THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-FRANCOIS.
On entering the Rue Saint-Gervais, by the Rue Dore (in the Marais), you
would have found yourself, at the epoch of this narrative, directly
opposite to an enormously high wall, the stones of which were black and
worm-eaten with age. This wall, which extended nearly the whole length of
that solitary street, served to support a terrace shaded by trees of some
hundred years old, which thus grew about forty feet above the causeway.
Through their thick branches appeared the stone front, peaked roof and
tall brick chimneys of an antique house, the entrance of which was
situated in the Rue Saint-Francois, not far from the Rue Saint Gervais
corner. Nothing could be more gloomy than the exterior of this abode. On
the entrance-side also was a very high wall, pierced with two or three
loop-holes, strongly grated. A carriage gateway in massive oak, barred
with iron, and studded with large nail-heads, whose primitive color
disappeared beneath a thick layer of mud, dust, and rust, fitted close
into the arch of a deep recess, forming the swell of a bay window above.
In one of these massive gates was a smaller door, which served for
ingress and egress to Samuel the Jew, the guardian of this dreary abode.
On passing the threshold, you came to a passage, formed in the building
which faced in the street. In this building was the lodging of Samuel,
with its windows opening upon the rather spacious inner court yard,
through the railing of which you perceived the garden. In the middle of
this garden stood a two-storied stone house, so strangely built, that you
had to mount a flight of steps, or rather a double-flight of at least
twenty steps, to reach the door, which had been walled up a hundred and
fifty years before. The window-blinds of this habitation had been
replaced by large thick plates of lead, hermetically soldered and kept in
by frames of iron clamped in the stone. Moreover, completely to intercept
air and light, and thus to guard against decay within and without, the
roof had been covered with thick sheets of lead, as well as the vents of
the tall chimneys, which had previously been bricked up. The same
precautions had been taken with respect to a small square belvedere,
situated on the top of the house; this glass cage was covered with a sort
of dome, soldered to the roof. Only, in consequence of some singular
fancy, in every one of the leaden plates, which concealed the four sides
of the belvedere, corresponding to the cardinal points, seven little
round holes had been bored in the form of a cross, and were easily
distinguishable from the outside. Everywhere else the plates of lead were
completely unpierced. Thanks to these precautions, and to the substantial
structure of the building, nothing but a few outward repairs had been
necessary; and the apartments, entirely removed from the influence of the
external air, no doubt remained, during a century and a half, exactly in
the same state as at the time of their being shut up. The aspect of walls
in crevices, of broken, worm-eaten shutters, of a roof half fallen in,
and windows covered with wall-flowers, would perhaps have been less sad
than the appearance of this stone house, plated with iron and lead, and
preserved like a mausoleum. The garden, completely deserted, and only
regularly visited once a week by Samuel, presented to the view,
particularly in summer, an incredible confusion of parasites and
brambles. The trees, left to themselves, had shot forth and mingled their
branches in all directions; some straggling vines, reproduced from
offshoots, had crept along the ground to the foot of the trees, and,
climbing up their trunks, had twined themselves about them, and encircled
their highest branches with their inextricable net. You could only pass
through this virgin forest by following the path made by the guardian, to
go from the grating to the house, the approaches to which were a little
sloped to let the water run off, and carefully paved to the width of
about ten feet. Another narrow path which extended all around the
enclosure, was every night perambulated by two or three Pyrenees dogs--a
faithful race, which had been perpetuated in the house during a century
and a half. Such was the habitation destined for the meeting of the
descendants of the family of Rennepont. The night which separated the
12th from the 13th day of February was near its close. A calm had
succeeded the storm, and the rain had ceased; the sky was clear and full
of stars; the moon, on its decline, shone with a mild lustre, and threw a
melancholy light over that deserted, silent house, whose threshold for so
many years no human footstep had crossed.
A bright gleam of light, issuing from one of the windows of the
guardian's dwelling, announced that Samuel was awake. Figure to yourself
a tolerably large room, lined from top to bottom with old walnut
wainscoting browned to an almost black, with age. Two half-extinguished
brands are smoking amid the cinders on the hearth. On the stone
mantelpiece, painted to resemble gray granite, stands an old iron
candlestick, furnished with a meagre candle, capped by an extinguisher.
Near it one sees a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and a sharp cutlass,
with a hilt of carved bronze, belonging to the seventeenth century.
Moreover, a heavy rifle rests against one of the chimney jambs. Four
stools, an old oak press, and a square table with twisted legs, formed
the sole furniture of this apartment. Against the wall were
systematically suspended a number of keys of different sizes, the shape
of which bore evidence to their antiquity, whilst to their rings were
affixed divers labels. The back of the old press, which moved by a secret
spring, had been pushed aside, and discovered, built in the wall, a large
and deep iron chest, the lid of which, being open, displayed the wondrous
mechanism of one of those Florentine locks of the sixteenth century,
which, better than any modern invention, set all picklocks at defiance;
and, moreover, according to the notions of that age, are supplied with a
thick lining of asbestos cloth, suspended by gold wire at a distance from
the sides of the chest, for the purpose of rendering incombustible the
articles contained in it. A large cedar-wood box had been taken from the
chest, and placed upon a stool; it contained numerous papers, carefully
arranged and docketed. By the light of a brass lamp, the old keeper
Samuel, was writing in a small register, whilst Bathsheba, his wife, was
dictating to him from an account. Samuel was about eighty two years old,
and, notwithstanding his advanced age, a mass of gray curling hair
covered his head. He was short, thin, nervous, and the involuntary
petulance of his movements proved that years had not weakened his energy
and activity; though, out of doors, where, however, he made his
appearance very seldom, he affected a sort of second childhood, as had
been remarked by Rodin to Father d'Aigrigny. An old dressing-gown, of
maroon-colored camlet, with large sleeves, completely enveloped the old
man, and reached to his feet.
Samuel's features were cast in the pure, Eastern mould of his race. His
complexion was of a dead yellow, his nose aquiline, his chin shaded by a
little tuft of white beard, while projecting cheek-bones threw a harsh
shadow upon the hollow and wrinkled cheeks. His countenance was full of
intelligence, fine sharpness, and sagacity. On his broad, high forehead
one might read frankness, honesty, and firmness; his eyes, black and
brilliant as an Arab's, were at once mild and piercing.
His wife, Bathsheba, some fifteen years younger than himself, was of tall
stature, and dressed entirely in black. A low cap, of starched lawn,
which reminded one of the grave head-dresses of Dutch matrons, encircled
a pale and austere countenance, formerly of a rare and haughty beauty,
and impressed with the Scriptural character. Some lines in the forehead,
caused by the almost continual knitting of her gray brows, showed that
this woman had often suffered from the pressure of intense grief.
At this very moment her countenance betrayed inexpressible sorrow. Her
look was fixed, her head resting on her bosom. She had let her right
hand, which held a small account-book, fall upon her lap, while the other
hand grasped convulsively a long tress of jet-black hair, which she bore
about her neck. It was fastened by a golden clasp, about an inch square,
in which, under a plate of crystal, that shut in one side of it like a
relic-case, could be seen a piece of linen, folded square, and almost
entirely covered with dark red spots that resembled blood a long time
dried.
After a short silence, during which Samuel was occupied with his
register, he read aloud what he had just been writing: "Per contra, 5,000
Austrian Metallics of 1,000 florins, under date of October 19th, 1826."
After which enumeration, Samuel raised his head, and said to his wife:
"Well, is it right, Bathsheba? Have you compared it with the account
book?"
Bathsheba did not answer. Samuel looked at her, and, seeing that she was
absorbed in grief, said to her, with an expression of tender anxiety:
"What is the matter? Good heaven! what is the matter with you?"
"The 19th of October, 1826," said she, slowly, with her eyes still fixed,
and pressing yet more closely the lock of black hair which she wore about
her neck; "It was a fatal day--for, Samuel, it was the date of the last
letter which we received from--"
Bathsheba was unable to proceed. She uttered a long sigh, and concealed
her face in her hands.
"Oh! I understand you," observed the old man, in a tremulous voice; "a
father may be taken up by the thought of other cares; but the heart of a
mother is ever wakeful." Throwing his pen down upon the table, Samuel
leaned his forehead upon his hands in sorrow.
Bathsheba resumed, as if she found a melancholy pleasure in these cruel
remembrances: "Yes; that was the last day on which our son, Abel, wrote
to us from Germany, to announce to us that he had invested the funds
according to your desire and was going thence into Poland, to effect
another operation."
"And in Poland he met the death of a martyr," added Samuel. "With no
motive and no proof, they accused him falsely of coming to organize
smuggling, and the Russian governor, treating him as they treat our
brothers in that land of cruel tyranny, condemned him to the dreadful
punishment of the knout, without even hearing him in his defence. Why
should they hear a Jew? What is a Jew? A creature below a serf, whom they
reproach for all the vices that a degrading slavery has engendered. A Jew
beaten to death? Who would trouble themselves about it?"
"And poor Abel, so good, so faithful, died beneath their stripes, partly
from shame, partly from the wounds," said Bathsheba, shuddering. "One of
our Polish brethren obtained with great difficulty permission to bury
him. He cut off this lock of beautiful black hair--which, with this scrap
of linen, bathed in the blood of our dear son, is all that now remains to
us of him." Bathsheba covered the hair and clasp with convulsive kisses.
"Alas!" said Samuel, drying his tears, which had burst forth at these sad
recollections, "the Lord did not at last remove our child, until the task
which our family has accomplished faithfully for a century and a half was
nearly at an end. Of what use will our race be henceforth upon earth?"
added Samuel, most bitterly. "Our duty is performed. This casket contains
a royal fortune--and yonder house, walled up for a hundred and fifty
years, will be opened to-morrow to the descendants of my ancestor's
benefactor." So saying, Samuel turned his face sorrowfully towards the
house, which he could see through the window. The dawn was just about to
appear. The moon had set; belvedere, roof, and chimneys formed a black
mass upon the dark blue of the starry firmament.
Suddenly, Samuel grew pale, and, rising abruptly, said to his wife in a
tremulous tone, whilst he still pointed to the house: "Bathsheba! the
seven points of light--just as it was thirty years ago. Look! look:"
Indeed, the seven round holes, bored in the form of a cross in the leaden
plates which covered the window of the belvedere, sparkled like so many
luminous points, as if some one in the house ascended with a light to the
roof.