The Wandering Jew — Complete Read online

  Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed: "That's right, my pretty ones: I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and yesterday—laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of being so much engrossed with your own talk. Yes, yes, my little ladies! you seem to have had famous secrets together these last two days—so, much the better, if it amuses you."

  The sisters colored, and exchanged a subdued smile, which contrasted with the tears that yet filled their eyes, and Rose said to the soldier, with a little embarrassment. "No, I assure you, Dagobert, we talk of nothing in particular."

  "Well, well; I don't wish to know it. Come, rest yourselves, a few moments more, and then we must start again; for it grows late, and we have to reach Mockern before night, so that we may be early on the road to-morrow."

  "Have we still a long, long way to go?" asked Rose.

  "What, to reach Paris? Yes, my children; some hundred days' march. We don't travel quick, but we get on; and we travel cheap, because we have a light purse. A closet for you, a straw mattress and a blanket at your door for me, with Spoil-sport on my feet, and a clean litter for old Jovial, these are our whole traveling expenses. I say nothing about food, because you two together don't eat more than a mouse, and I have learnt in Egypt and Spain to be hungry only when it suits."

  "Not forgetting that, to save still more, you do all the cooking for us, and will not even let us assist."

  "And to think, good Dagobert, that you wash almost every evening at our resting-place. As if it were not for us to—"

  "You!" said the soldier, interrupting Blanche, "I, allow you to chap your pretty little hands in soap-suds! Pooh! don't a soldier on a campaign always wash his own linen? Clumsy as you see me, I was the best washerwoman in my squadron—and what a hand at ironing! Not to make a brag of it."

  "Yes, yes—you can iron well—very well."

  "Only sometimes, there will be a little singe," said Rose, smiling.

  "Hah! when the iron is too hot. Zounds! I may bring it as near my cheek as I please; my skin is so tough that I don't feel the heat," said Dagobert, with imperturbable gravity.

  "We are only jesting, good Dagobert!"

  "Then, children, if you think that I know my trade as a washerwoman, let me continue to have your custom: it is cheaper; and, on a journey, poor people like us should save where we can, for we must, at all events, keep enough to reach Paris. Once there, our papers and the medal you wear will do the rest—I hope so, at least."

  "This medal is sacred to us; mother gave it to us on her death-bed."

  "Therefore, take great care that you do not lose it: see, from time to time, that you have it safe."

  "Here it is," said Blanche, as she drew from her bosom a small bronze medal, which she wore suspended from her neck by a chain of the same material. The medal bore on its faces the following inscriptions:

  Victim

  of

  L. C. D. J.

  Pray for me!

  ——

  Paris

  February the, 13th, 1682.

  At Paris.

  Rue Saint Francois, No. 3,

  In a century and a half

  you will be.

  February the 13th, 1832.

  ——

  PRAY FOR ME!

  "What does it mean, Dagobert?" resumed Blanche, as she examined the mournful inscriptions. "Mother was not able to tell us."

  "We will discuss all that this evening; at the place where we sleep," answered Dagobert. "It grows late, let us be moving. Put up the medal carefully, and away!—We have yet nearly an hour's march to arrive at quarters. Come, my poor pets, once more look at the mound where your brave father fell—and then—to horse! to horse!"

  The orphans gave a last pious glance at the spot which had recalled to their guide such painful recollections, and, with his aid, remounted Jovial.

  This venerable animal had not for one moment dreamed of moving; but, with the consummate forethought of a veteran, he had made the best use of his time, by taking from that foreign soil a large contribution of green and tender grass, before the somewhat envious eyes of Spoil-sport, who had comfortably established himself in the meadow, with his snout protruding between his fore-paws. On the signal of departure, the dog resumed his post behind his master, and Dagobert, trying the ground with the end of his long staff, led the horse carefully along by the bridle, for the meadow was growing more and more marshy; indeed, after advancing a few steps, he was obliged to turn off to the left, in order to regain the high-road.

  On reaching Mockern, Dagobert asked for the least expensive inn, and was told there was only one in the village—the White Falcon.

  "Let us go then to the White Falcon," observed the soldier.

  CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL.

  Already had Morok several times opened with impatience the window shutters of the loft, to look out upon the inn-yard, watching for the arrival of the orphans and the soldier. Not seeing them, he began once more to walk slowly up and down, with his head bent forward, and his arms folded on his bosom, meditating on the best means to carry out the plan he had conceived. The ideas which possessed his mind, were, doubtless, of a painful character, for his countenance grew even more gloomy than usual.

  Notwithstanding his ferocious appearance, he was by no means deficient in intelligence. The courage displayed in his taming exercises (which he gravely attributed to his recent conversion), a solemn and mystical style of speech, and a hypocritical affectation of austerity, had given him a species of influence over the people he visited in his travels. Long before his conversion, as may well be supposed, Morok had been familiar with the habits of wild beasts. In fact born in the north of Siberia, he had been, from his boyhood, one of the boldest hunters of bears and reindeer; later, in 1810, he had abandoned this profession, to serve as guide to a Russian engineer, who was charged with an exploring expedition to the Polar regions. He afterwards followed him to St. Petersburg, and there, after some vicissitudes of fortune, Morok became one of the imperial couriers—these iron automata, that the least caprice of the despot hurls in a frail sledge through the immensity of the empire, from Persia to the Frozen Sea. For these men, who travel night and day, with the rapidity of lightning there are neither seasons nor obstacles, fatigues nor danger; living projectiles, they must either be broken to pieces, or reach the intended mark. One may conceive the boldness, the vigor, and the resignation, of men accustomed to such a life.

  It is useless to relate here, by what series of singular circumstances Morok was induced to exchange his rough pursuit for another profession, and at last to enter, as catechumen, a religious house at Friburg; after which, being duly and properly converted, he began his nomadic excursions, with his menagerie of unknown origin.

  Morok continued to walk up and down the loft. Night had come. The three persons whose arrival he so impatiently expected had not yet made their appearance. His walk became more and more nervous and irregular.

  On a sudden he stopped abruptly; leaned his head towards the window; and listened. His ear was quick as a savage's.

  "They are here!" he exclaimed and his fox like eye shone with diabolic joy. He had caught the sound of footsteps—a man's and a horse's. Hastening to the window-shutter of the loft, he opened it cautiously, and saw the two young girls on horseback, and the old soldier who served them as a guide, enter the inn-yard together.

  The night had set in, dark and cloudy; a high wind made the lights flicker in the lanterns which were used to receive the new guests. But the description given to Morok had been so exact, that it was impossible to mistake them. Sure of his prey, he closed the window. Having remained in meditation for another quarter of an hour—for the purpose, no doubt, of thoroughly digesting his projects—he leaned over the aperture, from which projected the ladder, and called, "Goliath!"

  "Master!" replied a hoarse voice.

  "Come up to me."

  "Here I am—just come from the slaughter-house with the meat."

 
The steps of the ladder creaked as an enormous head appeared on a level with the floor. The new-comer, who was more than six feet high, and gifted with herculean proportions, had been well-named Goliath. He was hideous. His squinting eyes were deep set beneath a low and projecting forehead; his reddish hair and beard, thick and coarse as horse-hair, gave his features a stamp of bestial ferocity; between his broad jaws, armed with teeth which resembled fangs, he held by one corner a piece of raw beef weighing ten or twelve pounds, finding it, no doubt, easier to carry in that fashion, whilst he used his hands to ascend the ladder, which bent beneath his weight.

  At length the whole of this tall and huge body issued from the aperture. Judging by his bull-neck, the astonishing breadth of his chest and shoulders, and the vast bulk of his arms and legs, this giant need not have feared to wrestle single-handed with a bear. He wore an old pair of blue trousers with red stripes, faced with tanned sheep's-skin, and a vest, or rather cuirass, of thick leather, which was here and there slashed by the sharp claws of the animals.

  When he was fairly on the floor, Goliath unclasped his fangs, opened his mouth, and let fall the great piece of beef, licking his blood-stained lips with greediness. Like many other mountebanks, this species of monster had began by eating raw meat at the fairs for the amusement of the public. Thence having gradually acquired a taste for this barbarous food, and uniting pleasure with profit, he engaged himself to perform the prelude to the exercises of Morok, by devouring, in the presence of the crowd, several pounds of raw flesh.

  "My share and Death's are below stairs, and here are those of Cain and Judas," said Goliath, pointing to the chunk of beef. "Where is the cleaver, that I may cut it in two?—No preference here—beast or man—every gullet must have it's own."

  Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one's thumb.

  "I say, master, where's the cleaver?"—He again began, as he cast round his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.

  "Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?"

  "Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house."

  "Who are these travellers?"

  "Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a big moustache. But the cleaver?—my beasts are hungry and so am I—the cleaver!"

  "Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?"

  "The host took them to the far end of the court-yard."

  "The building, which overlooks the fields?"

  "Yes, master—but the cleaver—"

  A burst of frightful roaring shook the loft, and interrupted Goliath.

  "Hark to them!" he exclaimed; "hunger has driven the beasts wild. If I could roar, I should do as they do. I have never seen Judas and Cain as they are to-night; they leap in their cages as if they'd knock all to pieces. As for Death, her eyes shine more than usual like candles—poor Death!"

  "So these girls are lodged in the building at the end of the court-yard," resumed Morok, without attending to the observations of Goliath.

  "Yes, yes—but in the devil's name, where is the cleaver? Since Karl went away I have to do all the work, and that makes our meals very late."

  "Did the old man remain with the young girls?" asked Morok.

  Goliath, amazed that, notwithstanding his importunities, his master should still appear to neglect the animals' supper, regarded the Prophet with an increase of stupid astonishment.

  "Answer, you brute!"

  "If I am a brute, I have a brute's strength," said Goliath, in a surly tone, "and brute against brute, I have not always come the worst off."

  "I ask if the old man remained with the girls," repeated Morok.

  "Well, then—no!" returned the giant. "The old man, after leading his horse to the stable, asked for a tub and some water, took his stand under the porch—and there—by the light of a lantern—he is washing out clothes. A man with a gray moustache!—paddling in soap-suds like a washerwoman—it's as if I were to feed canaries!" added Goliath, shrugging his shoulders with disdain. "But now I've answered you, master, let me attend to the beasts' supper,"—and, looking round for something, he added, "where is the cleaver?"

  After a moment of thoughtful silence, the Prophet said to Goliath, "You will give no food to the beasts this evening."

  At first the giant could not understand these words, the idea was so incomprehensible to him.

  "What is your pleasure, master?" said he.

  "I forbid you to give any food to the beasts this evening."

  Goliath did not answer, but he opened wide his squinting eyes, folded his hands, and drew back a couple of steps.

  "Well, dost hear me?" said Morok, with impatience. "Is it plain enough?"

  "Not feed? when our meat is there, and supper is already three hours after time!" cried Goliath, with ever-increasing amazement.

  "Obey, and hold your tongue."

  "You must wish something bad to happen this evening. Hunger makes the beasts furious—and me also."

  "So much the better!"

  "It'll drive 'em mad."

  "So much the better!"

  "How, so much the better?—But—"

  "It is enough!"

  "But, devil take me, I am as hungry as the beasts!"

  "Eat then—who prevents it? Your supper is ready, as you devour it raw."

  "I never eat without my beasts, nor they without me."

  "I tell you again, that, if you dare give any food to the beasts—I will turn you away."

  Goliath uttered a low growl as hoarse as a bear's, and looked at the Prophet with a mixture of anger and stupefaction.

  Morok, having given his orders, walked up and down the loft, appearing to reflect. Then, addressing himself to Goliath, who was still plunged in deep perplexity, he said to him.

  "Do you remember the burgomaster's, where I went to get my passport signed?—To-day his wife bought some books and a chaplet."

  "Yes," answered the giant shortly.

  "Go and ask his servant if I may be sure to find the burgomaster early to-morrow morning."

  "What for?"

  "I may, perhaps, have something important to communicate; at all events, say that I beg him not to leave home without seeing me."

  "Good! but may I feed the beasts before I go to the burgomaster's?—only the panther, who is most hungry? Come, master; only poor Death? just a little morsel to satisfy her; Cain and I and Judas can wait."

  "It is the panther, above all, that I forbid you to feed. Yes, her, above all the rest."

  "By the horns of the devil!" cried Goliath, "what is the matter with you to-day? I can make nothing of it. It is a pity that Karl's not here; he, being cunning, would help me to understand why you prevent the beasts from eating when they are hungry."

  "You have no need to understand it."

  "Will not Karl soon come back?"

  "He has already come back."

  "Where is he, then?"

  "Off again."

  "What can be going on here? There is something in the wind. Karl goes, and returns, and goes again, and—"

  "We are not talking of Karl, but of you; though hungry as a wolf you are cunning as a fox, and, when it suits you, as cunning as Karl." And, changing on the sudden his tone and manner, Morok slapped the giant cordially on the shoulder.

  "What! am I cunning?"

  "The proof is, that there are ten florins to earn to-night—and you will be keen enough to earn them, I am sure."

  "Why, on those terms, yes—I am awake," said the giant, smiling with a stupid, self-satisfied air. "What must I do for ten florins?"

  "You shall see."

  "Is it hard work?"

  "You shall see. Begin by going to the burgomaster's—but first light the fire in that stove." He pointed to it with his finger.

  "Yes, master," said Goliath, somewhat consoled for the del
ay of his supper by the hope of gaining ten florins.

  "Put that iron bar in the stove," added the Prophet, "to make it red-hot."

  "Yes, master."

  "You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster's, and return here to wait for me."

  "Yes, master.

  "You will keep the fire up in the stove."

  "Yes, master."

  Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: "You say the old man is busy washing under the porch?"

  "Yes, master."

  "Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire—the burgomaster—and return here to wait my orders." So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and disappeared.

  CHAPTER IV. MOROK and DAGOBERT

  Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.

  When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself to all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he had industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to receive a sabre-cut—the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in the cloth.