“How could that young girl, ill as she is, hurt us? She is in our hands, weak, alone, ill. Besides, we can, at the least suspicious sign, keep her prisoner until the day of deliverance.”
“In any case, she is not to be trusted. See how delicate and soft are her hands!”
And old Thamar raised one of the arms of the sleeping Tahoser.
“In what respect can the fineness of her skin endanger us?”
“Oh, imprudent youth!” said Thamar; “oh, mad youth! which cannot see anything, which walks through life trustfully, without believing in ambushes, in brambles under the grass, in hot coals under the ashes, and which would gladly caress a viper, believing it to be only a snake. Open your eyes! That woman does not belong to the class of which she seems to be; her thumb has never been flattened on the thread of the spindle, and that little hand, softened by essences and pomades, has never worked. Her poverty is a disguise.”
Thamar’s words appeared to impress Ra’hel; she examined Tahoser more attentively. The lamp shed upon her its trembling rays, and the delicate form of the priest’s daughter showed in the yellow light relaxed in sleep. The arm which Thamar had raised still rested upon the mantle of striped wool, showing whiter by contrast with the dark stuff; the wrist was circled with a bracelet of sandal wood, the commonplace adornment of the coquetry of poverty; but if the ornament was rude and roughly chased, the flesh it covered seemed to have been washed in the perfumed bath of riches. Then Ra’hel saw how beautiful was Tahoser, but the discovery excited no evil feeling in her heart; Tahoser’s beauty softened, instead of irritating her as it did Thamar; she could not believe that such perfection concealed a vile and perfidious soul; and in this respect her youthful candour judged more correctly than the long experience of her maid.
Day at last dawned, and Tahoser’s fever grew worse. She was delirious at times, and then would fall into a prolonged slumber.
“If she were to die here,” said Thamar, “we should be accused of having killed her.”
“She will not die,” replied Ra’hel, putting a cup of cool water to the lips of the sick girl.
“If she does, I shall throw her body by night into the Nile,” continued the obstinate Thamar, “and the crocodiles will undertake to make it disappear.”
The day passed, the night came, and at the accustomed hour Poëri, having given the usual signal, appeared as he had done the night before on the threshold of the hut.
Ra’hel came to meet him, her finger on her lips, and signed to him to keep silence and to speak low, for Tahoser was sleeping. Poëri, whom Ra’hel led by the hand to the bed on which Tahoser rested, at once recognised the sham Hora, whose disappearance had preoccupied him a good deal, especially since the visit of Timopht, who was looking for her in his master’s name.
Marked astonishment showed in his face as he rose, after having bent over the bed to make quite certain that the young girl who lay there was the one whom he had welcomed, for he could not understand how she happened to be in this place. His look of surprise smote Ra’hel to the heart. She stood in front of Poëri to read the truth in his eyes, placed her hands upon his shoulders, and fixing her glance upon him, said, in a dry, sharp voice which contrasted with her speech, usually as gentle as the cooing of a dove—
“So you know her?”
Thamar grinned with satisfaction; she was proud of her perspicacity, and almost glad to see her suspicions as regarded the stranger partially justified.
“Yes,” replied Poëri, quietly.
The bright eyes of the old woman sparkled with malicious curiosity.
Ra’hel’s face resumed its expression of trustfulness; she no longer doubted her lover.
Poëri told her that a girl calling herself Hora had presented herself at his home as a suppliant; that he had received her as any guest should be received; that the next day she had disappeared from among the maids, and that he could not understand how she happened to be there. He also added that the emissaries of the Pharaoh were everywhere looking for Tahoser, the daughter of the high-priest Petamounoph, who had disappeared from her palace.
“You see that I was right, mistress,” said Thamar, triumphantly. “Hora and Tahoser are one and the same person.”
“That may be,” replied Poëri, “but there are a number of difficulties which my reason does not explain. First, why should Tahoser, if it is she, don this disguise? Next, by what miracle do I meet here the maiden whom I left last night on the other bank of the Nile, and who certainly could not know whither I was going?”
“No doubt she followed you,” said Ra’hel.
“I am quite sure that at that time there was no other boat on the river but mine.”
“That is the reason her hair was so dripping-wet and her garments soaked. She must have swum across the Nile.”
“That may well be—I thought for a moment that I had caught sight in the darkness of a human head above the waters.”
“It was she, poor child!” said Ra’hel; “her fatigue and her fainting corroborate it, for after your departure I picked her up stretched senseless outside the hut.”
“No doubt that is the way things occurred,” said the young man. “I can see the acts, but I cannot understand the motive.”
“Let me explain it,” said Ra’hel, smiling, “although I am but a poor, ignorant woman, and you are compared, as regards your vast knowledge, to the priests of Egypt who study night and day within sanctuaries covered with mystic hieroglyphs, the hidden meaning of which they alone can penetrate. But sometimes men, who are so busy with astronomy, music, and numbers, do not guess what goes on in a maiden’s heart. They can see a distant star in the heavens; they do not notice a love close to them. Hora—or rather, Tahoser, for it is she—took this disguise to penetrate into your house and to live near you; jealous, she glided in the shadow behind you; at the risk of being devoured by the crocodiles in the river she swam across the Nile. On arriving here she watched us through some crack in the wall, and was unable to bear the sight of our happiness. She loves you because you are very handsome, very strong, and very gentle. But I do not care, since you do not love her. Now do you understand?”
A faint blush coloured Poëri’s cheeks; he feared lest Ra’hel were angry and spoke thus to entrap him, but her clear, pure glance betrayed no hidden thought. She was not angry with Tahoser for loving the man whom she loved herself.
In her dreams Tahoser saw Poëri standing by her; ecstatic joy lighted up her features, and half raising herself, she seized the hand of the young man to bear it to her lips.
“Her lips are burning,” said Poëri, withdrawing his hand.
“With love as much as with fever,” replied Ra’hel, “but she is really ill. Suppose Thamar were to fetch Mosche. He is wiser than the wise men and the wizards of Pharaoh, every one of whose wonders he imitates. He knows the secret properties of plants, and makes drinks of them which would bring the dead to life. He shall cure Tahoser, for I am not cruel enough to wish her to lose her life.”
Thamar went off grumbling, and soon returned, followed by a very tall old man, whose majestic aspect inspired reverence. A long white beard fell down over his breast, and on either side of his brow two huge protuberances caught and retained the light. They looked like two horns or two beams. Under his thick eyebrows his eyes shone like fire. He looked, in spite of his simple dress, like a prophet or a god.
Acquainted with the state of things by Poëri, he sat down by Tahoser’s couch, and said, as he stretched his hand over her: “In the name of the Mighty One beside whom all other gods are idols and demons—though you do not belong to the elect of the Lord—maiden, be cured!”
CHAPTER XII
The tall old man withdrew solemnly, leaving, as it were, a trail of light behind him. Tahoser, surprised at feeling her sickness suddenly leave her, cast her eyes around the room, and soon, wrapping herself in the blanket with which the young Israelite had covered her, she put her feet to the ground and sat up on the edge of the bed. Fatigu
e and fever had completely left her; she was as fresh as after a long rest, and her beauty shone in all its purity. Pushing back with her little hands the plaited masses of her hair behind her ears, she showed her face lighted up with love, as if she desired Poëri to read it; but seeing that he remained motionless near Ra’hel without encouraging her by a sign or a glance, she rose slowly, drew near the young Israelite girl, and threw her arms around her neck. She remained thus, her head in Ra’hel’s bosom, wetting it with her hot tears. Sometimes a sob she could not repress shook her convulsively upon her rival’s breast.
The complete yielding up of herself, and her evident misery, touched Ra’hel. Tahoser confessed herself beaten, and implored her pity by mute supplication, appealing to her womanly generosity.
Ra’hel, much moved, kissed her and said—
“Dry your tears and be not so sorrowful. You love Poëri? Well, love him, and I shall not be jealous. Yacoub, a patriarch of our race, had two wives; one was called Ra’hel as I am, and the other Leah. Yacoub preferred Ra’hel, and yet Leah, who was not beautiful like you, lived happily with him.”
Tahoser knelt at Ra’hel’s feet and kissed her hand. Ra’hel raised her and put her arm around her waist. They formed a charming group, these two women of different races, exhibiting, as they did, the characteristic beauty of each: Tahoser elegant, graceful, and slender, like a child that has grown too fast; Ra’hel dazzling, blooming, and superb in her precocious maturity.
“Tahoser,” said Poëri, “for that is your name, I think—Tahoser, daughter of the high-priest Petamounoph?”
The young girl nodded assent.
“How is it that you, who live in Thebes in a rich palace, surrounded by slaves, and whom the handsomest among the Egyptians desire—how is it you have chosen to love me, a son of a race reduced to slavery, a stranger who does not share your religious beliefs and who is separated from you by so great a distance?”
Ra’hel and Tahoser smiled, and the high-priest’s daughter replied—
“That is the very reason.”
“Although I enjoy the favour of the Pharaoh, although I am the steward of his domains and wear gilded horns in the festivals of agriculture, I cannot rise to you. In the eyes of the Egyptians I am but a slave, and you belong to the priestly caste, the highest and most venerated. If you love me—and I cannot doubt that you do—you must give up your rank.”
“Have I not already become your servant? Hora kept nothing of Tahoser, not even the enamelled collars and the transparent gauze calasiris; that is why you thought me ugly.”
“You will have to give up your country and follow me to unknown regions, through the desert where burns the sun, where blows the fire-wind, where the moving sand tangles and effaces the paths, where no tree grows, where no well springs, through the lost valleys of death strewn with whitened bones that mark the way.”
“I shall go,” said Tahoser, quietly.
“That is not all,” continued Poëri. “Your gods are not mine—your gods of brass, basalt, and granite, fashioned by the hand of man, your monstrous idols with heads of eagle, monkey, ibis, cow, jackal, and lion, which assume the faces of beasts as if they were troubled by the human face on which rests the reflection of Jehovah. It is said, ‘Thou shalt worship neither stone nor wood nor metal.’ Within these temples cemented with the blood of oppressed races grin and crouch the hideous, foul demons which usurp the libations, the offerings, and the sacrifices. One only God, infinite, eternal, formless, colourless, fills the immensity of the heavens which you people with a multitude of phantoms. Our God has created us; you have created your gods.”
Although Tahoser was deeply in love with Poëri, his words affected her strangely, and she drew back in terror. The daughter of the high-priest had been brought up to venerate the gods whom the young Hebrew was boldly blaspheming; she had offered up on their altars bouquets of flowers, and she had burned perfumes before their impassible images; amazed and delighted, she had walked through their temples splendid with brilliant paintings. She had seen her father performing the mysterious rites; she had followed the procession of priests who bore the symbolic bari through the enormous pylons and the endless sphinx avenues; she had admired tremblingly the psychostasis where the trembling soul appears before Osiris armed with the whip and the pedum, and she had noted with a dreamy glance the frescoes representing the emblematic figures travelling towards the regions of the West. She could not thus yield up all her beliefs. She was silent for a few moments, hesitating between religion and love. Love won the day, and she said:
“You shall tell me of your God; I will try to understand him.”
“It is well,” said Poëri; “you shall be my wife. Meanwhile remain here, for the Pharaoh, no doubt in love with you, is having you sought everywhere by his emissaries. He will never discover you under this humble roof, and in a few days we shall be out of his power. But the night is waning and I must depart.”
Poëri went off, and the two young women, lying side by side on the soft bed, soon fell asleep, holding each other’s hands like two sisters.
Thamar, who during the foregoing scene had remained crouched in her corner of the room, looking like a bat hanging from a corner by its talons, and had been muttering broken words and frowning, now unfolded her bony limbs, rose to her feet, and bending over the bed, listened to the breathing of the two sleepers. When the regularity of their breathing convinced her that they were sound asleep, she went towards the door, walking with infinite precaution. Once outside, she sprang with swift steps in the direction of the Nile, shaking off the dogs who hung on with their teeth at the edge of her tunic, or dragging them through the dust until they let go; or she glared at them with such fierce eyes that they drew back with frightened yelps and let her pass by.
She had soon passed the dangerous and deserted places inhabited at night by the members of the thieves’ association, and entered the wealthy quarter of Thebes. Three or four streets bordered with tall buildings, the shadows of which fell in great angles, led her to the outer wall of the palace, which was the object of her trip. The difficulty was to enter—no easy matter at that time of the night for an old Hebrew servant with dusty feet and shabby garments.
She went to the main pylon, before which watched, stretched at length, fifty ram-headed sphinxes, arranged in two lines like monsters ready to crush between their granite jaws the imprudent ones who should attempt to force a passage. The sentinels stopped her, struck her roughly with the shafts of their javelins, and then asked her what she wished.
“I want to see the Pharaoh,” replied the old woman, rubbing her back.
“That’s right—very nice! Waken for this witch the Pharaoh, favourite of Phré, beloved of Ammon Ra, the destroyer of nations!” said the soldiers, laughing loudly.
Thamar repeated obstinately, “I want to see the Pharaoh at once.”
“A very good time you have chosen for it! The Pharaoh slew but a short time ago three messengers with a blow of his sceptre. He sits on his terrace, motionless and sinister like Typhon, the god of evil,” said a soldier who condescended to give this explanation.
Ra’hel’s maid endeavoured to force her way through; the javelins rattled on her head like hammers on an anvil. She began to yell like a bird plucked alive.
An officer came out on hearing the tumult; the soldiers stopped beating Thamar.
“What does this woman want?” said the officer, “and why are you beating her in this way?”
“I want to see the Pharaoh,” cried Thamar, dragging herself to the knees of the officer.
“Out of the question,” replied the latter; “it is out of the question—even if, instead of being a low wretch, you were one of the greatest personages in the kingdom.”
“I know where is Tahoser,” whispered the old woman in his ear, laying stress on each syllable.
On hearing this, the officer took Thamar by the hand, led her through the first pylon and through the avenue of pillars and the hypostyle hall into a seco
nd court, where rose the granite sanctuary, with its two outer columns with lotus capitals. There, calling Timopht, he handed Thamar over to him.
Timopht led the servant to the terrace where sat the Pharaoh, gloomy and silent.
“Keep well out of the reach of his sceptre,” was the advice Timopht gave to the Israelite.
As soon as she perceived the King through the darkness, Thamar threw herself with her face to the stone flags, by the side of the bodies which had not yet been removed, and then sitting up, she said in a firm voice, “O Pharaoh, do not slay me, I bring you good news.”
“Speak without fear,” replied the King, whose fury had passed away.
“Tahoser, whom your messengers have sought in the four corners of the world—I know where she is.”
At the name of Tahoser, Pharaoh rose as if moved by a spring and stepped towards Thamar, who was still kneeling.
“If you speak the truth, you may take from my granite halls as much as you can lift of gold and precious stones.”
“I will put her in your hands, you may be sure,” said the old woman, with a strident laugh.
What was the motive which had led Thamar to inform the Pharaoh of the retreat where the priest’s daughter was in hiding?
She wished to prevent a union which she disliked. She entertained towards the race of Egypt, a blind, fierce, unreasoning, almost bestial hatred, and the thought of breaking Tahoser’s heart delighted her. Once in the hands of the Pharaoh, Ra’hel’s rival would be unable to escape; the granite walls of the palace would keep their prey.
“Where is she?” said Pharaoh; “tell me the spot. I want to see her at once.”
“Your Majesty, I alone can guide you. I know the windings of those loathsome quarters, where the humblest of your servants would disdain to set foot. Tahoser is there, in a clay and straw hut which nothing marks from the huts which surround it, amid the heaps of bricks which the Hebrews make for you outside the regular dwellings of the city.”
“Very well, I will trust you. Timopht, have a chariot brought around.”
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