is what they all say,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony,

as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; “thus speak all those who love

weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting

suspicions. For them, a word from the man they adore is a command;

they do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the

passion of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely. No,

what their lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they

would grant it without hesitation--because, with them, the will of the

man they love is above every other consideration, divine and human. But

those crafty women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man--who take

delight in irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of

yielding to it--are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the

wretch, that loves them with the miserable weakness of a child. While we

expire with love at their feet, the perfidious creatures are calculating

the effects of their refusals, and seeing how far they can go, without

quite driving their victim to despair. Oh! how cold and cowardly are

they, compared to the valiant, true-hearted women, who say to the men

of their choice: ‘Let me be thine to-day-and to-morrow, come shame,

despair, and death--it matters little! Be happy! my life is not worth

one tear of thine!”

Djalma’s brow had darkened, as he listened. Having kept inviolable the

secret of the various incidents of his passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville,

he could not but see in these words a quite involuntary allusion to the

delays and refusals of Adrienne. And yet Djalma suffered a moment in his

pride, at the thought of considerations and duties, that a woman holds

dearer than her love. But this bitter and painful thought was soon

effaced from the oriental’s mind, thanks to the beneficent influence of

the remembrance of Adrienne. His brow again cleared, and he answered

the half-caste, who was watching him attentively with a sidelong glance:

“You are deluded by grief. If you have no other reason to doubt her you

love, than these refusals and vague suspicions, be satisfied! You are

perhaps loved better than you can imagine.”

“Alas! would it were so, my lord!” replied the half-caste, dejectedly,

as if he had been deeply touched by the words of Djalma. “Yet I say

to myself: There is for this woman something stronger than her

love--delicacy, dignity, honor, what you will--but she does not love me

enough to sacrifice for me this something!”

“Friend, you are deceived,” answered Djalma, mildly, though the words

affected him with a painful impression. “The greater the love of a

woman, the more it should be chaste and noble. It is love itself that

awakens this delicacy and these scruples. He rules, instead of being

ruled.”

“That is true,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, “Love so

rules me, that this woman bids me love in her own fashion, and I have

only to submit.”

Pausing suddenly, Faringhea hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep

drawn sigh. His features expressed a mixture of hate, rage, and despair,

at once so terrible and so painful, that Djalma, more and more affected,

exclaimed, as he seized the other’s hand: “Calm this fury, and listen to

the voice of friendship! It will disperse this evil influence. Speak to

me!”

“No, no! it is too dreadful!”

“Speak, I bid thee.”

“No! leave the wretch to his despair!”

“Do you think me capable of that?” said Djalma, with a mixture of

mildness and dignity, which seemed to make an impression on the half

caste.

“Alas!” replied he, hesitating; “do you wish to hear more, my lord?”

“I wish to hear all.”

“Well, then! I have not told you all--for, at the moment of making this

confession, shame and the fear of ridicule kept me back. You asked me

what reason I had to believe myself betrayed. I spoke to you of vague

suspicions, refusals, coldness. That is not all--this evening--”

“Go on!”

“This evening--she made an appointment--with a man that she prefers to

me.”

“Who told you so?”

“A stranger who pitied my blindness.”

“And suppose the man deceived you--or deceives himself?”

“He has offered me proofs of what he advances.”

“What proofs?”

“He will enable me this evening to witness the interview. ‘It may be,’

said he, ‘that this appointment may have no guilt in it, notwithstanding

appearances to the contrary. Judge for yourself, have courage, and your

cruel indecision will be at an end.’”

“And what did you answer?”

“Nothing, my lord. My head wandered as it does now and I came to you for

advice.”

Then, making a gesture of despair, he proceeded with a savage laugh:

“Advice? It is from the blade of my kand-jiar that I should ask counsel!

It would answer: ‘Blood! blood!’”

Faringhea grasped convulsively the long dagger attached to his girdle.

There is a sort of contagion in certain forms of passion. At sight of

Faringhea’s countenance, agitated by jealous fury, Djalma shuddered--for

he remembered the fit of insane rage, with which he had been possessed,

when the Princess de Saint-Dizier had defied Adrienne to contradict her,

as to the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in her bed-chamber. But then,

reassured by the lady’s proud and noble bearing, Djalma had soon learned

to despise the horrible calumny, which Adrienne had not even thought

worthy of an answer. Still, two or three times, as the lightning will

flash suddenly across the clearest sky, the remembrance of that shameful

accusation had crossed the prince’s mind, like a streak of fire, but

had almost instantly vanished, in the serenity and happiness of his

ineffable confidence in Adrienne’s heart. These memories, however,

whilst they saddened the mind of Djalma, only made him more

compassionate with regard to Faringhea, than he might have been without

this strange coincidence between the position of the half-caste and his

own. Knowing, by his own experience, to what madness a blind fury may

be carried, and wishing to tame the half-caste by affectionate

kindness, Djalma said to him in a grave and mild tone: “I offered you my

friendship. I will now act towards you a friend.”

But Faringhea, seemingly a prey to a dull and mute frenzy, stood with

fixed and haggard eyes, as though he did not hear Djalma.

The latter laid his hand on his shoulder, and resumed: “Faringhea,

listen to me!”

“My lord,” said the half-caste, starting abruptly, as from a dream,

“forgive me--but--”

“In the anguish occasioned by these cruel suspicions, it is not of your

kandjiar that you must take counsel--but of your friend.”

“My lord--”

“To this interview, which will prove the innocence or the treachery of

your beloved, you will do well to go.”

“Oh, yes!” said the half-caste, in a hollow voice, and with a bitter

smile: “I shall be there.”

“But you must not go alone.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” cried the half-caste. “Who will accompany

me?”

“I will.”

“You, my lord?”

“Yes--perhaps, to save you from a crime--for I know how blind and unjust

is the earliest outburst of rage.”

“But that transport gives us revenge!” cried the half-caste, with a

cruel smile.

“Faringhea, this day is all my own. I shall not leave you,” said the

prince, resolutely. “Either you shall not go to this interview, or I

will accompany you.”

The half-caste appeared conquered by this generous perseverance. He fell

at the feet of Djalma, pressed the prince’s hand respectfully to his

forehead and to his lips, and said: “My lord, be generous to the end!

forgive me!”

“For what should I forgive you?”

“Before I spoke to you, I had the audacity to think of asking for what

you have just freely offered. Not knowing to what extent my fury might

carry me, I had thought of asking you this favor, which you would not

perhaps grant to an equal, but I did not dare to do it. I shrunk even

from the avowal of the treachery I have cause to fear, and I came only

to tell you of my misery--because to you alone in all the world I could

tell it.”

It is impossible to describe the almost candid simplicity, with which

the half-breed pronounced these words, and the soft tones, mingled with

tears, which had succeeded his savage fury. Deeply affected, Djalma

raised him from the ground, and said: “You were entitled to ask of me a

mark of friendship. I am happy in having forestalled you. Courage! be of

good cheer! I will accompany you to this interview, and if my hopes

do not deceive me, you will find you have been deluded by false

appearances.”

When the night was come, the half-breed and Djalma, wrapped in their

cloaks, got into a hackney-coach. Faringhea ordered the coachman to

drive to the house inhabited by Sainte-Colombe.

CHAPTER LXIV. AN EVENING AT SAINTE-COLOMBE’S.

Leaving Djalma and Faringhea in the coach, on their way, a few words are

indispensable before continuing this scene. Ninny Moulin, ignorant of

the real object of the step he took at the instigation of Rodin, had,

on the evening before, according to orders received from the latter,

offered a considerable sum to Sainte-Colombe, to obtain from that

creature (still singularly rapacious) the use of her apartments for

whole day. Sainte-Colombe, having accepted this proposition, too

advantageous to be refused, had set out that morning with her servants,

to whom she wished, she said, in return for their good services, to give

a day’s pleasure in the country. Master of the house, Rodin, in a black

wig, blue spectacles, and a cloak, and with his mouth and chin buried

in a worsted comforter--in a word, perfectly disguised--had gone that

morning to take a look at the apartments, and to give his instructions

to the half-caste. The latter, in two hours from the departure of the

Jesuit, had, thanks to his address and intelligence, completed the most

important preparation and returned in haste to Djalma, to play with

detestable hypocrisy the scene at which we have just been present.

During the ride from the Rue de Clichy to the Rue de Richelieu,

Faringhea appeared plunged in a mournful reverie. Suddenly, he said

to Djalma to a quick tone: “My lord, if I am betrayed, I must have

vengeance.”

“Contempt is a terrible revenge,” answered Djalma.

“No, no,” replied the half-caste, with an accent of repressed rage. “It

is not enough. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I feel I must

have blood.”

“Listen to me--”

“My lord, have pity on me! I was a coward to draw back from my revenge.

Let me leave you, my lord! I will go alone to this interview.”

So saying, Faringhea made a movement, as if he would spring from the

carriage.

Djalma held him by the arm, and said: “Remain! I wilt not leave you.

If you are betrayed, you shall not shed blood. Contempt will avenge and

friendship will console you.”

“No, no, my lord; I am resolved. When I have killed--then I will kill

myself,” cried the half-caste, with savage excitement. “This kandjiar

for the false ones!” added he, laying his hand on his dagger. “The

poison in the hilt for me.”

“Faringhea--”

“If I resist you, my lord, forgive me! My destiny must be accomplished.”

Time pressed, and Djalma, despairing to calm the other’s ferocious rage,

resolved to have recourse to a stratagem.

After some minutes’ silence, he said to Faringhea: “I will not leave

you. I will do all I can to save you from a crime. If I do not succeed,

the blood you shed be on your own head. This hand shall never again be

locked in yours.”

These words appeared to make a deep impression on Faringhea. He breathed

a long sigh, and, bowing his head upon his breast, remained silent

and full of thought. Djalma prepared, by the faint light of the lamps,

reflected in the interior of the coach, to throw himself suddenly on

the half-caste, and disarm him. But the latter, who saw at a glance the

intention of the prince, drew his kandjiar abruptly from his girdle,

and holding it still in its sheath, said to the prince in a half-solemn,

half-savage tone: “This dagger, in a strong hand, is terrible; and in

this phial is one of the most subtle poisons of our country.”

He touched a spring, and the knob at the top of the hilt rose like a

lid, discovering the mouth of a small crystal phial concealed in this

murderous weapon.

“Two or three drops of this poison upon the lips,” resumed the half

caste, “and death comes slowly and peacefully, in a few hours, and

without pain. Only, for the first symptom, the nails turn blue. But he

who emptied this phial at a draught would fall dead, as if struck by

lightning.”

“Yes,” replied Djalma; “I know that our country produces such mysterious

poisons. But why lay such stress on the murderous properties of this

weapon?”

“To show you, my lord, that this kandjiar would ensure the success and

impunity of my vengeance. With the blade I could destroy, and by the

poison escape from human justice. Well, my lord! this kandjiar--take

it--I give it up to you--I renounce my vengeance--rather than render

myself unworthy to clasp again your hand!”

He presented the dagger to the prince, who, as pleased as surprised

at this unexpected determination, hastily secured the terrible weapon

beneath his own girdle; whilst the half-breed continued, in a voice of

emotion: “Deep this kandjiar, my lord--and when you have seen and heard

all that we go to hear and see--you shall either give me the dagger

to strike a wretch--or the poison, to die without striking. You shall

command; I will obey.”

Djalma was about to reply, when the coach stopped at the house inhabited

by Sainte-Colombe. The prince and the half-caste, well enveloped in

their mantles, entered a dark porch, and the door was closed after them.

Faringhea exchanged a few words with the porter, and the latter gave him

a key. The two Orientals soon arrived at Sainte-Colombe’s apartments,

which had two doors opening upon the landing-place, besides a private

entrance from the courtyard. As he put the key into the lock, Faringhea

said to Djalma, in an agitated voice: “Pity my weakness, my lord--but,

at this terrible moment, I tremble and hesitate. It were perhaps better

to doubt--or to forget!”

Then, as the prince was about to answer, the half-caste exclaimed: “No!

we must have no cowardice!” and, opening the door precipitately, he

entered, followed by Djalma.

When the door was again closed, the prince and the half-caste found

themselves in a dark and narrow passage. “Your hand, my lord--let me

guide you--walk lightly,” said Faringhea, in a low whisper.

He extended his hand to the prince, who took hold of it, and they

both advanced silently through the darkness. After leading Djalma some

distance, and opening and closing several doors, the half-caste stopped

abruptly, and abandoning the hand which he had hitherto held, said to

the prince: “My lord, the decisive moment approaches; let us wait here

for a few seconds.”

A profound silence followed these words of the half-caste. The darkness

was so complete, that Djalma could distinguish nothing. In about a

minute, he heard Faringhea moving away from him; and then a door was

suddenly opened, and as abruptly closed and locked. This circumstance

made Djalma somewhat uneasy. By a mechanical movement, he laid his hand

upon his dagger, and advanced cautiously towards the side, where he

supposed the door to be.

Suddenly, the half-caste’s voice struck upon his ear, though it was

impossible to guess whence it came. “My lord,” it said, “you told me,

you were my friend. I act as a friend. If I have employed stratagem

to bring you hither, it is because the blindness of your fatal passion

would otherwise have prevented your accompanying me. The Princess de

Saint Dizier named to you Agricola Baudoin, the lover of Adrienne de

Cardoville. Listen--look--judge!”

The voice ceased. It appeared to have issued from one corner of the

room. Djalma, still in darkness, perceived too late into what a snare he

had fallen, and trembled with rage--almost with alarm.

“Faringhea!” he exclaimed; “where am I? where are you? Open the door on

your life! I would leave this place instantly.”

Extending his arms, the prince advanced hastily several steps, but he

only touched a tapestried wall; he followed it, hoping to find the

door, and he at length found it; but it was locked, and resisted all his

efforts. He continued his researches, and came to a fireplace with no

fire in it, and to a second door, equally fast. In a few moments, he

had thus made the circle of the room, and found himself again at the

fireplace. The anxiety of the prince increased more and more. He called

Faringhea, in a voice trembling with passion. There was no answer.

Profound silence reigned without, and complete darkness within. Ere

long, a perfumed vapor, of indescribable sweetness, but very subtle and

penetrating, spread itself insensibly through the little room in which

Djalma was. It might be, that the orifice of a tube, passing through one

of the doors of the room, introduced this balmy current. At the height

of angry and terrible thoughts, Djalma paid no attention to this

odor--but soon the arteries of his temples began to beat violently, a

burning heat seemed to circulate rapidly through his veins, he felt a

sensation of pleasure, his resentment died gradually away, and a mild,

ineffable torpor crept over him, without his being fully conscious of

the mental transformation that was taking place. Yet, by a last effort

of the wavering will, Djalma advanced once more to try and open one

of the doors; he found it indeed, but at this place the vapor was so

strong, that its action redoubled, and, unable to move a step further,

Djalma was obliged to support himself by leaning against the wall.(43)

Then a strange thing happened. A faint light spread itself gradually

through an adjoining apartment, and Djalma now perceived, for the first

time, the existence of a little round window, in the wall of the room in

which he was. On the side of the prince, this opening was protected by

a slight but strong railing, which hardly intercepted the view. On the

other side a thick piece of plate-glass was fixed at the distance of two

or three inches from the railing in question. The room, which Djalma saw

through this window, and through which the faint light was now gradually

spreading, was richly furnished. Between two windows, hung with crimson

silk curtains, stood a kind of wardrobe, with a looking-glass front;

opposite the fireplace in which glowed the burning coals, was a long,

wide divan, furnished with cushions.

In another second a woman entered this apartment. Her face and figure

were invisible, being wrapped in a long, hooded mantle, of peculiar

form, and a dark color. The sight of this mantle made Djalma start. To

the pleasure he at first felt succeeded a feverish anxiety, like the

growing fumes of intoxication. There was that strange buzzing in his

ears which we experience when we plunge into deep waters. It was in a

kind of delirium that Djalma looked on at what was passing in the next

room. The woman who had just appeared entered with caution, almost with

fear. Drawing aside one of the window curtains, she glanced through

the closed blinds into the street. Then she returned slowly to the

fireplace, where she stood for a moment pensive, still carefully

enveloped in her mantle. Completely yielding to the influence of the

vapor, which deprived him of his presence of mind--forgetting Faringhea,

and all the circumstances that had accompanied his arrival at this

house--Djalma concentrated all the powers of his attention on the

spectacle before him, at which he seemed to be present as in a dream.

Suddenly Djalma saw the woman leave the fireplace and advance towards

the looking-glass. Turning her face toward it, she allowed the mantle

to glide down to her feet. Djalma was thunderstruck. He saw the face

of Adrienne de Cardoville. Yes, Adrienne, as he had seen her the night

before, attired as during her interview with the Princess de Saint

Dizier--the light green dress, the rose-colored ribbons, the white

head ornaments. A network of white beads concealed her back hair, and

harmonized admirably with the shining gold of her ringlets. Finally, as

far as the Hindoo could judge through the railing and the thick glass,

and in the faint light, it was the figure of Adrienne, with her marble

shoulders and swan-like neck, so proud and so graceful. In a word, he

could not, he did not doubt that it was Adrienne de Cardoville. Djalma

was bathed in a burning dew, his dizzy excitement increased, and, with

bloodshot eye and heaving bosom, he remained motionless, gazing almost

without the power of thought. The young lady, with her back still

turned towards Djalma, arranged her hair with graceful art, took off the

network which formed her head-dress, placed it on the chimney-piece, and

began to unfasten her gown; then, withdrawing from the looking-glass,

she disappeared for an instant from Djalma’s view.

“She is expecting Agricola Baudoin, her lover,” said a voice, which

seemed to proceed from the wall of the dark room in which Djalma was.

Notwithstanding his bewilderment, these terrible words, “She is

expecting Agricola Baudoin, her lover,” passed like a stream of fire

through the brain and heart of the prince. A cloud of blood came over

his eyes, he uttered a hollow moan, which the thickness of the glass

prevented from being heard in the next room, and broke his nails in

attempting to tear down the iron railing before the window.

Having reached this paroxysm of delirious rage, Djalma saw the uncertain

light grow still fainter, as if it had been discreetly obscured, and,

through the vapory shadow that hung before him, he perceived the young

lady returning, clad in a long white dressing-gown, and with her

golden curls floating over her naked arms and shoulders. She advanced

cautiously in the direction of a door which was hid from Djalma’s view.

At this moment, one of the doors of the apartment in which the prince

was concealed was gently opened by an invisible hand. Djalma noticed it

by the click of the lock, and by the current of fresh air which streamed

upon his face, for he could see nothing. This door, left open for

Djalma, like that in the next room, to which the young lady had drawn

near, led to a sort of ante-chamber communicating with the stairs, which

some one now rapidly ascended, and, stopping short, knocked twice at the

outer door.

“Here comes Agricola Baudoin. Look and listen!” said the same voice that

the prince had already heard.

Mad, intoxicated, but with the fixed idea and reckless determination of

a madman or a drunkard, Djalma drew the dagger which Faringhea had left

in his possession, and stood in motionless expectation. Hardly were the

two knocks heard before the young lady quitted the apartment, from which

streamed a faint ray of light, ran to the door of the staircase, so that

some faint glimmer reached the place where Djalma stood watching, his

dagger in his hand. He saw the young lady pass across the ante-chamber,

and approach the door of the staircase, where she said in a whisper:

“Who is there?”

“It is I--Agricola Baudoin,” answered, from, without, a manly voice.

What followed was rapid as lightning, and must be conceived rather than

described. Hardly had the young lady drawn the bolt of the door, hardly

had Agricola Baudoin stepped across the threshold, than Djalma, with the

bound of a tiger, stabbed as it were at once, so rapid were the strokes,

both the young lady, who fell dead on the floor, and Agricola, who sank,

dangerously wounded, by the side of the unfortunate victim. This

scene of murder, rapid as thought, took place in the midst of a half

obscurity. Suddenly the faint light from the chamber was completely

extinguished, and a second after, Djalma felt his arm seized in the

darkness by an iron grasp, and the voice of Faringhea whispered: “You

are avenged. Come; we can secure our retreat.” Inert, stupefied at what

he had done, Djalma offered no resistance, and let himself be dragged

by the half-caste into the inner apartment, from which there was another

way out.

When Rodin had exclaimed, in his admiration of the generative power

of thought, that the word NECKLACE had been the germ of the infernal

project he then contemplated, it was, that chance had brought to his

mind the remembrance of the too famous affair of the diamond necklace,

in which a woman, thanks to her vague resemblance to Queen Marie

Antoinette, being dressed like that princess, and favored by the

uncertainty of a twilight, had played so skillfully the part of her

unfortunate sovereign, as to make the Cardinal Prince de Rohan, though

familiar with the court, the complete dupe of the illusion. Having once

determined on his execrable design, Rodin had sent Jacques Dumoulin to

Sainte-Colombe, without telling him the real object of his mission, to

ask this experienced woman to procure a fine young girl, tall, and

with red hair. Once found, a costume exactly resembling that worn by

Adrienne, and of which the Princess de Saint-Dizier gave the description

to Rodin (though herself ignorant of this new plot), was to complete the

deception. The rest is known, or may be guessed. The unfortunate girl,

who acted as Adrienne’s double, believed she was only aiding in a jest.

As for Agricola, he had received a letter, in which he was invited to

a meeting that might be of the greatest importance to Mdlle. de

Cardoville.

(43) See the strange effect of hasheesh. To the effect of this is

attributed the kind of hallucination which seized on those unhappy

persons, whom the Prince of the Assassins (the Old Man of the Mountain)

used as the instruments of his vengeance.

CHAPTER LXV. THE NUPTIAL BED.

The mild light of a circular lamp of oriental alabaster, suspended from

the ceiling by three silver chains, spreads a faint lustre through the

bed-chamber of Adrienne de Cardoville.

The large ivory bedstead, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is not at present

occupied, and almost disappears beneath snowy curtains of lace

and muslin, transparent and vapory as clouds. On the white marble

mantlepiece, from beneath which the fire throws ruddy beams on the

ermine carpet, is the usual basket filled with a bush of red camellias,

in the midst of their shining green leaves. A pleasant aromatic odor,

rising from a warm and perfumed bath in the next room, penetrates every

corner of the bed-chamber. All without is calm and silent. It is hardly

eleven o’clock. The ivory door, opposite to that which leads to the

bath-room, opens slowly. Djalma appears. Two hours have elapsed since he

committed a double murder, and believed that he had killed Adrienne in a

fit of jealous fury.

The servants of Mdlle. de Cardoville, accustomed to Djalma’s daily

visits, no longer announced his arrival, and admitted him without

difficulty, having received no orders to the contrary from their

mistress. He had never before entered the bed-chamber, but, knowing that

the apartment the lady occupied was on the first floor of the house,

he had easily found it. As he entered that virgin sanctuary, his

countenance was pretty calm, so well did he control his feelings, only a

slight paleness tarnished the brilliant amber of his complexion. He wore

that day a robe of purple cashmere, striped with silver--a color which

did not show the stains of blood upon it. Djalma closed the door after

him, and tore off his white turban, for it seemed to him as if a band of

hot iron encircled his brow. His dark hair streamed around his handsome

face. He crossed his arms upon his bosom, and looked slowly about him.

When his eyes rested on Adrienne’s bed, he started suddenly, and his

cheek grew purple. Then he drew his hand across his brow, hung down his

head, and remained standing for some moments in a dream, motionless as a

statue.

After a mournful silence of a few seconds’ duration, Djalma fell upon

his knees, and raised his eyes to heaven. The Asiatic’s countenance was

bathed in tears, and no longer expressed any violent passion. On his

features was no longer the stamp of hate, or despair, or the ferocious

joy of vengeance gratified. It was rather the expression of grief at

once simple and immense. For several minutes he was almost choked with

sobs, and tears ran freely down his cheeks.

“Dead! dead!” he murmured, in a half-stifled voice. “She, who this

morning slept so peacefully in this chamber! And I have killed her. Now

that she is dead, what is her treachery to me? I should not have killed

her for that. She had betrayed me; she loved the man whom I slew--she

loved him! Alas! I could not hope to gain the preference,” added he,

with a touching mixture of resignation and remorse; “I, poor, untaught

youth--how could I merit her love? It was my fault that she did not love

me; but, always generous, she concealed from me her indifference, that

she might not make me too unhappy--and for that I killed her. What

was her crime? Did she not meet me freely? Did she not open to me her

dwelling? Did she not allow me to pass whole days with her? No doubt she

tried to love me, and could not. I loved her with all the faculties of

my soul, but my love was not such as she required. For that, I should

not have killed her. But a fatal delusion seized me and, after it was

done, I woke as from a dream. Alas! it was not a dream: I have killed

her. And yet--until this evening--what happiness I owed to her--what

hope--what joy! She made my heart better, nobler, more generous. All

came from her,” added the Indian, with a new burst of grief. “That

remained with me--no one could take from me that treasure of the

past--that ought to have consoled me. But why think of it? I struck them

both--her and the man--without a struggle. It was a cowardly murder--the

ferocity of the tiger that tears its innocent prey!”

Djalma buried his face in his hands. Then, drying his tears, he resumed,

“I know, clearly, that I mean to die also. But my death will not restore

her to life!”

He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea’s bloody

dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood

stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which

was thus slightly stained with red.

“Yes,” resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, “I

know well that I am about to die. It is right. Blood for blood; my life

for hers. How happens it that my steel did not turn aside? How could I

kill her?--but it is done--and my heart is full of remorse, and sorrow,

an inexpressible tenderness--and I have come here--to die!

“Here, in this chamber,” he continued, “the heaven of my burning

visions!” And then he added, with a heartrending accent, as he again

buried his face in his hands, “Dead! dead!”

“Well! I too shall soon be dead,” he resumed, in a firmer voice.

“But, no! I will die slowly, gradually. A few drops of the poison will

suffice; and, when I am quite certain of dying, my remorse will perhaps

be less terrible. Yesterday, she pressed my hand when we parted. Who

could have foretold me this?” The Indian raised the phial resolutely to

his lips. He drank a few drops of the liquor it contained, and replaced

it on a little ivory table close to Adrienne’s bed.

“This liquor is sharp and hot,” said he. “Now I am certain to die. Oh!

that I may still have time to feast on the sight and perfume of this

chamber--to lay my dying head on the couch where she has reposed.”

Djalma fell on his knees beside the bed, and leaned against it his

burning brow. At this moment, the ivory door, which communicated with

the bath-room, rolled gently on its hinges, and Adrienne entered. The

young lady had just sent away her woman, who had assisted to undress

her. She wore a long muslin wrapper of lustrous whiteness. Her golden

hair, neatly arranged in little plaits, formed two bands, which gave

to her sweet face an extremely juvenile air. Her snowy complexion was

slightly tinged with rose-color, from the warmth of the perfumed bath,

which she used for a few seconds every evening. When she opened the

ivory door, and placed her little naked foot, in its white satin

slipper, upon the ermine carpet, Adrienne was dazzlingly beautiful.

Happiness sparkled in her eyes, and adorned her brow. All the

difficulties relative to her union with Djalma had now been removed. In

two days she would be his. The sight of the nuptial chamber oppressed

her with a vague and ineffable languor. The ivory door had been opened

so gently, the lady’s first steps were so soft upon the fur carpet, that

Djalma, still leaning against the bed, had heard nothing. But suddenly a

cry of surprise and alarm struck upon his ear. He turned round abruptly.

Adrienne stood before him.

With an impulse of modesty, Adrienne closed her nightdress over her

bosom, and hastily drew back, still more afflicted than angry at what

she considered a guilty attempt on the part of Djalma. Cruelly hurt

and offended, she was about to reproach him with his conduct, when she

perceived the dagger, which he had thrown down upon the ermine carpet.

At sight of this weapon, and the expression of fear and stupor which

petrified the features of Djalma, who remained kneeling, motionless,

with his body thrown back, hands stretched out, his eyes fixed and

wildly staring Adrienne, no longer dreading an amorous surprise, was

seized with an indescribable terror, and, instead of flying from the

prince, advanced several steps towards him, and said, in an agitated

voice, whilst she pointed to the kandjiar, “My friend, why are you here?

what ails you? why this dagger?”

Djalma made no answer. At first, the presence of Adrienne seemed to him

a vision, which he attributed to the excitement of his brain, already

(it might be) under the influence of the poison. But when the soft voice

sounded in his ears--when his heart bounded with the species of electric

shock, which he always felt when he met the gaze of that woman so

ardently beloved--when he had contemplated for an instant that

adorable face, so fresh and fair, in spite of its expression of deep

uneasiness--Djalma understood that he was not the sport of a dream, but

that Mdlle. de Cardoville was really before his eyes.

Then, as he began fully to grasp the thought that Adrienne was not dead,

though he could not at all explain the prodigy of her resurrection, the

Hindoo’s countenance was transfigured, the pale gold of his complexion

became warm and red, his eyes (tarnished by tears of remorse) shone with

new radiance, and his features, so lately contracted with terror and

despair, expressed all the phases of the most ecstatic joy. Advancing,

still on his knees, towards Adrienne, he lifted up to her his trembling

hands, and, too deeply affected to pronounce a word, he gazed on her

with so much amazement, love, adoration, gratitude, that the young lady,

fascinated by those inexplicable looks, remained mute also, motionless

also, and felt, by the precipitate beating of her heart, and by the

shudder which ran through her frame, that there was here some dreadful

mystery to be unfolded.

At last, Djalma, clasping his hands together, exclaimed with an accent

impossible to describe, “Thou art not dead!”

“Dead!” repeated the young lady, in amazement.

“It was not thou, really not thou, whom I killed? God is kind and just!”

And as he pronounced these words with intense joy, the unfortunate youth

forgot the victim whom he had sacrificed in error.

More and more alarmed, and again glancing at the dagger en which she now

perceived marks of blood--a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the

words of Djalma--Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed, “You have killed some

one, Djalma! Oh! what does he say? It is dreadful!”

“You are alive--I see you--you are here,” said Djalma, in a voice

trembling with rapture. “You are here--beautiful! pure! for it was not

you! Oh, no! had it been you, the steel would have turned back upon

myself.”

“You have killed some one?” cried the young lady, beside her with this

unforeseen revelation, and clasping her hands in horror. “Why? whom did

you kill?”

“I do not know. A woman that was like you--a man that I thought your

lover--it was an illusion, a frightful dream--you are alive--you are

here!”

And the oriental wept for joy.

“A dream? but no, it is not a dream. There is blood upon that dagger!”

cried the young lady, as she pointed wildly to the kandjiar. “I tell you

there is blood upon it!”

“Yes. I threw it down just now, when I took the poison from it, thinking

that I had killed you.”

“The poison!” exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively.

“What poison?”

“I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die.”

“To die? Oh! wherefore? who is to die?” cried the young lady, almost in

delirium.

“I,” replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, “I thought I had

killed you--and I took poison.”

“You!” exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death. “You!”

“Yes.”

“Oh! it is not true!” said the young lady, shaking her head.

“Look!” said the Asiatic. Mechanically, he turned towards the

bed--towards the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal

phial.

With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than

the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it

eagerly to her lips.

Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible

cry, made one spring to the drinker’s side, and dragged away the phial,

which seemed almost glued to her mouth.

“No matter! I have swallowed as much as you,” said Adrienne, with an air

of gloomy triumph.

For an instant, there followed an awful silence. Adrienne and Djalma

gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horror-struck. The young lady

was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which

she tried to make calm and steady, “Well! what is there extraordinary in

this? You have killed, and death most expiate your crime. It is just. I

will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus?

This poison has a sharp taste--does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma!”

The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked

down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet

tint appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly,

almost insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair

at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his

courage fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his

hands. His knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near

which he was standing.

“Already?” cried the young lady in horror, as she threw herself on her

knees at Djalma’s feet. “Death already? Do you hide your face from me?”

In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was

bathed in tears.

“No, not yet,” murmured he, through his sobs. “The poison is slow.”

“Really!” cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of

Djalma, she added tenderly, “If the poison is slow, why do you weep?”

“For you! for you!” said the Indian, in a heart-rending tone.

“Think not of me,” replied Adrienne, resolutely. “You have killed, and

we must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear

by our love that you did not do evil for evil’s sake. There is some

horrible mystery in all this.”

“On a pretence which I felt bound to believe,” replied Djalma, speaking

quickly, and panting for breath, “Faringhea led me to a certain house.

Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him,

but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me--and then, through

a half-obscurity, I saw you--”

“Me!”

“No--not you--but a woman resembling you, dressed like you, so that I

believed the illusion--and then there came a man--and you flew to meet

him--and I--mad with rage--stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall--and

so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh,

misery! misery! that you should die through me!”

And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with

the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate

despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess

in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman

passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady’s

countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness,

that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant

that he must have lost his reason.

“No more tears, my adored!” cried the young lady, exultingly. “No more

tears--but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not

triumph!”

“What do you say?”

“They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be

the envy of the world!”

“Adrienne--bethink you--”

“Oh! I have all my senses about me. Listen to me, my adored! I now

understand it all. Falling into a snare, which these wretches spread for

you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to

infamy, or the scaffold--and to-morrow--to-night, perhaps--you would be

thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: ‘A man like Prince Djalma

does not wait for infamy--he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de

Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover--she

prefers to die.’”

“Therefore a frightful death awaits them both,” said the black-robed

men; “and that immense inheritance, which we covet--’”

“And for you--so young, so beautiful so innocent--death is frightful,

and these monsters triumph!” cried Djalma. “They have spoken the truth!”

“They have lied!” answered Adrienne. “Our death shall be celestial. This

poison is slow--and I adore you, my Djalma!”

She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love,

and, leaning upon Djalma’s knees, approached so near, that he felt her

warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid

flame that darted from the large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half

opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian

started--his young blood boiled in his veins--he forgot everything--his

despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne),

only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young

girl’s, became once more splendidly beautiful.

“Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!” said Adrienne, with

idolatry. “Those eyes--that brow--those lips--how I love them!--How many

times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your

love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves--even to this moment,

when I am wholly yours!--Yes, heaven wills that we should be united.

Only this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our

union, in thy name and mine, a royal gift--a gift, that will bring joy

and peace to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have

we to regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss,

and ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love!”

“Adrienne!”

“Djalma!”

The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and

funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma

breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.

CHAPTER LXVI. A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

Adrienne and Djalma died on the 30th of May. The following scene took

place on the 31st, the eve of the day appointed for the last convocation

of the heirs of Marius de Rennepont. The reader will no doubt remember

the room occupied by M. Hardy, in the “house of retreat,” in the Rue de

Vaugirard--a gloomy and retired apartment, opening on a dreary little

garden, planted with yew-trees, and surrounded by high walls. To reach

this chamber, it was necessary to cross two vast rooms, the doors of

which, once shut, intercepted all noise and communication from without.

Bearing this in mind, we may go on with our narrative. For the last

three or four days, Father d’Aigrigny occupied this apartment. He had

not chosen it, but had been induced to accept it, under most plausible

pretexts, given him at the instigation of Rodin. It was about noon.

Seated in an arm-chair, by the window opening on the little garden,

Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand a newspaper, in which he read as

follows, under the head of “Paris:”

“Eleven p.m.--A most horrible and tragical event has just excited the

greatest consternation in the quarter of the Rue de Richelieu. A double

murder has been committed, on the person of a young man and woman.

The girl was killed on the spot, by the stroke of a dagger; hopes are

entertained of saving the life of the young man. The crime is attributed

to jealousy. The officers of justice are investigating the matter. We

shall give full particulars tomorrow.”

When he had read these lines, Father d’Aigrigny threw down the paper and

remained in deep thought.

“It is incredible,” said he, with bitter envy, in allusion to Rodin. “He

has attained his end. Hardly one of his anticipations has been defeated.

This family is annihilated, by the mere play of the passions, good and

evil that he has known how to set in motion. He said it would be so.

Oh! I must confess,” added Father d’Aigrigny, with a jealous and hateful

smile, “that Rodin is a man of rare dissimulation, patience, energy,

obstinacy and intelligence. Who would have told a few months ago, when

he wrote under my orders, a discreet and humble socius, that he had

already conceived the most audacious ambition, and dared to lift his

eyes to the Holy See itself? that, thanks to intrigues and corruption,

pursued with wondrous ability, these views were not so unreasonable?

Nay, that this infernal ambition would soon be realized, were it not

that the secret proceedings of this dangerous man have long been as

secretly watched?--Ah!” sneered Father d’Aigrigny, with a smile of

irony and triumph, “you wish to be a second Sixtus V., do you? And,

not content with this audacious pretension, you mean, if successful, to

absorb our Company in the Papacy, even as the Sultan has absorbed the

Janissaries. Ah! You would make us your stepping-stone to power! And you

have thought to humiliate and crush me with your insolent disdain! But

patience, patience: the day of retribution approaches. I alone am the

depository of our General’s will. Father Caboccini himself does not

know that. The fate of Rodin is in my hands. Oh! it will not be what he

expects. In this Rennepont affair (which, I must needs confess, he has

managed admirably), he thinks to outwit us all, and to work only for

himself. But to-morrow--”

Father d’Aigrigny was suddenly disturbed in these agreeable reflections.

He heard the door of the next room open, and, as he turned round to see

who was coming, the door of the apartment in which he was turned upon

its hinges. Father d’Aigrigny started with surprise, and became almost

purple. Marshal Simon stood before him. And, behind the marshal, in the

shadow of the door, Father d’Aigrigny perceived the cadaverous face

of Rodin. The latter cast on him one glance of diabolical delight, and

instantly disappeared. The door was again closed, and Father d’Aigrigny

and Marshal Simon were left alone together. The father of Rose and

Blanche was hardly recognizable. His gray hair had become completely

white. His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days. His hollow

eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and

haggard. He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied

loosely about his neck. In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as

if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside. When he

was alone with the Jesuit, the marshal threw back his cloak from his

shoulders, and Father d’Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck

through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.

Father d’Aigrigny understood it all. He remembered how, a few days

before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the

marshal were to strike him in the face. There could be no doubt that

he, who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been

brought by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two

outer rooms being closed, there was no possibility of making himself

heard, and that the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some

vacant lots. The first thought which occurred to him, one by no means

destitute of probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome,

or by his own incredible penetration, had learned that his fate

depended on Father d’Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him,

by delivering him over to the inexorable vengeance of the father of

Rose and Blanche. Without speaking a word, the marshal unbound the

handkerchief from his waist, laid the two swords upon the table,

and, folding his arms upon his breast, advanced slowly towards Father

d’Aigrigny. Thus these two men, who through life had pursued each other

with implacable hatred, at length met face to face--they, who had fought

in hostile armies, and measured swords in single combat, and one of whom

now came to seek vengeance for the death of his children. As the marshal

approached, Father d’Aigrigny rose from his seat. He wore that day a

black cassock, which rendered still more visible the pale hue, which had

now succeeded to the sudden flush on his cheek. For a few seconds, the

two men stood face to face without speaking. The marshal was terrific

in his paternal despair. His calmness, inexorable as fate, was more

impressive than the most furious burst of anger.

“My children are dead,” said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone. “I

come to kill you.”

“Sir,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, “listen to me. Do not believe--”

“I must kill you,” resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; “your

hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished. You and your

accomplices sent my children to certain death. For twenty years you have

been my evil genius. I must have your life, and I will have it.”

“My life belongs, first, to God,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, piously,

“and then to who likes to take it.”

“We will fight to the death in this room,” said the marshal; “and, as I

have to avenge my wife and children, I am tranquil as to the result.”

“Sir,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly, “you forget that my

profession forbids me to fight. Once I accepted your challenge--but my

position is changed since then.”

“Ah!” said the marshal, with a bitter smile; “you refuse to fight

because you are a priest?”

“Yes, sir--because I am a priest.”

“So that, because he is a priest, a wretch like you may commit any

crime, any baseness, under shelter of his black gown?”

“I do not understand a word of your accusations. In any case, the law is

open,” said Father d’Aigrigny, biting his pale lips, for he felt deeply

the insult offered by the marshal; “if you have anything to complain of,

appeal to that law, before which all are equal.”

Marshal Simon shrugged his shoulders in angry disdain. “Your crimes

escape the law--and, could it even reach you, that would not satisfy my

vengeance, after all the evil you have done me, after all you have taken

from me,” said the marshal; and, at the memory of his children, his

voice slightly trembled; but he soon proceeded, with terrible calmness:

“You must feel that I now only live for vengeance. And I must have

such revenge as is worth the seeking--I must have your coward’s heart

palpitating on the point of my sword. Our last duel was play; this will

be earnest--oh! you shall see.”

The marshal walked up to the table, where he had laid the two swords.

Father d’Aigrigny needed all his resolution to restrain himself. The

implacable hate which he had always felt for Marshal Simon, added to

these insults, filled him with savage ardor. Yet he answered, in a tone

that was still calm: “For the last time, sir, I repeat to you, that my

profession forbids me to fight.”

“Then you refuse?” said the marshal, turning abruptly towards him.

“I refuse.”

“Positively?”

“Positively. Nothing on earth should force me to it.”

“Nothing.”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“We shall see,” said the marshal, as his hand fell with its full force

on the cheek of Father d’Aigrigny.

The Jesuit uttered a cry of fury; all his blood rushed to his face, so

roughly handled; the courage of the man (for he was brave), his ancient

military ardor, carried him away; his eyes sparkled, and, with teeth

firmly set, and clenched fists, he advanced towards the marshal,

exclaiming: “The swords! the swords!”

But suddenly, remembering the appearance of Rodin, and the interest

which the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to

avoid the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered

sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.

To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing

to play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head

and beating his bosom, repeated: “Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a

movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!”

In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit’s voice was neatly

agitated. He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before

in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such

an insult. He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious

mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were

he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but

give way to his impetuous feelings. On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and

on hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in

his hand, shook with indignation.

“Stand up, scoundrel!” he said, “stand up, wretch!” And he spurned the

Jesuit with his boot.

At this new insult, Father d’Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved

by steel springs. It was too much; he could bear no more. Blinded with

rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed,

grinding his teeth together: “Ah! you will have blood. Well then! it

shall be yours--if possible!”

And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his

large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease

and skill of a finished swordsman.

“At last!” cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.

But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit. He

remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin,

whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than

the marshal. Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him,

in spite of his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and

healthy did he feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief

on the constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his

rage, and, to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his

sword, exclaiming: “I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed

blood. Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also.”

Then placing the blade beneath his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly

towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces. The duel was no

longer possible. Father d’Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to

yield to a new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger.

Marshal Simon remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise

and indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible. But,

suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also

under his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about

eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled

it round the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father

d’Aigrigny: “Then we will fight with daggers.”

Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:

“Is this then a demon of hell?”

“No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered,” said the

marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and

a tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.

The Jesuit saw that tear. There was in this mixture of vindictive rage

and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the

first time in his life Father d’Aigrigny felt fear--cowardly, ignoble

fear--fear for his own safety. While a combat with swords was in

question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful

auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the

ardor of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body

to body, face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and

exclaimed: “A butchery with knives?--never!”

His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal

himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:

“After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or

the vanity of a fencer. This pitiful renegade--this traitor to

his country--whom I have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble

marquis!--shame of your ancient house--disgrace to the rank of

gentleman, old or new--ah! it is not hypocrisy, it is not calculation,

as I at first thought--it is fear! You need the noise of war, and the

eyes of spectators to give you courage--”

“Sir--have a care!” said Father d’Aigrigny, stammering through his

clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-“Must I

then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your

face?” cried the exasperated marshal.

“Oh! this is too much! too much!” said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed

piece of the blade that lay at his feet.

“It is not enough!” said the marshal, panting for breath. “There,

Judas!” and he spat in his face.

“If you will not fight now,” added the marshal, “I will beat you like a

dog, base child-murderer!”

On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already

insulted man, Father d’Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot

his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only

the frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced

in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength

promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this

kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense

advantage. In an instant, Father d’Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief

round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the

shock with intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle

lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a

devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants,

mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been

present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him

to tell how they dealt their blows. He would have seen two

heads--frightful, livid, convulsed--rising, falling, now here,

now there--arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like

serpents--and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of the

marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from time to time the

sudden gleam of the steel. He would have heard only a dull stamping,

and now and then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most, the two

adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other. One of them--it was

Father d’Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself with a violent effort,

and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless by his side; and

then the dying voice of the marshal murmured: “My children! Dagobert!”

“I have killed him,” said Father d’Aigrigny, in a weak voice; “but I

feel--that I am wounded--to death.”

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to

his bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the

blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very

sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing

inwards.

“Oh! I die--I choke,” said Father d’Aigrigny, whose features were

already changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the

threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet

voice: “May I come in?”

At this dreadful irony, Father d’Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon

Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.

“Monster of hell!” he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of

rage and agony. “Thou art the cause of my death.”

“I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would

be fatal to you,” answered Rodin with a frightful smile. “Only a few

days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from

this old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which

is well--for the Scripture says: ‘All they that take the sword shall

perish with the sword.’ And then this Marshal Simon might have had some

claim on his daughter’s inheritance. And, between ourselves, my dear

father, what was I to do? It was necessary to sacrifice you for the

common interest; the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for

me to-morrow. But I am not so easily caught napping.”

“Before I die,” said Father d’Aigrigny, in a failing voice, “I will

unmask you.”

“Oh, no, you will not,” said Rodin, shaking his head with a knowing air;

“I alone, if you please, will receive your last confession.”

“Oh! this is horrible,” moaned Father d’Aigrigny, whose eyes were

closing. “May God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!--Alas! at

this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great sinner--”

“And, above all, a great fool,” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders, and

watching with cold disdain the dying moments of his accomplice.

Father d’Aigrigny had now but a few minutes more to live. Rodin

perceived it, and said: “It is time to call for help.” And the Jesuit

ran, with an air of alarm and consternation, into the courtyard of the

house.

Others came at his cries; but, as he had promised, Rodin had only

quitted Father d’Aigrigny as the latter had breathed his last sigh.

That evening, alone in his chamber, by the glimmer of a little lamp,

Rodin sat plunged in a sort of ecstatic contemplation, before the print

representing Sixtus V. The great house-clock struck twelve. At the last

stroke, Rodin drew himself up in all the savage majesty of his infernal

triumph, and exclaimed: “This is the first of June. There are no more

Renneponts!--Methinks, I hear the hour from the clock of St. Peter’s at

Rome striking!”

CHAPTER LXVII. A MESSAGE.

While Rodin sat plunged in ambitious reverie, contemplating the portrait

of Sixtus V., good little Father Caboccini, whose warm embraces had

so much irritated the first mentioned personage, went secretly to

Faringhea, to deliver to him a fragment of an ivory crucifix, and

said to him with his usual air of jovial good-nature: “His Excellency

Cardinal Malipieri, on my departure from Rome, charged me to give you

this only on the 31st of May.”

The half-caste, who was seldom affected by anything, started abruptly,

almost with an expression of pain. His face darkened, and bending upon

the little father a piercing look, he said to him: “You were to add

something.”

“True,” replied Father Caboccini; “the words I was to add are these:

‘There is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’”

“It is well,” said the other. Heaving a deep sigh, he joined the

fragment of the ivory crucifix to a piece already in his possession; it

fitted exactly.

Father Caboccini looked at him with curiosity, for the cardinal had only

told him to deliver the ivory fragment to Faringhea, and to repeat the

above words. Being somewhat mystified with all this, the reverend father

said to the half-caste: “What are you going to do with that crucifix?”

“Nothing,” said Faringhea, still absorbed in painful thought.

“Nothing?” resumed the reverend father, in astonishment. “What, then,

was the use of bringing it so far?”

Without satisfying his curiosity, Faringhea replied: “At what hour to

morrow does Father Rodin go to the Rue Saint Francois?”

“Very early.”

“Before leaving home, he will go to say prayers in the chapel?”

“Yes, according to the habit of our reverend fathers.”

“You sleep near him?”

“Being his socius, I occupy the room next to his.”

“It is possible,” said Faringhea, after a moment’s silence, “that the

reverend father, full of the great interests which occupy his mind,

might forget to go to the chapel. In that case, pray remind him of this

pious duty.”

“I shall not fail.”

“Pray do not fail,” repeated Faringhea, anxiously.

“Be satisfied,” said the good little father; “I see that you take great

interest in his salvation.”

“Great interest.”

“It is very praiseworthy in you. Continue as you have begun, and you

may one day belong, completely to our Company,” said Father Caboccini,

affectionately.

“I am as yet but a poor auxiliary member,” said Faringhea, humbly; “but

no one is more devoted to the Society, body and soul. Bowanee is nothing

to it.”

“Bowanee! who is that, my good friend?”

“Bowanee makes corpses which rot in the ground. The Society makes

corpses which walk about.”

“Ah, yes! Perinde ac cadaver--they were the last words of our great

saint, Ignatius de Loyola. But who is this Bowanee?”

“Bowanee is to the Society what a child is to a man,” replied the

Asiatic, with growing excitement. “Glory to the Company--glory! Were my

father its enemy, I would kill my father. The man whose genius inspires

me most with admiration, respect, and terror--were he its enemy, I would

kill, in spite of all,” said the half-caste, with an effort. Then, after

a moment’s silence, he looked full in Caboccini’s face, and added: “I

say this, that you may report my words to Cardinal Malipieri, and beg

him to mention them to--”

Faringhea stopped short. “To whom should the cardinal mention your

words?” asked Caboccini.

“He knows,” replied the half-caste, abruptly. “Good night!”

“Good-night, my friend! I can only approve of your excellent sentiments

with regard to our Company. Alas! it is in want of energetic defenders,

for there are said to be traitors in its bosom.”

“For those,” said Faringhea, “we must have no pity.”

“Certainly,” said the good little father; “we understand one another.”

“Perhaps,” said the half-caste. “Do not, at all events, forget to remind

Father Rodin to go to chapel to-morrow morning.”

“I will take care of that,” said Father Caboccini.

The two men parted. On his return to the house, Caboccini learned that

a courier, only arrived that night from Rome, had brought despatches to

Rodin.

CHAPTER LXVIII. THE FIRST OF JUNE.

The chapel belonging to the house of the reverend fathers in the Rue de

Vaugirard, was gay and elegant. Large panes of stained glass admitted

a mysterious light; the altar shone with gold and silver; and at the

entrance of this little church, in an obscure corner beneath the organ

loft, was a font for holy water in sculptured marble. It was close to

this font, in a dark nook where he could hardly be seen, that Faringhea

knelt down, early on the 1st of June, as soon indeed as the chapel doors

were opened. The half-caste was exceedingly sad. From time to time he

started and sighed, as if agitated by a violent internal struggle.

This wild, untamable being, possessed with the monomania of evil and

destruction, felt, as may be imagined, a profound admiration for Rodin,

who exercised over him a kind of magnetic fascination. The half-caste,

almost a wild beast in human form, saw something supernatural in the

infernal genius of Rodin. And the latter, too sagacious not to have

discovered the savage devotion of this wretch, had made, as we have

seen, good use of him, is bringing about the tragical termination of the

loves of Adrienne and Djalma. But what excited to an incredible degree

the admiration of Faringhea, was what he knew of the Society of

Jesus. This immense, occult power, which undermined the world by its

subterraneous ramifications, and reached its ends by diabolical means,

had inspired the half-caste with a wild enthusiasm. And if anything in

the world surpassed his fanatical admiration for Rodin, it was his blind

devotion to the Company of Ignatius de Loyola, which, as he said, could

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

the cholera to die of joy on the first of June.”

And, though still frightfully pale, the countenance of the Jesuit shone

with audacious confidence. But now, when Rodin appeared to be quite

recovered, Father Caboccini seemed suddenly transformed. Though short,

fat, and one-eyed, his features assumed on the instant so firm, harsh,

and commanding an expression, that Rodin recoiled a step as he looked at

him. Then Father Caboccini, drawing a paper from his pocket, kissed it

respectfully, glanced sternly at Rodin, and read as follows, in a severe

and menacing tone:

“‘On receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father Rodin will

deliver up all his powers to the Reverend Father Caboccini, who is

alone commissioned, with the Reverend Father d’Aigrigny, to receive the

inheritance of the Rennepont family, if, in His eternal justice,

the Lord should restore this property, of which our Company has been

wronged.

“‘Moreover, on receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father

Rodin, in charge of a person to be named by the Reverend Father

Caboccini, shall be conveyed to our house in the Town of Laval, to be

kept in strict seclusion in his cell until further orders.’”

Then Father Caboccini handed the rescript to Rodin, that the latter

might read the signature of the General of the Company. Samuel, greatly

interested by this scene, drew a few steps nearer, leaving the casket

half-open. Suddenly, Rodin burst into a loud laugh--a laugh of joy,

contempt and triumph, impossible to describe. Father Caboccini looked

at him with angry astonishment; when Rodin, growing still more imperious

and haughty, and with an air of more sovereign disdain than ever, pushed

aside the paper with the back of his dirty hand and said: “What is the

date of that scribble?”

“The eleventh of May,” answered Father Caboccini in amazement.

“Here is a brief, that I received last night from Rome, under date of

the eighteenth. It informs me that I am appointed GENERAL OF THE ORDER.

Read!”

Father Caboccini took the paper, read it, and remained thunderstruck.

Then, returning it humbly to Rodin, he respectfully bent his knee before

him. Thus seemed the ambitious views of Rodin accomplished. In spite of

the hatred and suspicion of that party, of which Cardinal Malipieri was

the representative and the chief, Rodin, by address and craft, audacity

and persuasion, and in consequence of the high esteem in which his

partisans at Rome held his rare capacity, had succeeded in deposing his

General, and in procuring his own elevation to that eminent post. Now,

according to his calculation, aided by the millions he was about to

possess, it would be but one step from that post to the pontifical

throne. A mute witness of this scene, Samuel smiled also with an air of

triumph, as he closed the casket by means of the spring known only to

himself. That metallic sound recalled Rodin from the heights of his

mad ambition to the realities of life, and he said to Samuel in a sharp

voice: “You have heard? These millions must be delivered to me alone.”

He extended his hands eagerly and impatiently towards the casket, as

if he would have taken possession of it, before the arrival of the

magistrate. Then Samuel in his turn seemed transfigured, and, folding

his arms upon his breast, and drawing up his aged form to its full

height, he assumed a threatening and imposing air. His eyes flashed with

indignation, and he said in a solemn tone: “This fortune--at first the

humble remains of the inheritance of the most noble of men, whom the

plots of the sons of Loyola drove to suicide--this fortune, which has

since become royal in amount, thanks to the sacred probity of three

generations of faithful servants--this fortune shall never be the reward

of falsehood, hypocrisy and murder. No! the eternal justice of heaven

will not allow it.”

“On murder? what do you mean, sir?” asked Rodin, boldly.

Samuel made no answer. He stamped his foot, and extended his arm slowly

towards the extremity of the apartment. Then Rodin and Father Caboccini

beheld an awful spectacle. The draperies on the wall were drawn aside,

as if by an invisible hand. Round a funeral vault, faintly illumined-by

the bluish light of a silver lamp, six dead bodies were ranged

upon black biers, dressed in long black robes. They were: Jacques

Rennepont--Francois Hardy--Rose and Blanche Simon--Adrienne and Djalma.

They appeared to be asleep. Their eyelids were closed, their hands

crossed over their breasts. Father Caboccini, trembling in every limb,

made the sign of the cross, and retreating to the opposite wall, buried

his face in his hands. Rodin on the contrary, with agitated countenance,

staring eyes, and hair standing on end, yielding to an invincible

attraction, advanced towards those inanimate forms. One would have said

that these last of the Renneponts had only just expired. They seemed to

be in the first hour of the eternal sleep.(44)

“Behold those whom thou host slain!” cried Samuel, in a voice broken

with sobs. “Yea! your detestable plots caused their death--and, as they

fell one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their

poor remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre.

Oh!--cursed--cursed--cursed--be thou who has killed them! But their

spoils shall escape thy murderous hands.”

Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the

funeral couch of Djalma. Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to

assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured

to touch the hands of the Asiatic--and found that they were damp and

pliant, though cold as ice.

The Jesuit drew back in horror. For some seconds, he trembled

convulsively. But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and,

with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of

character, that gave him so much power. Steadying himself on his legs,

drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips

two or three times before he spoke--for his throat and mouth grew

ever drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause--he

succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical

expression, and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to

him, in a hoarse, guttural voice: “I need not show you the certificates

of their death. There they are in person.” And he pointed with his bony

hand to the six dead bodies.

At these words of his General, Father Caboccini again made the sign of

the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.

“Oh, my God!” cried Samuel; “Thou hast quite abandoned this man. With

what a calm look he contemplates his victims!”

“Come, sir!” said Rodin, with a horrid smile; “this is a natural waxwork

exhibition, that is all. My calmness proves my innocence--and we had

best come at once to business. I have an appointment at two o’clock. So

let us carry down this casket.”

He advanced towards the marble slab. Seized with indignation and horror,

Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a

knob in the lid of the casket--a knob which yielded to the pressure--he

exclaimed: “Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may

perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice.”

“What does he say?” cried Rodin. “What is he doing?”

“Look!” said Samuel, in his turn assuming an air of savage triumph. “I

told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous

hands.”

Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the

iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper

spread itself through the room. Rodin understood it instantly. “Fire!”

he exclaimed, as he rushed forward to seize the casket. It had been made

fast to the heavy marble slab.

“Yes, fire,” said Samuel. “In a few minutes, of that immense treasure

there will remain nothing but ashes. And better so, than that it should

belong to you or yours. This treasure is not mine, and it only remains

for me to destroy it--since Gabriel de Rennepont will be faithful to the

oath he has taken.”

“Help! water! water!” cried Rodin, as he covered the casket with his

body, trying in vain to extinguish the flames, which, fanned by the

current of air, now issued from the thousand apertures in the lid; but

soon the intensity of the fire diminished, a few threads of bluish smoke

alone mounted upwards--and then, all was extinct.

The work was done! Breathless and faint, Rodin leaned against the marble

slab. For the first time in his life, he wept; large tears of rage

rolled down his cadaverous cheeks. But suddenly, dreadful pains, at

first dull, but gradually augmenting in intensity, seized on him with so

much fury, though he employed all his energy to struggle against them,

that he fell on his knees, and, pressing his two hands to his chest,

murmured with an attempt to smile: “It is nothing. Do not be alarmed. A

few spasms--that is all. The treasure is destroyed--but I remain General

of the Order. Oh! I suffer. What a furnace!” he added, writhing in

agony. “Since I entered this cursed house, I know not what ails me.

If--I had not lived on roots--water--bread--which I go myself to buy--I

should think--I was poisoned--for I triumph--and Cardinal Malipieri has

long arms. Yes--I still triumph--for I will not die--this time no more

than the other--I will not die!”

Then, as he stretched out his arms convulsively, he continued: “It is

fire that devours my entrails. No doubt, they have tried to poison me.

But when? but how?”

After another pause, Rodin again cried out, in a stifled voice: “Help!

help me, you that stand looking on--like, spectres!--Help me, I say!”

Horror-struck at this dreadful agony, Samuel and Father Caboccini were

unable to stir.

“Help!” repeated Rodin, in a tone of strangulation, “This poison is

horrible.--But how--” Then, with a terrific cry of rage, as if a sudden

idea had struck him, he exclaimed: “Ha! Faringhea--this morning--the

holy water--he knows such subtle poisons. Yes--it is he--he had an

interview with Malipieri. The demon!--Oh! it was well played. The

Borgias are still the same. Oh! it is all over. I die. They will regret

me, the fools!--Oh! hell! hell! The Church knows not its loss--but I

burn--help!”

They came to his assistance. Quick steps were heard upon the stairs, and

Dr. Baleinier, followed by the Princess de Saint-Dizier, appeared at the

entrance of the Hall of Mourning. The princess had learned vaguely that

morning the death of Father d’Aigrigny, and had come to question Rodin

upon the subject. When this woman, entering the room, suddenly saw the

frightful spectacle that offered itself to her view--when she saw

Rodin writhing in horrible agony, and, further on, by the light of the

sepulchral lamp, those six corpses--and, amongst them, her own niece,

and the two orphans whom she had sent to meet their death--she stood

petrified with horror, and her reason was unable to withstand the shock.

She looked slowly round her, and then raised her arms on high, and burst

into a wild fit of laughter. She had gone mad. Whilst Dr. Baleinier

supported the head of Rodin, who expired in his arms, Faringhea appeared

at the door; remaining in the shade, he cast a ferocious glance at

the corpse of the Jesuit. “He would have made himself the chief of the

Company of Jesus, to destroy it,” said he; “with me, the Company of

Jesus stands in the place of Bowanee. I have obeyed the cardinal!”

(44) Should this appear incredible, we would remind the reader of

the marvellous discoveries in the art of embalming--particularly Dr.

Gannal’s.

EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I. FOUR YEARS AFTER.

Four years had elapsed, since the events we have just related,

when Gabriel de Rennepont wrote the following letter to Abbe Joseph

Charpentier, curate of the Parish of Saint-Aubin, a hamlet of Sologne:

“Springwater Farm, “June 2d, 1836.

“Intending to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myself

at the little old black table, that you will remember well. My window

looks, you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes place

there. These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to the

point. I had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from the

window, this is what I saw. You, my dear Joseph, who can draw so well,

should have been there to have sketched the charming scene. The sun was

sinking, the sky serene, the air warm and balmy with the breath of the

hawthorn, which, flowering by the side of a little rivulet, forms the

edge which borders the yard. Under the large pear-tree, close to the

wall of the barn, sat upon the stone bench my adopted father, Dagobert,

that brave and honest soldier whom you love so much. He appeared

thoughtful, his white head was bowed on his bosom; with absent mind,

he patted old Spoil-sport, whose intelligent face was resting on his

master’s knees. By his side was his wife, my dear adopted mother,

occupied with her sewing; and near them, on a stool, sat Angela,

the wife of Agricola, nursing her last-born child, while the gentle

Magdalen, with the eldest boy in her lap, was occupied in teaching him

the letters of the alphabet. Agricola had just returned from the fields,

and was beginning to unyoke his cattle, when, struck, like me, no doubt,

with this picture, he stood gazing on it for a moment, with his hand

still leaning on the yoke, beneath which bent submissive the broad

foreheads of his two large black oxen. I cannot express to you, my

friend, the enchanting repose of this picture, lighted by the last rays

of the sun, here and there broken by the thick foliage. What various

and touching types! The venerable face of the soldier--the good, loving

countenance of my adopted mother--the fresh beauty of Angela, smiling

on her little child--the soft melancholy of the hunchback, now and

then pressing her lips to the fair, laughing cheek of Agricola’s eldest

son--and then Agricola himself, in his manly beauty, which seems to

reflect so well the valor and honesty of his heart! Oh, my Friend!

in contemplating this assemblage of good, devoted, noble, and loving

beings, so dear to each other, living retired in a little farm of our

poor Sologne, my heart rose towards heaven with a feeling of ineffable

gratitude. This peace of the family circle--this clear evening, with the

perfume of the woods and wild flowers wafted on the breeze--this deep

silence, only broken by the murmur of the neighboring rill--all affected

me with one of these passing fits of vague and sweet emotion, which

one feels but cannot express. You well know it, my friend, who, in your

solitary walks, in the midst of your immense plains of flowering heath,

surrounded by forests of fir trees, often feel your eyes grow moist,

without being able to explain the cause of that sweet melancholy, which

I, too, have often felt, during those glorious nights passed in the

profound solitudes of America.

“But, alas! a painful incident disturbed the serenity of the picture.

Suddenly I heard Dagobert’s wife say to him: ‘My dear--you are weeping!’

“At these words, Agricola, Angela, and Magdalen gathered round the

soldier. Anxiety was visible upon every face. Then, as he raised his

head abruptly, one could see two large tears trickle down his cheek to

his white moustache. ‘It is nothing, my children,’ said he, in a voice

of emotion ‘it is nothing. Only, to-day is the first of June--and this

day four years--’ He could not complete the sentence; and, as he raised

his hands to his eyes, to brush away the tears, we saw that he held

between his fingers a little bronze chain, with a medal suspended to it.

That is his dearest relic. Four years ago, almost dying with despair at

the loss of the two angels, of whom I have so often spoken to you, my

friend, he took from the neck of Marshal Simon, brought home dead from a

fatal duel, this chain and medal which his children had so long worn.

I went down instantly, as you may suppose, to endeavor to soothe the

painful remembrances of this excellent man; gradually, he grew calmer,

and the evening was passed in a pious and quiet sadness.

“You cannot imagine, my friend, when I returned to my chamber, what

cruel thoughts came to my mind, as I recalled those past events, from

which I generally turn away with fear and horror. Then I saw once more

the victims of those terrible and mysterious plots, the awful depths of

which have never been penetrated thanks to the death of Father d’A.

and Father R., and the incurable madness of Madame de St.-D., the three

authors or accomplices of the dreadful deeds. The calamities occasioned

by them are irreparable; for those who were thus sacrificed to a

criminal ambition, would have been the pride of humanity by the good

they would have done. Ah, my friend! if you had known those noble

hearts; if you had known the projects of splendid charity, formed by

that young lady, whose heart was so generous, whose mind so elevated,

whose soul so great! On the eve of her death, as a kind of prelude to

her magnificent designs, after a conversation, the subject of which I

must keep secret, even from you, she put into my hands a considerable

sum, saying, with her usual grace and goodness: ‘I have been threatened

with ruin, and it might perhaps come. What I now confide to you will at

least be safe--safe--for those who suffer. Give much--give freely--make

as many happy hearts as you can. My happiness shall have a royal

inauguration!!’ I do not know whether I ever told you, my friend,

that, after those fatal events, seeing Dagobert and his wife reduced to

misery, poor ‘Mother Bunch’ hardly able to earn a wretched subsistence,

Agricola soon to become a father, and myself deprived of my curacy, and

suspended by my bishop, for having given religious consolations to

a Protestant, and offered up prayers at the tomb of an unfortunate

suicide--I considered myself justified in employing a small portion of

the sum intrusted to me by Mdlle. de Cardoville in the purchase of this

farm in Dagobert’s name.

“Yes, my friend, such is the origin of my fortune. The farmer to

whom these few acres formerly belonged, gave us the rudiments of our

agricultural education, and common sense, and the study of a few good

practical books, completed it. From an excellent workman, Agricola has

become an equally excellent husbandman; I have tried to imitate him, and

have put my hand also to the plough there is no derogation in it, for

the labor which provides food for man is thrice hallowed, and it is

truly to serve and glorify God, to cultivate and enrich the earth He has

created. Dagobert, when his first grief was a little appeased, seemed to

gather new vigor from this healthy life of the fields; and, during his

exile in Siberia, he had already learned to till the ground. Finally, my

dear adopted mother and sister, and Agricola’s good wife, have divided

between them the household cares; and God has blessed this little colony

of people, who, alas! have been sorely tried by misfortune, and who now

only ask of toil and solitude, a quite, laborious, innocent life, and

oblivion of great sorrows. Sometimes, in our winter evenings, you have

been able to appreciate the delicate and charming mind of the gentle

‘Mother Bunch,’ the rare poetical imagination of Agricola, the

tenderness of his mother, the good sense of his father, the exquisite

natural grace of Angela. Tell me, my friend, was it possible to unite

more elements of domestic happiness? What long evenings have we passed

round the fire of crackling wood, reading, or commenting on a few

immortal works, which always warm the heart, and enlarge the soul!

What sweet talk have we had, prolonged far into the night! And then

Agricola’s pastorals, and the timid literary confidences of Magdalen!

And the fresh, clear voice of Angela, joined to the deep manly tones of

Agricola, in songs of simple melody! And the old stories of Dagobert,

so energetic and picturesque in their warlike spirit! And the adorable

gayety of the children, in their sports with good old Spoil-sport,

who rather lends himself to their play than takes part in it--for the

faithful, intelligent creature seems always to be looking for somebody,

as Dagobert says--and he is right. Yes, the dog also regrets those two

angels, of whom he was the devoted guardian!

“Do not think, my friend, that our happiness makes us forgetful. No, no;

not a day passes without our repeating, with pious and tender respect,

those names so dear to our heart. And these painful memories, hovering

forever about us, give to our calm and happy existence that shade of

mild seriousness which struck you so much. No doubt, my friend, this

kind of life, bounded by the family circle, and not extending beyond,

for the happiness or improvement of our brethren, may be set down as

selfish; but, alas! we have not the means--and though the poor man

always finds a place at our frugal table, and shelter beneath our roof,

we must renounce all great projects of fraternal action. The little

revenue of our farm just suffices to supply our wants. Alas! when I

think over it, notwithstanding a momentary regret, I cannot blame my

resolution to keep faithfully my sacred oath, and to renounce that great

inheritance, which, alas! had become immense by the death of my kindred.

Yes, I believe I performed a duty, when I begged the guardian of that

treasure to reduce it to ashes, rather than let it fall into the hands

of people, who would have made an execrable use of it, or to perjure

myself by disputing a donation which I had granted freely, voluntarily,

sincerely. And yet, when I picture to myself the realization of the

magnificent views of--my ancestor--an admirable Utopia, only possible

with immense resources--and which Mdlle. de Cardoville hoped to carry

into execution, with the aid of M. Francois Hardy, of Prince Djalma,

of Marshal Simon and his daughters, and of myself--when I think of the

dazzling focus of living forces, which such an association would have

been, and of the immense influence it might have had on the happiness of

the whole human race--my indignation and horror, as an honest man and

a Christian, are excited against that abominable Company, whose black

plots nipped in their bud all those great hopes, which promised so much

for futurity. What remains now of all these splendid projects? Seven

tombs. For my grave also is dug in that mausoleum, which Samuel has

erected on the site of the house in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Francois, and of

which he remains the keeper--faithful to the end!

“I had written thus far, my friend, when I received your letter. So,

after having forbidden you to see me, your bishop now orders that you

shall cease to correspond with me. Your touching, painful regrets

have deeply moved me, my friend. Often have we talked together of

ecclesiastical discipline, and of the absolute power of the bishops

over, us, the poor working clergy, left to their mercy without remedy.

It is painful, but it is the law of the church, my friend, and you have

sworn to observe it. Submit as I have submitted. Every engagement is

binding upon the man of honor! My poor, dear Joseph! would that you had

the compensations which remained to me, after the rupture of ties that I

so much value. But I know too well what you must feel--I cannot go on

I find it impossible to continue this letter, I might be bitter against

those whose orders we are bound to respect. Since it must be so, this

letter shall be my last. Farewell, my friend! farewell forever. My heart

is almost broken.

“GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT.”

CHAPTER II. THE REDEMPTION.

Day was about to dawn. A rosy light, almost imperceptible, began to

glimmer in the east; but the stars still shone, sparkling with radiance,

upon the azure of the zenith. The birds awoke beneath the fresh foliage

of the great woods; and, with isolated warblings, sang the prelude of

their morning-concert. A light mist rose from the high grass, bathed in

nocturnal dew, while the calm and limpid waters of a vast lake reflected

the whitening dawn in their deep, blue mirror. Everything promised one

of those warm and joyous days, that belong to the opening of summer.

Half-way up the slope of a hill, facing the east, a tuft of old, moss

grown willows, whose rugged bark disappeared beneath the climbing

branches of wild honeysuckle and harebells, formed a natural harbor;

and on their gnarled and enormous roots, covered with thick moss, were

seated a man and a woman, whose white hair, deep wrinkles, and bending

figures, announced extreme old age. And yet this woman had only lately

been young and beautiful, with long black hair overshadowing her pale

forehead. And yet this man had, a short time ago, been still in the

vigor of his age. From the spot where this man and woman were reposing,

could be seen the valley, the lake, the woods, and, soaring above the

woods, the blue summit of a high mountain, from behind which the sun was

about to rise. This picture, half veiled by the pale transparency of the

morning twilight, was pleasing, melancholy, and solemn.

“Oh, my sister!” said the old man to the woman, who was reposing with

him beneath the rustic arbor formed by the tuft of willow-trees; “oh,

my sister! how many times during the centuries in which the hand of the

Lord carried us onward, and, separated from each other, we traversed the

world from pole to pole--how many times we have witnessed this awakening

of nature with a sentiment of incurable grief!--Alas! it was but another

day of wandering--another useless day added to our life, since it

brought death no nearer!”

“But now what happiness, oh, my brother! since the Lord has had mercy on

us, and, with us, as with all other creatures, every returning day is a

step nearer to the grave. Glory to Him! yes, glory!”

“Glory to Him, my sister! for since yesterday, when we again met, I feel

that indescribable languor which announces the approach of death.”

“Like you, my brother, I feel my strength, already shaken, passing away

in a sweet exhaustion. Doubtless, the term of our life approaches. The

wrath of the Lord is satisfied.”

“Alas, my sister! doubtless also, the last of my doomed race, will, at

the same time, complete our redemption by his death; for the will of

heaven is manifest, that I can only be pardoned, when the last of

my family shall have disappeared from the face of the earth. To him,

holiest amongst the holiest--was reserved the favor of accomplishing

this end he who has done so much for the salvation of his brethren!”

“Oh, yes, my brother! he who has suffered so much, and without

complaining, drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of woe--he, the minister

of the Lord, who has been his Master’s image upon earth--he was fitted

for the last instrument of this redemption!”

“Yes, for I feel, my sister, that, at this hour, the last of my race,

touching victim of slow persecution, is on the point of resigning his

angelic soul to God. Thus, even to the end, have I been fatal to

my doomed family. Lord, if Thy mercy is great, Thy anger is great

likewise!”

“Courage and hope, my brother! Think how after the expiration cometh

pardon, and pardon is followed by a blessing. The Lord punished, in

you and your posterity, the artisan rendered wicked by misfortune and

injustice. He said to you: ‘Go on! without truce or rest--and your labor

shall be vain--and every evening, throwing yourself on the hard ground,

you shall be no nearer to the end of your eternal course!’--And so, for

centuries, men without pity have said to the artisan: ‘Work! work! work!

without truce or rest--and your labor shall be fruitful for all others,

but fruitless for yourself--and every evening, throwing yourself on the

hard ground, you shall be no nearer to happiness and repose; and your

wages shall only suffice to keep you alive in pain, privation, and

poverty!’”

“Alas! alas! will it be always thus?”

“No, no, my brother! and instead of weeping over your lost race, rejoice

for them--since their death was needed for your redemption, and in

redeeming you, heaven will redeem the artisan, cursed and feared by

those--who have laid on him the iron yoke. Yes, my brother! the time

draweth nigh--heaven’s mercy will not stop with us alone. Yes, I tell

you; in us will be rescued both the WOMAN and the SLAVE of these

modern ages. The trial has been hard, brother; it has lasted throughout

eighteen centuries; but it will last no longer. Look, my brother!

see that rosy light, there in the east, gradually spreading over the

firmament! Thus will rise the sun of the new emancipation--peaceful,

holy, great, salutary, fruitful, filling the world with light and

vivifying heat, like the day-star that will soon appear in heaven!”

“Yes, yes, my sister! I feel it. Your words are prophetic. We

shall close our heavy eyes just as we see the aurora of the day of

deliverance--a fair, a splendid day, like that which is about to dawn.

Henceforth I will only shed tears of pride and glory for those of my

race, who have died the martyrs of humanity, sacrificed by humanity’s

eternal enemies--for the true ancestors of the sacrilegious wretches,

who blaspheme the name of Jesus by giving it to their Company, were the

false Scribes and Pharisees, whom the Saviour cursed!--Yes! glory to the

descendants of my family, who have been the last martyrs offered up by

the accomplices of all slavery and all despotism, the pitiless enemies

of those who wish to think, and not to suffer in silence--of those that

would feign enjoy, as children of heaven, the gifts which the Creator

has bestowed upon all the human family. Yes, the day approaches--the end

of the reign of our modern Pharisees--the false priests, who lend their

sacrilegious aid to the merciless selfishness of the strong against the

weak, by daring to maintain in the face of the exhaustless treasures

of the creation, that God has made man for tears, and sorrow, and

suffering--the false priests, who are the agents of all oppression, and

would bow to the earth, in brutish and hopeless humiliation, the brow of

every creature. No, no! let man lift his head proudly! God made him to

be noble and intelligent free and happy.”

“Oh, my brother! your words also are prophetic. Yes, yes! the dawn of

that bright day approaches, even as the dawn of the natural day which,

by the mercy of God, will be our last on earth.”

“The last, my sister; for a strange weakness creeps over me, all matter

seems dissolving in me, and my soul aspires to mount to heaven.”

“Mine eyes are growing dim, brother; I can scarcely see that light in

the east, which lately appeared so red.”

“Sister! it is through a confused vapor that I now see the valley--the

lake--the woods. My strength fails me.”

“Blessed be God, brother! the moment of eternal rest is at hand.”

“Yes, it comes, my sister! the sweetness of the everlasting sleep takes

possession of my senses.”

“Oh, happiness! I am dying--”

“These eyes are closing, sister!”

“We are then forgiven!”

“Forgiven!”

“Oh, my brother! may this Divine redemption extend to all those who

suffer upon the earth!”

“Die in peace, my sister! The great day has dawned--the sun is

rising--behold!”

“Blessed be God!”

“Blessed be God!”

And at the moment when those two voices ceased forever, the sun rose

radiant and dazzling, and deluged the valley with its beams.

To M. C--P--.

To you, my friend, I dedicated this book. To inscribe it with your name,

was to assume an engagement that, in the absence of talent, it should

be at least conscientious, sincere, and of a salutary influence, however

limited. My object is attained. Some select hearts, like yours, my

friend, have put into practice the legitimate association of labor,

capital, and intelligence, and have already granted to their workmen a

proportionate share in the profits of their industry. Others have

laid the foundations of Common Dwelling-houses, and one of the chief

capitalists of Hamburg has favored me with his views respecting an

establishment of this kind, on the most gigantic scale.

As for the dispersion of the members of the Company of Jesus, I have

taken less part in it than other enemies of the detestable doctrines of

Loyola, whose influence and authority were far greater than mine.

Adieu, my friend. I could have wished this work more worthy of you; but

you are indulgent, and will at least give me credit for the intentions

which dictated it.

Believe me, Yours truly,

EUGENE SUE.

Paris, 25th August, 1845. Paris, 25th August, 1845.

End of Project Gutenberg’s The Wandering Jew, Complete, by Eugene Sue