by Eugène Sue
She paused; for the dim eye of the victim, as it rested upon her, grew suddenly bright.
“Cephyse!” murmured Jacques; “is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” answered she, in a voice of deep emotion; “who have come — I will tell you—”
She was unable to continue, and, as she clasped her hands together, her pale, agitated, tearful countenance expressed her astonishment and despair at the mortal change which had taken place in the features of Jacques. He understood the cause of her surprise, and as he contemplated, in his turn, the suffering and emaciated countenance of Cephyse, he said to her, “Poor girl! you also have had to bear much grief, much misery — I should hardly have known you.”
“Yes,” replied Cephyse, “much grief — much misery — and worse than misery,” she added, trembling, whilst a deep blush overspread her pale features.
“Worse than misery?” said Jacques, astonished.
“But it is you who have suffered,” hastily resumed Cephyse, without answering her lover.
“Just now, I was going to make an end of it — your voice has recalled me for an instant — but I feel something here,” and he laid his hand upon his breast, “which never gives quarter. It is all the same now — I have seen you — I shall die happy.”
“You shall not die, Jacques; I am here—”
“Listen to one, my girl. If I had a bushel of live coal in my stomach, it could hardly burn me more. For more than a month, I have been consuming my body by a slow fire. This gentleman,” he added, glancing at Morok, “this dear friend, always undertook to feed the flame. I do not regret life; I have lost the habit of work, and taken to drink and riot; I should have finished by becoming a thorough blackguard: I preferred that my friend here should amuse himself with lighting a furnace in my inside. Since what I drank just now, I am certain that it fumes like yonder punch.”
“You are both foolish and ungrateful,” said Morok, shrugging his shoulders; “you held out your glass, and I filled it — and, faith, we shall drink long and often together yet.”
For some moments, Cephyse had not withdrawn her eyes from Morok. “I tell you, that you have long blown the fire, in which I have burnt my skin,” resumed Jacques, addressing Morok in a feeble voice, “so that they may not think I die of cholera. It would look as if I had been frightened by the part I played. I do not therefore reproach you, my affectionate friend,” added he, with a sardonic smile; “you dug my grave gayly — and sometimes, when, seeing the great dark hole, into which I was about to fall, I drew back a step — but you, my excellent friend, still pushed me forward, saying, ‘Go on, my boy, go on!’ — and I went on — and here I am—”
So saying, Sleepinbuff burst into a bitter laugh, which sent an icy shudder through the spectators of this scene.
“My good fellow,” said Morok, coolly, “listen to me, and follow my advice.”
“Thank you! I know your advice — and, instead of listening to you, I prefer speaking to my poor Cephyse. Before I go down to the moles, I should like to tell her what weighs on my heart.”
“Jacques,” replied Cephyse, “do not talk so. I tell you, you shall not die.”
“Why, then, my brave Cephyse, I shall owe my life to you,” returned Jacques, in a tone of serious feeling, which surprised the spectators. “Yes,” resumed he, “when I came to myself, and saw you so poorly clad, I felt something good about my heart — do you know why? — it was because I said to myself, ‘Poor girl! she has kept her word bravely; she has chosen to toil, and want, and suffer — rather than take another love — who would have given her what I gave her as long as I could’ — and that thought, Cephyse, refreshed my soul. I needed it, for I was burning — and I burn still,” added he, clinching his fists with pain; “but that made me happy — it did me good — thanks, my good, brave Cephyse — yes, you are good and brave — and you were right; for I never loved any but you in the wide world; and if, in my degradation, I had one thought that raised me a little above the filth, and made me regret that I was not better — the thought was of you! Thanks then, my poor, dear love,” said Jacques, whose hot and shining eyes were becoming moist; “thanks once again,” and he reached his cold hand to Cephyse; “if I die, I shall die happy — if I live, I shall live happy also. Give me your hand, my brave Cephyse! — you have acted like a good and honest creature.”
Instead of taking the hand which Jacques offered her, Cephyse, still kneeling, bowed her head, and dared not raise her eyes to her lover.
“You don’t answer,” said he, leaning over towards the young girl; “you don’t take my hand — why is this?”
The unfortunate creature only answered by stifled sobs. Borne down with shame, she held herself in so humble, so supplicating an attitude, that her forehead almost touched the feet of her lover.
Amazed at the silence and conduct of the Bacchanal Queen, Jacques looked at her with increasing agitation; suddenly he stammered out with trembling lips, “Cephyse, I know you. If you do not take my hand, it is because—”
Then, his voice failing, he added, in a dull tone, after a moment’s silence, “When, six weeks ago, I was taken to prison, did you not say to me, ‘Jacques, I swear that I will work — and if need be, live in horrible misery — but I will live true!’ That was your promise. Now, I know you never speak false; tell me you have kept your word, and I shall believe you.”
Cephyse only answered by a heart-rending sob, as she pressed the knees of Jacques against her heaving bosom. By a strange contradiction, more common than is generally thought — this man, degraded by intoxication and debauchery, who, since he came out of prison, had plunged in every excess, and tamely yielded to all the fatal incitements of Morok, yet received a fearful blow, when he learned, by the mute avowal of Cephyse, the infidelity, of this creature, whom he had loved in spite of degradation. The first impulse of Jacques was terrible. Notwithstanding his weakness and exhaustion, he succeeded in rising from his seat, and, with a countenance contracted by rage and despair, he seized a knife, before they had time to prevent him, and turned it upon Cephyse. But at the moment he was about to strike, shrinking from an act of murder, he hurled the knife far away from him, and falling back into the chair, covered his face with his hands.
At the cry of Ninny Moulin, who had, though late, thrown himself upon Jacques to take away the knife, Cephyse raised her head: Jacques’s woeful dejection wrung her heart; she rose, and fell upon his neck, notwithstanding his resistance, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs, “Jacques, if you knew! if you only knew — listen — do not condemn me without hearing me — I will tell you all, I swear to you — without falsehood — this man,” and she pointed to Morok, “will not dare deny what I say; he came, and told me to have the courage to—”
“I do not reproach you. I have no right to reproach you. Let me die in peace. I ask nothing but that now,” said Jacques, in a still weaker voice, as he repulsed Cephyse. Then he added, with a grievous and bitter smile, “Luckily, I have my dose. I knew — what I was doing — when I accepted the duel with brandy.”
“No, you shall not die, and you shall hear me,” cried Cephyse, with a bewildered air; “you shall hear me, and everybody else shall hear me. They shall see that it is not my fault. Is it not so, gentlemen? Do I not deserve pity? You will entreat Jacques to forgive me; for if driven by misery — finding no work — I was forced to this — not for the sake of any luxury — you see the rags I wear — but to get bread and shelter for my poor, sick sister — dying, and even more miserable than myself — would you not have pity upon me? Do you think one finds pleasure in one’s infamy?” cried the unfortunate, with a burst of frightful laughter; then she added, in a low voice, and with a shudder, “Oh, if you knew, Jacques! it is so infamous, so horrible, that I preferred death to falling so low a second time. I should have killed myself, had I not heard you were here.” Then, seeing that Jacques did not answer her, but shook his head mournfully as he sank down though still supported by Ninny Moulin, Cephyse exclaimed, a
s she lifted her clasped hands towards him, “Jacques! one word — for pity’s sake — forgive me!”
“Gentlemen, pray remove this woman,” cried Morok; “the sight of her causes my friend too painful emotions.”
“Come, my dear child, be reasonable,” said several of the guests, who, deeply moved by this scene, were endeavoring to withdraw Cephyse from it; “leave him, and come with us; he is not in any danger.”
“Gentlemen! oh, gentlemen!” cried the unfortunate creature, bursting into tears, and raising her hands in supplication; “listen to me — I will do all that you wish me — I will go — but, in heaven’s name, send for help, and do not let him die thus. Look, what pain he suffers! what horrible convulsions!”
“She is right,” said one of the guests, hastening towards the door; “we must send for a doctor.”
“There is no doctor to be found,” said another; “they are all too busy.”
“We will do better than that,” cried a third; “the Hospital is just opposite, and we can carry the poor fellow thither. They will give him instant help. A leaf of the table will make a litter, and the table cloth a covering.”
“Yes, yes, that is it,” said several voices; “let us carry him over at once.”
Jacques, burnt up with brandy, and overcome by his interview with Cephyse, had again fallen into violent convulsions. It was the dying paroxysm of the unfortunate man. They were obliged to tie him with the ends of the cloth, so as to secure him to the leaf which was to serve for a litter, which two of the guests hastened to carry away. They yielded to the supplication of Cephyse, who asked, as a last favor, to accompany Jacques to the Hospital. When the mournful procession quitted the great room of the eating-house, there was a general flight among the guests. Men and women made haste to wrap themselves in their cloaks, in order to conceal their costumes. The coaches, which had been ordered in tolerable number for the return of the masquerade, had luckily arrived. The defiance had been fully carried out, the audacious bravado accomplished, and they could now retire with the honors of war. Whilst a part of the guests were still in the room, an uproar, at first distant, but which soon drew nearer, broke out with incredible fury in the square of Notre Dame.
Jacques had been carried to the outer door of the tavern. Morok and Ninny Moulin, striving to open a passage through the crowd in the direction of the Hospital, preceded the litter. A violent reflux of the multitude soon forced them to stop, whilst a new storm of savage outcries burst from the other extremity of the square, near the angle of the church.
“What is it then?” asked Ninny Moulin of one of those ignoble figures that was leaping up before him. “What are those cries?”
“They are making mince-meat of a poisoner, like him they have thrown into the river,” replied the man. “If you want to see the fun, follow me close,” added he, “and peg away with your elbows, for fear you should be too late.”
Hardly had the wretch pronounced these words than a dreadful shriek sounded above the roar of the crowd, through which the bearers of the litter, preceded by Morok, were with difficulty making their way. It was Cephyse who uttered that cry. Jacques (one of the seven heirs of the Rennepont family) had just expired in her arms! By a strange fatality, at the very moment that the despairing exclamation of Cephyse announced that death, another cry rose from that part of the square where they were attacking the poisoner. That distant, supplicating cry, tremulous with horrible alarm, like the last appeal of a man staggering beneath the blows of his murderers, chilled the soul of Morok in the midst of his execrable triumph.
“Damnation!” cried the skillful assassin, who had selected drunkenness and debauchery for his murderous but legal weapons; “it is the voice of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, whom they have in their clutches!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE POISONER.
IT IS NECESSARY to go back a little before relating the adventure of Father d’Aigrigny, whose cry of distress made so deep an impression upon Morok just at the moment of Jacques Rennepont’s death. We have said that the most absurd and alarming reports were circulating in Paris; not only did people talk of poison given to the sick or thrown into the public fountains, but it was also said that wretches had been surprised in the act of putting arsenic into the pots which are usually kept all ready on the counters of wine-shops. Goliath was on his way to rejoin Morok, after delivering a message to Father d’Aigrigny, who was waiting in a house on the Place de l’Archeveche. He entered a wine-shop in the Rue de la Calandre, to get some refreshment, and having drunk two glasses of wine, he proceeded to pay for them. Whilst the woman of the house was looking for change, Goliath, mechanically and very innocently, rested his hand on the mouth of one of the pots that happened to be within his reach.
The tall stature of this man and his repulsive and savage countenance had already alarmed the good woman, whose fears and prejudices had previously been roused by the public rumors on the subject of poisoning; but when she saw Goliath place his hand over the mouth of one of her pots, she cried out in dismay: “Oh! my gracious! what are you throwing into that pot?” At these words, spoken in a loud voice, and with the accent of terror, two or three of the drinkers at one of the tables rose precipitately, and ran to the counter, while one of them rashly exclaimed: “It is a poisoner!”
Goliath, not aware of the reports circulated in the neighborhood, did not at first understand of what he was accused. The men raised their voices as they called on him to answer the charge; but he, trusting to his strength, shrugged his shoulders in disdain, and roughly demanded the change, which the pale and frightened hostess no longer thought of giving him.
“Rascal!” cried one of the men, with so much violence that several of the passers-by stopped to listen; “you shall have your change when you tell us what you threw in the pot!”
“Ha! did he throw anything into the wine-pot?” said one of the passers by.
“It is, perhaps, a poisoner,” said another.
“He ought to be taken up,” added a third.
“Yes, yes,” cried those in the house — honest people perhaps, but under the influence of the general panic; “he must be taken up, for he has been throwing poison into the wine-pots.”
The words “He is a poisoner” soon spread through the group, which, at first composed of three or four persons, increased every instant around the door of the wine-shop. A dull, menacing clamor began to rise from the crowd; the first accuser, seeing his fears thus shared and almost justified, thought he was acting like a good and courageous citizen in taking Goliath by the collar, and saying to him: “Come and explain yourself at the guard-house, villain!”
The giant, already provoked at insults of which he did not perceive the real meaning, was exasperated at this sudden attack; yielding to his natural brutality, he knocked his adversary down upon the counter, and began to hammer him with his fists. During this collision, several bottles and two or three panes of glass were broken with much noise, whilst the woman of the house, more and more frightened, cried out with all her might; “Help! a poisoner! Help! murder!”
At the sound of the breaking windows and these cries of distress, the passers-by, of whom the greater number believed in the stories about the poisoners, rushed into the shop to aid in securing Goliath. But the latter, thanks to his herculean strength, after struggling for some moments with seven or eight persons, knocked down two of his most furious assailants, disengaged himself from the others, drew near the counter, and, taking a vigorous spring, rushed head-foremost, like a bull about to butt, upon the crowd that blocked up the door; then, forcing a passage, by the help of his enormous shoulders and athletic arms, he made his way into the street, and ran with all speed in the direction of the square of Notre-Dame, his garments torn, his head bare, and his countenance pale and full of rage. Immediately, a number of persons from amongst the crowd started in pursuit of Goliath, and a hundred voices exclaimed: “Stop — stop the poisoner!”
Hearing these cries, and seeing a man draw near with a wild and tro
ubled look, a butcher, who happened to be passing with his large, empty tray on his head, threw it against Goliath’s shins, and taken by surprise, he stumbled and fell. The butcher, thinking he had performed as heroic an action as if he had encountered a mad dog, flung himself on Goliath, and rolled over with him on the pavement, exclaiming: “Help! it is a poisoner! Help! help!” This scene took place not far from the Cathedral, but at some distance from the crowd which was pressing round the hospital gate, as well as from the eating-house in which the masquerade of the cholera then was. The day was now drawing to a close. On the piercing call of the butcher, several groups, at the head of which were Ciboule and the quarryman, flew towards the scene of the struggle, while those who had pursued the pretended poisoner from the Rue de la Calandre, reached the square on their side.
At sight of this threatening crowd advancing towards him, Goliath, whilst he continued to defend himself against the butcher, who held him with the tenacity of a bull-dog, felt that he was lost unless he could rid himself of this adversary before the arrival of the rest; with a furious blow of the fist, therefore, he broke the jaw of the butcher, who just then was above him, and disengaging himself from his hold, he rose, and staggered a few steps forward. Suddenly he stopped. He saw that he was surrounded. Behind him rose the walls of the cathedral; to the right and left, and in front of him, advanced a hostile multitude. The groans uttered by the butcher, who had just been lifted from the ground covered with blood, augmented the fury of the populace.
This was a terrible moment for Goliath: still standing alone in the centre of a ring that grew smaller every second, he saw on all sides angry enemies rushing towards him, and uttering cries of death. As the wild boar turns round once or twice, before resolving to stand at bay and face the devouring pack, Goliath, struck with terror, made one or two abrupt and wavering movements. Then, as he abandoned the possibility of flight, instinct told him that he had no mercy to expect from a crowd given up to blind and savage fury — a fury the more pitiless as it was believed to be legitimate. Goliath determined, therefore, at least to sell his life dearly; he sought for a knife in his pocket, but, not finding it, he threw out his left leg in an athletic posture, and holding up his muscular arms, hard and stiff as bars of iron, waited with intrepidity for the shock.