by Eugène Sue
“Do you not recognize me,” said Faringhea, advancing two steps nearer to Rodin’s chair.
“I do not think I have ever had the honor of seeing you,” answered the other, coldly.
“But I recognize you,” said Faringhea; “I saw you at Cardoville Castle the day that a ship and a steamer were wrecked together.”
“At Cardoville Castle? It is very possible, sir. I was there when a shipwreck took place.”
“And that day I called you by your name, and you asked me what I wanted. I replied: ‘Nothing now, brother — hereafter, much.’ The time has arrived. I have come to ask for much.”
“My dear sir,” said Rodin, still impassible, “before we continue this conversation, which appears hitherto tolerably obscure, I must repeat my wish to be informed to whom I have the advantage of speaking. You have introduced yourself here under pretext of a commission from Mynheer Joshua Van Dael, a respectable merchant of Batavia, and—”
“You know the writing of M. Van Dael?” said Faringhea, interrupting Rodin.
“I know it perfectly.”
“Look!” The half-caste drew from his pocket (he was shabbily dressed in European clothes) a long dispatch, which he had taken from one Mahal the Smuggler, after strangling him on the beach near Batavia. These papers he placed before Rodin’s eyes, but without quitting his hold of them.
“It is, indeed, M. Van Dael’s writing,” said Rodin, and he stretched out his hard towards the letter, which Faringhea quickly and prudently returned to his pocket.
“Allow me to observe, my dear sir, that you have a singular manner of executing a commission,” said Rodin. “This letter, being to my address, and having been entrusted to you by M. Van Dael, you ought—”
“This letter was not entrusted to me by M. Van Dael,” said Faringhea, interrupting Rodin.
“How, then, is it in your possession?”
“A Javanese smuggler betrayed me. Van Dael had secured a passage to Alexandria for this man, and had given him this letter to carry with him for the European mail. I strangled the smuggler, took the letter, made the passage — and here I am.”
The Thug had pronounced these words with an air of savage boasting; his wild, intrepid glance did not quail before the piercing look of Rodin, who, at this strange confession, had hastily raised his head to observe the speaker.
Faringhea thought to astonish or intimidate Rodin by these ferocious words; but, to his great surprise, the socius, impassible as a corpse, said to him, quite simply: “Oh! they strangle people in Java?”
“Yes, there and elsewhere,” answered Faringhea, with a bitter smile.
“I would prefer to disbelieve you; but I am surprised at your sincerity M. — , what is your name?”
“Faringhea.”
“Well, then, M. Faringhea, what do you wish to come to? You have obtained by an abominable crime, a letter addressed to me, and now you hesitate to deliver it.”
“Because I have read it, and it may be useful to me.”
“Oh! you have read it?” said Rodin, disconcerted for a moment. Then he resumed: “It is true, that judging by your mode of possessing yourself of other people’s correspondence, we cannot expect any great amount of honesty on your part. And pray what have you found so useful to you in this letter?”
“I have found, brother, that you are, like myself, a son of the Good Work.”
“Of what good work do you speak” asked Rodin not a little surprised.
Faringhea replied with an expression of bitter irony. “Joshua says to you in his letter— ‘Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft and audacity, union between us, who have the world for our country, the brethren for our family, Rome for our queen.’”
“It is possible that M. Van Dael has written thus to me Pray, sir, what do you conclude from it?”
“We, too, have the world for our country, brother, our accomplices for our family, and for our queen Bowanee.”
“I do not know that saint,” said Rodin, humbly.
“It is our Rome,” answered the Strangler. “Van Dael speaks to you of those of your Order, who, scattered over all the earth, labor for the glory of Rome, your queen. Those of our band labor also in divers countries, for the glory of Bowanee.”
“And who are these sons of Bowanee, M. Faringhea?”
“Men of resolution, audacious, patient, crafty, obstinate, who, to make the Good Work succeed, would sacrifice country and parents, and sister and brother, and who regard as enemies all not of their band!”
“There seems to be much that is good in the persevering and exclusively religious spirit of such an order,” said Rodin, with a modest and sanctified air; “only, one must know your ends and objects.”
“The same as your own, brother — we make corpses.”(13)
“Corpses!” cried Rodin.
“In this letter,” resumed Faringhea, “Van Dael tells you that the greatest glory of your Order is to make ‘a corpse of man.’ Our work also is to make corpses of men. Man’s death is sweet to Bowanee.”
“But sir,” cried Rodin, “M. Van Dael speaks of the soul, of the will, of the mind, which are to be brought down by discipline.”
“It is true — you kill the soul, and we the body. Give me your hand, brother, for you also are hunters of men.”
“But once more, sir, — understand, that we only meddle with the will, the mind,” said Rodin.
“And what are bodies deprived of soul, will, thought, but mere corpses? Come — come, brother; the dead we make by the cord are not more icy and inanimate than those you make by your discipline. Take my hand, brother; Rome and Bowanee are sisters.”
Notwithstanding his apparent calmness, Rodin could not behold, without some secret alarm, a wretch like Faringhea in possession of a long letter from Van Dael, wherein mention must necessarily have been made of Djalma. Rodin believed, indeed, that he had rendered it impossible for the young Indian to be at Paris on the morrow, but not knowing what connection might have been formed, since the shipwreck, between the prince and the half-caste, he looked upon Faringhea as a man who might probably be very dangerous. But the more uneasy the socius felt in himself, the more he affected to appear calm and disdainful. He replied, therefore: “This comparison between Rome and Bowanee is no doubt very amusing; but what, sir, do you deduce from it?”
“I wish to show you, brother, what I am, and of what I am capable, to convince you that it is better to have me for a friend than an enemy.”
“In other terms, sir,” said Rodin, with contemptuous irony, “you belong to a murderous sect in India, and, you wish, by a transparent allegory, to lead me to reflect on the fate of the man from whom you have stolen the letter addressed to me. In my turn, I will take the freedom just to observe to you, in all humility, M. Faringhea, that here it is not permitted to strangle anybody, and that if you were to think fit to make any corpses for the love of Bowanee, your goddess, we should make you a head shorter, for the love of another divinity commonly called justice.”
“And what would they do to me, if I tried to poison any one?”
“I will again humbly observe to you, M. Faringhea, that I have no time to give you a course of criminal jurisprudence; but, believe me, you had better resist the temptation to strangle or poison any one. One word more: will you deliver up to me the letters of M. Van Dael, or not?”
“The letters relative to Prince Djalma?” said the half-caste, looking fixedly at Rodin, who, notwithstanding a sharp and sudden twinge, remained impenetrable, and answered with the utmost simplicity: “Not knowing what the letters which you, sir, are pleased to keep from me, may contain, it is impossible for me to answer your question. I beg, and if necessary, I demand, that you will hand me those letters — or that you will retire.”
“In a few minutes, brother, you will entreat me to remain.”
“I doubt it.”
“A few words will operate — this miracle. If just now I spoke to you about poisoning, brother, it was because you sent a
doctor to Cardoville Castle, to poison (at least for a time) Prince Djalma.”
In spite of himself, Rodin started almost imperceptibly, as he replied: “I do not understand you.”
“It is true, that I am a poor foreigner, and doubtless speak with an accent; I will try and explain myself better. I know, by Van Dael’s letters, the interest you have that Prince Djalma should not be here to morrow, and all that you have done with this view. Do you understand me now?”
“I have no answer for you.”
Two cautious taps at the door here interrupted the conversation. “Come in,” said Rodin.
“The letter has been taken to its address, sir,” said the old servant, bowing, “and here is the answer.”
Rodin took the paper, and, before he opened it, said courteously to Faringhea: “With your permission, sir?”
“Make no ceremonies,” said the half-caste.
“You are very kind,” replied Rodin, as, having read the letter he received, he wrote hastily some words at the bottom, saying: “Send this back to the same address.”
The servant bowed respectfully, and withdrew.
“Now can I continue”’ asked the half-caste, of Rodin.
“Certainly.”
“I will continue, then,” resumed Faringhea:
“The day before yesterday, just as the prince, all wounded as he was, was about, by my advice, to take his departure for Paris, a fine carriage arrived, with superb presents for Djalma, from an unknown friend. In this carriage were two men — one sent by the unknown friend — the other a doctor, sent by you to attend upon Djalma, and accompany him to Paris. It was a charitable act, brother — was it not so?”
“Go on with your story, sir.”
“Djalma set out yesterday. By declaring that the prince’s wound would grow seriously worse, if he did not lie down in the carriage during all the journey, the doctor got rid of the envoy of the unknown friend, who went away by himself. The doctor wished to get rid of me too; but Djalma so strongly insisted upon it, that I accompanied the prince and doctor. Yesterday evening, we had come about half the distance. The doctor proposed we should pass the night at an inn. ‘We have plenty of time,’ said he, ‘to reach Paris by to-morrow evening’ — the prince having told him, that he must absolutely be in Paris by the evening of the 12th. The doctor had been very pressing to set out alone with the prince. I knew by Van Dael’s letter, that it was of great importance to you for Djalma not to be here on the 13th; I had my suspicions, and I asked the doctor if he knew you; he answered with an embarrassed air, and then my suspicion became certainty. When we reached the inn, whilst the doctor was occupied with Djalma, I went up to the room of the former, and examined a box full of phials that he had brought with him. One of them contained opium — and then I guessed—”
“What did you guess, sir?”
“You shall know. The doctor said to Djalma, before he left him: ‘Your wound is doing well, but the fatigue of the journey might bring on inflammation; it will be good for you, in the course of to-morrow, to take a soothing potion, that I will make ready this evening, to have with us in the carriage.’ The doctor’s plan was a simple one,” added Faringhea; “to-day the prince was to take the potion at four or five o’clock in the afternoon — and fall into a deep sleep — the doctor to grow uneasy, and stop the carriage — to declare that it would be dangerous to continue the journey — to pass the night at an inn, and keep close watch over the prince, whose stupor was only, to cease when it suited your purposes. That was your design — it was cleverly planned — I chose to make use of it myself, and I have succeeded.”
“All that you are talking about, my dear sir,” said Rodin, biting his nails, “is pure Hebrew to me.”
“No doubt, because of my accent. But tell me, have you heard speak of array — mow?”
“No.”
“Your loss! It is an admirable production of the Island of Java, so fertile in poisons.”
“What is that to me?” said Rodin, in a sharp voice, but hardly able to dissemble his growing anxiety.
“It concerns you nearly. We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding blood,” resumed Faringhea; “to pass the cord round the neck of our victims, we wait till they are asleep. When their sleep is not deep enough, we know how to make it deeper. We are skillful at our work; the serpent is not more cunning, or the lion more valiant, Djalma himself bears our mark. The array-mow is an impalpable powder, and, by letting the sleeper inhale a few grains of it, or by mixing it with the tobacco to be smoked by a waking man, we can throw our victim into a stupor, from which nothing will rouse him. If we fear to administer too strong a dose at once, we let the sleeper inhale a little at different times, and we can thus prolong the trance at pleasure, and without any danger, as long as a man does not require meat and drink — say, thirty or forty hours. You see, that opium is mere trash compared to this divine narcotic. I had brought some of this with me from Java — as a mere curiosity, you know — without forgetting the counter poison.”
“Oh! there is a counter-poison, then?” said Rodin, mechanically.
“Just as there are people quite contrary to what we are, brother of the good work. The Javanese call the juice of this root tooboe; it dissipates the stupor caused by the array-mow, as the sun disperses the clouds. Now, yesterday evening, being certain of the projects of your emissary against Djalma, I waited till the doctor was in bed and asleep. I crept into his room, and made him inhale such a dose of array-mow — that he is probably sleeping still.”
“Miscreant!” cried Rodin, more and more alarmed by this narrative, for Faringhea had dealt a terrible blow at the machinations of the socius and his friends. “You risk poisoning the doctor.”
“Yes, brother; just as he ran the risk of poisoning Djalma. This morning we set out, leaving your doctor at the inn, plunged in a deep sleep. I was alone in the carriage with Djalma. He smoked like a true Indian; some grains of array-mow, mixed with the tobacco in his long pipe, first made him drowsy; a second dose, that he inhaled, sent him to sleep; and so I left him at the inn where we stopped. Now, brother, it depends upon me, to leave Djalma in his trance, which will last till to-morrow evening or to rouse him from it on the instant. Exactly as you comply with my demands or not, Djalma will or will not be in the Rue Saint-Francois to morrow.”
So saying, Faringhea drew from his pocket the medal belonging to Djalma, and observed, as he showed it to Rodin: “You see that I tell you the truth. During Djalma’s sleep, took from him this medal, the only indication he has of the place where he ought to be to-morrow. I finish, then as I began: Brother, I have come to ask you for a great deal.”
For some minutes, Rodin had been biting his nails to the quick, as was his custom when seized with a fit of dumb and concentrated rage. Just then, the bell of the porter’s lodge rang three times in a particular manner. Rodin did not appear to notice it, and yet a sudden light sparkled in his small reptile eyes; while Faringhea, with his arms folded, looked at him with an expression of triumph and disdainful superiority. The socius bent down his head, remained silent for some seconds, took mechanically a pen from his desk, and began to gnaw the feather, as if in deep reflection upon what Faringhea had just said. Then, throwing down the pen upon the desk, he turned suddenly towards the half-caste, and addressed him with an air of profound contempt “Now, really, M. Faringhea — do you think to make game of us with your cock-and bull stories?”
Amazed, in spite of his audacity, the half-caste recoiled a step.
“What, sir!” resumed Rodin. “You come here into a respectable house, to boast that you have stolen letters, strangled this man, drugged that other? — Why, sir, it is downright madness. I wished to hear you to the end, to see to what extent you would carry your audacity — for none but a monstrous rascal would venture to plume himself on such infamous crimes. But I prefer believing, that they exist only in your imagination.”
As he barked out these words, with a degree of animation not usual in him, Rodin r
ose from his seat, and approached the chimney, while Faringhea, who had not yet recovered from his surprise, looked at him in silence. In a few seconds, however, the half-caste returned, with a gloomy and savage mien: “Take care, brother; do not force me to prove to you that I have told the truth.”
“Come, come, sir; you must be fresh from the Antipodes, to believe us Frenchmen such easy dupes. You have, you say, the prudence of a serpent, and the courage of a lion. I do not know if you are a courageous lion, but you are certainly not a prudent serpent. What! you have about you a letter from M. Van Dael, by which I might be compromised — supposing all this not to be a fable — you have left Prince Djalma in a stupor, which would serve my projects, and from which you alone can rouse him — you are able, you say, to strike a terrible blow at my interests — and yet you do not consider (bold lion! crafty serpent as you are!) that I only want to gain twenty-four hours upon you. Now, you come from the end of India to Paris, an unknown stranger — you believe me to be as great a scoundrel as yourself, — since you call me brother — and do not once consider, that you are here in my power — that this street and house are solitary, and that I could have three or four persons to bind you in a second, savage Strangler though you are! — and that just by pulling this bell-rope,” said Rodin, as he took it in his hand. “Do not be alarmed,” added he, with a diabolical smile, as he saw Faringhea make an abrupt movement of surprise and fright; “would I give you notice, if I meant to act in this manner? — But just answer me. Once bound and put in confinement for twenty-four hours, how could you injure me? Would it not be easy for me to possess myself of Van Dael’s letter, and Djalma’s medal? and the latter, plunged in a stupor till to-morrow evening, need not trouble me at all. You see, therefore, that your threats are vain because they rest upon falsehood — because it is not true, that Prince Djalma is here and in your power. Begone, sir — leave the house; and when next you wish to make dupes, show more judgment in the selection.”