by Eugène Sue
Thinking he would also make use of the sprinkling-brush, which, Faringhea, still motionless, held with a trembling hand, Father Caboccini stretched out his fingers to reach it, when the half-breed, as if determined to confine his favors to Rodin, hastily withdrew the instrument. Deceived in his expectation, Father Caboccini lost no time in following Rodin, whom he was not to leave that day for a single moment, and, getting into a hackney-coach with him, set out for the Rue Saint-Francois. It is impossible to describe the look which the half breed fixed upon Rodin as the latter quitted the chapel. Left alone in the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half crouching, with his face buried in his hands. As the coach drew near the quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius de Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of triumph, were visible on the countenance of Rodin. Two or three times he opened his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates of death of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time to time he thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had wished to hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.
The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and his look had a strange and crafty expression. At last the coach entered the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the old house, which had been closed for a century and a half. Rodin sprang from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently at the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more prudently to the ground. No answer was returned to the loud knocking of Rodin. Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again. This time, as he listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching. They stopped at some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.
“It is keeping one upon red-hot coals,” said Rodin, for he felt as if there was a burning fire in his chest. He again shook the door violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.
Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath the porch. The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief. Upon his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.
“Who are you, gentlemen?” said Samuel.
“I am the bearer of a power of attorney from the Abbe Gabriel, the only living representative of the Rennepont family,” answered Rodin, hastily. “This gentleman is my secretary,” added he, pointing to Father Caboccini, who bowed.
After looking attentively at Rodin, Samuel resumed: “I recognize you, sir. Please to follow me.” And the old guardian advanced towards the house in the garden, making a sign to the two reverend fathers to follow.
“That confounded old man kept me so long at the door,” said Rodin to his socius, “that I think I have caught a cold in consequence. My lips and throat are dried up, like parchment baked at the fire.”
“Will you not take something, my dear, good father? Suppose you were to ask this man for a glass of water,” cried the little one-eyed priest, with tender solicitude.
“No, no,” answered Rodin; “it is nothing. I am devoured by impatience. That is all.”
Pale and desolate, Bathsheba, the wife of Samuel, was standing at the door of the apartment she occupied with her husband, in the building next the street. As the Jew passed before her, he said, in Hebrew: “The curtains of the Hall of Mourning?”
“Are closed.”
“And the iron casket?”
“Is prepared,” answered Bathsheba, also in Hebrew.
After pronouncing these words, completely unintelligible to Rodin and Caboccini, Samuel and Bathsheba exchanged a bitter smile, notwithstanding the despair impressed on their countenances.
Ascending the steps, followed by the two reverend fathers, Samuel entered the vestibule of the house, in which a lamp was burning. Endowed with an excellent local memory, Rodin was about to take the direction of the Red Saloon, in which had been held the first convocation of the heirs, when Samuel stopped him, and said: “It is not that way.”
Then, taking the lamp, he advanced towards a dark staircase, for the windows of the house had not been un-bricked.
“But,” said Rodin, “the last time, we met in a saloon on the ground floor.”
“To-day, we must go higher,” answered Samuel, as he began slowly to ascend the stairs.
“Where to? higher!” said Rodin, following him.
“To the Hall of Mourning,” replied the Jew, and he continued to ascend.
“What is the Hall of Mourning?” resumed Rodin, in some surprise.
“A place of tears and death,” answered the Israelite; and he kept on ascending through the darkness, for the little lamp threw but a faint light around.
“But,” said Rodin, more and more astonished, and stopping short on the stairs, “why go to this place?”
“The money is there,” answered Samuel, and he went on,
“Oh? if the money is there, that alters the case,” replied Rodin; and he made haste to regain the few steps he had lost by stopping.
Samuel continued to ascend, and, at a turn of the staircase, the two Jesuits could see by the pale light of the little lamp, the profile of the old Israelite, in the space left between the iron balustrade and the wall, as he climbed on with difficulty above them. Rodin was struck with the expression of Samuel’s countenance. His black eyes, generally so calm, sparkled with ardor. His features, usually impressed with a mixture of sorrow, intelligence, and goodness, seemed to grow harsh and stern, and his thin lips wore a strange smile.
“It is not so very high,” whispered Rodin to Caboccini, “and yet my legs ache, and I am quite out of breath. There is a strange throbbing too in my temples.”
In fact, Rodin breathed hard, and with difficulty. To this confidential communication, good little Father Caboccini, in general so full of tender care for his colleague, made no answer. He seemed to be in deep thought.
“Will we soon be there?” said Rodin, impatiently, to Samuel.
“We are there,” replied the Israelite.
“And a good thing too,” said Rodin.
“Very good,” said the Jew.
Stopping in the midst of a corridor, he pointed with the hand in which he held the lamp to a large door from which streamed a faint light. In spite of his growing surprise. Rodin entered resolutely, followed by Father Caboccini and Samuel. The apartment in which these three personage, now found themselves was very large. The daylight only entered from a belvedere in the roof, the four sides of which had been covered with leaden plates, each of which was pierced with seven holes, forming a cross, thus:
* * *
Now, the light being only admitted through these holes, the obscurity would have been complete, had it not been for a lamp, which burned on a large massive slab of black marble, fixed against one of the walls. One would have taken it for a funeral chamber, for it was all hung with black curtains, fringed with white. There was no furniture, save the slab of black marble we have already mentioned. On this slab was an iron casket, of the manufacture of the seventeenth century, admirably adorned with open work, like lace made of metal.
Addressing Rodin, who was wiping his forehead with his dirty handkerchief, and looking round him with surprise, but not fear, Samuel said to him: “The will of the testator, however strange it may appear, is sacred with me, and must be accomplished in all things.”
“Certainly,” said Rodin; “but what are we to do here?”
“You will know presently, sir. You are the representative of the only remaining heir of the Rennepont family, the Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont?”
“Yes, sir, and here are my papers,” replied Rodin.
“To save time,” resumed Samuel, “I will, previous to the arrival of the magistrate, go through the inventory of the securities contained in this casket, which I withdrew yesterday from the custody of the Bank of France.”
“The securities are there?” cried Rodin, advancing eagerly tow
ards the casket.
“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel, “as by the list. Your secretary will call them over, and I will produce each in turn. They can then be replaced in the casket, which I will deliver up to you in presence of the magistrate.”
“All this seems perfectly correct,” said Rodin.
Samuel delivered the list to Father Caboccini, and approaching the casket, touched a spring, which was not seen by Rodin. The heavy lid flew open, and, while Father Caboccini read the names of the different securities, Samuel showed them to Rodin, who returned them to the old Jew, after a careful examination. This verification did not last long, for this immense fortune was all comprised, as we already know, in eight government securities, five hundred thousand francs in bank-note, thirty five thousand francs in gold, and two hundred and fifty francs in silver — making in all an amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. When Rodin had counted the last of the five hundred bank-notes, of a thousand francs each, he said, as he returned them to Samuel: “It is quite right. Two hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs!”
He was no doubt almost choked with joy, for he breathed with difficulty, his eyes closed, and he was obliged to lean upon Father Caboccini’s arm, as he said to him in an altered voice: “It is singular. I thought myself proof against all such emotions; but what I feel is extraordinary.”
The natural paleness of the Jesuit increased so much, and he seemed so much agitated with convulsive movements, that Father Caboccini exclaimed: “My dear father, collect yourself; do not let success overcome you thus.”
Whilst the little one-eyed man was, attending to Rodin, Samuel carefully replaced the securities in the iron casket. Thanks to his unconquerable energy, and to the joy he felt at seeing himself so near the term of his labors, Rodin mastered this attack of weakness, and drawing himself up, calm and proud, he said to Caboccini: “It is nothing. I did not survive the cholera to die of joy on the first of June.”
And, though still frightfully pale, the countenance of the Jesuit shone with audacious confidence. But now, when Rodin appeared to be quite recovered, Father Caboccini seemed suddenly transformed. Though short, fat, and one-eyed, his features assumed on the instant so firm, harsh, and commanding an expression, that Rodin recoiled a step as he looked at him. Then Father Caboccini, drawing a paper from his pocket, kissed it respectfully, glanced sternly at Rodin, and read as follows, in a severe and menacing tone:
“‘On receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father Rodin will deliver up all his powers to the Reverend Father Caboccini, who is alone commissioned, with the Reverend Father d’Aigrigny, to receive the inheritance of the Rennepont family, if, in His eternal justice, the Lord should restore this property, of which our Company has been wronged.
“‘Moreover, on receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father Rodin, in charge of a person to be named by the Reverend Father Caboccini, shall be conveyed to our house in the Town of Laval, to be kept in strict seclusion in his cell until further orders.’”
Then Father Caboccini handed the rescript to Rodin, that the latter might read the signature of the General of the Company. Samuel, greatly interested by this scene, drew a few steps nearer, leaving the casket half-open. Suddenly, Rodin burst into a loud laugh — a laugh of joy, contempt and triumph, impossible to describe. Father Caboccini looked at him with angry astonishment; when Rodin, growing still more imperious and haughty, and with an air of more sovereign disdain than ever, pushed aside the paper with the back of his dirty hand and said: “What is the date of that scribble?”
“The eleventh of May,” answered Father Caboccini in amazement.
“Here is a brief, that I received last night from Rome, under date of the eighteenth. It informs me that I am appointed GENERAL OF THE ORDER. Read!”
Father Caboccini took the paper, read it, and remained thunderstruck. Then, returning it humbly to Rodin, he respectfully bent his knee before him. Thus seemed the ambitious views of Rodin accomplished. In spite of the hatred and suspicion of that party, of which Cardinal Malipieri was the representative and the chief, Rodin, by address and craft, audacity and persuasion, and in consequence of the high esteem in which his partisans at Rome held his rare capacity, had succeeded in deposing his General, and in procuring his own elevation to that eminent post. Now, according to his calculation, aided by the millions he was about to possess, it would be but one step from that post to the pontifical throne. A mute witness of this scene, Samuel smiled also with an air of triumph, as he closed the casket by means of the spring known only to himself. That metallic sound recalled Rodin from the heights of his mad ambition to the realities of life, and he said to Samuel in a sharp voice: “You have heard? These millions must be delivered to me alone.”
He extended his hands eagerly and impatiently towards the casket, as if he would have taken possession of it, before the arrival of the magistrate. Then Samuel in his turn seemed transfigured, and, folding his arms upon his breast, and drawing up his aged form to its full height, he assumed a threatening and imposing air. His eyes flashed with indignation, and he said in a solemn tone: “This fortune — at first the humble remains of the inheritance of the most noble of men, whom the plots of the sons of Loyola drove to suicide — this fortune, which has since become royal in amount, thanks to the sacred probity of three generations of faithful servants — this fortune shall never be the reward of falsehood, hypocrisy and murder. No! the eternal justice of heaven will not allow it.”
“On murder? what do you mean, sir?” asked Rodin, boldly.
Samuel made no answer. He stamped his foot, and extended his arm slowly towards the extremity of the apartment. Then Rodin and Father Caboccini beheld an awful spectacle. The draperies on the wall were drawn aside, as if by an invisible hand. Round a funeral vault, faintly illumined-by the bluish light of a silver lamp, six dead bodies were ranged upon black biers, dressed in long black robes. They were: Jacques Rennepont — Francois Hardy — Rose and Blanche Simon — Adrienne and Djalma. They appeared to be asleep. Their eyelids were closed, their hands crossed over their breasts. Father Caboccini, trembling in every limb, made the sign of the cross, and retreating to the opposite wall, buried his face in his hands. Rodin on the contrary, with agitated countenance, staring eyes, and hair standing on end, yielding to an invincible attraction, advanced towards those inanimate forms. One would have said that these last of the Renneponts had only just expired. They seemed to be in the first hour of the eternal sleep.(44)
“Behold those whom thou host slain!” cried Samuel, in a voice broken with sobs. “Yea! your detestable plots caused their death — and, as they fell one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their poor remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre. Oh! — cursed — cursed — cursed — be thou who has killed them! But their spoils shall escape thy murderous hands.”
Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the funeral couch of Djalma. Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured to touch the hands of the Asiatic — and found that they were damp and pliant, though cold as ice.
The Jesuit drew back in horror. For some seconds, he trembled convulsively. But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and, with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of character, that gave him so much power. Steadying himself on his legs, drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips two or three times before he spoke — for his throat and mouth grew ever drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause — he succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical expression, and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to him, in a hoarse, guttural voice: “I need not show you the certificates of their death. There they are in person.” And he pointed with his bony hand to the six dead bodies.
At these words of his General, Father Caboccini
again made the sign of the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.
“Oh, my God!” cried Samuel; “Thou hast quite abandoned this man. With what a calm look he contemplates his victims!”
“Come, sir!” said Rodin, with a horrid smile; “this is a natural waxwork exhibition, that is all. My calmness proves my innocence — and we had best come at once to business. I have an appointment at two o’clock. So let us carry down this casket.”
He advanced towards the marble slab. Seized with indignation and horror, Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a knob in the lid of the casket — a knob which yielded to the pressure — he exclaimed: “Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice.”
“What does he say?” cried Rodin. “What is he doing?”
“Look!” said Samuel, in his turn assuming an air of savage triumph. “I told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous hands.”
Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper spread itself through the room. Rodin understood it instantly. “Fire!” he exclaimed, as he rushed forward to seize the casket. It had been made fast to the heavy marble slab.
“Yes, fire,” said Samuel. “In a few minutes, of that immense treasure there will remain nothing but ashes. And better so, than that it should belong to you or yours. This treasure is not mine, and it only remains for me to destroy it — since Gabriel de Rennepont will be faithful to the oath he has taken.”
“Help! water! water!” cried Rodin, as he covered the casket with his body, trying in vain to extinguish the flames, which, fanned by the current of air, now issued from the thousand apertures in the lid; but soon the intensity of the fire diminished, a few threads of bluish smoke alone mounted upwards — and then, all was extinct.