Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of the Arab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardor of battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable to their physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they have small extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicate and often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of an elasticity, and vigor truly masculine. Djalma’s oblong eyes, like black diamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from the exotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the amber mouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration, half opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamel of his teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshly scented by the rose-water through which it had passed.

  “Shall I put more tobacco in the hookah?” said the kneeling figure, turning towards Djalma, and revealing the marked and sinister features of Faringhea the Strangler.

  The young prince remained dumb, either that, from an oriental contempt for certain races, he disdained to answer the half-caste, or that, absorbed in his reverie, he did not even hear him. The Strangler became again silent; crouching cross-legged upon the carpet, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyes fixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of him whose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How had Faringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder, been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came this man, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence and ferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of the Good Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, had this man, who, profiting by the young prince’s blindness with regard to himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to Bowanee — why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine, did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he had only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of this story will answer all these questions. We can only say at present, that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.

  After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space, addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: “Time passes. The old man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word is his word.”

  “His word is his word, my lord,” repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative tone. “When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you in a deep sleep — after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant, into a similar state — he said to you: ‘The unknown friend, who sent for you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence, and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.’ — And again, he said to you, my lord: ‘Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Your interest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then be restored to perfect freedom.’ You consented to those terms, my lord, and for three days you have not left the house.”

  “And I wait for the old man with impatience,” said Djalma, “for this solitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire in Paris. Above all.”

  Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. After some moments’ silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea, in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: “Speak to me!”

  “Of what shall I speak, my lord?”

  “Of what you will,” said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed on the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. “One thought pursues me — I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me.”

  Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young Indian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. “My lord,” said the half-caste, “I can guess your thought.”

  Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latter resumed: “You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord.”

  “Be silent, slave!” said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if some painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.

  After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again with impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both eyes with his hands: “Your words are better than silence. Cursed be my thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!”

  “Why should you fly these thoughts, my lord? You are nineteen years of age, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity. Up to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that young Christian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage.”

  Though Faringhea did not at all depart from his respectful deference for the prince, the latter felt that there was something of irony in the tone of the half-caste, as he pronounced the word “chaste.”

  Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: “I do not wish to pass for a barbarian, as they call us, with these civilized people; therefore I glory in my chastity.”

  “I do not understand, my lord.”

  “I may perhaps love some woman, pure as was my mother when she married my father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste as she.”

  At this, Faringhea could not refrain from a sardonic smile.

  “Why do you laugh, slave?” said the young prince, imperiously.

  “Among civilized people, as you call them, my lord, the man who married in the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule.”

  “It is false, slave! He would only be ridiculous if he married one that was not pure as himself.”

  “Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded — he would be killed outright, for he would be doubly and unmercifully laughed at.”

  “It is false! it is false. Where did you learn all this?”

  “I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry, my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talked with a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest.”

  “So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the innocence they have themselves lost.”

  “They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord.”

  “To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by what right?”

  “By the right of the strongest — as it is among us, my lord.”

  “And what do the women do?”

  “They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the eyes of the world.”

  “But they kill a woman that is false?” said Djalma, raising himself abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with lurid fire.

  “They kill her, my lord, as with us — when they find her out.”

  “Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?”

  “Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized, my lord.”

  “All this is sad enough, if true,” observed Djalma, with a pensive air, adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; “yes, your talk afflicts me, slave — for two drops of dew blending in the cup of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock.”

  Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep reverie.
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  Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: “If, like the proud and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours — handsome, young, rich as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive Parisians — voluptuous phantoms of your nights — charming tormentors of your dreams — were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge, supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires — do you not think that many a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would no longer be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain of our life — no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem — a harem peopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make your slaves. So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you. Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our country, that would become the love and pride of these women — the most seductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but those of languor and passion.”

  Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expression of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements of Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of the passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto restrained.

  So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as a young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: “Thy words are burning poison!”

  “My lord,” said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, “your slave is your slave.” This submission disarmed the prince.

  “My life belongs to you,” repeated the half-caste.

  “I belong to you, slave!” cried Djalma, repulsing him. “Just now, I hung upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies.”

  “Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will confirm my words.”

  “These women love me! — me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?”

  “The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men and tigers, will make them adore, my lord.”

  “You lie!”

  “I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to caress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our forests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled at the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait.”

  “But I am a savage — a barbarian.”

  “And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will feel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury, the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your blood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender, to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate, such you will be — and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them. Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger glitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you, palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear — and you will be to them, not a man, but a god.”

  “Dost think so?” cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the Thug’s wild eloquence.

  “You know, you feel, that I speak the truth,” cried the latter, extending his arm towards the young Indian.

  “Why, yes!” exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling, as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. “I know not if I possess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that you speak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with madness and fury, because my love will be mad and furious they will tremble with pleasure and fear, because the very thought of it makes me tremble with delight and terror. Slave, it is true; there is something exciting and fearful in such a love!” As he spoke forth these words, Djalma was superb in his impetuous sensuality. It is a rare thing to see a young man arrive in his native purity, at the age in which are developed, in all their powerful energy, those admirable instincts of love, which God has implanted in the heart of his creatures, and which, repressed, disguised, or perverted, may unseat the reason, or generate mad excesses and frightful crimes — but which, directed towards a great and noble passion, may and must, by their very violence, elevate man, through devotion and tenderness, to the limits of the ideal.

  “Oh! this woman — this woman, before whom I am to tremble — and who, in turn, must tremble before me — where is she?” cried Djalma, with redoubled excitement. “Shall I ever find her?”

  “One is a good deal, my lord,” replied Faringhea, with his sardonic coolness; “he who looks for one woman, will rarely succeed in this country; he who seeks women, is only at a loss to choose.”

  As the half-caste made this impertinent answer to Djalma, a very elegant blue-and-white carriage stopped before the garden-gate of the house, which opened upon a deserted street. It was drawn by a pair of beautiful blood-horses, of a cream color, with black manes and tails. The scutcheons on the harness were of silver, as were also the buttons of the servants’ livery, which was blue with white collars. On the blue hammercloth, also laced with white, as well as on the panels of the doors, were lozenge-shaped coats of arms, without crest or coronet, as usually borne by unmarried daughters of noble families. Two women were in this carriage — Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine.

  CHAPTER XLI. RISING.

  TO EXPLAIN THE arrival of Mdlle. de Cardoville at the garden-door of the house occupied by Djalma, we must cast a retrospective glance at previous events. On leaving Doctor Baleinier’s, Mdlle. de Cardoville had gone to take up her residence in the Rue d’Anjou. During the last few months of her stay with her aunt, Adrienne had secretly caused this handsome dwelling to be repaired and furnished, and its luxury and elegance were now increased by all the wonders of the lodge of Saint-Dizier House. The world found it very strange, that a lady of the age and condition of Mdlle. de Cardoville should take the resolution of living completely alone and free, and, in fact, of keeping house exactly like a bachelor, a young widow, or an emancipated minor. The world pretended not to know that Mdlle. de Cardoville possessed what is often wanting in men, whether of age or twice of age — a firm character, a lofty mind, a generous heart, strong and vigorous good sense.

  Judging that she would require faithful assistance in the internal management of her house, Adrienne had written to the bailiff of Cardoville, and his wife, old family servants, to come immediately to Paris: M. Dupont thus filled the office of steward, and Mme. Dupont that of housekeeper. An old friend of Adrienne’s father, the Count de Montbron, an accomplished old man, once very much in fashion, and still a connoisseur in all sorts of elegances, had advised Adrienne to act like a princess, and take an equerry; recommended for this office a man of good rearing and ripe age, who, himself an amateur in horses, had been ruined in England, at Newmarket, the Derby, and Tattersall’s, and reduced, as sometimes happened to gentlemen in that country, to drive the stage coaches, thus finding an honest method of earning his bread, and at the same time gratifying his taste for horses. Such was M. de Bonneville, M. de Montbron’s choice. Both from age and habits, this equerry could accompany Mdlle. de Cardoville on horseback, and better than any one else, superintend the stable. He accepted, therefore, the employment with gratitude, and, thanks to his skill and attention, the equipages of Mdlle. de Cardoville were not eclipsed in style by anything of the kind in Paris. Mdlle. de Cardoville had taken back her women, Hebe, Georgette, and Florine. The latter was at first to have re-entered the service of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, to continue her part
of spy for the superior of St. Mary’s Convent; but, in consequence of the new direction given by Rodin to the Rennepont affair, it was decided that Florine, if possible, should return to the service of Mdlle. de Cardoville. This confidential place, enabling this unfortunate creature to render important and mysterious services to the people who held her fate in their hands, forced her to infamous treachery. Unfortunately, all things favored this machination. We know that Florine, in her interview with Mother Bunch, a few days after Mdlle. de Cardoville was imprisoned at Dr. Baleinier’s, had yielded to a twinge of remorse, and given to the sempstress advice likely to be of use to Adrienne’s interests — sending word to Agricola not to deliver to Madame de Saint Dizier the papers found in the hiding-place of the pavilion, but only to entrust them to Mdlle. de Cardoville herself. The latter, afterwards informed of these details by Mother Bunch, felt a double degree of confidence and interest in Florine, took her back into her service with gratitude, and almost immediately charged her with a confidential mission — that of superintending the arrangements of the house hired for Djalma’s habitation. As for Mother Bunch (yielding to the solicitations of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and finding she was no longer of use to Dagobert’s wife, of whom we shall speak hereafter), she had consented to take up her abode in the hotel on the Rue d’Anjou, along with Adrienne, who with that rare sagacity of the heart peculiar to her, entrusted the young sempstress, who served her also as a secretary, with the department of alms-giving.

  Mdlle. de Cardoville had at first thought of entertaining her merely as a friend, wishing to pay homage in her person to probity with labor, resignation in sorrow, and intelligence in poverty; but knowing the workgirl’s natural dignity, she feared, with reason that, notwithstanding the delicate circumspection with which the hospitality would be offered, Mother Bunch might perceive in it alms in disguise. Adrienne preferred, therefore, whilst she treated her as a friend, to give her a confidential employment. In this manner the great delicacy of the needlewoman would be spared, since she could earn her livelihood by performing duties which would at the same time satisfy her praiseworthy instincts of charity. In fact, she could fulfil, better than any one, the sacred mission confided to her by Adrienne. Her cruel experience in misfortune, the goodness of her angelic soul, the elevation of her mind, her rare activity, her penetration with regard to the painful secrets of poverty, her perfect knowledge of the industrial classes, were sufficient security for the tact and intelligence with which the excellent creature would second the generous intentions of Mdlle. de Cardoville.