The Wandering Jew — Complete

by Eugène Sue

  Here and there, touching or awful episodes rose in relief, if one may so express it, from this dark and gloomy background of despair.

  A young man of about eighteen or twenty, with shiny black hair, copper colored complexion, and perfectly regular and handsome features, contemplated this scene of dismay and horror with that sad calmness peculiar to those who have often braved great perils; wrapped in a cloak, he leaned his back against the bulwarks, with his feet resting against one of the bulkheads. Suddenly, the unhappy mother, who, with her child in her arms, and gold in her hand, had in vain addressed herself to several of the mariners, to beg them to save her boy, perceiving the young man with the copper-colored complexion, threw herself on her knees before him, and lifted her child towards him with a burst of inexpressible agony. The young man took it, mournfully shook his head, and pointed to the furious waves—but, with a meaning gesture, he appeared to promise that he would at least try to save it. Then the young mother, in a mad transport of hope, seized the hand of the youth, and bathed it with her tears.

  Further on, another passenger of the "Black Eagle," seemed animated by sentiments of the most active pity. One would hardly have given him five-and-twenty years of age. His long, fair locks fell in curls on either side of his angelic countenance. He wore a black cassock and white neck-band. Applying himself to comfort the most desponding, he went from one to the other, and spoke to them pious words of hope and resignation; to hear him console some, and encourage others, in language full of unction, tenderness, and ineffable charity, one would have supposed him unaware or indifferent to the perils that he shared.

  On his fine, mild features, was impressed a calm and sacred intrepidity, a religious abstraction from every terrestrial thought; from time to time, he raised to heaven his large blue eyes, beaming with gratitude, love, and serenity, as if to thank God for having called him to one of those formidable trials in which the man of humanity and courage may devote himself for his brethren, and, if not able to rescue them at all, at least die with them, pointing to the sky. One might almost have taken him for an angel, sent down to render less cruel the strokes of inexorable fate.

  Strange contrast! not far from this young man's angelic beauty, there was another being, who resembled an evil spirit!

  Boldly mounted on what was left of the bowsprit, to which he held on by means of some remaining cordage, this man looked down upon the terrible scene that was passing on the deck. A grim, wild joy lighted up his countenance of a dead yellow, that tint peculiar to those who spring from the union of the white race with the East. He wore only a shirt and linen drawers; from his neck was suspended, by a cord, a cylindrical tin box, similar to that in which soldiers carry their leave of absence.

  The more the danger augmented, the nearer the ship came to the breakers, or to a collision with the steamer, which she was now rapidly approaching—a terrible collision, which would probably cause the two vessels to founder before even they touched the rocks—the more did the infernal joy of this passenger reveal itself in frightful transports. He seemed to long, with ferocious impatience, for the moment when the work of destruction should be accomplished. To see him thus feasting with avidity on all the agony, the terror, and the despair of those around him, one might have taken him for the apostle of one of those sanguinary deities, who, in barbarous countries, preside over murder and carnage.

  By this time the "Black Eagle," driven by the wind and waves, came so near the "William Tell" that the passengers on the deck of the nearly dismantled steamer were visible from the first-named vessel.

  These passengers were no longer numerous. The heavy sea, which stove in the paddle-box and broke one of the paddles, had also carried away nearly the whole of the bulwarks on that side; the waves, entering every instant by this large opening, swept the decks with irresistible violence, and every time bore away with them some fresh victims.

  Amongst the passengers, who seemed only to have escaped this danger to be hurled against the rocks, or crushed in the encounter of the two vessels, one group was especially worthy of the most tender and painful interest. Taking refuge abaft, a tall old man, with bald forehead and gray moustache, had lashed himself to a stanchion, by winding a piece of rope round his body, whilst he clasped in his arms, and held fast to his breast, two girls of fifteen or sixteen, half enveloped in a pelisse of reindeer-skin. A large, fallow, Siberian dog, dripping with water, and barking furiously at the waves, stood close to their feet.

  These girls, clasped in the arms of the old man, also pressed close to each other; but, far from being lost in terror, they raised their eyes to heaven, full of confidence and ingenuous hope, as though they expected to be saved by the intervention of some supernatural power.

  A frightful shriek of horror and despair, raised by the passengers of both vessels, was heard suddenly above the roar of the tempest. At the moment when, plunging deeply between two waves, the broadside of the steamer was turned towards the bows of the ship, the latter, lifted to a prodigious height on a mountain of water, remained, as it were, suspended over the "William Tell," during the second which preceded the shock of the two vessels.

  There are sights of so sublime a horror, that it is impossible to describe them. Yet, in the midst of these catastrophes, swift as thought, one catches sometimes a momentary glimpse of a picture, rapid and fleeting, as if illumined by a flash of lightning.

  Thus, when the "Black Eagle," poised aloft by the flood, was about to crash down upon the "William Tell," the young man with the angelic countenance and fair, waving locks bent over the prow of the ship, ready to cast himself into the sea to save some victim. Suddenly, he perceived on board the steamer, on which he looked down from the summit of the immense wave, the two girls extending their arms towards him in supplication. They appeared to recognize him, and gazed on him with a sort of ecstacy and religious homage!

  For a second, in spite of the horrors of the tempest, in spite of the approaching shipwreck, the looks of those three beings met. The features of the young man were expressive of sudden and profound pity; for the maidens with their hands clasped in prayer, seemed to invoke him as their expected Saviour. The old man, struck down by the fall of a plank, lay helpless on the deck. Soon all disappeared together.

  A fearful mass of water dashed the "Black Eagle" down upon the "William Tell," in the midst of a cloud of boiling foam. To the dreadful crash of the two great bodies of wood and iron, which splintering against one another, instantly foundered, one loud cry was added—a cry of agony and death—the cry of a hundred human creatures swallowed up at once by the waves!

  And then—nothing more was visible!

  A few moments after, the fragments of the two vessels appeared in the trough of the sea, and on the caps of the waves—with here and there the contracted arms, the livid and despairing faces of some unhappy wretches, striving to make their way to the reefs along the shore, at the risk of being crushed to death by the shock of the furious breakers.

  CHAPTER XXV. THE SHIPWRECK.

  While the bailiff was gone to the sea-shore, to render help to those of the passengers who might escape from the inevitable shipwreck, M. Rodin, conducted by Catherine to the Green Chamber, had there found the articles that he was to take with him to Paris.

  After passing two hours in this apartment, very indifferent to the fate of the shipwrecked persons, which alone absorbed the attention of the inhabitants of the Castle, Rodin returned to the chamber commonly occupied by the bailiff, a room which opened upon a long gallery. When he entered it he found nobody there. Under his arm he held a casket, with silver fastenings, almost black from age, whilst one end of a large red morocco portfolio projected from the breast-pocket of his half buttoned great coat.

  Had the cold and livid countenance of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's secretary been able to express joy otherwise than by a sarcastic smile, his features would have been radiant with delight; for, just then, he was under the influence of the most agreeable thoughts. Having placed the casket upon a
table, it was with marked satisfaction that he thus communed with himself:

  "All goes well. It was prudent to keep these papers here till this

  moment, for one must always be on guard against the diabolical spirit of

  that Adrienne de Cardoville, who appears to guess instinctively what it

  is impossible she should know. Fortunately, the time approaches when we

  shall have no more need to fear her. Her fate will be a cruel one; it

  must be so. Those proud, independent characters are at all times our

  natural enemies—they are so by their very essence—how much more when

  they show themselves peculiarly hurtful and dangerous! As for La Sainte

  Colombe, the bailiff is sure to act for us; between what the fool

  calls his conscience, and the dread of being at his age deprived of a

  livelihood, he will not hesitate. I wish to have him because he will

  serve us better than a stranger; his having been here twenty years will

  prevent all suspicion on the part of that dull and narrow-minded woman.

  Once in the hands of our man at Roiville, I will answer for the result.

  The course of all such gross and stupid women is traced beforehand:

  in their youth, they serve the devil; in riper years, they make others

  serve him; in their old age, they are horribly afraid of him; and this

  fear must continue till she has left us the Chateau de Cardoville,

  which, from its isolated position, will make us an excellent college.

  All then goes well. As for the affair of the medals, the 13th of

  February approaches, without news from Joshua—evidently, Prince Djalma

  is still kept prisoner by the English in the heart of India, or I must

  have received letters from Batavia. The daughters of General Simon will

  be detained at Leipsic for at least a month longer. All our foreign

  relations are in the best condition. As for our internal affairs—"

  Here M. Rodin was interrupted in the current of his reflections by the

  entrance of Madame Dupont, who was zealously engaged in preparations to

  give assistance in case of need.

  "Now," said she to the servant, "light a fire in the next room; put this warm wine there; your master may be in every minute."

  "Well, my dear madam," said Rodin to her, "do they hope to save any of these poor creatures?"

  "Alas! I do not know, sir. My husband has been gone nearly two hours. I am terribly uneasy on his account. He is so courageous, so imprudent, if once he thinks he can be of any service."

  "Courageous even to imprudence," said Rodin to himself, impatiently; "I do not like that."

  "Well," resumed Catherine, "I have here at hand my hot linen, my cordials—heaven grant it may all be of use!"

  "We may at least hope so, my dear madam. I very much regretted that my age and weakness did not permit me to assist your excellent husband. I also regret not being able to wait for the issue of his exertions, and to wish him joy if successful—for I am unfortunately compelled to depart, my moments are precious. I shall be much obliged if you will have the carriage got ready."

  "Yes, Sir; I will see about it directly."

  "One word, my dear, good Madame Dupont. You are a woman of sense, and excellent judgment. Now I have put your husband in the way to keep, if he will, his situation as bailiff of the estate—"

  "Is it possible? What gratitude do we not owe you! Without this place what would become of us at our time of life?"

  "I have only saddled my promise with two conditions—mere trifles—he will explain all that to you."

  "Ah, sir! we shall regard you as our deliverer."

  "You are too good. Only, on two little conditions—"

  "If there were a hundred, sir we should gladly accept them. Think what we should be without this place—penniless—absolutely penniless!"

  "I reckon upon you then; for the interest of your husband, you will try to persuade him."

  "Missus! I say, missus! here's master come back," cried a servant, rushing into the chamber.

  "Has he many with him?"

  "No, missus; he is alone."

  "Alone! alone?"

  "Quite alone, missus."

  A few moments after, M. Dupont entered the room; his clothes were streaming with water; to keep his hat on in the midst of the storm, he had tied it down to his head by means of his cravat, which was knotted under his chin; his gaiters were covered with chalky stains.

  "There I have thee, my dear love!" cried his wife, tenderly embracing him. "I have been so uneasy!"

  "Up to the present moment—THREE SAVED."

  "God be praised, my dear M. Dupont!" said Rodin; "at least your efforts will not have been all in vain."

  "Three, only three?" said Catherine. "Gracious heaven!"

  "I only speak of those I saw myself, near the little creek of Goelands. Let us hope there may be more saved on other parts of the coast."

  "Yes, indeed; happily, the shore is not equally steep in all parts."

  "And where are these interesting sufferers, my dear sir?" asked Rodin, who could not avoid remaining a few instants longer.

  "They are mounting the cliffs, supported by our people. As they cannot walk very fast, I ran on before to console my wife, and to take the necessary measures for their reception. First of all, my dear, you must get ready some women's clothes."

  "There is then a woman amongst the persons saved?"

  "There are two girls—fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most—mere children—and so pretty!"

  "Poor little things!" said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.

  "The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real hero!"

  "A hero?"

  "Yes; only fancy—"

  "You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through."

  "I'll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you that the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly his courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left here with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path, and arrived at the foot of the cliff—near the little creek of Goelands, fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the sea."

  "Dear children! it is quite touching!" said M. Rodin, raising, as usual, the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though to dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.

  "What struck me was their great resemblance to each other," resumed the bailiff; "only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the difference."

  "Twin—sisters, no doubt," said Madame Dupont.

  "One of the poor things," continued the bailiff, "held between her clasped hands a little bronze medal, which was suspended from her neck by a chain of the same material."

  Rodin generally maintained a very stooping posture; but at these last words of the bailiff, he drew himself up suddenly, whilst a faint color spread itself over his livid cheeks. In any other person, these symptoms would have appeared of little consequence; but in Rodin, accustomed for long years to control and dissimulate his emotions, they announced no ordinary excitement. Approaching the bailiff, he said to him in a slightly agitated voice, but still with an air of indifference: "It was doubtless a pious relic. Did you see what was inscribed on this medal?"

  "No, sir; I did not think of it."

  "And the two young girls were like one another—very much like, you say?"

  "So like, that one would hardly know which was which. Probably they are orphans, for they are dressed in mourning."<
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  "Oh! dressed in mourning?" said M. Rodin, with another start.

  "Alas! orphans so young!" said Madame Dupont, wiping her eyes.

  "As they had fainted away, we carried them further on to a place where the sand was quite dry. While we were busy about this, we saw the head of a man appear from behind one of the rocks, which he was trying to climb, clinging to it by one hand; we ran to him, and luckily in the nick of time, for he was clean worn out, and fell exhausted into the arms of our men. It was of him I spoke when I talked of a hero; for, not content with having saved the two young girls by his admirable courage, he had attempted to rescue a third person, and had actually gone back amongst the rocks and breakers—but his strength failed him, and, without the aid of our men, he would certainly have been washed away from the ridge to which he clung."

  "He must indeed be a fine fellow!" said Catherine.

  Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to this conversation. The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged, only increased upon reflection. The two girls, who had just been saved, were fifteen years of age; were dressed in mourning; were so like, that one might be taken for the other; one of them wore round her neck a chain with a bronze medal; he could scarcely doubt that they were the daughters of General Simon. But how could those sisters be amongst the number of shipwrecked passengers? How could they have escaped from the prison at Leipsic? How did it happen, that he had not been informed of it? Could they have fled, or had they been set at liberty? How was it possible that he should not be apprise of such an event? But these secondary thoughts, which offered themselves in crowds to the mind of M. Rodin, were swallowed up in the one fact: "the daughters of General Simon are here!"—His plan, so laboriously laid, was thus entirely destroyed.