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The Wandering Jew — Volume 02

by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #3340 · 404,465 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Wandering Jew — Volume 02

Author: Eugène Sue


        
Release date: October 25, 2004 [eBook #3340]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3340

Credits: Produced by David Widger and Pat Castevens


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WANDERING JEW — VOLUME 02 ***




Produced by David Widger and Pat Castevens







THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue




BOOK II.

INTERVAL.--THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.

XVII.     The Ajoupa
XVIII.    The Tattooing
XIX.      The Smuggler
XX.       M. Joshua Van Dael
XXI.      The Ruins of Tchandi
XXII.     The Ambuscade
XXIII.    M. Rodin
XXIV.     The Tempest
XXV.      The Shipwreck
XXVI.     The Departure for Paris
XXVII.    Dagobert's Wife
XXVIII.   The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen
XXIX.     Agricola Baudoin
XXX.      The Return
XXXI.     Agricola and Mother Bunch
XXXII.    The Awakening
XXXIII.   The Pavilion
XXXIV.    Adrienne at her Toilet
XXXV.     The Interview




INTERVAL.

THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.

The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with huge
boulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, their
foliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from the
background of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resembling
the reflection of a great fire.

From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady, fertile,
and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The rich meadows, the
tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe corn has been
gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint, which
contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of gray stone or
slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midst of this
valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering a high-road
which leads from the north to the west.

It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, every cottage
window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth, and shines
afar through shade and foliage, whilst clouds of smoke issue from the
chimneys, and curl up slowly towards the sky. But now, strange to say,
every hearth in the country seems cold and deserted. Stranger and more
fatal still, every steeple rings out a funeral knell. Whatever there is
of activity, movement, or life, appears concentrated in that lugubrious
and far-sounding vibration.

Lights begin to show themselves in the dark villages, but they rise not
from the cheerful and pleasant rustic hearth. They are as red as the
fires of the herdsmen, seen at night through the midst of the fog. And
then these lights do not remain motionless. They creep slowly towards the
churchyard of every village. Louder sounds the death-knell, the air
trembles beneath the strokes of so many bells, and, at rare intervals,
the funeral chant rises faintly to the summit of the hill.

Why so many interments? What valley of desolation is this, where the
peaceful songs which follow the hard labors of the day are replaced by
the death dirge? where the repose of evening is exchanged for the repose
of eternity? What is this valley of the shadow, where every village
mourns for its many dead, and buries them at the same hour of the same
night?

Alas! the deaths are so sudden and numerous and frightful that there is
hardly time to bury the dead. During day the survivors are chained to the
earth by hard but necessary toil; and only in the evening, when they
return from the fields, are they able, though sinking with fatigue, to
dig those other furrows, in which their brethren are to lie heaped like
grains of corn.

And this valley is not the only one that has seen the desolation. During
a series of fatal years, many villages, many towns, many cities, many
great countries, have seen, like this valley, their hearths deserted and
cold--have seen, like this valley, mourning take the place of joy, and
the death-knell substituted for the noise of festival--have wept in the
same day for their many dead, and buried them at night by the lurid glare
of torches.

For, during those fatal years, an awful wayfarer had slowly journeyed
over the earth, from one pole to the other--from the depths of India and
Asia to the ice of Siberia--from the ice of Siberia to the borders of the
seas of France.

This traveller, mysterious as death, slow as eternity, implacable as
fate, terrible as the hand of heaven, was the CHOLERA!

The tolling of bells and the funeral chants still rose from the depths of
the valley to the summit of the hill, like the complaining of a mighty
voice; the glare of the funeral torches was still seen afar through the
mist of evening; it was the hour of twilight--that strange hour, which
gives to the most solid forms a vague, indefinite fantastic
appearance--when the sound of firm and regular footsteps was heard on the
stony soil of the rising ground, and, between the black trunks of the
trees, a man passed slowly onward.

His figure was tall, his head was bowed upon his breast; his countenance
was noble, gentle, and sad; his eyebrows, uniting in the midst, extended
from one temple to the other, like a fatal mark on his forehead.

This man did not seem to hear the distant tolling of so many funeral
bells--and yet, a few days before, repose and happiness, health and joy,
had reigned in those villages through which he had slowly passed, and
which he now left behind him, mourning and desolate. But the traveller
continued on his way, absorbed in his own reflections.

"The 13th of February approaches," thought he; "the day approaches, in
which the descendants of my beloved sister, the last scions of our race,
should meet in Paris. Alas! it is now a hundred and fifty years since,
for the third time, persecution scattered this family over all the
earth--this family, that I have watched over with tenderness for eighteen
centuries, through all its migrations and exiles, its changes of
religion, fortune, and name!

"Oh! for this family, descended from the sister of the poor shoemaker,[2]
what grandeur and what abasement, what obscurity and what splendor, what
misery and what glory! By how many crimes has it been sullied, by how
many virtues honored! The history of this single family is the history of
the human race!

"Passing, in the course of so many generations, through the veins of the
poor and the rich, of the sovereign and the bandit, of the wise man and
the fool, of the coward and the brave, of the saint and the atheist, the
blood of my sister has transmitted itself to this hour.

"What scions of this family are now remaining? Seven only.

"Two orphans, the daughters of proscribed parents--a dethroned prince--a
poor missionary priest--a man of the middle class--a young girl of a
great name and large fortune--a mechanic.

"Together, they comprise in themselves the virtues, the courage, the
degradation, the splendor, the miseries of our species!

"Siberia--India--America--France--behold the divers places where fate has
thrown them!

"My instinct teaches me when one of them is in peril. Then, from the
North to the South, from the East to the West, I go to seek them.
Yesterday amid the polar frosts--to-day in the temperate zone--to-morrow
beneath the fires of the tropics--but often, alas! at the moment when my
presence might save them, the invisible hand impels me, the whirlwind
carries me away, and the voice speaks in my ear: 'GO ON! GO ON!'

"Oh, that I might only finish my task!--'GO ON!'--A single hour--only a
single hour of repose!--'GO ON!'--Alas! I leave those I love on the brink
of the abyss!--'GO ON! GO ON!'

"Such is my punishment. If it is great, my crime was greater still! An
artisan, devoted to privations and misery, my misfortunes had made me
cruel.

"Oh, cursed, cursed be the day, when, as I bent over my work, sullen with
hate and despair, because, in spite of my incessant labor, I and mine
wanted for everything, the Saviour passed before my door.

"Reviled, insulted, covered with blows, hardly able to sustain the weight
of his heavy cross, He asked me to let Him rest a moment on my stone
bench. The sweat poured from His forehead, His feet were bleeding, He was
well-nigh sinking with fatigue, and He said to me, in a mild, heart
piercing voice: 'I suffer!' 'And I too suffer,' I replied, as with harsh
anger I pushed Him from the place; 'I suffer, and no one comes to help
me! I find no pity, and will give none. Go on! go on!' Then, with a deep
sigh of pain, He answered, and spake this sentence: 'Verily, thou shalt
go on till the day of thy redemption, for so wills the Father which art
in heaven!'

"And so my punishment began. Too late I opened these eyes to the light,
too late I learned repentance and charity, too late I understood those
divine words of Him I had outraged, words which should be the law of the
whole human race. 'LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER.'

"In vain through successive ages, gathering strength and eloquence from
those celestial words, have I labored to earn my pardon, by filling with
commiseration and love hearts that were overflowing with envy and
bitterness, by inspiring many a soul with a sacred horror of oppression
and injustice. For me the day of mercy has not yet dawned!

"And even as the first man, by his fall, devoted his posterity to
misfortune, it would seem as if I, the workman, had consigned the whole
race of artisans to endless sorrows, and as if they were expiating my
crime: for they alone, during these eighteen centuries, have not yet been
delivered.

"For eighteen centuries, the powerful and the happy of this world have
said to the toiling people what I said to the imploring and suffering
Saviour: 'Go on! go on!' And the people, sinking with fatigue, bearing
their heavy cross, have answered in the bitterness of their grief: 'Oh,
for pity's sake! a few moments of repose; we are worn out with toil.'--Go
on!'--'And if we perish in our pain, what will become of our little
children and our aged mothers?'--'Go on! go on!' And, for eighteen
centuries, they and I have continued to struggle forward and to suffer,
and no charitable voice has yet pronounced the word 'Enough!'

"Alas! such is my punishment. It is immense, it is two-fold. I suffer in
the name of humanity, when I see these wretched multitudes consigned
without respite to profitless and oppressive toil. I suffer in the name
of my family, when, poor and wandering, I am unable to bring aid to the
descendants of my dear sister. But, when the sorrow is above my strength,
when I foresee some danger from which I cannot preserve my own, then my
thoughts, travelling over the world, go in search of that woman like me
accursed, that daughter of a queen, who, like me, the son of a laborer,
wanders, and will wander on, till the day of her redemption.[3]

"Once in a century, as two planets draw nigh to each other in their
revolutions, I am permitted to meet this woman during the dread week of
the Passion. And after this interview, filled with terrible remembrances
and boundless griefs, wandering stars of eternity, we pursue our infinite
course.

"And this woman, the only one upon earth who, like me, sees the end of
every century, and exclaims: 'What another?' this woman responds to my
thought, from the furthest extremity of the world. She, who alone shares
my terrible destiny, has chosen to share also the only interest that has
consoled me for so many ages. Those descendants of my dear sister, she
too loves, she too protects them. For them she journeys likewise from
East to West and from North to South.

"But alas! the invisible hand impels her, the whirlwind carries her away,
and the voice speaks in her ear: 'Go on!'--'Oh that I might finish my
sentence!' repeats she also,--'Go on!'--'A single hour--only a single hour
of repose!'--Go on!'--'I leave those I love on the brink of the
abyss.'--'Go on! Go on!--'"

Whilst this man thus went over the hill absorbed in his thoughts, the
light evening breeze increased almost to a gale, a vivid flash streamed
across the sky, and long, deep whistlings announced the coming of a
tempest.

On a sudden this doomed man, who could no longer weep or smile, started
with a shudder. No physical pain could reach him, and yet he pressed his
hand hastily to his heart, as though he had experienced a cruel pang.
"Oh!" cried he; "I feel it. This hour, many of those whom I love--the
descendants of my dear sister--suffer, and are in great peril. Some in
the centre of India--some in America--some here in Germany. The struggle
recommences, the detestable passions are again awake. Oh, thou that
hearest me--thou, like myself wandering and accursed--Herodias! help me
to protect them! May my invocation reach thee, in those American
solitudes where thou now lingerest--and may we arrive in time!"

Thereon an extraordinary event happened. Night was come. The man made a
movement; precipitately, to retrace his steps--but an invisible force
prevented him, and carried him forward in the opposite direction.

At this moment, the storm burst forth in its murky majesty. One of those
whirlwinds, which tear up trees by the roots and shake the foundations of
the rocks, rushed over the hill rapid and loud as thunder.

In the midst of the roaring of the hurricane, by the glare of the fiery
flashes, the man with the black mark on his brow was seen descending the
hill, stalking with huge strides among the rocks, and between trees bent
beneath the efforts of the storm.

The tread of this man was no longer slow, firm, and steady--but painfully
irregular, like that of one impelled by an irresistible power, or carried
along by the whirl of a frightful wind. In vain he extended his
supplicating hands to heaven. Soon he disappeared in the shades of night,
and amid the roar of the tempest.

[2] It is known that, according to the legend, the Wandering Jew was a
shoemaker at Jerusalem. The Saviour, carrying his cross, passed before
the house of the artisan, and asked him to be allowed to rest an instant
on the stone bench at his door. "Go on! go on!" said the Jew harshly,
pushing him away. "Thou shalt go on till the end of time," answered the
Saviour, in a stern though sorrowful tone. For further details, see the
eloquent and learned notice by Charles Magnin, appended to the
magnificent poem "Ahasuerus," by Ed. Quinet.--E. S.

[3] According to a legend very little known, for we are indebted to the
kindness of M. Maury, the learned sub-librarian of the Institute,
Herodias was condemned to wander till the day of judgement, for having
asked for the death of John the Baptist--E. S.




CHAPTER XVII

THE AJOUPA.

While Rodin despatched his cosmopolite correspondence, from his retreat
in the Rue du Milieu des Ursins, in Paris--while the daughters of General
Simon, after quitting as fugitives the White Falcon, were detained
prisoners at Leipsic along with Dagobert--other scenes, deeply
interesting to these different personages, were passing, almost as it
were at the same moment, at the other extremity of the world, in the
furthermost parts of Asia--that is to say, in the island of Java, not far
from the city of Batavia, the residence of M. Joshua Van Dael, one of the
correspondents of Rodin.

Java! magnificent and fatal country, where the most admirable flowers
conceal hideous reptiles, where the brightest fruits contain subtle
poisons, where grow splendid trees, whose very shadow is death--where the
gigantic vampire bat sucks the blood of its victims whilst it prolongs
their sleep, by surrounding them with a fresh and balmy air, no fan
moving so rapidly as the great perfumed wings of this monster!

The month of October, 1831, draws near its close. It is noon--an hour
well nigh mortal to him who encounters the fiery heat of the sun, which
spreads a sheet of dazzling light over the deep blue enamel of the sky.

An ajoupa, or hut, made of cane mats, suspended from long bamboos, which
are driven far into the ground, rises in the midst of the bluish shadows
cast by a tuft of trees, whose glittering verdure resembles green
porcelain. These quaintly formed trees, rounded into arches, pointing
like spires, overspreading like parasols, are so thick in foliage, so
entangled one with the other, that their dome is impenetrable to the
rain.

The soil, ever marshy, notwithstanding the insupportable heat, disappears
beneath an inextricable mass of creepers, ferns, and tufted reeds, of a
freshness and vigor of vegetation almost incredible, reaching nearly to
the top of the ajoupa, which lies hid like a nest among the grass.

Nothing can be more suffocating than the atmosphere, heavily laden with
moist exhalations like the steam of hot water, and impregnated with the
strongest and sharpest scents; for the cinnamon-tree, ginger-plant,
stephanotis and Cape jasmine, mixed with these trees and creepers, spread
around in puffs their penetrating odors. A roof, formed of large Indian
fig-leaves, covers the cabin; at one end is a square opening, which
serves for a window, shut in with a fine lattice-work of vegetable
fibres, so as to prevent the reptiles and venomous insects from creeping
into the ajoupa. The huge trunk of a dead tree, still standing, but much
bent, and with its summit reaching to the roof of the ajoupa, rises from
the midst of the brushwood. From every crevice in its black, rugged,
mossy bark, springs a strange, almost fantastic flower; the wing of a
butterfly is not of a finer tissue, of a more brilliant purple, of a more
glossy black: those unknown birds we see in our dreams, have no more
grotesque forms than these specimens of the orchis--winged flowers, that
seem always ready to fly from their frail and leafless stalks. The long,
flexible stems of the cactus, which might be taken for reptiles, encircle
also this trunk, and clothe it with their bunches of silvery white,
shaded inside with bright orange. These flowers emit a strong scent of
vanilla.

A serpent, of a brick-red, about the thickness of a large quill, and five
or six inches long, half protrudes its flat head from one of those
enormous, perfumed calyces, in which it lies closely curled up.

Within the ajoupa, a young man is extended on a mat in a profound sleep.
His complexion of a clear golden yellow, gives him the appearance of a
statue of pale bronze, on which a ray of sun is playing. His attitude is
simple and graceful; his right arm sustains his head, a little raised and
turned on one side; his ample robe of white muslin, with hanging sleeves,
leaves uncovered his chest and arms worthy of the Antoinous. Marble is
not more firm, more polished than his skin, the golden hue of which
contracts strongly with the whiteness of his garments. Upon his broad
manly chest a deep scar is visible--the mark of the musket-ball he
received in defending the life of General Simon, the father of Rose and
Blanche.

Suspended from his neck, he wears a medal similar to that in the
possession of the two sisters. This Indian is Djalma.

His features are at once very noble and very beautiful. His hair of a
blue black, parted upon his forehead, falls waving, but not curled over
his shoulders; whilst his eyebrows, boldly and yet delicately defined,
are of as deep a jet as the long eyelashes, that cast their shadow upon
his beardless cheek. His bright, red lips are slightly apart, and he
breathes uneasily; his sleep is heavy and troubled, for the heat becomes
every moment more and more suffocating.

Without, the silence is profound. Not a breath of air is stirring. Yet
now the tall ferns, which cover the soil, begin to move almost
imperceptibly, as though their stems were shaken by the slow progress of
some crawling body. From time to time, this trifling oscillation suddenly
ceases, and all is again motionless. But, after several of these
alternations of rustling and deep silence, a human head appears in the
midst of the jungle, a little distance from the trunk of the dead tree.

The man to whom it belonged was possessed of a grim countenance, with a
complexion the color of greenish bronze, long black hair bound about his
temples, eyes brilliant with savage fire, and an expression remarkable
for its intelligence and ferocity. Holding his breath, he remained quite
still for a moment; then, advancing upon his hands and knees, pushing
aside the leaves so gently, that not the slightest noise could be heard,
he arrived cautiously and slowly at the trunk of the dead tree, the
summit of which nearly touched the roof of the ajoupa.

This man, of Malay origin, belonging to the sect of the Lughardars
(Stranglers), after having again listened, rose almost entirely from
amongst the brushwood. With the exception of white cotton drawers,
fastened around his middle by a parti-colored sash, he was completely
naked. His bronze, supple, and nervous limbs were overlaid with a thick
coat of oil. Stretching himself along the huge trunk on the side furthest
from the cabin, and thus sheltered by the whole breadth of the tree with
its surrounding creepers, he began to climb silently, with as much
patience as caution. In the undulations of his form, in the flexibility
of his movements, in the restrained vigor, which fully put forth would
have been alarming, there was some resemblance to the stealthy and
treacherous advance of the tiger upon its prey.

Having reached, completely unperceived, the inclined portion of the tree,
which almost touched the roof of the cabin, he was only separated from
the window by a distance of about a foot. Cautiously advancing his head,
he looked down into the interior, to see how he might best find an
entrance.

At sight of Djalma in his deep sleep, the Thug's bright eyes glittered
with increased brilliancy; a nervous contraction, or rather a mute,
ferocious laugh, curling the corners of his mouth, drew them up towards
the cheekbones, and exposed rows of teeth, filed sharp like the points of
a saw, and dyed of a shining black.

Djalma was lying in such a manner and so near the door of the ajoupa,
which opened inwards, that, were it moved in the least, he must be
instantly awakened. The Strangler, with his body still sheltered by the
tree, wishing to examine more attentively the interior of the cabin,
leaned very forward, and in order to maintain his balance, lightly rested
his hand on the ledge of the opening that served for a window. This
movement shook the large cactus-flowers, within which the little serpent
lay curled, and, darting forth it twisted itself rapidly round the wrist
of the Strangler. Whether from pain or surprise, the man uttered a low
cry; and as he drew back swiftly, still holding by the trunk of the tree,
he perceived that Djalma had moved.

The young Indian, though retaining his supine posture, had half opened
his eyes, and turned his head towards the window, whilst his breast
heaved with a deep-drawn sigh, for, beneath that thick dome of moist
verdure, the concentrated heat was intolerable.

Hardly had he moved, when, from behind the tree, was heard the shrill,
brief, sonorous note, which the bird of paradise titters when it takes
its flight--a cry which resembles that of the pheasant. This note was
soon repeated, but more faintly, as though the brilliant bird were
already at a distance. Djalma, thinking he had discovered the cause of
the noise which had aroused him for an instant, stretched out the arm
upon which his head had rested, and went to sleep again, with scarcely
any change of position.

For some minutes, the most profound silence once more reigned in this
solitude, and everything remained motionless.

The Strangler, by his skillful imitation of the bird, had repaired the
imprudence of that exclamation of surprise and pain, which the reptile
bite had forced from him. When he thought all was safe, he again advanced
his head, and saw the young Indian once more plunged in sleep. Then he
descended the tree with the same precautions, though his left hand was
somewhat swollen from the sting of the serpent, and disappeared in the
jungle.

At that instant a song of monotonous and melancholy cadence was heard in
the distance. The Strangler raised himself, and listened attentively, and
his face took an expression of surprise and deadly anger. The song came
nearer and nearer to the cabin, and, in a few seconds, an Indian, passing
through an open space in the jungle, approached the spot where the Thug
lay concealed.

The latter unwound from his waist a long thin cord, to one of the ends of
which was attached a leaden ball, of the form and size of an egg; having
fastened the other end of this cord to his right wrist, the Strangler
again listened, and then disappeared, crawling through the tall grass in
the direction of the Indian, who still advanced slowly, without
interrupting his soft and plaintive song.

He was a young fellow scarcely twenty, with a bronzed complexion, the
slave of Djalma, his vest of blue cotton was confined at the waist by a
parti-colored sash; he wore a red turban, and silver rings in his ears
and about his wrists. He was bringing a message to his master, who,
during the great heat of the day was reposing in the ajoupa, which stood
at some distance from the house he inhabited.

Arriving at a place where two paths separated, the slave, without
hesitation took that which led to the cabin, from which he was now scarce
forty paces distant.

One of those enormous Java butterflies, whose wings extend six or eight
inches in length, and offer to the eye two streaks of gold on a ground of
ultramarine, fluttering from leaf to leaf, alighted on a bush of Cape
jasmine, within the reach of the young Indian. The slave stopped in his
song, stood still, advanced first a foot, then a hand, and seized the
butterfly.

Suddenly he sees a dark figure rise before him; he hears a whizzing noise
like that of a sling; he feels a cord, thrown with as much rapidity as
force, encircle his neck with a triple band; and, almost in the same
instant, the leaden ball strikes violently against the back of his head.

This attack was so abrupt and unforseen, that Djalma's servant could not
even utter a single cry, a single groan. He tottered--the Strangler gave
a vigorous pull at the cord--the bronzed countenance of the slave became
purple, and he fell upon his knees, convulsively moving his arms. Then
the Strangler threw him quite down, and pulled the cord so violently,
that the blood spurted from the skin. The victim struggled for a
moment--and all was over.

During his short but intense agony, the murderer, kneeling before his
victim, and watching with ardent eye his least convulsions, seemed
plunged into an ecstasy of ferocious joy. His nostrils dilated, the veins
of his neck and temples were swollen, and the same savage laugh, which
had curled his lips at the aspect of the sleeping Djalma, again displayed
his pointed black teeth, which a nervous trembling of the jaws made to
chatter. But soon he crossed his arms upon his heaving breast, bowed his
forehead, and murmured some mysterious words, which sounded like an
invocation or a prayer. Immediately after, he returned to the
contemplation of the dead body. The hyena and the tiger-cat, who, before
devouring, crouch beside the prey that they have surprised or hunted
down, have not a wilder or more sanguinary look than this man.

But, remembering that his task was not yet accomplished tearing himself
unwillingly from the hideous spectacle, he unbound the cord from the neck
of his victim, fastened it round his own body, dragged the corpse out of
the path, and, without attempting to rob it of its silver rings,
concealed it in a thick part of the jungle.

Then the Strangler again began to creep on his knees and belly, till he
arrived at the cabin of Djalma--that cabin constructed of mats suspended
from bamboos. After listening attentively, he drew from his girdle a
knife, the sharp-pointed blade of which was wrapped in a fig-leaf, and
made in the matting an incision of three feet in length. This was done
with such quickness, and with so fine a blade, that the light touch of
the diamond cutting glass would have made more noise. Seeing, by means of
this opening, which was to serve him for a passage, that Djalma was still
fast asleep, the Thug, with incredible temerity, glided into the cabin.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TATTOOING

The heavens, which had been till now of transparent blue, became
gradually of a greenish tint, and the sun was veiled in red, lurid vapor.
This strange light gave to every object a weird appearance, of which one
might form an idea, by looking at a landscape through a piece of copper
colored glass. In those climates, this phenomenon, when united with an
increase of burning heat, always announces the approach of a storm.

From time to time there was a passing odor of sulphur; then the leaves,
slightly shaken by electric currents, would tremble upon their stalks;
till again all would return to the former motionless silence. The weight
of the burning atmosphere, saturated with sharp perfumes, became almost
intolerable. Large drops of sweat stood in pearls on the forehead of
Djalma, still plunged in enervating sleep--for it no longer resembled
rest, but a painful stupor.

The Strangler glided like a reptile along the sides of the ajoupa, and,
crawling on his belly, arrived at the sleeping-mat of Djalma, beside
which he squatted himself, so as to occupy as little space as possible.
Then began a fearful scene, by reason of the mystery and silence which
surrounded it.

Djalma's life was at the mercy of the Strangler. The latter, resting upon
his hands and knees, with his neck stretched forward, his eye fixed and
dilated, continued motionless as a wild beast about to spring. Only a
slight nervous trembling of the jaws agitated that mask of bronze.

But soon his hideous features revealed a violent struggle that was
passing within him--a struggle between the thirst, the craving for the
enjoyment of murder, which the recent assassination of the slave had made
still more active, and the orders he had received not to attempt the life
of Djalma, though the design, which brought him to the ajoupa, might
perhaps be as fatal to the young Indian as death itself. Twice did the
Strangler, with look of flame, resting only on his left hand, seize with
his right the rope's end; and twice his hand fell--the instinct of murder
yielding to a powerful will, of which the Malay acknowledged the
irresistible empire.

In him, the homicidal craving must have amounted to madness, for, in
these hesitations, he lost much precious time: at any moment, Djalma,
whose vigor, skill, and courage were known and feared, might awake from
his sleep, and, though unarmed, he would prove a terrible adversary. At
length the Thug made up his mind; with a suppressed sigh of regret, he
set about accomplishing his task.

This task would have appeared impossible to any one else. The reader may
judge.

Djalma, with his face turned towards the left, leaned his head upon his
curved arm. It was first necessary, without waking him, to oblige him to
turn his face towards the right (that is, towards the door), so that, in
case of his being half-roused, his first glance might not fall upon the
Strangler. The latter, to accomplish his projects, would have to remain
many minutes in the cabin.

The heavens became darker; the heat arrived at its last degree of
intensity; everything combined to increase the torpor of the sleeper, and
so favor the Strangler's designs. Kneeling down close to Djalma, he
began, with the tips of his supple, well-oiled fingers, to stroke the
brow, temples, and eyelids of the young Indian, but with such extreme
lightness, that the contact of the two skins was hardly sensible. When
this kind of magnetic incantation had lasted for some seconds, the sweat,
which bathed the forehead of Djalma, became more abundant: he heaved a
smothered sigh, and the muscles of his face gave several twitches, for
the strokings, although too light to rouse him, yet caused in him a
feeling of indefinable uneasiness.

Watching him with his restless and burning eye, the Strangler continued
his maneuvers with so much patience, that Djalma, still sleeping, but no
longer able to bear this vague, annoying sensation, raised his right hand
mechanically to his face, as if he would have brushed away an importunate
insect. But he had not strength to do it; almost immediately after, his
hand, inert and heavy, fell back upon his chest. The Strangler saw, by
this symptom, that he was attaining his object, and continued to stroke,
with the same address, the eyelids, brow, and temples.

Whereupon Djalma, more and more oppressed by heavy sleep, and having
neither strength nor will to raise his hand to his face, mechanically
turned round his head, which fell languidly upon his right shoulder,
seeking by this change of attitude, to escape from the disagreeable
sensation which pursued him. The first point gained, the Strangler could
act more freely.

To render as profound as possible the sleep he had half interrupted, he
now strove to imitate the vampire, and, feigning the action of a fan, he
rapidly moved his extended hands about the burning face of the young
Indian. Alive to a feeling of such sudden and delicious coolness, in the
height of suffocating heat, the countenance of Djalma brightened, his
bosom heaved, his half-opened lips drank in the grateful air, and he fell
into a sleep only the more invincible, because it had been at first
disturbed, and was now yielded to under the influence of a pleasing
sensation.

A sudden flash of lightning illumined the shady dome that sheltered the
ajoupa: fearing that the first clap of thunder might rouse the young
Indian, the Strangler hastened to complete his Task. Djalma lay on his
back, with his head resting on his right shoulder, and his left arm
extended; the Thug, crouching at his left side, ceased by degrees the
process of fanning; then, with incredible dexterity, he succeeded in
rolling up, above the elbow, the long wide sleeve of white muslin that
covered the left arm of the sleeper.

He next drew from the pocket of his drawers a copper box, from which he
took a very fine, sharp-pointed needle, and a piece of a black-looking
root. He pricked this root several times with the needle, and on each
occasion there issued from it a white, glutinous liquid.

When the Strangler thought the needle sufficiently impregnated with this
juice, he bent down, and began to blow gently over the inner surface of
Djalma's arm, so as to cause a fresh sensation of coolness; then, with
the point of his needle, he traced almost imperceptibly on the skin of
the sleeping youth some mysterious and symbolical signs. All this was
performed so cleverly and the point of the needle was so fine and keen,
that Djalma did not feel the action of the acid upon the skin.

The signs, which the Strangler had traced, soon appeared on the surface,
at first in characters of a pale rose-color, as fine as a hair; but such
was the slowly corrosive power of the juice, that, as it worked and
spread beneath the skin, they would become in a few hours of a violet
red, and as apparent as they were now almost invisible.

The Strangler, having so perfectly succeeded in his project, threw a last
look of ferocious longing on the slumbering Indian, and creeping away
from the mat, regained the opening by which he had entered the cabin;
next, closely uniting the edges of the incision, so as to obviate all
suspicion, he disappeared just as the thunder began to rumble hoarsely in
the distance.[4]

[4] We read in the letters of the late Victor Jacquemont upon India, with
regard to the incredible dexterity of these men: "They crawl on the
ground, ditches, in the furrows of fields, imitate a hundred different
voices, and dissipate the effect of any accidental noise by raising the
yelp of the jackal or note of some bird--then are silent, and another
imitates the call of the same animal in the distance. They can molest a
sleeper by all sorts of noises and slight touches, and make his body and
limbs take any position which suits their purpose." Count Edward de
Warren, in his excellent work on English India, which we shall have again
occasion to quote, expresses himself in the same manner as to the
inconceivable address of the Indians: "They have the art," says he, "to
rob you, without interrupting your sleep, of the very sheet in which you
are enveloped. This is not 'a traveller's tale.' but a fact. The
movements of the bheel are those of the serpent. If you sleep in your
tent, with a servant lying across each entrance, the bheel will come and
crouch on the outside, in some shady corner, where he can hear the
breathing of those within. As soon as the European sleeps, he feels sure
of success, for the Asiatic will not long resist the attraction of
repose. At the proper moment, he makes a vertical incision in the cloth
of the tent, on the spot where he happens to be, and just large enough to
admit him. He glides through like a phantom, without making the least
grain of sand creak beneath his tread. He is perfectly naked, and all his
body is rubbed over with oil; a two-edged knife is suspended from his
neck. He will squat down close to your couch, and, with incredible
coolness and dexterity, will gather up the sheet in very little folds, so
as to occupy the least surface possible; then, passing to the other side,
he will lightly tickle the sleeper, whom he seems to magnetize, till the
latter shrinks back involuntarily, and ends by turning round, and leaving
the sheet folded behind him. Should he awake, and strive to seize the
robber, he catches at a slippery form, which slides through his hands
like an eel; should he even succeed in seizing him, it would be
fatal--the dagger strikes him to the heart, he falls bathed in his blood,
and the assassin disappears."--E. S.




CHAPTER XIX

THE SMUGGLER

The tempest of the morning has long been over. The sun is verging towards
the horizon. Some hours have elapsed, since the Strangler introduced
himself into Djalma's cabin, and tattooed him with a mysterious sign
during his sleep.

A horseman advances rapidly down a long avenue of spreading trees.
Sheltered by the thick and verdant arch, a thousand birds salute the
splendid evening with songs and circlings; red and green parrots climb,
by help of their hooked beaks, to the top of pink-blossomed acacias;
large Morea birds of the finest and richest blue, whose throats and long
tails change in the light to a golden brown, are chasing the prince
oriels, clothed in their glossy feathers of black and orange; Kolo doves,
of a changeable violet hue, are gently cooing by the side of the birds of
paradise, in whose brilliant plumage are mingled the prismatic colors of
the emerald and ruby, the topaz and sapphire.

This avenue, a little raised, commanded a view of a small pond, which
reflected at intervals the green shade of tamarind trees. In the calm,
limpid waters, many fish were visible, some with silver scales and purple
fins, others gleaming with azure and vermilion; so still were they that
they looked as if set in a mass of bluish crystal, and, as they dwelt
motionless near the surface of the pool, on which played a dazzling ray
of the sun, they revelled in the enjoyment of the light and heat. A
thousand insects--living gems, with wings of flame--glided, fluttered and
buzzed over the transparent wave, in which, at an extraordinary depth,
were mirrored the variegated tints of the aquatic plants on the bank.

It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the exuberant nature of this
scene, luxuriant in the sunlight, colors, and perfumes, which served, so
to speak, as a frame to the young and brilliant rider, who was advancing
along the avenue. It was Djalma. He had not yet perceived the indelible
marks, which the Strangler had traced upon his left arm.

His Japanese mare, of slender make, full of fire and vigor, is black as
night. A narrow red cloth serves instead of saddle. To moderate the
impetuous bounds of the animal, Djalma uses a small steel bit, with
headstall and reins of twisted scarlet silk, fine as a thread.

Not one of those admirable riders, sculptured so masterly on the frieze
of the Parthenon, sits his horse more gracefully and proudly than this
young Indian, whose fine face, illumined by the setting sun, is radiant
with serene happiness; his eyes sparkle with joy, and his dilated
nostrils and unclosed lips inhale with delight the balmy breeze, that
brings to him the perfume of flowers and the scent of fresh leaves, for
the trees are still moist from the abundant rain that fell after the
storm.

A red cap, similar to that worn by the Greeks, surmounting the black
locks of Djalma, sets off to advantage the golden tint of his complexion;
his throat is bare; he is clad in his robe of white muslin with large
sleeves, confined at the waist by a scarlet sash; very full drawers, in
white cotton stuff, leave half uncovered his tawny and polished legs;
their classic curve stands out from the dark sides of the horse, which he
presses tightly between his muscular calves. He has no stirrups; his
foot, small and narrow, is shod with a sandal of morocco leather.

The rush of his thoughts, by turns impetuous and restrained, was
expressed in some degree by the pace he imparted to his horse--now bold
and precipitate, like the flight of unbridled imagination--now calm and
measured, like the reflection which succeeds an idle dream. But, in all
this fantastic course, his least movements were distinguished by a proud,
independent and somewhat savage grace.

Dispossessed of his paternal territory by the English, and at first
detained by them as a state-prisoner after the death of his father--who
(as M. Joshua Van Dael had written to M. Rodin) had fallen sword in
hand--Djalma had at length been restored to liberty. Abandoning the
continent of India, and still accompanied by General Simon, who had
lingered hard by the prison of his old friend's son, the young Indian
came next to Batavia, the birthplace of his mother, to collect the modest
inheritance of his maternal ancestors. And amongst this property, so long
despised or forgotten by his father, he found some important papers, and
a medal exactly similar to that worn by Rose and Blanche.

General Simon was not more surprised than pleased at this discovery,
which not only established a tie of kindred between his wife and Djalma's
mother, but which also seemed to promise great advantages for the future.
Leaving Djalma at Batavia, to terminate some business there, he had gone
to the neighboring island of Sumatra, in the hope of finding a vessel
that would make the passage to Europe directly and rapidly; for it was
now necessary that, cost what it might, the young Indian also should be
at Paris on the 13th February, 1832. Should General Simon find a vessel
ready to sail for Europe, he was to return immediately, to fetch Djalma;
and the latter, expecting him daily, was now going to the pier of
Batavia, hoping to see the father of Rose and Blanche arrive by the mail
boat from Sumatra.

A few words are here necessary on the early life of the son of Kadja
sing.

Having lost his mother very young, and brought up with rude simplicity,
he had accompanied his father, whilst yet a child, to the great tiger
hunts, as dangerous as battles; and, in the first dawn of youth, he had
followed him to the stern bloody war, which he waged in defence of his
country. Thus living, from the time of his mother's death, in the midst
of forests and mountains and continual combats, his vigorous and
ingenuous nature had preserved itself pure, and he well merited the name
of "The Generous" bestowed on him. Born a prince, he was--which by no
means follows--a prince indeed. During the period of his captivity, the
silent dignity of his bearing had overawed his jailers. Never a reproach,
never a complaint--a proud and melancholy calm was all that he opposed to
a treatment as unjust as it was barbarous, until he was restored to
freedom.

Having thus been always accustomed to a patriarchal life, or to a war of
mountaineers, which he had only quitted to pass a few months in prison,
Djalma knew nothing, so to speak, of civilized society. Without its
exactly amounting to a defect, he certainly carried his good qualities to
their extreme limits. Obstinately faithful to his pledged word, devoted
to the death, confiding to blindness, good almost to a complete
forgetfulness of himself, he was inflexible towards ingratitude,
falsehood, or perfidy. He would have felt no compunction to sacrifice a
traitor, because, could he himself have committed a treason, he would
have thought it only just to expiate it with his life.

He was, in a word, the man of natural feelings, absolute and entire. Such
a man, brought into contact with the temperaments, calculations,
falsehoods, deceptions, tricks, restrictions, and hollowness of a refined
society, such as Paris, for example, would, without doubt, form a very
curious subject for speculation. We raise this hypothesis, because, since
his journey to France had been determined on, Djalma had one fixed,
ardent desire--to be in Paris.

In Paris--that enchanted city--of which, even in Asia, the land of
enchantment, so many marvelous tales were told.

What chiefly inflamed the fresh, vivid imagination of the young Indian,
was the thought of French women--those attractive Parisian beauties,
miracles of elegance and grace, who eclipsed, he was informed, even the
magnificence of the capitals of the civilized world. And at this very
moment, in the brightness of that warm and splendid evening, surrounded
by the intoxication of flowers and perfumes, which accelerated the pulses
of his young fiery heart, Djalma was dreaming of those exquisite
creatures, whom his fancy loved to clothe in the most ideal garbs.

It seemed to him as if, at the end of the avenue, in the midst of that
sheet of golden light, which the trees encompassed with their full, green
arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a host of
adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tips of
their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carried away
by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep, manly,
and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him in the
excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the dark vault
of the avenue, shone full upon him.

For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,
which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stopped
a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It was indeed
a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling lustre,
this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white and
flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare, who
covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick mane
floated on the evening breeze.

But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma
soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.
He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed the
reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly stopping,
stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the direction of the
personage, whom it could see approaching through the coppice.

This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.
He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a very
low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-marked features,
and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.

In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. "You are Prince
Djalma?" said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfully
to his hat.

"What would you?" said the Indian.

"You are the son of Kadja-sing?"

"Once again, what would you?"

"The friend of General Simon?"

"General Simon?" cried Djalma.

"You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since you
expect his return from Sumatra?"

"Yes, but how do you know all this?" said the Indian looking at the
Smuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.

"Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?"

"Are you sent by him?"

"Perhaps," said Mahal, with a distrustful air. "But are you really the
son of Kadja-sing?"

"Yes, I tell you--but where have you seen General Simon?"

"If you are the son of Kadja-sing," resumed Mahal, continuing to regard
Djalma with a suspicious eye, "what is your surname?"

"My sire was called the 'Father of the Generous,'" answered the young
Indian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.

These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity of Djalma;
but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed: "You must
have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon, written from
Sumatra?"

"Yes; but why so many questions?"

"To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and to
execute the orders I have received."

"From whom?"

"From General Simon."

"But where is he?"

"When I have proof that you are Prince Djalma, I will tell you. I was
informed that you would be mounted on a black mare, with a red bridle.
But--"

"By the soul of my mother! speak what you have to say!"

"I will tell you all--if you can tell me what was the printed paper,
contained in the last letter that General Simon wrote you from Sumatra."

"It was a cutting from a French newspaper."

"Did it announce good or bad news for the general?"

"Good news--for it related that, during his absence, they had
acknowledged the last rank and title bestowed on him by the Emperor, as
they had done for others of his brothers in arms, exiled like him."

"You are indeed Prince Djalma," said the Smuggler, after a moment's
reflection. "I may speak. General Simon landed last night in Java, but on
a desert part of the coast."

"On a desert part?"

"Because he has to hide himself."

"Hide himself!" exclaimed Djalma, in amazement; "why?"

"That I don't know."

"But where is he?" asked Djalma, growing pale with alarm.

"He is three leagues hence--near the sea-shore--in the ruins of Tchandi."

"Obliged to hide himself!" repeated Djalma, and his countenance expressed
increasing surprise and anxiety.

"Without being certain, I think it is because of a duel he fought in
Sumatra," said the Smuggler, mysteriously.

"A duel--with whom?"

"I don't know--I am not at all certain on the subject. But do you know
the ruins of Tchandi?"

"Yes."

"The general expects you there; that is what he ordered me to tell you."

"So you came with him from Sumatra?"

"I was pilot of the little smuggling coaster, that landed him in the
night on a lonely beach. He knew that you went every day to the mole, to
wait for him; I was almost sure that I should meet you. He gave me
details about the letter you received from him as a proof that he had
sent me. If he could have found the means of writing, he would have
written."

"But he did not tell you why he was obliged to hide himself?"

"He told me nothing. Certain words made me suspect what I told you--a
duel."

Knowing the mettle of General Simon, Djalma thought the suspicions of the
Smuggler not unfounded. After a moment's silence he said to him: "Can you
undertake to lead home my horse? My dwelling is without the town--there,
in the midst of those trees--by the side of the new mosque. In ascending
the mountain of Tchandi, my horse would be in my way; I shall go much
faster on foot."

"I know where you live; General Simon told me. I should have gone there
if I had not met you. Give me your horse."

Djalma sprang lightly to the ground, threw the bridle to Mahal, unrolled
one end of his sash, took out a silk purse, and gave it to the Smuggler,
saying: "You have been faithful and obedient. Here!--it is a trifle--but
I have no more."

"Kadja-sing was rightly called the 'Father of the Generous,'" said the
Smuggler, bowing with respect and gratitude. He took the road to Batavia,
leading Djalma's horse. The young Indian, on the contrary, plunged into
the coppice, and, walking with great strides, he directed his course
towards the mountain, on which were the ruins of Tchandi, where he could
not arrive before night.




CHAPTER XX.

M. JOSHUA VAN DAEL.

M. Joshua Van Dael a Dutch merchant, and correspondent of M. Rodin, was
born at Batavia, the capital of the island of Java; his parents had sent
him to be educated at Pondicherry, in a celebrated religious house, long
established in that place, and belonging to the "Society of Jesus." It
was there that he was initiated into the order as "professor of the three
vows," or lay member, commonly called "temporal coadjutor."

Joshua was a man of probity that passed for stainless; of strict accuracy
in business, cold, careful, reserved, and remarkably skillful and
sagacious; his financial operations were almost always successful, for a
protecting power gave him ever in time, knowledge of events which might
advantageously influence his commercial transactions. The religious house
of Pondicherry was interested in his affairs, having charged him with the
exportation and exchange of the produce of its large possessions in this
colony.

Speaking little, hearing much, never disputing, polite in the
extreme--giving seldom, but with choice and purpose--Joshua, without
inspiring sympathy, commanded generally that cold respect, which is
always paid to the rigid moralist; for instead of yielding to the
influence of lax and dissolute colonial manners, he appeared to live with
great regularity, and his exterior had something of austerity about it,
which tended to overawe.

The following scene took place at Batavia, while Djalma was on his way to
the ruins of Tchandi in the hope of meeting General Simon.

M. Joshua had just retired into his cabinet, in which were many shelves
filled with paper boxes, and huge ledgers and cash boxes lying open upon
desks. The only window of this apartment, which was on the ground floor,
looked out upon a narrow empty court, and was protected externally by
strong iron bars; instead of glass, it was fitted with a Venetian blind,
because of the extreme heat of the climate.

M. Joshua, having placed upon his desk a taper in a glass globe, looked
at the clock. "Half-past nine," said he. "Mahal ought soon to be here."

Saying this, he went out, passing through an antechamber, opened a second
thick door, studded with nail-heads, in the Dutch fashion, cautiously
entered the court (so as not to be heard by the people in the house), and
drew back the secret bolt of a gate six feet high, formidably garnished
with iron spikes. Leaving this gate unfastened, he regained his cabinet,
after he had successively and carefully closed the two other doors behind
him.

M. Joshua next seated himself at his desk, and took from a drawer a long
letter, or rather statement, commenced some time before, and continued
day by day. It is superfluous to observe, that the letter already
mentioned, as addressed to M. Rodin, was anterior to the liberation of
Djalma and his arrival at Batavia.

The present statement was also addressed to M. Rodin, and Van Dael thus
went on with it:

"Fearing the return of General Simon, of which I had been informed by
intercepting his letters--I have already told you, that I had succeeded
in being employed by him as his agent here; having then read his letters,
and sent them on as if untouched to Djalma, I felt myself obliged, from
the pressure of the circumstances, to have recourse to extreme
measures--taking care always to preserve appearances, and rendering at
the same time a signal service to humanity, which last reason chiefly
decided me.

"A new danger imperiously commanded these measures. The steamship
'Ruyter' came in yesterday, and sails tomorrow in the course of the day.
She is to make the voyage to Europe via the Arabian Gulf; her passengers
will disembark at Suez, cross the Isthmus, and go on board another vessel
at Alexandria, which will bring them to France. This voyage, as rapid as
it is direct, will not take more than seven or eight weeks. We are now at
the end of October; Prince Djalma might then be in France by the
commencement of the month of January; and according to your instructions,
of which I know not the motive, but which I execute with zeal and
submission, his departure must be prevented at all hazards, because, you
tell me, some of the gravest interests of the Society would be
compromised, by the arrival of this young Indian in Paris before the 13th
of February. Now, if I succeed, as I hope, in making him miss this
opportunity of the 'Ruyter' it will be materially impossible for him to
arrive in France before the month of April; for the 'Ruyter' is the only
vessel which makes the direct passage, the others taking at least four or
five months to reach Europe.

"Before telling you the means which I have thought right to employ, to
detain Prince Djalma--of the success of which means I am yet
uncertain--it is well that you should be acquainted with the following
facts.

"They have just discovered, in British India, a community whose members
call themselves 'Brothers of the Good Work,' or 'Phansegars,' which
signifies simply 'Thugs' or 'Stranglers;' these murderers do not shed
blood, but strangle their victims, less for the purpose of robbing them,
than in obedience to a homicidal vocation, and to the laws of an infernal
divinity named by them 'Bowanee.'

"I cannot better give you an idea of this horrible sect, than by
transcribing here some lines from the introduction of a report by Colonel
Sleeman, who has hunted out this dark association with indefatigable
zeal. The report in question was published about two months ago. Here is
the extract; it is the colonel who speaks:

"'From 1822 to 1824, when I was charged with the magistracy and civil
administration of the district of Nersingpore, not a murder, not the
least robbery was committed by an ordinary criminal, without my being
immediately informed of it; but if any one had come and told me at this
period, that a band of hereditary assassins by profession lived in the
village of Kundelie, within about four hundred yards of my court of
justice--that the beautiful groves of the village of Mundesoor, within a
day's march of my residence, formed one of the most frightful marts of
assassination in all India--that numerous bands of 'Brothers of the Good
Work,' coming from Hindostan and the Deccan, met annually beneath these
shades, as at a solemn festival, to exercise their dreadful vocation upon
all the roads which cross each other in this locality--I should have
taken such a person for a madman, or one who had been imposed upon by
idle tales. And yet nothing could be truer; hundreds of travellers had
been buried every year in the groves of Mundesoor; a whole tribe of
assassins lived close to my door, at the very time I was supreme
magistrate of the province, and extended their devastations to the cities
of Poonah and Hyderabad. I shall never forget, when, to convince me of
the fact, one of the chiefs of the Stranglers, who had turned informer
against them, caused thirteen bodies to be dug up from the ground beneath
my tent, and offered to produce any number from the soil in the immediate
vicinity.'[5]

"These few words of Colonel Sleeman will give some idea of this dread
society, which has its laws, duties, customs, opposed to all other laws,
human and divine. Devoted to each other, even to heroism, blindly
obedient to their chiefs, who profess themselves the immediate
representatives of their dark divinity, regarding as enemies all who do
not belong to them, gaining recruits everywhere by a frightful system of
proselytising--these apostles of a religion of murder go preaching their
abominable doctrines in the shade, and spreading their immense net over
the whole of India.

"Three of their principal chiefs, and one of their adepts, flying from
the determined pursuit of the English governor-general, having succeeded
in making their escape, had arrived at the Straits of Malacca, at no
great distance from our island; a smuggler, who is also something of a
pirate, attached to their association, and by name Mahal, took them on
board his coasting vessel, and brought them hither, where they think
themselves for some time in safety--as, following the advice of the
smuggler, they lie concealed in a thick forest, in which are many ruined
temples and numerous subterranean retreats.

"Amongst these chiefs, all three remarkably intelligent, there is one in
particular, named Faringhea, whose extraordinary energy and eminent
qualities make him every way redoubtable. He is of the mixed race, half
white and Hindoo, has long inhabited towns in which are European
factories and speaks English and French very well. The other two chiefs
are a Negro and a Hindoo; the adept is a Malay.

"The smuggler, Mahal, considering that he could obtain a large reward by
giving up these three chiefs and their adept, came to me, knowing, as all
the world knows, my intimate relations with a person who has great
influence with our governor. Two days ago, he offered me, on certain
conditions, to deliver up the Negro, the half-caste, the Hindoo, and the
Malay. These conditions are--a considerable sum of money, and a free
passage on board a vessel sailing for Europe or America, in order to
escape the implacable vengeance of the Thugs.

"I joyfully seized the occasion to hand over three such murderers to
human justice, and I promised Mahal to arrange matters for him with the
governor, but also on certain conditions, innocent in themselves, and
which concerned Djalma. Should my project succeed, I will explain myself
more at length; I shall soon know the result, for I expect Mahal every
minute.

"But before I close these despatches, which are to go tomorrow by the
'Ruyter'--in which vessel I have also engaged a passage for Mahal the
Smuggler, in the event of the success of my plans--I must include in
parentheses a subject of some importance.

"In my last letter, in which I announced to you the death of Djalma's
father, and his own imprisonment by the English, I asked for some
information as to the solvency of Baron Tripeaud, banker and manufacturer
at Paris, who has also an agency at Calcutta. This information will now
be useless, if what I have just learned should, unfortunately, turn out
to be correct, and it will be for you to act according to circumstances.

"This house at Calcutta owes considerable sums both to me and our
colleague at Pondicherry, and it is said that M. Tripeaud has involved
himself to a dangerous extent in attempting to ruin, by opposition, a
very flourishing establishment, founded some time ago by M. Francois
Hardy, an eminent manufacturer. I am assured that M. Tripeaud has already
sunk and lost a large capital in this enterprise: he has no doubt done a
great deal of harm to M. Francois Hardy; but he has also, they say,
seriously compromised his own fortune--and, were he to fail, the effects
of his disaster would be very fatal to us, seeing that he owes a large
sum of money to me and to us.

"In this state of things it would be very desirable if, by the employment
of the powerful means of every kind at our disposal, we could completely
discredit and break down the house of M. Francois Hardy, already shaken
by M. Tripeaud's violent opposition. In that case, the latter would soon
regain all he has lost; the ruin of his rival would insure his
prosperity, and our demands would be securely covered.

"Doubtless, it is painful, it is sad, to be obliged to have recourse to
these extreme measures, only to get back our own; but, in these days, are
we not surely justified in sometimes using the arms that are incessantly
turned against us? If we are reduced to such steps by the injustice and
wickedness of men, we may console ourselves with the reflection that we
only seek to preserve our worldly possessions, in order to devote them to
the greater glory of God; whilst, in the hands of our enemies, those very
goods are the dangerous instruments of perdition and scandal.

"After all it is merely a humble proposition that I submit to you. Were
it in my power to take an active part in the matter, I should do nothing
of myself. My will is not my own. It belongs, with all I possess, to
those whom I have sworn absolute obedience."

Here a slight noise interrupted M. Joshua, and drew his attention from
his work. He rose abruptly, and went straight to the window. Three gentle
taps were given on the outside of one of the slats of the blind.

"Is it you, Mahal?" asked M. Joshua, in a low voice.

"It is I," was answered from without, also in a low tone.

"And the Malay?"

"He has succeeded."

"Really!" cried M. Joshua, with an expression of great satisfaction; "are
you sure of it?"

"Quite sure: there is no devil more clever and intrepid."

"And Djalma?"

"The parts of the letter, which I quoted, convinced him that I came from
General Simon, and that he would find him at the ruins of Tchandi."

"Therefore, at this moment--"

"Djalma goes to the ruins, where he will encounter the black, the half
blood, and the Indian. It is there they have appointed to meet the Malay,
who tattooed the prince during his sleep."

"Have you been to examine the subterraneous passage?"

"I went there yesterday. One of the stones of the pedestal of the statue
turns upon itself; the stairs are large; it will do."

"And the three chiefs have no suspicion?"

"None--I saw them in the morning--and this evening the Malay came to tell
me all, before he went to join them at the ruins of Tchandi--for he had
remained hidden amongst the bushes, not daring to go there in the
daytime."

"Mahal--if you have told the truth, and if all succeed--your pardon and
ample reward are assured to you. Your berth has been taken on board the
'Ruyter;' you will sail to-morrow; you will thus be safe from the malice
of the Stranglers, who would follow you hither to revenge the death of
their chiefs, Providence having chosen you to deliver those three great
criminals to justice. Heaven will bless you!--Go and wait for me at the
door of the governor's house; I will introduce you. The matter is so
important that I do not hesitate to disturb him thus late in the night.
Go quickly!--I will follow on my side."

The steps of Mahal were distinctly audible, as he withdrew precipitately,
and then silence reigned once more in the house. Joshua returned to his
desk, and hastily added these words to the despatch, which he had before
commenced:

"Whatever may now happen, it will be impossible for Djalma to leave
Batavia at present. You may rest quite satisfied; he will not be at Paris
by the 13th of next February. As I foresaw, I shall have to be up all
night.--I am just going to the governor's. To-morrow I will add a few
lines to this long statement, which the steamship 'Ruyter' will convey to
Europe."

Having locked up his papers, Joshua rang the bell loudly, and, to the
great astonishment of his servants, not accustomed to see him leave home
in the middle of the night, went in all haste to the residence of the
governor of the island.

We now conduct the reader to the ruins of Tchandi.

[5] This report is extracted from Count Edward de Warren's excellent work,
"British India in 1831."--E. S.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE RUINS OF TCHANDI.

To the storm in the middle of the day, the approach of which so well
served the Strangler's designs upon Djalma, has succeeded a calm and
serene night. The disk of the moon rises slowly behind a mass of lofty
ruins, situated on a hill, in the midst of a thick wood, about three
leagues from Batavia.

Long ranges of stone, high walls of brick, fretted away by time,
porticoes covered with parasitical vegetation, stand out boldly from the
sheet of silver light which blends the horizon with the limpid blue of
the heavens. Some rays of the moon, gliding through the opening on one of
these porticoes, fall upon two colossal statues at the foot of an immense
staircase, the loose stones of which are almost entirely concealed by
grass, moss, and brambles.

The fragments of one of these statues, broken in the middle, lie strewed
upon the ground; the other, which remains whole and standing, is
frightful to behold. It represents a man of gigantic proportions, with a
head three feet high; the expression of the countenance is ferocious,
eyes of brilliant slaty black are set beneath gray brows, the large, deep
mouth gapes immoderately, and reptiles have made their nest between the
lips of stone; by the light of the moon, a hideous swarm is there dimly
visible. A broad girdle, adorned with symbolic ornaments, encircles the
body of this statue, and fastens a long sword to its right side. The
giant has four extended arms, and, in his great hands, he bears an
elephant's head, a twisted serpent, a human skull, and a bird resembling
a heron. The moon, shedding her light on the profile of this statue,
serves to augment the weirdness of its aspect.

Here and there, enclosed in the half-crumbling walls of brick, are
fragments of stone bas-reliefs, very boldly cut; one of those in the best
preservation represents a man with the head of an elephant, and the wings
of a bat, devouring a child. Nothing can be more gloomy than these ruins,
buried among thick trees of a dark green, covered with frightful emblems,
and seen by the moonlight, in the midst of the deep silence of night.

Against one of the walls of this ancient temple, dedicated to some
mysterious and bloody Javanese divinity, leans a kind of hut, rudely
constructed of fragments of brick and stone; the door, made of woven
rushes, is open, and a red light streams from it, which throws its rays
on the tall grass that covers the ground. Three men are assembled in this
hovel, around a clay-lamp, with a wick of cocoanut fibre steeped in
palm-oil.

The first of these three, about forty years of age, is poorly clad in the
European fashion; his pale, almost white, complexion, announces that he
belongs to the mixed race, being offspring of a white father and Indian
mother.

The second is a robust African negro, with thick lips, vigorous
shoulders, and lank legs; his woolly hair is beginning to turn gray; he
is covered with rags, and stands close beside the Indian. The third
personage is asleep, and stretched on a mat in the corner of the hovel.

These three men are the three Thuggee chiefs, who, obliged to fly from
the continent of India, have taken refuge in Java, under the guidance of
Mahal the Smuggler.

"The Malay does not return," said the half-blood, named Faringhea, the
most redoubtable chief of this homicidal sect: "in executing our orders,
he has perhaps been killed by Djalma."

"The storm of this morning brought every reptile out of the earth," said
the negro; "the Malay must have been bitten, and his body ere now a nest
of serpents."

"To serve the good work," proceeded Faringhea, with a gloomy air, "one
must know how to brave death."

"And to inflict it," added the negro.

A stifled cry, followed by some inarticulate words, here drew the
attention of these two men, who hastily turned their heads in the
direction of the sleeper. This latter was thirty years old at most. His
beardless face, of a bright copper color, his robe of coarse stuff, his
turban striped brown and yellow, showed that he belonged to the pure
Hindoo race. His sleep appeared agitated by some painful vision; an
abundant sweat streamed over his countenance, contracted by terror; he
spoke in his dream, but his words were brief and broken, and accompanied
with convulsive starts.

"Again that dream!" said Faringhea to the negro. "Always the remembrance
of that man."

"What man?"

"Do you not remember, how, five years ago, that savage, Colonel Kennedy,
butcher of the Indians, came to the banks of the Ganges, to hunt the
tiger, with twenty horses, four elephants, and fifty servants?"

"Yes, yes," said the negro; "and we three, hunters of men, made a better
day's sport than he did. Kennedy, his horses, his elephants, and his
numerous servants did not get their tiger--but we got ours," he added,
with grim irony. "Yes; Kennedy, that tiger with a human face, fell into
our ambush, and the brothers of the good work offered up their fine prey
to our goddess Bowanee."

"If you remember, it was just at the moment when we gave the last tug to
the cord round Kennedy's neck, that we perceived on a sudden a traveller
close at hand. He had seen us, and it was necessary to make away with
him. Now, since that time," added Faringhea, "the remembrance of the
murder of that man pursues our brother in his dreams," and he pointed to
the sleeping Indian.

"And even when he is awake," said the negro, looking at Faringhea with a
significant air.

"Listen!" said the other, again pointing to the Indian, who, in the
agitation of his dream, recommenced talking in abrupt sentences; "listen!
he is repeating the answers of the traveller, when we told him he must
die, or serve with us on Thuggee. His mind is still impressed--deeply
impressed--with those words."

And, in fact, the Indian repeated aloud in his sleep, a sort of
mysterious dialogue, of which he himself supplied both questions and
answers.

"'Traveller,' said he, in a voice broken by sudden pauses, 'why that
black mark on your forehead, stretching from one temple to the other? It
is a mark of doom and your look is sad as death. Have you been a victim?
Come with us; Kallee will avenge you. You have suffered?'--'Yes, I have
greatly suffered.'--'For a long time?'--'Yes, for a very long
time.'--'You suffer even now?'--'Yes, even now.'--What do you reserve for
those who injure you?'--'My pity.'--'Will you not render blow for
blow?'--'I will return love for hate.'--'Who are you, then, that render
good for evil?'--'I am one who loves, and suffers, and forgives.'"

"Brother, do you hear?" said the negro to Faringhea; "he has not
forgotten the words of the traveller before his death."

"The vision follows him. Listen! he will speak again. How pale he is!"
Still under the influence of his dream, the Indian continued:

"'Traveller, we are three; we are brave; we have your life in our
hands--you have seen us sacrifice to the good work. Be one of us, or
die--die--die! Oh, that look! Not thus--do not look at me thus!'" As he
uttered these last words, the Indian made a sudden movement, as if to
keep off some approaching object, and awoke with a start. Then, passing
his hand over his moist forehead, he looked round him with a bewildered
eye.

"What! again this dream, brother?" said Faringhea. "For a bold hunter of
men, you have a weak head. Luckily, you have a strong heart and arm."

The other remained a moment silent, his face buried in his hands; then he
replied: "It is long since I last dreamed of that traveller."

"Is he not dead?" said Faringhea, shrugging his shoulders. "Did you not
yourself throw the cord around his neck?"

"Yes," replied the Indian shuddering.

"Did we not dig his grave by the side of Colonel Kennedy's? Did we not
bury him with the English butcher, under the sand and the rushes?" said
the negro.

"Yes, we dug his grave," said the Indian, trembling; "and yet, only a
year ago, I was seated one evening at the gate of Bombay, waiting for one
of our brothers--the sun was setting behind the pagoda, to the right of
the little hill--the scene is all before me now--I was seated under a
figtree--when I heard a slow, firm, even step, and, as I turned round my
head--I saw him--coming out of the town."

"A vision," said the negro; "always the same vision!"

"A vision," added Faringhea, "or a vague resemblance."

"I knew him by the black mark on his forehead; it was none but he. I
remained motionless with fear, gazing at him with eyes aghast. He
stopped, bending upon me his calm, sad look. In spite of myself, I could
not help exclaiming: 'It is he!'--'Yes,' he replied, in his gentle voice,
'it is I. Since all whom thou killest must needs live again,' and he
pointed to heaven as he spoke, 'why shouldst thou kill?--Hear me! I have
just come from Java; I am going to the other end of the world, to a
country of never-melting snow; but, here or there, on plains of fire or
plains of ice, I shall still be the same. Even so is it with the souls of
those who fall beneath thy kalleepra; in this world or up above, in this
garb or in another, the soul must still be a soul; thou canst not smite
it. Why then kill?'--and shaking his head sorrowfully, he went on his
way, walking slowly, with downcast eyes; he ascended the hill of the
pagoda; I watched him as he went, without being able to move: at the
moment the sun set, he was standing on the summit of the hill, his tall
figure thrown out against the sky--and so he disappeared. Oh! it was he!"
added the Indian with a shudder, after a long pause: "it was none but
he."

In this story the Indian had never varied, though he had often
entertained his companions with the same mysterious adventure. This
persistency on his part had the effect of shaking their incredulity, or
at least of inducing them to seek some natural cause for this apparently
superhuman event.

"Perhaps," said Faringhea, after a moment's reflection, "the knot round
the traveller's neck got jammed, and some breath was left him, the air
may have penetrated the rushes with which we covered his grave, and so
life have returned to him."

"No, no," said the Indian, shaking his head, "this man is not of our
race."

"Explain."

"Now I know it!"

"What do you know?"

"Listen!" said the Indian, in a solemn voice; "the number of victims that
the children of Bowanee have sacrificed since the commencement of ages,
is nothing compared to the immense heap of dead and dying, whom this
terrible traveller leaves behind him in his murderous march."

"He?" cried the negro and Faringhea.

"Yes, he!" repeated the Hindoo, with a convinced accent, that made its
impression upon his companions. "Hear me and tremble!--When I met this
traveller at the gates of Bombay, he came from Java, and was going
towards the north, he said. The very next day, the town was a prey to the
cholera, and we learned sometime after, that this plague had first broken
out here, in Java."

"That is true," said the negro.

"Hear me still further!" resumed the other. "'I am going towards the
north, to a country of eternal snow,' said the traveller to me. The
cholera also went towards the north, passing through Muscat--Ispahan
--Tauris--Tiflis--till it overwhelmed Siberia."

"True," said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful:

"And the cholera," resumed the Indian, "only travelled its five or six
leagues a day--a man's tramp--never appeared in two places at once--but
swept on slowly, steadily,--even as a man proceeds."

At the mention of this strange coincidence, the Hindoo's companions
looked at each other in amazement. After a silence of some minutes, the
awe-struck negro said to the last speaker: "So you think that this man--"

"I think that this man, whom we killed, restored to life by some infernal
divinity, has been commissioned to bear this terrible scourge over the
earth, and to scatter round his steps that death, from which he is
himself secure. Remember!" added the Indian, with gloomy enthusiasm,
"this awful wayfarer passed through Java--the cholera wasted Java. He
passed through Bombay--the cholera wasted Bombay. He went towards the
north--the cholera wasted the north."

So saying, the Indian fell into a profound reverie. The negro and
Faringhea were seized with gloomy astonishment.

The Indian spoke the truth as to the mysterious march (still unexplained)
of that fearful malady, which has never been known to travel more than
five or six leagues a day, or to appear simultaneously in two spots.
Nothing can be more curious, than to trace out, on the maps prepared at
the period in question, the slow, progressive course of this travelling
pestilence, which offers to the astonished eye all the capricious
incidents of a tourist's journey. Passing this way rather than
that--selecting provinces in a country--towns in a province--one quarter
in a town--one street in a quarter--one house in a street--having its
place of residence and repose, and then continuing its slow, mysterious,
fear inspiring march.

The words of the Hindoo, by drawing attention to these dreadful
eccentricities, made a strong impression upon the minds of the negro and
Faringhea--wild natures, brought by horrible doctrines to the monomania
of murder.

Yes--for this also is an established fact--there have been in India
members of an abominable community, who killed without motive, without
passion--killed for the sake of killing--for the pleasure of murder--to
substitute death for life--to make of a living man a corpse, as they have
themselves declared in one of their examinations.

The mind loses itself in the attempt to penetrate the causes of these
monstrous phenomena. By what incredible series of events, have men been
induced to devote themselves to this priesthood of destruction? Without
doubt, such a religion could only flourish in countries given up, like
India, to the most atrocious slavery, and to the most merciless iniquity
of man to man.

Such a creed!--is it not the hate of exasperated humanity, wound up to
its highest pitch by oppression?--May not this homicidal sect, whose
origin is lost in the night of ages, have been perpetuated in these
regions, as the only possible protest of slavery against despotism? May
not an inscrutable wisdom have here made Phansegars, even as are made
tigers and serpents?

What is most remarkable in this awful sect, is the mysterious bond,
which, uniting its members amongst themselves, separates them from all
other men. They have laws and customs of their own, they support and help
each other, but for them there is neither country nor family; they owe no
allegiance save to a dark, invisible power, whose decrees they obey with
blind submission, and in whose name they spread themselves abroad, to
make corpses, according to their own savage expression.[6]

For some moments the three Stranglers had maintained a profound silence.

Outside the hut, the moon continued to throw great masses of white
radiance, and tall bluish shadows, over the imposing fabric of the ruins;
the stars sparkled in the heavens; from time to time, a faint breeze
rustled through the thick and varnished leaves of the bananas and the
palms.

The pedestal of the gigantic statue, which, still entire, stood on the
left side of the portico, rested upon large flagstones, half hidden with
brambles. Suddenly, one of these stones appeared to fall in; and from the
aperture, which thus formed itself without noise, a man, dressed in
uniform, half protruded his body, looked carefully around him, and
listened.

Seeing the rays of the lamp, which lighted the interior of the hovel,
tremble upon the tall grass, he turned round to make a signal, and soon,
accompanied by two other soldiers, he ascended, with the greatest silence
and precaution, the last steps of the subterranean staircase, and went
gliding amongst the ruins. For a few moments, their moving shadows were
thrown upon the moonlit ground; then they disappeared behind some
fragments of broken wall.

At the instant when the large stone resumed its place and level, the
heads of many other soldiers might have been seen lying close in the
excavation. The half-caste, the Indian, and the negro, still seated
thoughtfully in the hut, did not perceive what was passing.

[6] The following are some passages from the Count de Warren's very
curious book, "British India in 1831:" "Besides the robbers, who kill for
the sake of the booty they hope to find upon travellers, there is a class
of assassins, forming an organized society, with chiefs of their own, a
slang-language, a science, a free-masonry, and even a religion, which has
its fanaticism and its devotion, its agents, emissaries, allies, its
militant forces, and its passive adherents, who contribute their money to
the good work. This is the community of the Thugs or Phansegars
(deceivers or stranglers, from thugna, to deceive, and phansna, to
strangle), a religious and economical society, which speculates with the
human race by exterminating men; its origin is lost in the night of ages.

"Until 1810 their existence was unknown, not only to the European
conquerors, but even to the native governments. Between the years 1816
and 1830, several of their bands were taken in the act, and punished: but
until this last epoch, all the revelations made on the subject by
officers of great experience, had appeared too monstrous to obtain the
attention or belief of the public; they had been rejected and despised as
the dreams of a heated imagination. And yet for many years, at the very
least for half a century, this social wound had been frightfully on the
increase, devouring the population from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin and
from Cutch to Assam.

"It was in the year 1830 that the revelations of a celebrated chief,
whose life was spared on condition of his denouncing his accomplices,
laid bare the whole system. The basis of the Thuggee Society is a
religious belief--the worship of Bowanee, a gloomy divinity, who is only
pleased with carnage, and detests above all things the human race. Her
most agreeable sacrifices are human victims, and the more of these her
disciple may have offered up in this world the more he will be
recompensed in the next by all the delights of soul and sense, by women
always beautiful, and joys eternally renewed. If the assassin meets the
scaffold in his career, he dies with the enthusiasm of a martyr, because
he expects his reward. To obey his divine mistress, he murders, without
anger and without remorse, the old man, woman and child; whilst, to his
fellow-religionists, he may be charitable, humane, generous, devoted, and
may share all in common with them, because, like himself, they are the
ministers and adopted children of Bowanee. The destruction of his
fellow-creatures, not belonging to his community--the diminution of the
human race--that is the primary object of his pursuit; it is not as a
means of gain, for though plunder may be a frequent, and doubtless an
agreeable accessory, it is only secondary in his estimation. Destruction
is his end, his celestial mission, his calling; it is also a delicious
passion, the most captivating of all sports--this hunting of men!--'You
find great pleasure,' said one of those that were condemned, 'in tracking
the wild beast to his den, in attacking the boar, the tiger, because
there is danger to brave, energy and courage to display. Think how this
attraction must be redoubled, when the contest is with man, when it is
man that is to be destroyed. Instead of the single faculty of courage,
all must be called into action--courage, cunning, foresight, eloquence,
intrigue. What springs to put in motion! what plans to develop! To sport
with all the passions, to touch the chords of love and friendship, and so
draw the prey into one's net--that is a glorious chase--it is a delight,
a rapture, I tell you!'

"Whoever was in India in the years 1831 and 1832, must remember the
stupor and affright, which the discovery of this vast infernal machine
spread through all classes of society. A great number of magistrates and
administrators of provinces refused to believe in it, and could not be
brought to comprehend that such a system had so long preyed on the body
politic, under their eyes as it were, silently, and without betraying
itself."--See "British India in 183," by Count Edward de Warren, 2 vols.
in 8vo. Paris, 1844.--E. S.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE AMBUSCADE

The half-blood Faringhea, wishing doubtless to escape from the dark
thoughts which the words of the Indian on the mysterious course of the
Cholera had raised within him, abruptly changed the subject of
conversation. His eye shone with lurid fire, and his countenance took an
expression of savage enthusiasm, as he cried: "Bowanee will always watch
over us, intrepid hunters of men! Courage, brothers, courage! The world
is large; our prey is everywhere. The English may force us to quit India,
three chiefs of the good work--but what matter? We leave there our
brethren, secret, numerous, and terrible, as black scorpions, whose
presence is only known by their mortal sting. Exiles will widen our
domains. Brother, you shall have America!" said he to the Hindoo, with an
inspired air. "Brother, you shall have Africa!" said he to the negro.
"Brothers, I will take Europe! Wherever men are to be found, there must
be oppressors and victims--wherever there are victims, there must be
hearts swollen with hate--it is for us to inflame that hate with all the
ardor of vengeance! It is for us, servants of Bowanee, to draw towards
us, by seducing wiles, all whose zeal, courage, and audacity may be
useful to the cause. Let us rival each other in devotion and sacrifices;
let us lend each other strength, help, support! That all who are not with
us may be our prey, let us stand alone in the midst of all, against all,
and in spite of all. For us, there must be neither country nor family.
Our family is composed of our brethren; our country is the world."

This kind of savage eloquence made a deep impression on the negro and the
Indian, over whom Faringhea generally exercised considerable influence,
his intellectual powers being very superior to theirs, though they were
themselves two of the most eminent chiefs of this bloody association.
"Yes, you are right, brother!" cried the Indian, sharing the enthusiasm
of Faringhea; "the world is ours. Even here, in Java, let us leave some
trace of our passage. Before we depart, let us establish the good work in
this island; it will increase quickly, for here also is great misery, and
the Dutch are rapacious as the English. Brother, I have seen in the
marshy rice-fields of this island, always fatal to those who cultivate
them, men whom absolute want forced to the deadly task--they were livid
as corpses--some of them worn out with sickness, fatigue, and hunger,
fell--never to rise again. Brothers, the good work will prosper in this
country!"

"The other evening," said the half-caste, "I was on the banks of the
lake, behind a rock; a young woman came there--a few rags hardly covered
her lean and sun-scorched body--in her arms she held a little child,
which she pressed weeping to her milkless breast. She kissed it three
times, and said to it: 'You, at least, shall not be so unhappy as your
father'--and she threw it into the lake. It uttered one wail, and
disappeared. On this cry, the alligators, hidden amongst the reeds,
leaped joyfully into the water. There are mothers here who kill their
children out of pity.--Brothers, the good work will prosper in this
country!"

"This morning," said the negro, "whilst they tore the flesh of one of his
black slaves with whips, a withered old merchant of Batavia left his
country-house to come to the town. Lolling in his palanquin, he received,
with languid indolence, the sad caresses of two of those girls, whom he
had bought, to people his harem, from parents too poor to give them food.
The palanquin, which held this little old man, and the girls, was carried
by twelve young and robust men. There are here, you see, mothers who in
their misery sell their own daughters--slaves that are scourged--men that
carry other men, like beasts of burden.--Brothers, the good work will
prosper in this country!"

"Yes, in this country--and in every land of oppression, distress,
corruption, and slavery."

"Could we but induce Djalma to join us, as Mahal the Smuggler advised,"
said the Indian, "our voyage to Java would doubly profit us; for we
should then number among our band this brave and enterprising youth, who
has so many motives to hate mankind."

"He will soon be here; let us envenom his resentments."

"Remind him of his father's death!"

"Of the massacre of his people!"

"His own captivity!"

"Only let hatred inflame his heart, and he will be ours."

The negro, who had remained for some time lost in thought, said suddenly:
"Brothers, suppose Mahal the Smuggler were to betray us?"

"He" cried the Hindoo, almost with indignation; "he gave us an asylum on
board his bark; he secured our flight from the Continent; he is again to
take us with him to Bombay, where we shall find vessels for America,
Europe, Africa."

"What interest would Mahal have to betray us?" said Faringhea. "Nothing
could save him from the vengeance of the sons of Bowanee, and that he
knows."

"Well," said the black, "he promised to get Djalma to come hither this
evening, and, once amongst us, he must needs be our own."

"Was it not the Smuggler who told us to order the Malay to enter the
ajoupa of Djalma, to surprise him during his sleep, and, instead of
killing him as he might have done, to trace the name of Bowanee upon his
arm? Djalma will thus learn to judge of the resolution, the cunning and
obedience of our brethren, and he will understand what he has to hope or
fear from such men. Be it through admiration or through terror, he must
become one of us."

"But if he refuses to join us, notwithstanding the reasons he has to hate
mankind?"

"Then--Bowanee will decide his fate," said Faringhea, with a gloomy look;
"I have my plan."

"But will the Malay succeed in surprising Djalma during his sleep?" said
the negro.

"There is none nobler, more agile, more dexterous, than the Malay," said
Faringhea. "He once had the daring to surprise in her den a black
panther, as she suckled her cub. He killed the dam, and took away the
young one, which he afterwards sold to some European ship's captain."

"The Malay has succeeded!" exclaimed the Indian, listening to a singular
kind of hoot, which sounded through the profound silence of the night and
of the woods.

"Yes, it is the scream of the vulture seizing its prey," said the negro,
listening in his turn; "it is also the signal of our brethren, after they
have seized their prey."

In a few minutes, the Malay appeared at the door of the hut. He had wound
around him a broad length of cotton, adorned with bright colored stripes.

"Well," said the negro, anxiously; "have you succeeded?"

"Djalma must bear all his life the mark of the good work," said the
Malay, proudly. "To reach him, I was forced to offer up to Bowanee a man
who crossed my path--I have left his body under the brambles, near the
ajoupa. But Djalma is marked with the sign. Mahal the Smuggler was the
first to know it."

"And Djalma did not awake?" said the Indian, confounded by the Malay's
adroitness.

"Had he awoke," replied the other, calmly, "I should have been a dead
man--as I was charged to spare his life."

"Because his life may be more useful to us than his death," said the
half-caste. Then, addressing the Malay, he added: "Brother, in risking
life for the good work, you have done to-day what we did yesterday, what
we may do again to-morrow. This time, you obey; another you will
command."

"We all belong to Bowanee," answered the Malay. "What is there yet to
do?--I am ready." Whilst he thus spoke, his face was turned towards the
door of the hut; on a sudden, he said in a low voice: "Here is Djalma. He
approaches the cabin. Mahal has not deceived us."

"He must not see me yet," said Faringhea, retiring to an obscure corner
of the cabin, and hiding himself under a mat; "try to persuade him. If he
resists--I have my project."

Hardly had Faringhea disappeared, saying these words, when Djalma arrived
at the door of the hovel. At sight of those three personages with their
forbidding aspect, Djalma started in surprise. But ignorant that these
men belonged to the Phansegars, and knowing that, in a country where
there are no inns, travellers often pass the night under a tent, or
beneath the shelter of some ruins, he continued to advance towards them.
After the first moment, he perceived by the complexion and the dress of
one of these men, that he was an Indian, and he accosted him in the
Hindoo language: "I thought to have found here a European--a Frenchman--"

"The Frenchman is not yet come," replied the Indian; "but he will not be
long."

Guessing by Djalma's question the means which Mahal had employed to draw
him into the snare, the Indian hoped to gain time by prolonging his
error.

"You knew this Frenchman?" asked Djalma of the Phansegar.

"He appointed us to meet here, as he did you," answered the Indian.

"For what?" inquired Djalma, more and more astonished.

"You will know when he arrives."

"General Simon told you to be at this place?"

"Yes, General Simon," replied the Indian.

There was a moment's pause, during which Djalma sought in vain to explain
to himself this mysterious adventure. "And who are you?" asked he, with a
look of suspicion; for the gloomy silence of the Phansegar's two
companions, who stared fixedly at each other, began to give him some
uneasiness.

"We are yours, if you will be ours," answered the Indian.

"I have no need of you--nor you of me."

"Who knows?"

"I know it."

"You are deceived. The English killed your father, a king; made you a
captive; proscribed you, you have lost all your possessions."

At this cruel reminder, the countenance of Djalma darkened. He started,
and a bitter smile curled his lip. The Phansegar continued:

"Your father was just and brave--beloved by his subjects--they called him
'Father of the Generous,' and he was well named. Will you leave his death
unavenged? Will the hate, which gnaws at your heart, be without fruit?"

"My father died with arms in his hand. I revenged his death on the
English whom I killed in war. He, who has since been a father to me, and
who fought also in the same cause, told me, that it would now be madness
to attempt to recover my territory from the English. When they gave me my
liberty, I swore never again to set foot in India--and I keep the oaths I
make."

"Those who despoiled you, who took you captive, who killed your
father--were men. Are there not other men, on whom you can avenge
yourself! Let your hate fall upon them!"

"You, who speak thus of men, are not a man!"

"I, and those who resemble me, are more than men. We are, to the rest of
the human race, what the bold hunter is to the wild beasts, which they
run down in the forest. Will you be, like us, more than a man? Will you
glut surely, largely, safely--the hate which devours your heart, for all
the evil done you?"

"Your words become more and more obscure: I have no hatred in my heart,"
said Djalma. "When an enemy is worthy of me, I fight with him; when he is
unworthy, I despise him. So that I have no hate--either for brave men or
cowards."

"Treachery!" cried the negro on a sudden, pointing with rapid gesture to
the door, for Djalma and the Indian had now withdrawn a little from it,
and were standing in one corner of the hovel.

At the shout of the negro, Faringhea, who had not been perceived by
Djalma, threw off abruptly the mat which covered him, drew his crease,
started up like a tiger, and with one bound was out of the cabin. Then,
seeing a body of soldiers advancing cautiously in a circle, he dealt one
of them a mortal stroke, threw down two others, and disappeared in the
midst of the ruins. All this passed so instantaneously, that, when Djalma
turned round, to ascertain the cause of the negro's cry of alarm,
Faringhea had already disappeared.

The muskets of several soldiers, crowding to the door, were immediately
pointed at Djalma and the three Stranglers, whilst others went in pursuit
of Faringhea. The negro, the Malay, and the Indian, seeing the
impossibility of resistance, exchanged a few rapid words, and offered
their hands to the cords, with which some of the soldiers had provided
themselves.

The Dutch captain, who commanded the squad, entered the cabin at this
moment. "And this other one?" said he, pointing out Djalma to the
soldiers, who were occupied in binding the three Phansegars.

"Each in his turn, captain!" said an old sergeant. "We come to him next."

Djalma had remained petrified with surprise, not understanding what was
passing round him; but, when he saw the sergeant and two soldiers
approach with ropes to bind him, he repulsed them with violent
indignation, and rushed towards the door where stood the officer. The
soldiers, who had supposed that Djalma would submit to his fate with the
same impassibility as his companions, were astounded by this resistance,
and recoiled some paces, being struck in spite of themselves, with the
noble and dignified air of the son of Kadja-sing.

"Why would you bind me like these men?" cried Djalma, addressing himself
in Hindostanee to the officer, who understood that language from his long
service in the Dutch colonies.

"Why would we bind you, wretch?--because you form part of this band of
assassins. What?" added the officer in Dutch, speaking to the soldiers,
"are you afraid of him?--Tie the cord tight about his wrists; there will
soon be another about his neck."

"You are mistaken," said Djalma, with a dignity and calmness which
astonished the officer; "I have hardly been in this place a quarter of an
hour--I do not know these men. I came here to meet a Frenchman."

"Not a Phansegar like them?--Who will believe the falsehood?"

"Them!" cried Djalma, with so natural a movement and expression of
horror, that with a sign the officer stopped the soldiers, who were again
advancing to bind the son of Kadja-sing; "these men form part of that
horrible band of murderers! and you accuse me of being their
accomplice!--Oh, in this case, sir! I am perfectly at ease," said the
young man, with a smile of disdain.

"It will not be sufficient to say that you are tranquil," replied the
officer; "thanks to their confessions, we now know by what mysterious
signs to recognize the Thugs."

"I repeat, sir, that I hold these murderers in the greatest horror, and
that I came here--"

The negro, interrupting Djalma, said to the officer with a ferocious joy:
"You have hit it; the sons of the good work do know each other by marks
tattooed on their skin. For us, the hour has come--we give our necks to
the cord. Often enough have we twined it round the necks of those who
served not with us the good work. Now, look at our arms, and look at the
arms of this youth!"

The officer, misinterpreting the words of the negro, said to Djalma: "It
is quite clear, that if, as this negro tells us, you do not bear on your
arm the mysterious symbol--(we are going to assure ourselves of the
fact), and if you can explain your presence here in a satisfactory
manner, you may be at liberty within two hours."

"You do not understand me," said the negro to the officer; "Prince Djalma
is one of us, for he bears on his left arm the name of Bowanee."

"Yes! he is like us, a son of Kale!" added the Malay.

"He is like us, a Phansegar," said the Indian.

The three men, irritated at the horror which Djalma had manifested on
learning that they were Phansegars, took a savage pride in making it
believed that the son of Kadja-sing belonged to their frightful
association.

"What have you to answer?" said the officer to Djalma. The latter again
gave a look of disdainful pity, raised with his right hand his long, wide
left sleeve, and displayed his naked arm.

"What audacity!" cried the officer, for on the inner part of the fore
arm, a little below the bend, the name of the Bowanee, in bright red
Hindoo characters, was distinctly visible. The officer ran to the Malay,
and uncovered his arm; he saw the same word, the same signs. Not yet
satisfied, he assured himself that the negro and the Indian were likewise
so marked.

"Wretch!" cried he, turning furiously towards Djalma; "you inspire even
more horror than your accomplices. Bind him like a cowardly assassin,"
added he to the soldiers; "like a cowardly assassin, who lies upon the
brink of the grave, for his execution will not be long delayed."

Struck with stupor, Djalma, who for some moments had kept his eye riveted
on the fatal mark, was unable to pronounce a word, or make the least
movement: his powers of thought seemed to fail him, in presence of this
incomprehensible fact.

"Would you dare deny this sign?" said the officer to him, with
indignation.

"I cannot deny what I see--what is," said Djalma, quite overcome.

"It is lucky that you confess at last," replied the officer. "Soldiers,
keep watch over him and his accomplices--you answer for them."

Almost believing himself the sport of some wild dream. Djalma offered no
resistance, but allowed himself to be bound and removed with mechanical
passiveness. The officer, with part of his soldiers, hoped still to
discover Faringhea amongst the ruins; but his search was vain, and, after
spending an hour in fruitless endeavors, he set out for Batavia, where
the escort of the prisoners had arrived before him.

Some hours after these events, M. Joshua van Dael thus finished his long
despatch, addressed to M. Rodin, of Paris:

"Circumstances were such, that I could not act otherwise; and, taking all
into consideration, it is a very small evil for a great good. Three
murderers are delivered over to justice, and the temporary arrest of
Djalma will only serve to make his innocence shine forth with redoubled
luster.

"Already this morning I went to the governor, to protest in favor of our
young prince. 'As it was through me,' I said, 'that those three great
criminals fell into the hands of the authorities, let them at least show
me some gratitude, by doing everything to render clear as day the
innocence of Prince Djalma, so interesting by reason of his misfortunes
and noble qualities. Most certainly,' I added, 'when I came yesterday to
inform the governor, that the Phansegars would be found assembled in the
ruins of Tchandi, I was far from anticipating that any one would confound
with those wretches the adopted son of General Simon, an excellent man,
with whom I have had for some time the most honorable relations. We must,
then, at any cost, discover the inconceivable mystery that has placed
Djalma in this dangerous position;' and, I continued, 'so convinced am I
of his innocence, that, for his own sake, I would not ask for any favor
on his behalf. He will have sufficient courage and dignity to wait
patiently in prison for the day of justice.' In all this, you see, I
spoke nothing but the truth, and had not to reproach myself with the
least deception, for nobody in the world is more convinced than I am of
Djalma's innocence.

"The governor answered me as I expected, that morally he felt as certain
as I did of the innocence of the young prince, and would treat him with
all possible consideration; but that it was necessary for justice to have
its course, because it would be the only way of demonstrating the
falsehood of the accusation, and discovering by what unaccountable
fatality that mysterious sign was tattooed upon Djalma's arm.

"Mahal the Smuggler, who alone could enlighten justice on this subject,
will in another hour have quitted Batavia, to go on board the 'Ruyter,'
which will take him to Egypt; for he has a note from me to the captain,
to certify that he is the person for whom I engaged and paid the passage.
At the same time, he will be the bearer of this long despatch, for the
'Ruyter' is to sail in an hour, and the last letter-bag for Europe was
made up yesterday evening. But I wished to see the governor this morning,
before closing the present.

"Thus, then, is Prince Djalma enforced detained for a month, and, this
opportunity of the 'Ruyter' once lost, it is materially impossible that
the young Indian can be in France by the 13th of next February. You see,
therefore, that, even as you ordered, so have I acted according to the
means at my disposal--considering only the end which justifies them--for
you tell me a great interest of the society is concerned.

"In your hands, I have been what we all ought to be in the hands of our
superiors--a mere instrument: since, for the greater glory of God, we
become corpses with regard to the will.[7] Men may deny our unity and
power, and the times appear opposed to us; but circumstances only change;
we are ever the same.

"Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft and audacity, union
and devotion--these become us, who have the world for our country, our
brethren for family, Rome for our Queen!

                       "J. V."

About ten o'clock in the morning, Mahal the Smuggler set out with this
despatch (sealed) in his possession, to board the "Ruyter." An hour
later, the dead body of this same Mahal, strangled by Thuggee, lay
concealed beneath some reeds on the edge of a desert strand, whither he
had gone to take boat to join the vessel.

When at a subsequent period, after the departure of the steamship, they
found the corpse of the smuggler, M. Joshua sought in vain for the
voluminous packet, which he had entrusted to his care. Neither was there
any trace of the note which Mahal was to have delivered to the captain of
the "Ruyter," in order to be received as passenger.

Finally, the searches and bushwhacking ordered throughout the country for
the purpose of discovering Faringhea, were of no avail. The dangerous
chief of the Stranglers was never seen again in Java.

[7] It is known that the doctrine of passive and absolute obedience, the
main-spring of the Society of Jesus, is summed up in those terrible words
of the dying Loyola: "Every member of the Order shall be, in the hands of
his superiors, even as a corpse (Perinde ac Cadaver)."--E. S.




CHAPTER XXIII.

M. RODIN.

Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown into Batavia Prison
accused of belonging to the murderous gang of Megpunnas. The following
scene takes place in France, at the commencement of the month of
February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal habitation
standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy, not far from Saint Valery, a
dangerous coast on which almost every year many ships are totally
wrecked, being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render the
navigation of the Channel so perilous.

From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling of a violent
tempest, which has arisen during the night; a frequent formidable noise,
like the discharge of artillery, thunders in the distance, and is
repeated by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking with fury
against the high rocks which are overlooked by the ancient Manor House.

It is about seven o'clock in the morning. Daylight is not yet visible
through the windows of a large room situated on the ground-floor. In this
apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman of about sixty years of
age, with a simple and honest countenance, dressed as a rich farmer's
wife of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work,
notwithstanding the early hour. Close by, the husband of this woman,
about the same age as herself, is seated at a large table, sorting and
putting up in bags divers samples of wheat and oats. The face of this
white-haired man is intelligent and open, announcing good sense and
honesty, enlivened by a touch of rustic humor; he wears a shooting-jacket
of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather, which half
conceal his black velveteen breeches.

The terrible storm which rages without renders still more agreeable the
picture of this peaceful interior. A rousing fire burns in a broad
chimney-place faced with white marble, and throws its joyous light on the
carefully polished floor; nothing can be more cheerful than the old
fashioned chintz hangings and curtains with red Chinese figures upon a
white ground, and the panels over the door painted with pastoral scenes
in the style of Watteau. A clock of Sevres china, and rosewood furniture
inlaid with green--quaint and portly furniture, twisted into all sorts of
grotesque shapes--complete the decorations of this apartment.

Out-doors, the gale continued to howl furiously, and sometimes a gust of
wind would rush down the chimney, or shake the fastenings of the windows.
The man who was occupied in sorting the samples of grain was M. Dupont,
bailiff of Cardoville manor.

"Holy Virgin!" said his wife; "what dreadful weather, my dear! This M.
Rodin, who is to come here this morning, as the Princess de Saint
Dizier's steward announced to us, picked out a very bad day for it."

"Why, in truth, I have rarely heard such a hurricane. If M. Rodin has
never seen the sea in its fury, he may feast his eyes to-day with the
sight."

"What can it be that brings this M. Rodin, my dear?"

"Faith! I know nothing about it. The steward tells me in his letter to
show M. Rodin the greatest attention, and to obey him as if he were my
master. It will be for him to explain himself, and for me to execute his
orders, since he comes on the part of the princess."

"By rights he should come from Mademoiselle Adrienne, as the land belongs
to her since the death of the duke her father."

"Yes; but the princess being aunt to the young lady, her steward manages
Mademoiselle Adrienne's affairs--so whether one or the other, it amounts
to the same thing."

"May be M. Rodin means to buy the estate. Though, to be sure, that stout
lady who came from Paris last week on purpose to see the chateau appeared
to have a great wish for it."

At these words the bailiff began to laugh with a sly look.

"What is there to laugh at, Dupont?" asked his wife, a very good
creature, but not famous for intelligence or penetration.

"I laugh," answered Dupont, "to think of the face and figure of that
enormous woman: with such a look, who the devil would call themselves
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe--Mrs. Holy Dove? A pretty saint, and a pretty
dove, truly! She is round as a hogshead, with the voice of a town-crier;
has gray moustachios like an old grenadier, and without her knowing it, I
heard her say to her servant: 'Stir your stumps, my hearty!'--and yet she
calls herself Sainte-Colombe!"

"How hard on her you are, Dupont; a body don't choose one's name. And, if
she has a beard, it is not the lady's fault."

"No--but it is her fault to call herself Sainte-Colombe. Do you imagine
it her true name? Ah, my poor Catherine, you are yet very green in some
things."

"While you, my poor Dupont, are well read in slander! This lady seems
very respectable. The first thing she asked for on arriving was the
chapel of the Castle, of which she had heard speak. She even said that
she would make some embellishments in it; and, when I told her we had no
church in this little place, she appeared quite vexed not to have a
curate in the village."

"Oh, to be sure! that's the first thought of your upstarts--to play the
great lady of the parish, like your titled people."

"Madame de la Sainte-Colombe need not play the great lady, because she is
one."

"She! a great lady? Oh, lor'!"

"Yes--only see how she was dressed, in scarlet gown, and violet gloves
like a bishop's; and, when she took off her bonnet, she had a diamond
band round her head-dress of false, light hair, and diamond ear-drops as
large as my thumb, and diamond rings on every finger! None of your
tuppenny beauties would wear so many diamonds in the middle of the day."

"You are a pretty judge!"

"That is not all."

"Do you mean to say there's more?"

"She talked of nothing but dukes, and marquises, and counts, and very
rich gentlemen, who visit at her house, and are her most intimate
friends; and then, when she saw the summer house in the park, half-burnt
by the Prussians, which our late master never rebuilt, she asked, 'What
are those ruins there?' and I answered: 'Madame, it was in the time of
the Allies that the pavilion was burnt.'--'Oh, my clear,' cried she; 'our
allies, good, dear allies! they and the Restoration began my fortune!' So
you see, Dupont, I said to myself directly: 'She was no doubt one of the
noble women who fled abroad--'"

"Madame de la Sainte-Colombe!" cried the bailiff, laughing heartily. "Oh,
my poor, poor wife!"

"Oh, it is all very well; but because you have been three years at Paris,
don't think yourself a conjurer!"

"Catherine, let's drop it: you will make me say some folly, and there are
certain things which dear, good creatures like you need never know."

"I cannot tell what you are driving at, only try to be less
slanderous--for, after all, should Madame de la Sainte-Colombe buy the
estate, will you be sorry to remain as her bailiff, eh?"

"Not I--for we are getting old, my good Catherine; we have lived here
twenty years, and we have been too honest to provide for our old days by
pilfering--and truly, at our age, it would be hard to seek another place,
which perhaps we should not find. What I regret is, that Mademoiselle
Adrienne should not keep the land; it seems that she wished to sell it,
against the will of the princess."

"Good gracious, Dupont! is it not very extraordinary that Mademoiselle
Adrienne should have the disposal of her large fortune so early in life?"

"Faith! simple enough. Our young lady, having no father or mother, is
mistress of her property, besides having a famous little will of her own.
Dost remember, ten years ago, when the count brought her down here one
summer?--what an imp of mischief! and then what eyes! eh?--how they
sparkled, even then!"

"It is true that Mademoiselle Adrienne had in her look--an expression--a
very uncommon expression for her age."

"If she has kept what her witching, luring face promised, she must be
very pretty by this time, notwithstanding the peculiar color of her
hair--for, between ourselves, if she had been a tradesman's daughter,
instead of a young lady of high birth, they would have called it red."

"There again! more slander."

"What! against Mademoiselle Adrienne? Heaven forbid--I always thought
that she would be as good as pretty, and it is not speaking ill of her to
say she has red hair. On the contrary, it always appears to me so fine,
so bright, so sunny, and to suit so well her snowy complexion and black
eyes, that in truth I would not have had it other than it was; and I am
sure, that now this very color of her hair, which would be a blemish in
any one else, must only add to the charm of Mademoiselle Adrienne's face.
She must have such a sweet vixen look!"

"Oh! to be candid, she really was a vixen--always running about the park,
aggravating her governess, climbing the trees--in fact, playing all
manner of naughty tricks."

"I grant you, Mademoiselle Adrienne was a chip of the old block; but then
what wit, what engaging ways, and above all, what a good heart!"

"Yes--that she certainly had. Once I remember she gave her shawl and her
new merino frock to a poor little beggar girl, and came back to the house
in her petticoat, and bare arms."

"Oh, an excellent heart--but headstrong--terribly headstrong!"

"Yes--that she was; and 'tis likely to finish badly, for it seems that
she does things at Paris--oh! such things--"

"What things?"

"Oh, my dear; I can hardly venture--"

"Fell, but what are they?"

"Why," said the worthy dame, with a sort of embarrassment and confusion,
which showed how much she was shocked by such enormities, "they say, that
Mademoiselle Adrienne never sets foot in a church, but lives in a kind of
heathen temple in her aunt's garden, where she has masked women to dress
her up like a goddess, and scratches them very often, because she gets
tipsy--without mentioning, that every night she plays on a hunting horn
of massive gold--all which causes the utmost grief and despair to her
poor aunt the princess."

Here the bailiff burst into a fit of laughter, which interrupted his
wife.

"Now tell me," said he, when this first access of hilarity was over,
"where did you get these fine stories about Mademoiselle Adrienne?"

"From Rene's wife, who went to Paris to look for a child to nurse; she
called at Saint-Dizier House, to see Madame Grivois, her godmother.--Now
Madame Grivois is first bedchamber woman to the princess--and she it was
who told her all this--and surely she ought to know, being in the house."

"Yes, a fine piece of goods that Grivois! once she was a regular bad 'un,
but now she professes to be as over-nice as her mistress; like master
like man, they say. The princess herself, who is now so stiff and
starched, knew how to carry on a lively game in her time. Fifteen years
ago, she was no such prude: do you remember that handsome colonel of
hussars, who was in garrison at Abbeville? an exiled noble who had served
in Russia, whom the Bourbons gave a regiment on the Restoration?"

"Yes, yes--I remember him; but you are really too backbiting."

"Not a bit--I only speak the truth. The colonel spent his whole time
here, and every one said he was very warm with this same princess, who is
now such a saint. Oh! those were the jolly times. Every evening, some new
entertainment at the chateau. What a fellow that colonel was, to set
things going; how well he could act a play!--I remember--"

The bailiff was unable to proceed. A stout maid-servant, wearing the
costume and cap of Picardy, entered in haste, and thus addressed her
mistress: "Madame, there is a person here that wants to speak to master;
he has come in the postmaster's calash from Saint-Valery, and he says
that he is M. Rodin."

"M. Rodin?" said the bailiff rising. "Show him in directly!"

A moment after, M. Rodin made his appearance. According to his custom, he
was dressed even more than plainly. With an air of great humility, he
saluted the bailiff and his wife, and at a sign from her husband, the
latter withdrew. The cadaverous countenance of M. Rodin, his almost
invisible lips, his little reptile eyes, half concealed by their flabby
lids, and the sordid style of his dress, rendered his general aspect far
from prepossessing; yet this man knew how, when it was necessary, to
affect, with diabolical art, so much sincerity and good-nature--his words
were so affectionate and subtly penetrating--that the disagreeable
feeling of repugnance, which the first sight of him generally inspired,
wore off little by little, and he almost always finished by involving his
dupe or victim in the tortuous windings of an eloquence as pliant as it
was honeyed and perfidious; for ugliness and evil have their fascination,
as well as what is good and fair.

The honest bailiff looked at this man with surprise, when he thought of
the pressing recommendation of the steward of the Princess de Saint
Dizier; he had expected to see quite another sort of personage, and,
hardly able to dissemble his astonishment, he said to him: "Is it to M.
Rodin that I have the honor to speak?"

"Yes, sir; and here is another letter from the steward of the Princess de
Saint-Dizier."

"Pray, sir, draw near the fire, whilst I just see what is in this letter.
The weather is so bad," continued the bailiff, obligingly, "may I not
offer you some refreshment?"

"A thousand thanks, my dear sir; I am off again in an hour."

Whilst M. Dupont read, M. Rodin threw inquisitive glances round the
chamber; like a man of skill and experience, he had frequently drawn just
and useful inductions from those little appearances, which, revealing a
taste or habit, give at the same time some notion of a character; on this
occasion, however, his curiosity was at fault.

"Very good, sir," said the bailiff, when he had finished reading; "the
steward renews his recommendation, and tells me to attend implicitly to
your commands."

"Well, sir, they will amount to very little, and I shall not trouble you
long."

"It will be no trouble, but an honor."

"Nay, I know how much your time must be occupied, for, as soon as one
enters this chateau, one is struck with the good order and perfect
keeping of everything in it--which proves, my dear sir, what excellent
care you take of it."

"Oh, sir, you flatter me."

"Flatter you?--a poor old man like myself has something else to think of.
But to come to business: there is a room here which is called the Green
Chamber?"

"Yes, sir; the room which the late Count-Duke de Cardoville used for a
study."

"You will have the goodness to take me there."

"Unfortunately, it is not in my power to do so. After the death of the
Count-Duke, and when the seals were removed, a number of papers were shut
up in a cabinet in that room, and the lawyers took the keys with them to
Paris."

"Here are those keys," said M. Rodin, showing to the bailiff a large and
a small key tied together.

"Oh, sir! that is different. You come to look for papers?"

"Yes--for certain papers--and also far a small mahogany casket, with
silver clasps--do you happen to know it?"

"Yes, sir; I have often seen it on the count's writing-table. It must be
in the large, lacquered cabinet, of which you have the key."

"You will conduct me to this chamber, as authorized by the Princess de
Saint-Dizier?"

"Yes, sir; the princess continues in good health?"

"Perfectly so. She lives altogether above worldly things."

"And Mademoiselle Adrienne?"

"Alas, my dear sir!" said M. Rodin, with a sigh of deep contrition and
grief.

"Good heaven, sir! has any calamity happened to Mademoiselle Adrienne?"

"In what sense do you mean it?"

"Is she ill?"

"No, no--she is, unfortunately, as well as she is beautiful."

"Unfortunately!" cried the bailiff, in surprise.

"Alas, yes! for when beauty, youth, and health are joined to an evil
spirit of revolt and perversity--to a character which certainly has not
its equal upon earth--it would be far better to be deprived of those
dangerous advantages, which only become so many causes of perdition. But
I conjure you, my dear sir, let us talk of something else: this subject
is too painful," said M. Rodin, with a voice of deep emotion, lifting the
tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as if to stop a
rising tear.

The bailiff did not see the tear, but he saw the gesture, and he was
struck with the change in M. Rodin's voice. He answered him, therefore,
with much sympathy: "Pardon my indiscretion, sir; I really did not
know--"

"It is I who should ask pardon for this involuntary display of
feeling--tears are so rare with old men--but if you had seen, as I have,
the despair of that excellent princess, whose only fault has been too
much kindness, too much weakness, with regard to her niece--by which she
has encouraged her--but, once more, let us talk of something else, my
dear sir!"

After a moment's pause, during which M. Rodin seemed to recover from his
emotion, he said to Dupont: "One part of my mission, my dear sir--that
which relates to the Green Chamber--I have now told you; but there is yet
another. Before coming to it, however, I must remind you of a
circumstance you have perhaps forgotten--namely, that some fifteen or
sixteen years ago, the Marquis d'Aigrigny, then colonel of the hussars in
garrison at Abbeville, spent some time in this house."

"Oh, sir! what a dashing officer was there! It was only just now, that I
was talking about him to my wife. He was the life of the house!--how well
he could perform plays--particularly the character of a scapegrace. In
the Two Edmonds, for instance, he would make you die with laughing, in
that part of a drunken soldier--and then, with what a charming voice he
sang Joconde, sir--better than they could sing it at Paris!"

Rodin, having listened complacently to the bailiff, said to him: "You
doubtless know that, after a fierce duel he had with a furious
Bonapartist, one General Simon, the Marquis d'Aigrigny (whose private
secretary I have now the honor to be) left the world for the church."

"No, sir! is it possible? That fine officer!"

"That fine officer--brave, noble, rich, esteemed, and
flattered--abandoned all those advantages for the sorry black gown; and,
notwithstanding his name, position, high connections, his reputation as a
great preacher, he is still what he was fourteen years ago--a plain
abbe--whilst so many, who have neither his merit nor his virtues, are
archbishops and cardinals."

M. Rodin expressed himself with so much goodness, with such an air of
conviction, and the facts he cited appeared to be so incontestable, that
M. Dupont could not help exclaiming: "Well, sir, that is splendid
conduct!"

"Splendid? Oh, no!" said M. Rodin, with an inimitable expression of
simplicity; "it is quite a matter of course when one has a heart like M.
d'Aigrigny's. But amongst all his good qualities, he has particularly
that of never forgetting worthy people--people of integrity, honor,
conscience--and therefore, my dear M. Dupont, he has not forgotten you."

"What, the most noble marquis deigns to remember--"

"Three days ago, I received a letter from him, in which he mentions your
name."

"Is he then at Paris?"

"He will be there soon, if not there now. He went to Italy about three
months ago, and, during his absence, he received a very sad piece of
news--the death of his mother, who was passing the autumn on one of the
estates of the Princess de Saint-Dizier."

"Oh, indeed! I was not aware of it."

"Yes, it was a cruel grief to him; but we must all resign ourselves to
the will of Providence!"

"And with regard to what subject did the marquis do me the honor to
mention my name?"

"I am going to tell you. First of all, you must know that this house is
sold. The bill of sale was signed the day before my departure from
Paris."

"Oh, sir! that renews all my uneasiness."

"Pray, why?"

"I am afraid that the new proprietors may not choose to keep me as their
bailiff."

"Now see what a lucky chance! It is just on that subject that I am going
to speak to you."

"Is it possible?"

"Certainly. Knowing the interest which the marquis feels for you, I am
particularly desirous that you should keep this place, and I will do all
in my power to serve you, if--"

"Ah, sir!" cried Dupont, interrupting Rodin; "what gratitude do I not owe
you! It is Heaven that sends you to me!'

"Now, my dear sir, you flatter me in your turn; but I ought to tell you,
that I'm obliged to annex a small condition to my support."

"Oh, by all means! Only name it, sir--name it!"

"The person who is about to inhabit this mansion, is an old lady in every
way worthy of veneration; Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is the name of this
respectable--"

"What, sir?" said the bailiff, interrupting Rodin; "Madame de la Sainte
Colombe the lady who has bought us out?"

"Do you know her?"

"Yes, sir, she came last week to see the estate. My wife persists that
she is a great lady; but--between ourselves--judging by certain words
that I heard her speak--"

"You are full of penetration, my dear M. Dupont. Madame de la Sainte
Colombe is far from being a great lady. I believe she was neither more
nor less than a milliner, under one of the wooden porticoes of the Palais
Royal. You see, that I deal openly with you."

"And she boasted of all the noblemen, French and foreign, who used to
visit her!"

"No doubt, they came to buy bonnets for their wives! However, the fact
is, that, having gained a large fortune and, after being in youth and
middle age--indifferent--alas! more than indifferent to the salvation of
her soul--Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is now in a likely way to
experience grace--which renders her, as I told you, worthy of veneration,
because nothing is so respectable as a sincere repentance--always
providing it to be lasting. Now to make the good work sure and effectual,
we shall need your assistance, my dear M. Dupont."

"Mine, sir! what can I do in it?"

"A great deal; and I will explain to you how. There is no church in this
village, which stands at an equal distance from either of two parishes.
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, wishing to make choice of one of the two
clergymen, will naturally apply to you and Madame Dupont, who have long
lived in these parts, for information respecting them."

"Oh! in that case the choice will soon be made. The incumbent of
Danicourt is one of the best of men."

"Now that is precisely what you must not say to Madame de la Sainte
Colombe."

"How so?"

"You must, on the contrary, much praise, without ceasing, the curate of
Roiville, the other parish, so as to decide this good lady to trust
herself to his care."

"And why, sir, to him rather than to the other?"

"Why?--because, if you and Madame Dupont succeed in persuading Madame de
la Sainte-Colombe to make the choice I wish, you will be certain to keep
your place as bailiff. I give you my word of it, and what I promise I
perform."

"I do not doubt, sir, that you have this power," said Dupont, convinced
by Rodin's manner, and the authority of his words; "but I should like to
know--"

"One word more," said Rodin, interrupting him; "I will deal openly with
you, and tell you why I insist on the preference which I beg you to
support. I should be grieved if you saw in all this the shadow of an
intrigue. It is only for the purpose of doing a good action. The curate
of Roiville, for whom I ask your influence, is a man for whom M.
d'Aigrigny feels a deep interest. Though very poor, he has to support an
aged mother. Now, if he had the spiritual care of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe, he would do more good than any one else, because he is full of
zeal and patience; and then it is clear he would reap some little
advantages, by which his old mother might profit--there you see is the
secret of this mighty scheme. When I knew that this lady was disposed to
buy an estate in the neighborhood of our friend's parish, I wrote about
it to the marquis; and he, remembering you, desired me to ask you to
render him this small service, which, as you see, will not remain without
a recompense. For I tell you once more, and I will prove it, that I have
the power to keep you in your place as bailiff."

"Well, sir," replied Dupont, after a moment's reflection, "you are so
frank and obliging, that I will imitate your sincerity. In the same
degree that the curate of Danicourt is respected and loved in this
country, the curate of Roiville, whom you wish me to prefer to him, is
dreaded for his intolerance--and, moreover--"

"Well, and what more?"

"Why, then, they say--"

"Come, what do they say?"

"They say--he is a Jesuit."

Upon these words, M. Rodin burst into so hearty a laugh that the bailiff
was quite struck dumb with amazement--for the countenance of M. Rodin
took a singular expression when he laughed. "A Jesuit!" he repeated, with
redoubled hilarity; "a Jesuit!--Now really, my dear M. Dupont, for a man
of sense, experience, and intelligence, how can you believe such idle
stories?--A Jesuit--are there such people as Jesuits?--in our time, above
all, can you believe such romance of the Jacobins, hobgoblins of the old
freedom lovers?--Come, come; I wager, you have read about them in the
Constitutionnel!"

"And yet, sir, they say--"

"Good heavens! what will they not say?--But wise men, prudent men like
you, do not meddle with what is said--they manage their own little
matters, without doing injury to any one, and they never sacrifice, for
the sake of nonsense, a good place, which secures them a comfortable
provision for the rest of their days. I tell you frankly, however much I
may regret it, that should you not succeed in getting the preference for
my man, you will not remain bailiff here.

"But, sir," said poor Dupont, "it will not be my fault, if this lady,
hearing a great deal in praise of the other curate, should prefer him to
your friend."

"Ah! but if, on the other hand, persons who have long lived in the
neighborhood--persons worthy of confidence, whom she will see every
day--tell Madame de la Sainte-Colombe a great deal of good of my friend,
and a great deal of harm of the other curate, she will prefer the former,
and you will continue bailiff."

"But, sir--that would be calumny!" cried Dupont.

"Pshaw, my dear M. Dupont!" said Rodin, with an air of sorrowful and
affectionate reproach, "how can you think me capable of giving you evil
counsel?--I was only making a supposition. You wish to remain bailiff on
this estate. I offer you the certainty of doing so--it is for you to
consider and decide."

"But, sir--"

"One word more--or rather one more condition--as important as the other.
Unfortunately, we have seen clergymen take advantage of the age and
weakness of their penitents, unfairly to benefit either themselves or
others: I believe our protege incapable of any such baseness--but, in
order to discharge my responsibility--and yours also, as you will have
contributed to his appointment--I must request that you will write to me
twice a week, giving the most exact detail of all that you have remarked
in the character, habits, connections, pursuits, of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe--for the influence of a confessor, you see, reveals itself in the
whole conduct of life, and I should wish to be fully edified by the
proceedings of my friend, without his being aware of it--or, if anything
blameable were to strike you, I should be immediately informed of it by
this weekly correspondence."

"But, sir--that would be to act as a spy?" exclaimed the unfortunate
bailiff.

"Now, my dear M. Dupont! how can you thus brand the sweetest, most
wholesome of human desires--mutual confidence?--I ask of you nothing
else--I ask of you to write to me confidentially the details of all that
goes on here. On these two conditions, inseparable one from the other,
you remain bailiff; otherwise, I shall be forced, with grief and regret,
to recommend some one else to Madame de la Sainte-Colombe."

"I beg you, sir," said Dupont, with emotion, "Be generous without any
conditions!--I and my wife have only this place to give us bread, and we
are too old to find another. Do not expose our probity of forty years'
standing to be tempted by the fear of want, which is so bad a
counsellor!"

"My dear M. Dupont, you are really a great child: you must reflect upon
this, and give me your answer in the course of a week."

"Oh, sir! I implore you--" The conversation was here interrupted by a
loud report, which was almost instantaneously repeated by the echoes of
the cliffs. "What is that?" said M. Rodin. Hardly had he spoken, when the
same noise was again heard more distinctly than before.

"It is the sound of cannon," cried Dupont, rising; "no doubt a ship in
distress, or signaling for a pilot."

"My dear," said the bailiffs wife, entering abruptly, "from the terrace,
we can see a steamer and a large ship nearly dismasted--they are drifting
right upon the shore--the ship is firing minute gulls--it will be lost."

"Oh, it is terrible!" cried the bailiff, taking his hat and preparing to
go out, "to look on at a shipwreck, and be able to do nothing!"

"Can no help be given to these vessels?" asked M. Rodin.

"If they are driven upon the reefs, no human power can save them; since
the last equinox two ships have been lost on this coast."

"Lost with all on board?--Oh, very frightful," said M. Rodin.

"In such a storm, there is but little chance for the crew; no matter,"
said the bailiff, addressing his wife, "I will run down to the rocks with
the people of the farm, and try to save some of them, poor
creatures!--Light large fires in several rooms--get ready linen, clothes,
cordials--I scarcely dare hope to save any, but we must do our best. Will
you come with me, M. Rodin?"

"I should think it a duty, if I could be at all useful, but I am too old
and feeble to be of any service," said M. Rodin, who was by no means
anxious to encounter the storm. "Your good lady will be kind enough to
show me the Green Chamber, and when I have found the articles I require,
I will set out immediately for Paris, for I am in great haste."

"Very well, sir. Catherine will show you. Ring the big bell," said the
bailiff to his servant; "let all the people of the farm meet me at the
foot of the cliff, with ropes and levers."

"Yes, my dear," replied Catherine; "but do not expose yourself."

"Kiss me--it will bring me luck," said the bailiff; and he started at a
full run, crying: "Quick! quick; by this time not a plank may remain of
the vessels."

"My dear madam," said Rodin, always impassible, "will you be obliging
enough to show me the Green Chamber?"

"Please to follow me, sir," answered Catherine, drying her tears--for she
trembled on account of her husband, whose courage she well knew.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE TEMPEST

The sea is raging. Mountainous waves of dark green, marbled with white
foam, stand out, in high, deep undulations, from the broad streak of red
light, which extends along the horizon. Above are piled heavy masses of
black and sulphurous vapor, whilst a few lighter clouds of a reddish
gray, driven by the violence of the wind, rush across the murky sky.

The pale winter sun, before he quite disappears in the great clouds,
behind which he is slowly mounting, casts here and there some oblique
rays upon the troubled sea, and gilds the transparent crest of some of
the tallest waves. A band of snow-white foam boils and rages as far as
the eye can reach, along the line of the reefs that bristle on this
dangerous coast.

Half-way up a rugged promontory, which juts pretty far into the sea,
rises Cardoville Castle; a ray of the sun glitters upon its windows; its
brick walls and pointed roofs of slate are visible in the midst of this
sky loaded with vapors.

A large, disabled ship, with mere shreds of sail still fluttering from
the stumps of broken masts, drives dead upon the coast. Now she rolls her
monstrous hull upon the waves--now plunges into their trough. A flash is
seen, followed by a dull sound, scarcely perceptible in the midst of the
roar of the tempest. That gun is the last signal of distress from this
lost vessel, which is fast forging on the breakers.

At the same moment, a steamer, with its long plume of black smoke, is
working her way from east to west, making every effort to keep at a
distance from the shore, leaving the breakers on her left. The dismasted
ship, drifting towards the rocks, at the mercy of the wind and tide, must
some time pass right ahead of the steamer.

Suddenly, the rush of a heavy sea laid the steamer upon her side; the
enormous wave broke furiously on her deck; in a second the chimney was
carried away, the paddle box stove in, one of the wheels rendered
useless. A second white-cap, following the first, again struck the vessel
amidships, and so increased the damage that, no longer answering to the
helm, she also drifted towards the shore, in the same direction as the
ship. But the latter, though further from the breakers, presented a
greater surface to the wind and sea, and so gained upon the steamer in
swiftness that a collision between the two vessels became imminent--a new
clanger added to all the horrors of the now certain wreck.

The ship was an English vessel, the "Black Eagle," homeward bound from
Alexandria, with passengers, who arriving from India and Java, via the
Red Sea, had disembarked at the Isthmus of Suez, from on board the
steamship "Ruyter." The "Black Eagle," quitting the Straits of Gibraltar,
had gone to touch at the Azores. She headed thence for Portsmouth, when
she was overtaken in the Channel by the northwester. The steamer was the
"William Tell," coming from Germany, by way of the Elbe, and bound, in
the last place, for Hamburg to Havre.

These two vessels, the sport of enormous rollers, driven along by tide
and tempest, were now rushing upon the breakers with frightful speed. The
deck of each offered a terrible spectacle; the loss of crew and
passengers appeared almost certain, for before them a tremendous sea
broke on jagged rocks, at the foot of a perpendicular cliff.

The captain of the "Black Eagle," standing on the poop, holding by the
remnant of a spar, issued his last orders in this fearful extremity with
courageous coolness. The smaller boats had been carried away by the
waves; it was in vain to think of launching the long-boat; the only
chance of escape in case the ship should not be immediately dashed to
pieces on touching the rocks, was to establish a communication with the
land by means of a life-line--almost the last resort for passing between
the shore and a stranded vessel.

The deck was covered with passengers, whose cries and terror augmented
the general confusion. Some, struck with a kind of stupor, and clinging
convulsively to the shrouds, awaited their doom in a state of stupid
insensibility. Others wrung their hands in despair, or rolled upon the
deck uttering horrible imprecations. Here, women knelt down to pray;
there, others hid their faces in their hands, that they might not see the
awful approach of death. A young mother, pale as a specter, holding her
child clasped tightly to her bosom, went supplicating from sailor to
sailor, and offering a purse full of gold and jewels to any one that
would take charge of her son.

These cries, and tears, and terror contrasted with the stern and silent
resignation of the sailors. Knowing the imminence of the inevitable
danger, some of them stripped themselves of part of their clothes,
waiting for the moment to make a last effort, to dispute their lives with
the fury of the waves; others renouncing all hope, prepared to meet death
with stoical indifference.

Here and there, touching or awful episodes rose in relief, if one may so
express it, from this dark and gloomy background of despair.

A young man of about eighteen or twenty, with shiny black hair, copper
colored complexion, and perfectly regular and handsome features,
contemplated this scene of dismay and horror with that sad calmness
peculiar to those who have often braved great perils; wrapped in a cloak,
he leaned his back against the bulwarks, with his feet resting against
one of the bulkheads. Suddenly, the unhappy mother, who, with her child
in her arms, and gold in her hand, had in vain addressed herself to
several of the mariners, to beg them to save her boy, perceiving the
young man with the copper-colored complexion, threw herself on her knees
before him, and lifted her child towards him with a burst of
inexpressible agony. The young man took it, mournfully shook his head,
and pointed to the furious waves--but, with a meaning gesture, he
appeared to promise that he would at least try to save it. Then the young
mother, in a mad transport of hope, seized the hand of the youth, and
bathed it with her tears.

Further on, another passenger of the "Black Eagle," seemed animated by
sentiments of the most active pity. One would hardly have given him
five-and-twenty years of age. His long, fair locks fell in curls on
either side of his angelic countenance. He wore a black cassock and white
neck-band. Applying himself to comfort the most desponding, he went from
one to the other, and spoke to them pious words of hope and resignation;
to hear him console some, and encourage others, in language full of
unction, tenderness, and ineffable charity, one would have supposed him
unaware or indifferent to the perils that he shared.

On his fine, mild features, was impressed a calm and sacred intrepidity,
a religious abstraction from every terrestrial thought; from time to
time, he raised to heaven his large blue eyes, beaming with gratitude,
love, and serenity, as if to thank God for having called him to one of
those formidable trials in which the man of humanity and courage may
devote himself for his brethren, and, if not able to rescue them at all,
at least die with them, pointing to the sky. One might almost have taken
him for an angel, sent down to render less cruel the strokes of
inexorable fate.

Strange contrast! not far from this young man's angelic beauty, there was
another being, who resembled an evil spirit!

Boldly mounted on what was left of the bowsprit, to which he held on by
means of some remaining cordage, this man looked down upon the terrible
scene that was passing on the deck. A grim, wild joy lighted up his
countenance of a dead yellow, that tint peculiar to those who spring from
the union of the white race with the East. He wore only a shirt and linen
drawers; from his neck was suspended, by a cord, a cylindrical tin box,
similar to that in which soldiers carry their leave of absence.

The more the danger augmented, the nearer the ship came to the breakers,
or to a collision with the steamer, which she was now rapidly
approaching--a terrible collision, which would probably cause the two
vessels to founder before even they touched the rocks--the more did the
infernal joy of this passenger reveal itself in frightful transports. He
seemed to long, with ferocious impatience, for the moment when the work
of destruction should be accomplished. To see him thus feasting with
avidity on all the agony, the terror, and the despair of those around
him, one might have taken him for the apostle of one of those sanguinary
deities, who, in barbarous countries, preside over murder and carnage.

By this time the "Black Eagle," driven by the wind and waves, came so
near the "William Tell" that the passengers on the deck of the nearly
dismantled steamer were visible from the first-named vessel.

These passengers were no longer numerous. The heavy sea, which stove in
the paddle-box and broke one of the paddles, had also carried away nearly
the whole of the bulwarks on that side; the waves, entering every instant
by this large opening, swept the decks with irresistible violence, and
every time bore away with them some fresh victims.

Amongst the passengers, who seemed only to have escaped this danger to be
hurled against the rocks, or crushed in the encounter of the two vessels,
one group was especially worthy of the most tender and painful interest.
Taking refuge abaft, a tall old man, with bald forehead and gray
moustache, had lashed himself to a stanchion, by winding a piece of rope
round his body, whilst he clasped in his arms, and held fast to his
breast, two girls of fifteen or sixteen, half enveloped in a pelisse of
reindeer-skin. A large, fallow, Siberian dog, dripping with water, and
barking furiously at the waves, stood close to their feet.

These girls, clasped in the arms of the old man, also pressed close to
each other; but, far from being lost in terror, they raised their eyes to
heaven, full of confidence and ingenuous hope, as though they expected to
be saved by the intervention of some supernatural power.

A frightful shriek of horror and despair, raised by the passengers of
both vessels, was heard suddenly above the roar of the tempest. At the
moment when, plunging deeply between two waves, the broadside of the
steamer was turned towards the bows of the ship, the latter, lifted to a
prodigious height on a mountain of water, remained, as it were, suspended
over the "William Tell," during the second which preceded the shock of
the two vessels.

There are sights of so sublime a horror, that it is impossible to
describe them. Yet, in the midst of these catastrophes, swift as thought,
one catches sometimes a momentary glimpse of a picture, rapid and
fleeting, as if illumined by a flash of lightning.

Thus, when the "Black Eagle," poised aloft by the flood, was about to
crash down upon the "William Tell," the young man with the angelic
countenance and fair, waving locks bent over the prow of the ship, ready
to cast himself into the sea to save some victim. Suddenly, he perceived
on board the steamer, on which he looked down from the summit of the
immense wave, the two girls extending their arms towards him in
supplication. They appeared to recognize him, and gazed on him with a
sort of ecstacy and religious homage!

For a second, in spite of the horrors of the tempest, in spite of the
approaching shipwreck, the looks of those three beings met. The features
of the young man were expressive of sudden and profound pity; for the
maidens with their hands clasped in prayer, seemed to invoke him as their
expected Saviour. The old man, struck down by the fall of a plank, lay
helpless on the deck. Soon all disappeared together.

A fearful mass of water dashed the "Black Eagle" down upon the "William
Tell," in the midst of a cloud of boiling foam. To the dreadful crash of
the two great bodies of wood and iron, which splintering against one
another, instantly foundered, one loud cry was added--a cry of agony and
death--the cry of a hundred human creatures swallowed up at once by the
waves!

And then--nothing more was visible!

A few moments after, the fragments of the two vessels appeared in the
trough of the sea, and on the caps of the waves--with here and there the
contracted arms, the livid and despairing faces of some unhappy wretches,
striving to make their way to the reefs along the shore, at the risk of
being crushed to death by the shock of the furious breakers.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE SHIPWRECK.

While the bailiff was gone to the sea-shore, to render help to those of
the passengers who might escape from the inevitable shipwreck, M. Rodin,
conducted by Catherine to the Green Chamber, had there found the articles
that he was to take with him to Paris.

After passing two hours in this apartment, very indifferent to the fate
of the shipwrecked persons, which alone absorbed the attention of the
inhabitants of the Castle, Rodin returned to the chamber commonly
occupied by the bailiff, a room which opened upon a long gallery. When he
entered it he found nobody there. Under his arm he held a casket, with
silver fastenings, almost black from age, whilst one end of a large red
morocco portfolio projected from the breast-pocket of his half buttoned
great coat.

Had the cold and livid countenance of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's secretary
been able to express joy otherwise than by a sarcastic smile, his
features would have been radiant with delight; for, just then, he was
under the influence of the most agreeable thoughts. Having placed the
casket upon a table, it was with marked satisfaction that he thus
communed with himself:

"All goes well. It was prudent to keep these papers here till this
moment, for one must always be on guard against the diabolical spirit of
that Adrienne de Cardoville, who appears to guess instinctively what it
is impossible she should know. Fortunately, the time approaches when we
shall have no more need to fear her. Her fate will be a cruel one; it
must be so. Those proud, independent characters are at all times our
natural enemies--they are so by their very essence--how much more when
they show themselves peculiarly hurtful and dangerous! As for La Sainte
Colombe, the bailiff is sure to act for us; between what the fool calls
his conscience, and the dread of being at his age deprived of a
livelihood, he will not hesitate. I wish to have him because he will
serve us better than a stranger; his having been here twenty years will
prevent all suspicion on the part of that dull and narrow-minded woman.
Once in the hands of our man at Roiville, I will answer for the result.
The course of all such gross and stupid women is traced beforehand: in
their youth, they serve the devil; in riper years, they make others serve
him; in their old age, they are horribly afraid of him; and this fear
must continue till she has left us the Chateau de Cardoville, which, from
its isolated position, will make us an excellent college. All then goes
well. As for the affair of the medals, the 13th of February approaches,
without news from Joshua--evidently, Prince Djalma is still kept prisoner
by the English in the heart of India, or I must have received letters
from Batavia. The daughters of General Simon will be detained at Leipsic
for at least a month longer. All our foreign relations are in the best
condition. As for our internal affairs--"

 Here M. Rodin was interrupted in the current of his reflections by the
entrance of Madame Dupont, who was zealously engaged in preparations to
give assistance in case of need.

"Now," said she to the servant, "light a fire in the next room; put this
warm wine there; your master may be in every minute."

"Well, my dear madam," said Rodin to her, "do they hope to save any of
these poor creatures?"

"Alas! I do not know, sir. My husband has been gone nearly two hours. I
am terribly uneasy on his account. He is so courageous, so imprudent, if
once he thinks he can be of any service."

"Courageous even to imprudence," said Rodin to himself, impatiently; "I
do not like that."

"Well," resumed Catherine, "I have here at hand my hot linen, my
cordials--heaven grant it may all be of use!"

"We may at least hope so, my dear madam. I very much regretted that my
age and weakness did not permit me to assist your excellent husband. I
also regret not being able to wait for the issue of his exertions, and to
wish him joy if successful--for I am unfortunately compelled to depart,
my moments are precious. I shall be much obliged if you will have the
carriage got ready."

"Yes, Sir; I will see about it directly."

"One word, my dear, good Madame Dupont. You are a woman of sense, and
excellent judgment. Now I have put your husband in the way to keep, if he
will, his situation as bailiff of the estate--"

"Is it possible? What gratitude do we not owe you! Without this place
what would become of us at our time of life?"

"I have only saddled my promise with two conditions--mere trifles--he
will explain all that to you."

"Ah, sir! we shall regard you as our deliverer."

"You are too good. Only, on two little conditions--"

"If there were a hundred, sir we should gladly accept them. Think what we
should be without this place--penniless--absolutely penniless!"

"I reckon upon you then; for the interest of your husband, you will try
to persuade him."

"Missus! I say, missus! here's master come back," cried a servant,
rushing into the chamber.

"Has he many with him?"

"No, missus; he is alone."

"Alone! alone?"

"Quite alone, missus."

A few moments after, M. Dupont entered the room; his clothes were
streaming with water; to keep his hat on in the midst of the storm, he
had tied it down to his head by means of his cravat, which was knotted
under his chin; his gaiters were covered with chalky stains.

"There I have thee, my dear love!" cried his wife, tenderly embracing
him. "I have been so uneasy!"

"Up to the present moment--THREE SAVED."

"God be praised, my dear M. Dupont!" said Rodin; "at least your efforts
will not have been all in vain."

"Three, only three?" said Catherine. "Gracious heaven!"

"I only speak of those I saw myself, near the little creek of Goelands.
Let us hope there may be more saved on other parts of the coast."

"Yes, indeed; happily, the shore is not equally steep in all parts."

"And where are these interesting sufferers, my dear sir?" asked Rodin,
who could not avoid remaining a few instants longer.

"They are mounting the cliffs, supported by our people. As they cannot
walk very fast, I ran on before to console my wife, and to take the
necessary measures for their reception. First of all, my dear, you must
get ready some women's clothes."

"There is then a woman amongst the persons saved?"

"There are two girls--fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most--mere
children--and so pretty!"

"Poor little things!" said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.

"The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real
hero!"

"A hero?"

"Yes; only fancy--"

"You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm
dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through."

"I'll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you that
the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly his
courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left here
with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path, and
arrived at the foot of the cliff--near the little creek of Goelands,
fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous
masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find
there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet
still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though
they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the
sea."

"Dear children! it is quite touching!" said M. Rodin, raising, as usual,
the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though to
dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.

"What struck me was their great resemblance to each other," resumed the
bailiff; "only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the
difference."

"Twin--sisters, no doubt," said Madame Dupont.

"One of the poor things," continued the bailiff, "held between her
clasped hands a little bronze medal, which was suspended from her neck by
a chain of the same material."

Rodin generally maintained a very stooping posture; but at these last
words of the bailiff, he drew himself up suddenly, whilst a faint color
spread itself over his livid cheeks. In any other person, these symptoms
would have appeared of little consequence; but in Rodin, accustomed for
long years to control and dissimulate his emotions, they announced no
ordinary excitement. Approaching the bailiff, he said to him in a
slightly agitated voice, but still with an air of indifference: "It was
doubtless a pious relic. Did you see what was inscribed on this medal?"

"No, sir; I did not think of it."

"And the two young girls were like one another--very much like, you say?"

"So like, that one would hardly know which was which. Probably they are
orphans, for they are dressed in mourning."

"Oh! dressed in mourning?" said M. Rodin, with another start.

"Alas! orphans so young!" said Madame Dupont, wiping her eyes.

"As they had fainted away, we carried them further on to a place where
the sand was quite dry. While we were busy about this, we saw the head of
a man appear from behind one of the rocks, which he was trying to climb,
clinging to it by one hand; we ran to him, and luckily in the nick of
time, for he was clean worn out, and fell exhausted into the arms of our
men. It was of him I spoke when I talked of a hero; for, not content with
having saved the two young girls by his admirable courage, he had
attempted to rescue a third person, and had actually gone back amongst
the rocks and breakers--but his strength failed him, and, without the aid
of our men, he would certainly have been washed away from the ridge to
which he clung."

"He must indeed be a fine fellow!" said Catherine.

Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to
this conversation. The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged,
only increased upon reflection. The two girls, who had just been saved,
were fifteen years of age; were dressed in mourning; were so like, that
one might be taken for the other; one of them wore round her neck a chain
with a bronze medal; he could scarcely doubt that they were the daughters
of General Simon. But how could those sisters be amongst the number of
shipwrecked passengers? How could they have escaped from the prison at
Leipsic? How did it happen, that he had not been informed of it? Could
they have fled, or had they been set at liberty? How was it possible that
he should not be apprise of such an event? But these secondary thoughts,
which offered themselves in crowds to the mind of M. Rodin, were
swallowed up in the one fact: "the daughters of General Simon are
here!"--His plan, so laboriously laid, was thus entirely destroyed.

"When I speak of the deliverer of these young girls," resumed the
bailiff, addressing his wife, and without remarking M. Rodin's absence of
mind, "you are expecting no doubt to see a Hercules?--well, he is
altogether the reverse. He is almost a boy in look, with fair, sweet
face, and light, curling locks. I left him a cloak to cover him, for he
had nothing on but his shirt, black knee-breeches, and a pair of black
worsted stockings--which struck me as singular."

"Why, it was certainly not a sailor's dress."

"Besides, though the ship was English, I believe my hero is a Frenchman,
for he speaks our language as well as we do. What brought the tears to my
eyes, was to see the young girls, when they came to themselves. As soon
as they saw him, they threw themselves at his feet, and seemed to look up
to him and thank him, as one would pray. Then they cast their eyes around
them, as if in search of some other person, and, having exchanged a few
words, they fell sobbing into each other's arms."

"What a dreadful thing it is! How many poor creatures must have
perished!"

"When we quitted the rocks, the sea had already cast ashore seven dead
bodies, besides fragments of the wrecks, and packages. I spoke to some of
the coast-guard, and they will remain all day on the look-out; and if, as
I hope, any more should escape with life, they are to be brought here.
But surely that is the sound of voices!--yes, it is our shipwrecked
guests!"

The bailiff and his wife ran to the door of the room--that door, which
opened on the long gallery--whilst Rodin, biting convulsively his flat
nails, awaited with angry impatience the arrival of the strangers. A
touching picture soon presented itself to his view.

From the end of the dark some gallery, only lighted on one side by
several windows, three persons, conducted by a peasant, advanced slowly.
This group consisted of the two maidens, and the intrepid young man to
whom they owed their lives. Rose and Blanche were on either side of their
deliverer, who, walking with great difficulty, supported himself lightly
on their arms.

Though he was full twenty-five years of age, the juvenile countenance of
this man made him appear younger. His long, fair hair, parted on the
forehead, streamed wet and smooth over the collar of a large brown cloak,
with which he had been covered. It would be difficult to describe the
adorable expression of goodness in his pale, mild face, as pure as the
most ideal creations of Raphael's pencil--for that divine artist alone
could have caught the melancholy grace of those exquisite features, the
serenity of that celestial look, from eyes limpid and blue as those of an
archangel, or of a martyr ascended to the skies.

Yes, of a martyr! for a blood-red halo already encircled that beauteous
head. Piteous sight to see! just above his light eyebrows, and rendered
still more visible by the effect of the cold, a narrow cicatrix, from a
wound inflicted many months before, appeared to encompass his fair
forehead with a purple band; and (still more sad!) his hands had been
cruelly pierced by a crucifixion--his feet had suffered the same
injury--and, if he now walked with so much difficulty, it was that his
wounds had reopened, as he struggled over the sharp rocks.

This young man was Gabriel, the priest attached to the foreign mission,
the adopted son of Dagobert's wife. He was a priest and martyr--for, in
our days, there are still martyrs, as in the time when the Caesars flung
the early Christians to the lions and tigers of the circus.

Yes, in our days, the children of the people--for it is almost always
amongst them that heroic and disinterested devotion may still be
found--the children of the people, led by an honorable conviction,
because it is courageous and sincere, go to all parts of the world, to
try and propagate their faith, and brave both torture and death with the
most unpretending valor.

How many of them, victims of some barbarous tribe, have perished, obscure
and unknown, in the midst of the solitudes of the two worlds!--And for
these humble soldiers of the cross, who have nothing but their faith and
their intrepidity, there is never reserved on their return (and they
seldom do return) the rich and sumptuous dignities of the church. Never
does the purple or the mitre conceal their scarred brows and mutilated
limbs; like the great majority of other soldiers, they die forgotten.[8]

In their ingenuous gratitude, the daughters of General Simon, as soon as
they recovered their senses after the shipwreck, and felt themselves able
to ascend the cliffs, would not leave to any other person the care of
sustaining the faltering steps of him who had rescued them from certain
death.

The black garments of Rose and Blanche streamed with water; their faces
were deadly pale, and expressive of deep grief; the marks of recent tears
were on their cheeks, and, with sad, downcast eyes, they trembled both
from agitation and cold, as the agonizing thought recurred to them, that
they should never again see Dagobert, their friend and guide; for it was
to him that Gabriel had stretched forth a helping hand, to assist him to
climb the rocks. Unfortunately the strength of both had failed, and the
soldier had been carried away by a retreating wave.

The sight of Gabriel was a fresh surprise for Rodin, who had retired on
one side, in order to observe all; but this surprise was of so pleasant a
nature, and he felt so much joy in beholding the missionary safe after
such imminent peril, that the painful impression, caused by the view of
General Simon's daughters, was a little softened. It must not be
forgotten, that the presence of Gabriel in Paris, on the 13th of
February, was essential to the success of Rodin's projects.

The bailiff and his wife, who were greatly moved at sight of the orphans,
approached them with eagerness. Just then a farm-boy entered the room,
crying: "Sir! sir! good news--two more saved from the wreck!"

"Blessing and praise to God for it!" said the missionary.

"Where are they?" asked the bailiff, hastening towards the door.

"There is one who can walk, and is following behind me with Justin; the
other was wounded against the rocks, and they are carrying him on a
litter made of branches."

"I will run and have him placed in the room below," said the bailiff, as
he went out. "Catherine, you can look to the young ladies."

"And the shipwrecked man who can walk--where is he?" asked the bailiff's
wife.

"Here he is," said the peasant, pointing to some one who came rapidly
along the gallery; "when he heard that the two young ladies were safe in
the chateau--though he is old, and wounded in the head, he took such
great strides, that it was all I could do to get here before him."

Hardly had the peasant pronounced these words, when Rose and Blanche,
springing up by a common impulse, flew to the door. They arrived there at
the same moment as Dagobert.

The soldier, unable to utter a syllable, fell on his knees at the
threshold, and extended his arms to the daughters of General Simon; while
Spoil-sport, running to them licked their hands.

But the emotion was too much for Dagobert; and, when he had clasped the
orphans in his arms, his head fell backward, and he would have sunk down
altogether, but for the care of the peasants. In spite of the
observations of the bailiff's wife, on their state of weakness and
agitation, the two young girls insisted on accompanying Dagobert, who was
carried fainting into an adjoining apartment.

At sight of the soldier, Rodin's face was again violently contracted, for
he had till then believed that the guide of General Simon's daughters was
dead. The missionary, worn out with fatigue, was leaning upon a chair,
and had not yet perceived Rodin.

A new personage, a man with a dead yellow complexion, now entered the
room, accompanied by another peasant, who pointed out Gabriel to him.
This man, who had just borrowed a smock-frock and a pair of trousers,
approached the missionary, and said to him in French but with a foreign
accent: "Prince Djalma has just been brought in here. His first word was
to ask for you."

"What does that man say?" cried Rodin, in a voice of thunder; for, at the
name of Djalma, he had sprung with one bound to Gabriel's side.

"M. Rodin!" exclaimed the missionary, falling back in surprise.

"M. Rodin," cried the other shipwrecked person; and from that moment, he
kept his eye fixed on the correspondent of M. Van Dael.

"You here, sir?" said Gabriel, approaching Rodin with an air of
deference, not unmixed with fear.

"What did that man say to you?" repeated Rodin, in an excited tone. "Did
he not utter the name of Prince Djalma?"

"Yes, sir; Prince Djalma was one of the passengers on board the English
ship, which came from Alexandria, and in which we have just been wrecked.
This vessel touched at the Azores, where I then was; the ship that
brought me from Charlestown having been obliged to put in there, and
being likely to remain for some time, on account of serious damage, I
embarked on board the 'Black Eagle,' where I met Prince Djalma. We were
bound to Portsmouth, and from thence my intention was to proceed to
France."

Rodin did not care to interrupt Gabriel. This new shock had completely
paralyzed his thoughts. At length, like a man who catches at a last hope,
which he knows beforehand to be vain, he said to Gabriel: "Can you tell
me who this Prince Djalma is?"

"A young man as good as brave--the son of an East Indian king,
dispossessed of his territory by the English."

Then, turning towards the other shipwrecked man, the missionary said to
him with anxious interest: "How is the Prince? are his wounds dangerous?"

"They are serious contusions, but they will not be mortal," answered the
other.

"Heaven be praised!" said the missionary, addressing Rodin; "here, you
see, is another saved."

"So much the better," observed Rodin, in a quick, imperious tone.

"I will go see him," said Gabriel, submissively. "You have no orders to
give me?"

"Will you be able to leave this place in two or three hours,
notwithstanding your fatigue?"

"If it be necessary--yes."

"It is necessary. You will go with me."

Gabriel only bowed in reply, and Rodin sank confounded into a chair,
while the missionary went out with the peasant. The man with the sallow
complexion still lingered in a corner of the room, unperceived by Rodin.

This man was Faringhea, the half-caste, one of the three chiefs of the
Stranglers. Having escaped the pursuit of the soldiers in the ruins of
Tchandi, he had killed Mahal the Smuggler, and robbed him of the
despatches written by M. Joshua Van Dael to Rodin, as also of the letter
by which the smuggler was to have been received as passenger on board the
"Ruyter." When Faringhea left the hut in the ruins of Tchandi, he had not
been seen by Djalma; and the latter, when he met him on shipboard, after
his escape (which we shall explain by and by), not knowing that he
belonged to the sect of Phansegars, treated him during the voyage as a
fellow-countryman.

Rodin, with his eye fixed and haggard, his countenance of a livid hue,
biting his nails to the quick in silent rage, did not perceive the half
caste, who quietly approached him and laying his hand familiarly on his
shoulder, said to him: "Your name is Rodin?"

"What now?" asked the other, starting, and raising his head abruptly.

"Your name is Rodin?" repeated Faringhea.

"Yes. What do you want?"

"You live in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins, Paris?"

"Yes. But, once more, what do you want?"

"Nothing now, brother: hereafter, much!"

And Faringhea, retiring, with slow steps, left Rodin alarmed at what had
passed; for this man, who scarcely trembled at anything, had quailed
before the dark look and grim visage of the Strangler.

[8] We always remember with emotion the end of a letter written, two or
three years ago, by one of these young and valiant missionaries, the son
of poor parents in Beauce. He was writing to his mother from the heart of
Japan, and thus concluded his letter: "Adieu, my dear mother! they say
there is much danger where I am now sent to. Pray for me, and tell all
our good neighbors that I think of them very often." These few words,
addressed from the centre of Asia to poor peasants in a hamlet of France,
are only the more touching from their very simplicity--E. S.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEPARTURE FOR PARIS.

The most profound silence reigns throughout Cardoville House. The tempest
has lulled by degrees, and nothing is heard from afar but the hoarse
murmur of the waves, as they wash heavily the shore.

Dagobert and the orphans have been lodged in warm and comfortable
apartments on the first-floor of the chateau. Djalma, too severely hurt
to be carried upstairs, has remained in a room below. At the moment of
the shipwreck, a weeping mother had placed her child in his arms. He had
failed in the attempt to snatch this unfortunate infant from certain
death, but his generous devotion had hampered his movements, and when
thrown upon the rocks, he was almost dashed to pieces. Faringhea, who has
been able to convince him of his affection, remains to watch over him.

Gabriel, after administering consolation to Djalma, has rescinded to the
chamber allotted to him; faithful to the promise he made to Rodin, to be
ready to set out in two hours, he has not gone to bed; but, having dried
his clothes, he has fallen asleep in a large, high-backed arm-chair,
placed in front of a bright coal-fire. His apartment is situated near
those occupied by Dagobert and the two sisters.

Spoil-sport, probably quite at his ease in so respectable a dwelling, has
quitted the door of Rose and Blanche's chamber, to lie down and warm
himself at the hearth, by the side of which the missionary is sleeping.
There, with his nose resting on his outstretched paws, he enjoys a
feeling of perfect comfort and repose, after so many perils by land and
sea. We will not venture to affirm, that he thinks habitually of poor old
Jovial; unless we recognize as a token of remembrance on his part, his
irresistible propensity to bite all the white horses he has met with,
ever since the death of his venerable companion, though before, he was
the most inoffensive of dogs with regard to horses of every color.

Presently one of the doors of the chamber opened, and the two sisters
entered timidly. Awake for some minutes, they had risen and dressed
themselves, feeling still some uneasiness with respect to Dagobert;
though the bailiff's wife, after showing them to their room, had returned
again to tell them that the village doctor found nothing serious in the
hurt of the old soldier, still they hoped to meet some one belonging to
the chateau, of whom they could make further inquiries about him.

The high back of the old-fashioned arm-chair, in which Gabriel was
sleeping, completely screened him from view; but the orphans, seeing
their canine friend lying quietly at his feet, thought it was Dagobert
reposing there, and hastened towards him on tip-toe. To their great
astonishment, they saw Gabriel fast asleep, and stood still in confusion,
not daring to advance or recede, for fear of waking him.

The long, light hair of the missionary was no longer wet, and now curled
naturally round his neck and shoulders; the paleness of his complexion
was the more striking, from the contrast afforded by the deep purple of
the damask covering of the arm-chair. His beautiful countenance expressed
a profound melancholy, either caused by the influence of some painful
dream, or else that he was in the habit of keeping down, when awake, some
sad regrets, which revealed themselves without his knowledge when he was
sleeping. Notwithstanding this appearance of bitter grief, his features
preserved their character of angelic sweetness, and seemed endowed with
an inexpressible charm, for nothing is more touching than suffering
goodness. The two young girls cast down their eyes, blushed
simultaneously, and exchanged anxious glances, as if to point out to each
other the slumbering missionary.

"He sleeps, sister," said Rose in a low voice.

"So much the better," replied Blanche, also in a whisper, making a sign
of caution; "we shall now be able to observe him well."

"Yes, for we durst not do so, in coming from the sea hither."

"Look! what a sweet countenance!"

"He is just the same as we saw him in our dreams."

"When he promised he would protect us."

"And he has not failed us."

"But here, at least, he is visible."

"Not as it was in the prison at Leipsic, during that dark night."

"And so--he has again rescued us."

"Without him, we should have perished this morning."

"And yet, sister, it seems to me, that in our dreams his countenance
shone with light."

"Yes, you know it dazzled us to look at him."

"And then he had not so sad a mien."

"That was because he came then from heaven; now he is upon earth."

"But, sister, had he then that bright red scar round his forehead?"

"Oh, no! we should have certainly perceived it."

"And these other marks on his hands?"

"If he has been wounded, how can he be an archangel?"

"Why not, sister? If he received those wounds in preventing evil, or in
helping the unfortunate, who, like us, were about to perish?"

"You are right. If he did not run any danger for those he protects, it
would be less noble."

"What a pity that he does not open his eye!"

"Their expression is so good, so tender!"

"Why did he not speak of our mother, by the way?"

"We were not alone with him; he did not like to do so."

"But now we are alone."

"If we were to pray to him to speak to us?"

The orphans looked doubtingly at each other, with charming simplicity; a
bright glow suffused their cheeks, and their young bosoms heaved gently
beneath their black dresses.

"You are right. Let us kneel down to him."

"Oh, sister! our hearts beat so!" said Blanche, believing rightly, that
Rose felt exactly as she did. "And yet it seems to do us good. It is as
if some happiness were going to befall us."

The sisters, having approached the arm-chair on tip-toe, knelt down with
clasped hands, one to the right the other to the left of the young
priest. It was a charming picture. Turning their lovely faces towards
him, they said in a low whisper, with a soft, sweet voice, well suited to
their youthful appearance: "Gabriel! speak to us of our mother!"

On this appeal, the missionary gave a slight start, half-opened his eyes,
and, still in a state of semi-consciousness, between sleep and waking,
beheld those two beauteous faces turned towards him, and heard two gentle
voices repeat his name.

"Who calls me?" said he, rousing himself, and raising his head.

"It is Blanche and Rose."

It was now Gabriel's turn to blush, for he recognized the young girls he
had saved. "Rise, my sisters!" said he to them; "you should kneel only
unto God."

The orphans obeyed, and were soon beside him, holding each other by the
hand. "You know my name, it seems," said the missionary with a smile.

"Oh, we have not forgotten it!"

"Who told it you?"

"Yourself."
"I?"

"Yes--when you came from our mother."

"I, my sisters?" said the missionary, unable to comprehend the words of
the orphans. "You are mistaken. I saw you to-day for the first time."

"But in our dreams?"

"Yes--do you not remember?--in our dreams."

"In Germany--three months ago, for the first time. Look at us well."

Gabriel could not help smiling at the simplicity of Rose and Blanche, who
expected him to remember a dream of theirs; growing more and more
perplexed, he repeated: "In your dreams?"

"Certainly; when you gave us such good advice."

"And when we were so sorrowful in prison, your words, which we
remembered, consoled us, and gave us courage."

"Was it not you, who delivered us from the prison at Leipsic, in that
dark night, when we were not able to see you?"

"I!"

"What other but you would thus have come to our help, and to that of our
old friend?"

"We told him, that you would love him, because he loved us, although he
would not believe in angels."

"And this morning, during the tempest, we had hardly any fear."

"Because we expected you."

"This morning--yes, my sisters--it pleased heaven to send me to your
assistance. I was coming from America, but I have never been in Leipsic.
I could not, therefore, have let you out of prison. Tell me, my sisters,"
added he, with a benevolent smile, "for whom do you take me?"

"For a good angel whom we have seen already in dreams, sent by our mother
from heaven to protect us."

"My dear sisters, I am only a poor priest. It is by mere chance, no
doubt, that I bear some resemblance to the angel you have seen in your
dreams, and whom you could not see in any other manner--for angels are
not visible to mortal eye.

"Angels are not visible?" said the orphans, looking sorrowfully at each
other.

"No matter, my dear sisters," said Gabriel, taking them affectionately by
the hand; "dreams, like everything else, come from above. Since the
remembrance of your mother was mixed up with this dream, it is twice
blessed."

At this moment a door opened, and Dagobert made his appearance. Up to
this time, the orphans, in their innocent ambition to be protected by an
archangel, had quite forgotten the circumstance that Dagobert's wife had
adopted a forsaken child, who was called Gabriel, and who was now a
priest and missionary.

The soldier, though obstinate in maintaining that his hurt was only a
blank wound (to use a term of General Simon's), had allowed it to be
carefully dressed by the surgeon of the village, and now wore a black
bandage, which concealed one half of his forehead, and added to the
natural grimness of his features. On entering the room, he was not a
little surprised to see a stranger holding the hands of Rose and Blanche
familiarly in his own. This surprise was natural, for Dagobert did not
know that the missionary had saved the lives of the orphans, and had
attempted to save his also.

In the midst of the storm, tossed about by the waves, and vainly striving
to cling to the rocks, the soldier had only seen Gabriel very
imperfectly, at the moment when, having snatched the sisters from certain
death, the young priest had fruitlessly endeavored to come to his aid.
And when, after the shipwreck, Dagobert had found the orphans in safety
beneath the roof of the Manor House, he fell, as we have already stated,
into a swoon, caused by fatigue, emotion, and the effects of his
wound--so that he had again no opportunity of observing the features of
the missionary.

The veteran began to frown from beneath his black bandage and thick, gray
brows, at beholding a stranger so familiar with Rose and Blanche; but the
sisters ran to throw themselves into his arms, and to cover him with
filial caresses. His anger was soon dissipated by these marks of
affection, though he continued, from time to time, to cast a suspicious
glance at the missionary, who had risen from his seat, but whose
countenance he could not well distinguish.

"How is your wound?" asked Rose, anxiously. "They told us it was not
dangerous."

"Does it still pain?" added Blanche.

"No, children; the surgeon of the village would bandage me up in this
manner. If my head was carbonadoes with sabre cuts, I could not have more
wrappings. They will take me for an old milksop; it is only a blank
wound, and I have a good mind to--" And therewith the soldier raised one
of his hands to the bandage.

"Will you leave that alone?" cried Rose catching his arm. "How can you be
so unreasonable--at your age?"

"Well, well! don't scold! I will do what you wish, and keep it on." Then,
drawing the sisters to one end of the room, he said to them in a low
voice, whilst he looked at the young priest from the corner of his eye:
"Who is that gentleman who was holding your hands when I came in? He has
very much the look of a curate. You see, my children, you must be on your
guard; because--"

"He?" cried both sisters at once, turning towards Gabriel. "Without him,
we should not now be here to kiss you."

"What's that?" cried the soldier, suddenly drawing up his tall figure,
and gazing full at the missionary.

"It is our guardian angel," resumed Blanche.

"Without him," said Rose, "we must have perished this morning in the
shipwreck."

"Ah! it is he, who--" Dagobert could say no more. With swelling heart,
and tears in his eyes, he ran to the missionary, offered him both his
hands, and exclaimed in a tone of gratitude impossible to describe: "Sir,
I owe you the lives of these two children. I feel what a debt that
service lays upon me. I will not say more--because it includes
everything!"

Then, as if struck with a sudden recollection, he cried: "Stop! when I
was trying to cling to a rock, so as not to be carried away by the waves,
was it not you that held out your hand to me? Yes--that light hair--that
youthful countenance--yes--it was certainly you--now I am sure of it!"

"Unhappily, sir, my strength failed me, and I had the anguish to see you
fall back into the sea."

"I can say nothing more in the way of thanks than what I have already
said," answered Dagobert, with touching simplicity: "in preserving these
children you have done more for me than if you had saved my own life. But
what heart and courage!" added the soldier, with admiration; "and so
young, with such a girlish look!"

"And so," cried Blanche, joyfully, "our Gabriel came to your aid also?"

"Gabriel!" said Dagobert interrupting Blanche, and addressing himself to
the priest. "Is your name Gabriel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Gabriel!" repeated the soldier, more and more surprised. "And a priest!"
added he.

"A priest of the foreign missions."

"Who--who brought you up?" asked the soldier, with increasing
astonishment.

"An excellent and generous woman, whom I revere as the best of mothers:
for she had pity on me, a deserted infant, and treated me ever as her
son."

"Frances Baudoin--was it not?" said the soldier, with deep emotion.

"It was, sir," answered Gabriel, astonished in his turn. "But how do you
know this?"

"The wife of a soldier, eh?" continued Dagobert.

"Yes, of a brave soldier--who, from the most admirable devotion, is even
now passing his life in exile--far from his wife--far from his son, my
dear brother--for I am proud to call him by that name--"

"My Agricola!--my wife!--when did you leave them?"

"What! is it possible! You the father of Agricola?--Oh! I knew not, until
now," cried Gabriel, clasping his hands together, "I knew not all the
gratitude that I owed to heaven!"

"And my wife! my child!" resumed Dagobert, in a trembling voice; "how are
they? have you news of them?"

"The accounts I received, three months ago, were excellent."

"No; it is too much," cried Dagobert; "it is too much!" The veteran was
unable to proceed; his feelings stifled his words, and fell back
exhausted in a chair.

And now Rose and Blanche recalled to mind that portion of their father's
letter which related to the child named Gabriel, whom the wife of
Dagobert had adopted; then they also yielded to transports of innocent
joy.

"Our Gabriel is the same as yours--what happiness!" cried Rose.

"Yes, my children! he belongs to you as well as to me. We have all our
part in him." Then, addressing Gabriel, the soldier added with
affectionate warmth: "Your hand, my brave boy! give me your hand!"

"Oh, sir! you are too good to me."

"Yes--that's it--thank me!--after all thou has done for us!"

"Does my adopted mother know of your return?" asked Gabriel, anxious to
escape from the praises of the soldier.

"I wrote to her five months since, but said that I should come alone;
there was a reason for it, which I will explain by and by. Does she still
live in the Rue Brise-Miche? It was there Agricola was born."

"She still lives there."

"In that case, she must have received my letter. I wished to write to her
from the prison at Leipsic, but it was impossible."

"From prison! Have you just come out of prison?"

"Yes; I come straight from Germany, by the Elbe and Hamburg, and I should
be still at Leipsic, but for an event which the Devil must have had a
hand in--a good sort of devil, though."

"What do you mean? Pray explain to me."

"That would be difficult, for I cannot explain it to myself. These little
ladies," he added, pointing with a smile to Rose and Blanche, "pretended
to know more about it than I did, and were continually repeating: 'It was
the angel that came to our assistance, Dagobert--the good angel we told
thee of--though you said you would rather have Spoil sport to defend
us--'"

"Gabriel, I am waiting for you," said a stern voice, which made the
missionary start. They all turned round instantly, whilst the dog uttered
a deep growl.

It was Rodin. He stood in the doorway leading to the corridor. His
features were calm and impassive, but he darted a rapid, piercing glance
at the soldier and sisters.

"Who is that man?" said Dagobert, very little prepossessed in favor of
Rodin, whose countenance he found singularly repulsive. "What the
mischief does he want?"

"I must go with him," answered Gabriel, in a tone of sorrowful
constraint. Then, turning to Rodin, he added: "A thousand pardons! I
shall be ready in a moment."

"What!" cried Dagobert, stupefied with amazement, "going the very instant
we have just met? No, by my faith! you shall not go. I have too much to
tell you, and to ask in return. We will make the journey together. It
will be a real treat for me."

"It is impossible. He is my superior, and I must obey him."

"Your superior?--why, he's in citizen's dress."

"He is not obliged to wear the ecclesiastical garb."

"Rubbish! since he is not in uniform, and there is no provost-marshal in
your troop, send him to the--"

"Believe me, I would not hesitate a minute, if it were possible to
remain."

"I was right in disliking the phi of that man," muttered Dagobert between
his teeth. Then he added, with an air of impatience and vexation: "Shall
I tell him that he will much oblige us by marching off by himself?"

"I beg you not to do so," said Gabriel; "it would be useless; I know my
duty, and have no will but my superior's. As soon as you arrive in Paris,
I will come and see you, as also my adopted mother, and my dear brother,
Agricola."

"Well--if it must be. I have been a soldier, and know what subordination
is," said Dagobert, much annoyed. "One must put a good face on bad
fortune. So, the day after to-morrow, in the Rue Brise-Miche, my boy; for
they tell me I can be in Paris by to-morrow evening, and we set out
almost immediately. But I say--there seems to be a strict discipline with
you fellows!"

"Yes, it is strict and severe," answered Gabriel, with a shudder, and a
stifled sigh.

"Come, shake hands--and let's say farewell for the present. After all,
twenty-four hours will soon pass away."

"Adieu! adieu!" replied the missionary, much moved, whilst he returned
the friendly pressure of the veteran's hand.

"Adieu, Gabriel!" added the orphans, sighing also, and with tears in
their eyes.

"Adieu, my sisters!" said Gabriel--and he left the room with Rodin, who
had not lost a word or an incident of this scene.

Two hours after, Dagobert and the orphans had quitted the Castle for
Paris, not knowing that Djalma was left at Cardoville, being still too
much injured to proceed on his journey. The half-caste, Faringhea,
remained with the young prince, not wishing, he said, to desert a fellow
countryman.

We now conduct the reader to the Rue Brise-Miche, the residence of
Dagobert's wife.




CHAPTER XXVII.

DAGOBERT'S WIFE.

The following scenes occur in Paris, on the morrow of the day when the
shipwrecked travellers were received in Cardoville House.

Nothing can be more gloomy than the aspect of the Rue Brise-Miche, one
end of which leads into the Rue Saint-Merry, and the other into the
little square of the Cloister, near the church. At this end, the street,
or rather alley--for it is not more than eight feet wide--is shut in
between immense black, muddy dilapidated walls, the excessive height of
which excludes both air and light; hardly, during the longest days of the
year, is the sun able to throw into it a few straggling beams; whilst,
during the cold damps of winter, a chilling fog, which seems to penetrate
everything, hangs constantly above the miry pavement of this species of
oblong well.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening; by the faint, reddish light of
the street lamp, hardly visible through the haze, two men, stopping at
the angle of one of those enormous walls, exchanged a few words together.

"So," said one, "you understand all about it. You are to watch in the
street, till you see them enter No. 5."

"All right!" answered the other.

"And when you see 'em enter so as to make quite sure of the game, go up
to Frances Baudoin's room--"

"Under the cloak of asking where the little humpbacked workwoman
lives--the sister of that gay girl, the Queen of the Bacchanals."

"Yes--and you must try and find out her address also--from her humpbacked
sister, if possible--for it is very important. Women of her feather
change their nests like birds, and we have lost track of her."

"Make yourself easy; I will do my best with Hump, to learn where her
sister hangs out."

"And, to give you steam, I'll wait for you at the tavern opposite the
Cloister, and we'll have a go of hot wine on your return."

"I'll not refuse, for the night is deucedly cold."

"Don't mention it! This morning the water friz on my sprinkling-brush,
and I turned as stiff as a mummy in my chair at the church-door. Ah, my
boy! a distributor of holy water is not always upon roses!"

"Luckily, you have the pickings--"

"Well, well--good luck to you! Don't forget the Fiver, the little passage
next to the dyer's shop."

"Yes, yes--all right!" and the two men separated.

One proceeded to the Cloister Square; the other towards the further end
of the street, where it led into the Rue Saint-Merry. This latter soon
found the number of the house he sought--a tall, narrow building, having,
like all the other houses in the street, a poor and wretched appearance.
When he saw he was right, the man commenced walking backwards and
forwards in front of the door of No. 5.

If the exterior of these buildings was uninviting, the gloom and squalor
of the interior cannot be described. The house No. 5 was, in a special
degree, dirty and dilapidated. The water, which oozed from the wall,
trickled down the dark and filthy staircase. On the second floor, a wisp
of straw had been laid on the narrow landing-place, for wiping the feet
on; but this straw, being now quite rotten, only served to augment the
sickening odor, which arose from want of air, from damp, and from the
putrid exhalations of the drains. The few openings, cut at rare intervals
in the walls of the staircase, could hardly admit more than some faint
rays of glimmering light.

In this quarter, one of the most populous in Paris, such houses as these,
poor, cheerless, and unhealthy, are generally inhabited by the working
classes. The house in question was of the number. A dyer occupied the
ground floor; the deleterious vapors arising from his vats added to the
stench of the whole building. On the upper stories, several artisans
lodged with their families, or carried on their different trades. Up four
flights of stairs was the lodging of Frances Baudoin, wife of Dagobert.
It consisted of one room, with a closet adjoining, and was now lighted by
a single candle. Agricola occupied a garret in the roof.

Old grayish paper, broken here and there by the cracks covered the crazy
wall, against which rested the bed; scanty curtains, running upon an iron
rod, concealed the windows; the brick floor, not polished, but often
washed, had preserved its natural color. At one end of this room was a
round iron stove, with a large pot for culinary purposes. On the wooden
table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature house made
of iron--a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of Agricola
Baudoin, Dagobert's son.

A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several
branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very
coarsely 

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