The Wandering Jew — Complete

by Eugène Sue

  Yet, at the moment when Loony listened so attentively at the door of the adjoining room, a ray of quick intelligence animated for an instant his dull and stupid countenance.

  When he had thus listened for a short time, Loony returned to the fireplace, still crawling on his knees; then rising, he again took his basket half full of wood, and once more approaching the door at which he had listened knocked discreetly. No one answered. He knocked a second time, and more loudly. Still there was the same silence.

  Then he said, in a harsh, squeaking, laughable voice: "Ladies, do you want any wood, if you please, for your fire?"

  Receiving no answer, Loony placed his basket on the ground, opened the door gently, and entered the next room, after casting a rapid glance around. He came out again in a few seconds, looking from side to side with an anxious air, like a man who had just accomplished some important and mysterious task.

  Taking up his basket, he was about to leave Marshal Simon's room, when the door of the private staircase was opened slowly and with precaution, and Dagobert appeared.

  The soldier, evidently surprised at the servant's presence, knitted his brows, and exclaimed abruptly, "What are you doing here?"

  At this sudden interrogation, accompanied by a growl expressive of the ill-humor of Spoil-sport, who followed close on his master's heels, Loony uttered a cry of real or pretended terror. To give, perhaps, an appearance of greater reality to his dread, the supposed simpleton let his basket fall on the ground, as if astonishment and fear had loosened his hold of it.

  "What are you doing, numbskull?" resumed Dagobert, whose countenance was impressed with deep sadness, and who seemed little disposed to laugh at the fellow's stupidity.

  "Oh, M. Dagobert! how you frighten me! Dear me! what a pity I had not an armful of plates, to prove it was not my fault if I broke them all."

  "I ask what you are doing," resumed the soldier.

  "You see, M. Dagobert," replied Loony, pointing to his basket, "that I came with some wood to master's room, so that he might burn it, if it was cold—which it is."

  "Very well. Pick up your wood, and begone!"

  "Oh, M. Dagobert! my legs tremble under me. How you did scare me, to be sure!"

  "Will you begone, brute?" resumed the veteran; and seizing Loony by the arm, he pushed him towards the door, while Spoil-sport, with recumbent ears, and hair standing up like the quills of a porcupine, seemed inclined to accelerate his retreat.

  "I am going, M. Dagobert, I am going," replied the simpleton, as he hastily gathered up his basket; "only please to tell the dog—"

  "Go to the devil, you stupid chatterbox!" cried Dagobert, as he pushed Loony through the doorway.

  Then the soldier bolted the door which led to the private staircase, and going to that which communicated with the apartments of the two sisters, he double-locked it. Having done this, he hastened to the alcove in which stood the bed and taking down a pair of loaded pistols, he carefully removed the percussion caps, and, unable to repress a deep sigh, restored the weapons to the place in which he had found them. Then, as if on second thoughts, he took down an Indian dagger with a very sharp blade, and drawing it from its silver-gilt sheath, proceeded to break the point of this murderous instrument, by twisting it beneath one of the iron castors of the bed.

  Dagobert then proceeded to unfasten the two doors, and, returning slowly to the marble chimney-piece, he leaned against it with a gloomy and pensive air. Crouching before the fire, Spoil-sport followed with an attentive eye the least movement of his master. The good dog displayed a rare and intelligent sagacity. The soldier, having drawn out his handkerchief, let fall, without perceiving it, a paper containing a roll of tobacco. Spoil-sport, who had all the qualities of a retriever of the Rutland race, took the paper between his teeth, and, rising upon his hind-legs, presented it respectfully to Dagobert. But the latter received it mechanically, and appeared indifferent to the dexterity of his dog. The grenadier's countenance revealed as much sorrow as anxiety. After remaining for some minutes near the fire, with fixed and meditative look, he began to walk about the room in great agitation, one of his hands thrust into the bosom of his long blue frock-coat, which was buttoned up to the chin, and the other into one of his hind-pockets.

  From time to time he stopped abruptly, and seemed to make reply to his own thoughts, or uttered an exclamation of doubt and uneasiness; then, turning towards the trophy of arms, he shook his head mournfully, and murmured, "No matter—this fear may be idle; but he has acted so extraordinarily these two days, that it is at all events more prudent—"

  He continued his walk, and said, after a new and prolonged silence: "Yes he must tell me. It makes me too uneasy. And then the poor children—it is enough to break one's heart."

  And Dagobert hastily drew his moustache between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous movement, which with him was an evident symptom of extreme agitation. Some minutes after, the soldier resumed, still answering his inward thoughts: "What can it be? It is hardly possible to be the letters, they are too infamous; he despises them. And yet But no, no—he is above that!"

  And Dagobert again began to walk with hasty steps. Suddenly, Spoil-sport pricked up his ears, turned his head in the direction of the staircase door, and growled hoarsely. A few seconds after, some one knocked at the door.

  "Who is there?" said Dagobert. There was no answer, but the person knocked again. Losing patience, the soldier went hastily to open it, and saw the servant's stupid face.

  "Why don't you answer, when I ask who knocks!" said the soldier, angrily.

  "M. Dagobert, you sent me away just now, and I was afraid of making you cross, if I said I had come again."

  "What do you want? Speak then—come in, stupid!" cried the exasperated. Dagobert, as he pulled him into the room.

  "M. Dagobert, don't be angry—I'll tell you all about it—it is a young man."

  "Well?"

  "He wants to speak to you directly, Mr. Dagobert."

  "His name?"

  "His name, M. Dagobert?" replied Loony, rolling about and laughing with an idiotic air.

  "Yes, his name. Speak, idiot!"

  "Oh, M. Dagobert! it's all in joke that you ask me his name!"

  "You are determined, fool that you are, to drive me out of my senses!" cried the soldier, seizing Loony by the collar. "The name of this young man!"

  "Don't be angry, M. Dagobert. I didn't tell you the name because you know it."

  "Beast!" said Dagobert, shaking his fist at him.

  "Yes, you do know it, M. Dagobert, for the young man is your own son. He is downstairs, and wants to speak to you directly—yes, directly."

  The stupidity was so well assumed, that Dagobert was the dupe of it. Moved to compassion rather than anger by such imbecility, he looked fixedly at the servant, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he advanced towards the staircase, "Follow me!"

  Loony obeyed; but, before closing the door, he drew a letter secretly from his pocket, and dropped it behind him without turning his head, saying all the while to Dagobert, for the purpose of occupying his attention: "Your son is in the court, M. Dagobert. He would not come up—that's why he is still downstairs!"

  Thus talking, he closed the door, believing he had left the letter on the floor of Marshal Simon's room. But he had reckoned without Spoil-sport. Whether he thought it more prudent to bring up the rear, or, from respectful deference for a biped, the worthy dog had been the last to leave the room, and, being a famous carrier, as soon as he saw the letter dropped by Loony, he took it delicately between his teeth, and followed close on the heels of the servant, without the latter perceiving this new proof of the intelligence and sagacity of Spoil-sport.

  CHAPTER XLVI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

  We will explain presently what became of the letter, which Spoil-sport held between his teeth, and why he left his master, when the latter ran to meet Agricola. Dagobert had not seen his son for some days. Embracing him cordially, he led him into one of the rooms o
n the ground floor, which he usually occupied. "And how is your wife?" said the soldier to his son.

  "She is well, father, thank you."

  Perceiving a great change in Agricola's countenance, Dagobert resumed: "You look sad. Has anything gone wrong since I saw you last?"

  "All is over, father. We have lost him," said the smith, in a tone of despair.

  "Lost whom?"

  "M. Hardy."

  "M. Hardy!—why, three days ago, you told me you were going to see him."

  "Yes, father, I have seen him—and my dear brother Gabriel saw him and spoke to him—how he speaks! with a voice that comes from the heart!—and he had so revived and encouraged him, that M. Hardy consented to return amongst us. Then I, wild with joy, ran to tell the good news to some of my mates, who were waiting to hear the result of nay interview with M. Hardy. I brought them all with me to thank and bless him. We were within a hundred yards of the house belonging to the black-gowns—"

  "Ali, the black-gowns!" said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. "Then some mischief will happen. I know them."

  "You are not mistaken, father," answered Agricola, with a sigh. "I was running on with my comrades, when I saw a carriage coming towards us. Some presentiment told me that they were taking away M. Hardy."

  "By force!" said Dagobert, hastily.

  "No," answered Agricola, bitterly; "no—the priests are too cunning for that. They know how to make you an accomplice in the evil they do you. Shall I not always remember how they managed with my good mother?"

  "Yes, the worthy woman! there was a poor fly caught in the spider's web. But this carriage, of which you speak?"

  "On seeing it start from the house of the black-gowns," replied Agricola, "my heart sank within me; and, by an impulse stronger than myself, I rushed to the horses' heads, calling on my comrades to help me. But the postilion knocked me down and stunned me with a blow from his whip. When I recovered my senses, the carriage was already far away."

  "You were not hurt?" cried Dagobert, anxiously, as he examined his son from top to toe.

  "No, father; a mere scratch."

  "What did you next, my boy?"

  "I hastened to our good angel, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and told her all. 'You must follow M. Hardy on the instant,' said she to me. 'Take my carriage and post-horses. Dupont will accompany you; follow M. Hardy from stage to stage; should you succeed in overtaking him your presence and your prayers may perhaps conquer the fatal influence that these priests have acquired over him.'"

  "It was the best advice she could give you. That excellent young lady is always right."

  "An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returned postilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road. We followed him as far as Etampes. There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reach a solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway. They told us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certain priests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, we had better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning. We followed this advice, and set out at dawn. In a quarter of an hour, we quitted the high-road for a mountainous and desert track. We saw nothing but brown rocks, and a few birch trees. As we advanced, the scene became wilder and wilder. We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leagues from Paris. At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-looking house with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of a high, rocky mountain. In my whole life I have never seen anything so deserted and sad. We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell. A man opened the door. 'Did not the Abbe d'Aigrigny arrive here last night with a gentleman?' said I to this man, with a confidential air. 'Inform the gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and that I must see him forthwith.'—The man, believing me an accomplice, showed us in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d'Aigrigny opened the door, saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence of M. Hardy."

  "Well!" said Dagobert, with interest.

  Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied: "I knew by the very countenance of M. Hardy, that all was over. Addressing me in a mild but firm voice, he said to me: 'I understand, I can even excuse, the motives that bring you hither. But I am quite determined to live henceforth in solitude and prayer. I take this resolution freely and voluntarily, because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul. Tell your fellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a good remembrance of me.'—And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interrupted me, saying: 'It is useless, my friend. My determination is unalterable. Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayer will henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but I am fatigued from my journey!'—He spoke the truth for he was as pale as a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since the day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offered it on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d'Aigrigny soon came in. 'Father,' said M. Hardy to him, 'have the goodness to see M. Baudoin to the door.'—So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of farewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost to us forever."

  "Yes," said Dagobert, "those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so many others."

  "In despair," resumed Agricola, "I returned hither with M. Dupont. This, then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy—of that generous man, who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the providence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation."

  "Oh, the black-gowns!" said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal a vague sense of fear. "The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them. You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two poor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people are very powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers, than a dozen of these cassocks. But don't let's talk of it. I have causes enough beside for grief and fear."

  Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming with a choking voice: "I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. I must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?"

  "Father, you frighten me!" said Agricola, "What is the matter?"

  "Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I see—and dread what I do."

  "What do you dread, father?"

  "Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the marshal—but he frightens me."

  "Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville—"

  "Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this generous young lady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indian cheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor little girls felt the benefit of the change. But for some days, I know not what demon has been loosed against his family. It is enough to turn one's head. First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begun again."

  "What letters, father?"

  "The anonymous letters."

  "But what are they about?"

  "You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d'Aigrigny. When he found that the traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the two orphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death—but that now he had become a priest—I thought the marshal would have gone mad with indignation and fury. He wishes to go in search of the renegade. With one word I calmed him. 'He is a priest,' I said; 'you may do what you will, insult or strike him—he will not fight. He began by serving against his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest. It is all in character. He is not worth spitting upon.'—'But surely I may punish the wrong done to my children, and avenge the
death of my wife,' cried the marshal, much exasperated.—'They say, as you well know, that there are courts of law to avenge your wrongs,' answered I; 'Mdlle. de Cardoville has lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted to confine your daughters in a convent. We must champ the bit and wait."'

  "Yes," said Agricola, mournfully, "and unfortunately there lacks proof to bring it home to the Abbe d'Aigrigny. The other day, when I was examined by Mdlle. de Cardoville's lawyer, with regard to our attempt on the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at every step, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken their precautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed."

  "That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases his irritation at such injustice."

  "He should despise the wretches."

  "But the anonymous letters!"

  "Well, what of them, father?"

  "You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when his first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the renegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting an old man or a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and to forget him as soon as possible. But then, almost every day, there came by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices were employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe d'Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached with cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes."

  "And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?"

  "I cannot tell—it is that which turns one's brain. They must come from the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns."