by Eugène Sue
The Schoolmaster remained utterly bewildered; for the first time in his life a vague and confused dread of something more horrible far than death itself crossed his guilty mind, — he trembled before the suggestions of his own imagination.
Rodolph went on:
“Anselm Duresnel, I will not sentence you to the galleys, neither shall you die—”
“Then do you intend sending me to hell? or what are you going to do with me?”
“Listen!” said Rodolph, rising from his seat with an air of menacing authority. “You have wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon you, — I will paralyse that strength; the strongest have trembled before you, — I will make you henceforward shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings. Assassin! murderer! you have plunged God’s creatures into eternal night; your darkness shall commence even in this life. Now — this very hour — your punishment shall be proportioned to your crimes. But,” added Rodolph, with an accent of mournful pity, “the terrible judgment I am about to pronounce will, at least, leave the future open to your efforts for pardon and for peace. I should be guilty as you are were I, in punishing you, to seek only for vengeance, just as is my right to demand it; far from being unrelenting as death, your sentence shall bring forth good fruits for hereafter; far from destroying your soul, it shall help you to seek its salvation. If, to prevent you from further violating the commandments of your Maker, I for ever deprive you of the beauties of this outer world, if I plunge you into impenetrable darkness, with no other companion than the remembrance of your crimes, it is that you may incessantly contemplate their enormity. Yes, separated for ever from this external world, your thoughts must needs revert to yourself, and your vision dwell internally upon the bygone scenes of your ill-spent life; and I am not without hope that such a mental and constantly presented picture will send the blush of shame even upon your hardened features, that your soul, deadened as it now is to every good and holy impulse, will become softened and tender by repentance. Your language, too, will be changed, and good and prayerful words take place of those daring and blasphemous expressions which now disgrace your lips. You are brutal and overbearing, because you are strong; you will become mild and gentle when you are deprived of that strength. Now your heart scoffs at the very mention of repentance, but the day will come when, bowed to the earth with deep contrition, you will bewail your victims in dust and ashes. You have degraded the intelligence placed within you by a supreme power, — you have reduced it to the brutal instincts of rapine and murder; from a man formed after the image of his Creator, you have made yourself a beast of prey: one day, as I trust and believe, that intelligence will be purified by remorse and rendered again guiltless through divine expiation. You, more inhuman than the beast which perisheth, have trampled on the tender feelings by which even animals are actuated, — you have been the destroyer of your partner and your offspring. After a long life, entirely devoted to the expiation of your crimes, you may venture to implore of the Almighty the great though unmerited happiness of obtaining the pardon of your wife and son, and dying in their presence.”
As Rodolph uttered these last words his voice trembled with emotion, and he was obliged to conclude.
The Schoolmaster’s terrors had, during this long discourse, entirely yielded to an opinion that he was only to be subjected to a long lecture on morality, and so forth, and then discharged upon his own promise of amendment; for the many mysterious words uttered by Rodolph he looked upon as mere vague expressions intended to alarm him, — nothing more. Still further reassured by the mild tone in which Rodolph had addressed him, the ruffian assumed his usually insolent air and manner as he said, bursting into a loud and vulgar laugh:
“Well done, upon my word! A very good sermon, and very well spoken! Only we must recollect where we leave off in our moral catechism, that we may begin all right next lesson day. Come, let us have something lively now. What do you say, master; will you guess a charade or two, just to enliven us a bit?”
Instead of replying, Rodolph addressed the black doctor:
“Proceed, David! And if I do wrong, may the Almighty punish me alone!”
The negro rang; two men entered. David pointed to a side door, which opened into an adjoining closet.
The chair in which the Schoolmaster remained bound, so as to be incapable of the smallest movement, was then rolled into the anteroom.
“Are you going to murder me, then? Mercy! mercy!” shrieked the wretched man, as he was being removed.
“Gag him!” cried the negro, entering the closet.
Rodolph and the Chourineur were left alone.
“M. Rodolph,” said the Chourineur, pale and trembling, “M. Rodolph, what is going to be done? I never felt so frightened. Pray speak; I must be dreaming, surely. What have they done to the Schoolmaster? He does not cry out, — all is so silent; it makes me more fearful still!”
At this moment David issued from the cabinet; his complexion had that livid hue peculiar to the negro countenance, while his lips were ashy pale.
The men who had conveyed the Schoolmaster into the closet now replaced him, still bound in his chair, on the spot he had previously occupied in Rodolph’s presence.
“Unbind him, and remove the gag!” exclaimed David.
There was a moment of fearful silence while the two attendants relieved the Schoolmaster of his gag and untied the cords which bound him to the chair. As the last ligature gave way, he sprang up, his hideous countenance expressing rage, horror, and alarm. He advanced one step with extended hands, then, falling back into the chair, he uttered a cry of unspeakable agony, and, raising his hands towards the ceiling, exclaimed, with maddened fury:
“Blind, by heaven!”
“Give him this pocketbook, David,” said Rodolph.
The negro placed a small pocketbook in the trembling hands of the Schoolmaster.
“You will find in that pocketbook wherewithal to provide yourself with a home and the means of living for the remainder of your days. Go, seek out some safe and solitary dwelling, where, by humble repentance, you may seek to propitiate an offended God! You are free! Go and repent; the Lord is merciful, and his ears are ever open to such as truly repent.”
“Blind! quite blind!” repeated the Schoolmaster, mechanically grasping the pocketbook.
“Open the doors, — let him depart!” said Rodolph.
“Blind! blind!” repeated the bewildered and discomfited ruffian.
“You are free; you have the means of providing for yourself; begone!”
“And whither am I to go?” exclaimed he, with the most unbounded rage. “You have taken away my sight; how, then, do I know in which direction to go? Call you not this a crime thus to abuse your power over one unhappily in your hands? Thus to—”
“To abuse my power!” repeated Rodolph, in a solemn voice. “And how have you employed the power granted to you? How used your superior strength?”
“O Death! how gladly would I now accept you!” cried the wretched man. “To be henceforward at every one’s mercy, — to fear the weakest, the smallest object! — a child might now master me! Gracious God! what will become of me?”
“You have plenty of money.”
“It will be taken from me!” cried the ruffian.
“Mark those words,— ‘It will be taken from me!’ See how they fill you with fear and dread! You have plundered so many, unmindful of their helpless, destitute condition, — begone!”
“For the love of God,” cried the Schoolmaster, in a suppliant tone, “let some person lead me forth! What will become of me in the streets? Oh, in mercy kill me! take my miserable life! but do not turn me out thus wretched, thus helpless! Kill, for pity’s sake, and save me from being crushed beneath the first vehicle I encounter!”
“No! Live and repent.”
“Repent!” shouted the Schoolmaster, in a fearful voice. “Never! I will live for vengeance, — for deep and fearful vengeance!” And again he threw himself from the chair, holding hi
s clenched fists in a menacing attitude towards the ceiling, as though calling upon Heaven to witness the fixedness of his resolve. In an instant his step faltered; he again hesitated, as though fearful of a thousand dangers.
“Alas! alas! I cannot proceed, — I dare not move! And I, lately so strong and so dreaded by all, — look at me now! Yet no one pities me, — no one cares for me, — no hand is stretched out to help the wretched blind upon his lonely way!”
It is impossible to express the stupefaction and alarm expressed by the countenance of the Chourineur during this terrible scene. His rough features exhibited the deepest compassion for his fallen foe, and approaching Rodolph, he said, in a low tone:
“M. Rodolph, he was an accomplished villain, and has only got what he richly deserves; he wanted to murder me a little while ago, too. But he is now blind, — he does not even know how to find his way out of the house, and he may be crushed to death in the streets; may I lead him to some safe place, where, at least, he may remain quiet for a time?”
“Nobly said!” replied Rodolph, kindly pressing the hand of the Chourineur. “Go, my worthy fellow! Go with him, by all means!”
The Chourineur approached the Schoolmaster and laid his hand on his shoulder; the miserable villain started.
“Who touches me?” asked he, in a husky voice.
“It is I.”
“I? Who? Who are you, — friend or foe?”
“The Chourineur.”
“And you have come to avenge yourself now you find I am incapable of protecting myself, I suppose?”
“Nothing of the sort. Here, take my arm; you cannot find the way out by yourself; let me lead you — there—”
“You, Chourineur? You!”
“Yes, for all you doubt it; but you vex me by not seeming to like my help. Come, hold tight by me; I will see you all right before I leave you.”
“Are you quite sure you do not mean me some harm? that you are only laying a trap to ensnare me?”
“I am not such a scoundrel as to take advantage of your misfortune. But let us begone. Come on, old fellow; it will be daylight directly.”
“Day! which I shall never more behold! Day and night to me are henceforward all the same!” exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in such piteous tones that Rodolph, unable longer to endure this scene, abruptly retired, followed by David, who first dismissed his two assistants.
The Chourineur and the Schoolmaster remained alone. After a lengthened silence the latter spoke first, by inquiring whether it were really true that the pocketbook presented to him contained money.
“Yes, I can positively speak to its containing five thousand francs,” replied the Chourineur, “since I put them in it with my own hand. With that sum you could easily place yourself to board with some quiet, good sort of people, who would look to you, — in some retired spot in the country, where you might pass your days happily. Or would you like me to take you to the ogress’s?”
“She! she would not leave me a rap.”
“Well, then, will you go to Bras Rouge?”
“No, no! He would poison me first and rob me afterwards.”
“Well, then, where shall I take you?”
“I know not. Happily for both, you are no thief, Chourineur. Here, take my pocketbook, and conceal it carefully in my waistcoat, that La Chouette may not see it; she would plunder me of every sou.”
“Oh, bless you! the Chouette is quite safe just now; she lies in the Hôpital Beaujon. While I was struggling with you both to-night I happened to dislocate her leg, so she’s obliged to lie up for the present.”
“But what, in heaven’s name, shall I do with this black curtain continually before my eyes? In vain I try to push it away; it is still there, fixed, immovable; and on its surface I see the pale, ghastly features of those—”
He shuddered, and said in a low, hoarse voice, “Chourineur, did I quite do for that man last night?”
“No.”
“So much the better,” observed the robber. And then, after some minutes’ silence, he exclaimed, under a fresh impulse of ungovernable fury, “And it is you I have to thank for all this! Rascal! scoundrel! I hate you! But for you, I should have ‘stiffened’ my man and walked off with his money. My very blindness I owe to you; my curses upon you for your meddling interference! But through you I should have had my blessed eyes to see my own way with. How do I know what devil’s trick you are planning at this moment?”
“Try to forget all that is past, — it can’t be helped now; and do not put yourself in such a terrible way, — it is really very bad for you. Come, come along — now, no nonsense — will you? yes or no? — because I am regularly done up, and must get a short snooze somewhere. I can tell you I have had a bellyful of such doings, and to-morrow I shall get back to my timber-pile, and earn an honest dinner before I eat it. I am only waiting to take you wherever you decide upon going, and then on goes my nightcap and I goes to sleep.”
“But how can I tell you where to take me, when I do not know myself? My lodging — No, no, that will not do; I should be obliged to tell—”
“Well, then, hark ye. Will you, for a day or two, make shift with my crib? I may meet with some decent sort of people, who, not knowing who you really are, would receive you as a boarder; and we might say you were a confirmed invalid, and required great care and perfect retirement. Now I think of it, there is a person of my acquaintance, living at Port St. Nicolas, has a mother, a very worthy woman, but in humble circumstances, residing at St. Mandé: very likely she would be glad to take charge of you. What do you say, — will you come or not?”
“One may trust you, Chourineur. I am not at all fearful of going, money and all, to your place; happily you have kept yourself honest, amidst all the evil example others have set you.”
“Ay, and even bore the taunts and jests you used to heap upon me, because I would not turn prig like yourself.”
“Alas! who could foresee?”
“Now, you see, if I had listened to you, instead of trying to be of real service to you, I should clean you out of all your cash.”
“True, true. But you are a downright good fellow, and have neither malice nor hatred in your heart,” said the unhappy Schoolmaster, in a tone of deep dejection and humility. “You are a vast deal better to me than, I fear, I should have been to you under the same circumstances.”
“I believe you, too. Why, M. Rodolph himself told me I had both heart and honour.”
“But who the devil is this M. Rodolph?” exclaimed the Schoolmaster, breaking out fresh at the mention of his name. “He is not a man; he is a monster, — a fiend, — a—”
“Hold, hold!” cried the Chourineur. “Now you are going to have another fit, which is bad for you and very disagreeable to me, because it makes you abuse my friends. Come, are you ready? Shall we set forth on our journey?”
“We are going to your lodging, are we not, Chourineur?”
“Yes, yes, if you are agreeable.”
“And you swear to me that you bear me no ill-will for the events of the last twelve hours?”
“Swear it? Of course I swear it. Why, I have no ill-will against you nor anybody.”
“And you are certain that he (the man, I mean) is not dead?”
“I am as sure of it as that I am living myself.”
“That will at least give me one crime the less to answer for. If they only knew — And that little old man of the Rue du Roule — and that woman of the Canal St. Martin — But it is useless thinking of all those things now; I have enough to occupy my thoughts without trying to recall past misfortunes. Blind! blind!” repeated the miserable wretch, as, leaning on the arm of the Chourineur, he slowly took his departure from the house in the Allée des Veuves.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ISLE-ADAM.
A MONTH HAS elapsed since the occurrence of the events we have just narrated. We now conduct the reader into the little town of the Isle-Adam, situated in a delightful locality on the banks of the Oise, and at the f
oot of a forest.
The least things become great events in the country; and so the idlers of Isle-Adam, who were on the morning before us walking in the square before the church, were very anxiously bestirring themselves to learn when the individual would arrive who had recently become the purchaser of the most eligible premises for a butcher in that town, and which were exactly opposite to the church.
One of those idlers, more inquisitive than his companions, went and asked the butcher-boy, who, with a merry face and active hands, was very busy in completing the arrangements of the shop. This lad replied that he did not know who was the new proprietor, for he had bought the property through an agent. At this moment two persons, who had come from Paris in a cabriolet, alighted at the door of the shop.
The one was Murphy, quite cured of his wound, and the other the Chourineur. At the risk of repeating a vulgar saying, we will assert that the impression produced by dress is so powerful, that the guest of the “cribs” of the Cité was hardly to be recognised in his present attire. His countenance had undergone the same change; he had put off, with his rags, his savage, coarse, and vulgar air; and to see him walk with both his hands in the pockets of his long and warm coat of dark broadcloth, he might have been taken for one of the most inoffensive citizens in the world.
“‘Faith, my fine fellow, the way was long and the cold excessive; were they not?”
“Why, I really did not perceive it, M. Murphy; I am too happy, and joy keeps one warm. Besides, when I say happy, why—”
“What?”
“Yesterday you came to seek for me at the Port St. Nicolas, where I was unloading as hard as I could to keep myself warm. I had not seen you since the night when the white-haired negro had put out the Schoolmaster’s eyes. By Jove! it quite shook me, that affair did. And M. Rodolph, what a countenance! — he who looked so mild and gentle! I was quite frightened at that moment; I was, indeed—”
“Well, what then?”
“You said to me, ‘Good day, Chourineur.’ ‘Good day, M. Murphy,’ says I. ‘What, you are up again, I see! So much the better, — so much the better. And M. Rodolph?’ ‘He was obliged to leave Paris some days after the affair of the Allée des Veuves, and he forgot you, my man.’ ‘Well, M. Murphy, I can only say that if M. Rodolph has forgotten me, why — I shall be very sorry for it, that’s all.’ ‘I meant to say, my good fellow, that he had forgotten to recompense your services, but that he should always remember them.’ So, M. Murphy, those words cheered me up again directly. Tonnerre! I — I shall never forget him. He told me I had heart and honour, — that’s enough.”
