by Eugène Sue
“My share and Death’s are below stairs, and here are those of Cain and Judas,” said Goliath, pointing to the chunk of beef. “Where is the cleaver, that I may cut it in two? — No preference here — beast or man — every gullet must have it’s own.”
Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one’s thumb.
“I say, master, where’s the cleaver?” — He again began, as he cast round his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.
“Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?”
“Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house.”
“Who are these travellers?”
“Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a big moustache. But the cleaver? — my beasts are hungry and so am I — the cleaver!”
“Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?”
“The host took them to the far end of the court-yard.”
“The building, which overlooks the fields?”
“Yes, master — but the cleaver—”
A burst of frightful roaring shook the loft, and interrupted Goliath.
“Hark to them!” he exclaimed; “hunger has driven the beasts wild. If I could roar, I should do as they do. I have never seen Judas and Cain as they are to-night; they leap in their cages as if they’d knock all to pieces. As for Death, her eyes shine more than usual like candles — poor Death!”
“So these girls are lodged in the building at the end of the court-yard,” resumed Morok, without attending to the observations of Goliath.
“Yes, yes — but in the devil’s name, where is the cleaver? Since Karl went away I have to do all the work, and that makes our meals very late.”
“Did the old man remain with the young girls?” asked Morok.
Goliath, amazed that, notwithstanding his importunities, his master should still appear to neglect the animals’ supper, regarded the Prophet with an increase of stupid astonishment.
“Answer, you brute!”
“If I am a brute, I have a brute’s strength,” said Goliath, in a surly tone, “and brute against brute, I have not always come the worst off.”
“I ask if the old man remained with the girls,” repeated Morok.
“Well, then — no!” returned the giant. “The old man, after leading his horse to the stable, asked for a tub and some water, took his stand under the porch — and there — by the light of a lantern — he is washing out clothes. A man with a gray moustache! — paddling in soap-suds like a washerwoman — it’s as if I were to feed canaries!” added Goliath, shrugging his shoulders with disdain. “But now I’ve answered you, master, let me attend to the beasts’ supper,” — and, looking round for something, he added, “where is the cleaver?”
After a moment of thoughtful silence, the Prophet said to Goliath, “You will give no food to the beasts this evening.”
At first the giant could not understand these words, the idea was so incomprehensible to him.
“What is your pleasure, master?” said he.
“I forbid you to give any food to the beasts this evening.”
Goliath did not answer, but he opened wide his squinting eyes, folded his hands, and drew back a couple of steps.
“Well, dost hear me?” said Morok, with impatience. “Is it plain enough?”
“Not feed? when our meat is there, and supper is already three hours after time!” cried Goliath, with ever-increasing amazement.
“Obey, and hold your tongue.”
“You must wish something bad to happen this evening. Hunger makes the beasts furious — and me also.”
“So much the better!”
“It’ll drive ’em mad.”
“So much the better!”
“How, so much the better? — But—”
“It is enough!”
“But, devil take me, I am as hungry as the beasts!”
“Eat then — who prevents it? Your supper is ready, as you devour it raw.”
“I never eat without my beasts, nor they without me.”
“I tell you again, that, if you dare give any food to the beasts — I will turn you away.”
Goliath uttered a low growl as hoarse as a bear’s, and looked at the Prophet with a mixture of anger and stupefaction.
Morok, having given his orders, walked up and down the loft, appearing to reflect. Then, addressing himself to Goliath, who was still plunged in deep perplexity, he said to him.
“Do you remember the burgomaster’s, where I went to get my passport signed? — To-day his wife bought some books and a chaplet.”
“Yes,” answered the giant shortly.
“Go and ask his servant if I may be sure to find the burgomaster early to-morrow morning.”
“What for?”
“I may, perhaps, have something important to communicate; at all events, say that I beg him not to leave home without seeing me.”
“Good! but may I feed the beasts before I go to the burgomaster’s? — only the panther, who is most hungry? Come, master; only poor Death? just a little morsel to satisfy her; Cain and I and Judas can wait.”
“It is the panther, above all, that I forbid you to feed. Yes, her, above all the rest.”
“By the horns of the devil!” cried Goliath, “what is the matter with you to-day? I can make nothing of it. It is a pity that Karl’s not here; he, being cunning, would help me to understand why you prevent the beasts from eating when they are hungry.”
“You have no need to understand it.”
“Will not Karl soon come back?”
“He has already come back.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Off again.”
“What can be going on here? There is something in the wind. Karl goes, and returns, and goes again, and—”
“We are not talking of Karl, but of you; though hungry as a wolf you are cunning as a fox, and, when it suits you, as cunning as Karl.” And, changing on the sudden his tone and manner, Morok slapped the giant cordially on the shoulder.
“What! am I cunning?”
“The proof is, that there are ten florins to earn to-night — and you will be keen enough to earn them, I am sure.”
“Why, on those terms, yes — I am awake,” said the giant, smiling with a stupid, self-satisfied air. “What must I do for ten florins?”
“You shall see.”
“Is it hard work?”
“You shall see. Begin by going to the burgomaster’s — but first light the fire in that stove.” He pointed to it with his finger.
“Yes, master,” said Goliath, somewhat consoled for the delay of his supper by the hope of gaining ten florins.
“Put that iron bar in the stove,” added the Prophet, “to make it red-hot.”
“Yes, master.”
“You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster’s, and return here to wait for me.”
“Yes, master.
“You will keep the fire up in the stove.”
“Yes, master.”
Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: “You say the old man is busy washing under the porch?”
“Yes, master.”
“Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire — the burgomaster — and return here to wait my orders.” So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and disappeared.
CHAPTER IV. MOROK AND DAGOBERT
GOLIATH HAD NOT been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.
When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself to all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his app
renticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he had industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to receive a sabre-cut — the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in the cloth.
Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement, you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning, with a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy.
We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert, given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he was considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.
They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed their horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged valiantly that day without receiving any wound — for he counted as a mere memento the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted in awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.
“You donkey! my new breeches!” the grenadier had exclaimed, when he saw the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the Austrian through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he showed a stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it was not so with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform.
He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair this accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of his housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play the tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the stitches.
This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight of the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position, with his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots by his side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the coolness of a tailor upon his own shop-board.
Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the detachment, calling to arms. “To horse!” cries the captain, in a voice of thunder.
In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out, and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.
A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner, with his own hand.
After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its position, the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their success, and ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that he might thank him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could have dispensed with this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to obey.
Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his naked feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his charger.
The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the whole mystery. “Ha, my old comrade!” he exclaimed, “thou art like King Dagobert — wearing thy breeches inside out.”
In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain’s was received with peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after he had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day, Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert.
Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.
In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand, and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief, spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of water. Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and blue colors, two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly visible. No wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying their pots of beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the singular occupation of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with the forbidding countenance — for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh and grim expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.
The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began to put him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite natural. At this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving the soldier, eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching, he said to him in French, in a rather sly tone: “It would seem, comrade, that you have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?”
Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.
Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: “If I do not deceive myself, you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats.”
Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap, with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him more than he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet continued: “I am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor dumb; why, then, will you not answer me?”
Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full in the face, and said to him in a rough voice: “I don’t know you: I don’t wish to know you! Chain up your curb!” And he betook himself again to his washing.
“But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil.”
The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw in the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him, something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.
“I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me — we could talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable — particularly when they know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I’d send her to your school.”
The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado were legible in the Prophet’s looks. Thinking that, with such an adversary, the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to avoid a quarrel at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of the porch, hoping thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore trial o
f his temper. A flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the brute-tamer. The white circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to dilate. He ran his crooked fingers two or three times through his yellow beard, in token of satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the soldier, accompanied by several idlers from the common-room.
Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break the washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought better of it.
Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and insolent tone: “It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!” Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: “I tell this Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall see what answer he’ll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him a lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!” he added, with mock compunction; “but the Lord has enlightened me — I am his creature, and I ought to make his work respected.”
The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of the idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not help saying in the German language: “I know German. Speak in German — the rest will understand you.”
New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most concerned.
The Prophet resumed in German: “I said that you were not civil, and I now say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?”
“Nothing!” said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another piece of linen.
“Nothing!” returned Morok; “that is very little. I will be less brief, and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and deserves to be taught manners if he does so.”