Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Brother, do you hear?” said the negro to Faringhea; “he has not forgotten the words of the traveller before his death.”

  “The vision follows him. Listen! he will speak again. How pale he is!” Still under the influence of his dream, the Indian continued:

  “‘Traveller, we are three; we are brave; we have your life in our hands — you have seen us sacrifice to the good work. Be one of us, or die — die — die! Oh, that look! Not thus — do not look at me thus!’” As he uttered these last words, the Indian made a sudden movement, as if to keep off some approaching object, and awoke with a start. Then, passing his hand over his moist forehead, he looked round him with a bewildered eye.

  “What! again this dream, brother?” said Faringhea. “For a bold hunter of men, you have a weak head. Luckily, you have a strong heart and arm.”

  The other remained a moment silent, his face buried in his hands; then he replied: “It is long since I last dreamed of that traveller.”

  “Is he not dead?” said Faringhea, shrugging his shoulders. “Did you not yourself throw the cord around his neck?”

  “Yes,” replied the Indian shuddering.

  “Did we not dig his grave by the side of Colonel Kennedy’s? Did we not bury him with the English butcher, under the sand and the rushes?” said the negro.

  “Yes, we dug his grave,” said the Indian, trembling; “and yet, only a year ago, I was seated one evening at the gate of Bombay, waiting for one of our brothers — the sun was setting behind the pagoda, to the right of the little hill — the scene is all before me now — I was seated under a figtree — when I heard a slow, firm, even step, and, as I turned round my head — I saw him — coming out of the town.”

  “A vision,” said the negro; “always the same vision!”

  “A vision,” added Faringhea, “or a vague resemblance.”

  “I knew him by the black mark on his forehead; it was none but he. I remained motionless with fear, gazing at him with eyes aghast. He stopped, bending upon me his calm, sad look. In spite of myself, I could not help exclaiming: ‘It is he!’— ‘Yes,’ he replied, in his gentle voice, ‘it is I. Since all whom thou killest must needs live again,’ and he pointed to heaven as he spoke, ‘why shouldst thou kill? — Hear me! I have just come from Java; I am going to the other end of the world, to a country of never-melting snow; but, here or there, on plains of fire or plains of ice, I shall still be the same. Even so is it with the souls of those who fall beneath thy kalleepra; in this world or up above, in this garb or in another, the soul must still be a soul; thou canst not smite it. Why then kill?’ — and shaking his head sorrowfully, he went on his way, walking slowly, with downcast eyes; he ascended the hill of the pagoda; I watched him as he went, without being able to move: at the moment the sun set, he was standing on the summit of the hill, his tall figure thrown out against the sky — and so he disappeared. Oh! it was he!” added the Indian with a shudder, after a long pause: “it was none but he.”

  In this story the Indian had never varied, though he had often entertained his companions with the same mysterious adventure. This persistency on his part had the effect of shaking their incredulity, or at least of inducing them to seek some natural cause for this apparently superhuman event.

  “Perhaps,” said Faringhea, after a moment’s reflection, “the knot round the traveller’s neck got jammed, and some breath was left him, the air may have penetrated the rushes with which we covered his grave, and so life have returned to him.”

  “No, no,” said the Indian, shaking his head, “this man is not of our race.”

  “Explain.”

  “Now I know it!”

  “What do you know?”

  “Listen!” said the Indian, in a solemn voice; “the number of victims that the children of Bowanee have sacrificed since the commencement of ages, is nothing compared to the immense heap of dead and dying, whom this terrible traveller leaves behind him in his murderous march.”

  “He?” cried the negro and Faringhea.

  “Yes, he!” repeated the Hindoo, with a convinced accent, that made its impression upon his companions. “Hear me and tremble! — When I met this traveller at the gates of Bombay, he came from Java, and was going towards the north, he said. The very next day, the town was a prey to the cholera, and we learned sometime after, that this plague had first broken out here, in Java.”

  “That is true,” said the negro.

  “Hear me still further!” resumed the other. “‘I am going towards the north, to a country of eternal snow,’ said the traveller to me. The cholera also went towards the north, passing through Muscat — Ispahan — Tauris — Tiflis — till it overwhelmed Siberia.”

  “True,” said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful:

  “And the cholera,” resumed the Indian, “only travelled its five or six leagues a day — a man’s tramp — never appeared in two places at once — but swept on slowly, steadily, — even as a man proceeds.”

  At the mention of this strange coincidence, the Hindoo’s companions looked at each other in amazement. After a silence of some minutes, the awe-struck negro said to the last speaker: “So you think that this man—”

  “I think that this man, whom we killed, restored to life by some infernal divinity, has been commissioned to bear this terrible scourge over the earth, and to scatter round his steps that death, from which he is himself secure. Remember!” added the Indian, with gloomy enthusiasm, “this awful wayfarer passed through Java — the cholera wasted Java. He passed through Bombay — the cholera wasted Bombay. He went towards the north — the cholera wasted the north.”

  So saying, the Indian fell into a profound reverie. The negro and Faringhea were seized with gloomy astonishment.

  The Indian spoke the truth as to the mysterious march (still unexplained) of that fearful malady, which has never been known to travel more than five or six leagues a day, or to appear simultaneously in two spots. Nothing can be more curious, than to trace out, on the maps prepared at the period in question, the slow, progressive course of this travelling pestilence, which offers to the astonished eye all the capricious incidents of a tourist’s journey. Passing this way rather than that — selecting provinces in a country — towns in a province — one quarter in a town — one street in a quarter — one house in a street — having its place of residence and repose, and then continuing its slow, mysterious, fear inspiring march.

  The words of the Hindoo, by drawing attention to these dreadful eccentricities, made a strong impression upon the minds of the negro and Faringhea — wild natures, brought by horrible doctrines to the monomania of murder.

  Yes — for this also is an established fact — there have been in India members of an abominable community, who killed without motive, without passion — killed for the sake of killing — for the pleasure of murder — to substitute death for life — to make of a living man a corpse, as they have themselves declared in one of their examinations.

  The mind loses itself in the attempt to penetrate the causes of these monstrous phenomena. By what incredible series of events, have men been induced to devote themselves to this priesthood of destruction? Without doubt, such a religion could only flourish in countries given up, like India, to the most atrocious slavery, and to the most merciless iniquity of man to man.

  Such a creed! — is it not the hate of exasperated humanity, wound up to its highest pitch by oppression? — May not this homicidal sect, whose origin is lost in the night of ages, have been perpetuated in these regions, as the only possible protest of slavery against despotism? May not an inscrutable wisdom have here made Phansegars, even as are made tigers and serpents?

  What is most remarkable in this awful sect, is the mysterious bond, which, uniting its members amongst themselves, separates them from all other men. They have laws and customs of their own, they support and help each other, but for them there is neither country nor family; they owe no allegiance save to a dark, invisible power, whose decrees they obey with
blind submission, and in whose name they spread themselves abroad, to make corpses, according to their own savage expression.(6)

  For some moments the three Stranglers had maintained a profound silence.

  Outside the hut, the moon continued to throw great masses of white radiance, and tall bluish shadows, over the imposing fabric of the ruins; the stars sparkled in the heavens; from time to time, a faint breeze rustled through the thick and varnished leaves of the bananas and the palms.

  The pedestal of the gigantic statue, which, still entire, stood on the left side of the portico, rested upon large flagstones, half hidden with brambles. Suddenly, one of these stones appeared to fall in; and from the aperture, which thus formed itself without noise, a man, dressed in uniform, half protruded his body, looked carefully around him, and listened.

  Seeing the rays of the lamp, which lighted the interior of the hovel, tremble upon the tall grass, he turned round to make a signal, and soon, accompanied by two other soldiers, he ascended, with the greatest silence and precaution, the last steps of the subterranean staircase, and went gliding amongst the ruins. For a few moments, their moving shadows were thrown upon the moonlit ground; then they disappeared behind some fragments of broken wall.

  At the instant when the large stone resumed its place and level, the heads of many other soldiers might have been seen lying close in the excavation. The half-caste, the Indian, and the negro, still seated thoughtfully in the hut, did not perceive what was passing.

  (6) The following are some passages from the Count de Warren’s very curious book, “British India in 1831:” “Besides the robbers, who kill for the sake of the booty they hope to find upon travellers, there is a class of assassins, forming an organized society, with chiefs of their own, a slang-language, a science, a free-masonry, and even a religion, which has its fanaticism and its devotion, its agents, emissaries, allies, its militant forces, and its passive adherents, who contribute their money to the good work. This is the community of the Thugs or Phansegars (deceivers or stranglers, from thugna, to deceive, and phansna, to strangle), a religious and economical society, which speculates with the human race by exterminating men; its origin is lost in the night of ages.

  “Until 1810 their existence was unknown, not only to the European conquerors, but even to the native governments. Between the years 1816 and 1830, several of their bands were taken in the act, and punished: but until this last epoch, all the revelations made on the subject by officers of great experience, had appeared too monstrous to obtain the attention or belief of the public; they had been rejected and despised as the dreams of a heated imagination. And yet for many years, at the very least for half a century, this social wound had been frightfully on the increase, devouring the population from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin and from Cutch to Assam.

  “It was in the year 1830 that the revelations of a celebrated chief, whose life was spared on condition of his denouncing his accomplices, laid bare the whole system. The basis of the Thuggee Society is a religious belief — the worship of Bowanee, a gloomy divinity, who is only pleased with carnage, and detests above all things the human race. Her most agreeable sacrifices are human victims, and the more of these her disciple may have offered up in this world the more he will be recompensed in the next by all the delights of soul and sense, by women always beautiful, and joys eternally renewed. If the assassin meets the scaffold in his career, he dies with the enthusiasm of a martyr, because he expects his reward. To obey his divine mistress, he murders, without anger and without remorse, the old man, woman and child; whilst, to his fellow-religionists, he may be charitable, humane, generous, devoted, and may share all in common with them, because, like himself, they are the ministers and adopted children of Bowanee. The destruction of his fellow-creatures, not belonging to his community — the diminution of the human race — that is the primary object of his pursuit; it is not as a means of gain, for though plunder may be a frequent, and doubtless an agreeable accessory, it is only secondary in his estimation. Destruction is his end, his celestial mission, his calling; it is also a delicious passion, the most captivating of all sports — this hunting of men!— ‘You find great pleasure,’ said one of those that were condemned, ‘in tracking the wild beast to his den, in attacking the boar, the tiger, because there is danger to brave, energy and courage to display. Think how this attraction must be redoubled, when the contest is with man, when it is man that is to be destroyed. Instead of the single faculty of courage, all must be called into action — courage, cunning, foresight, eloquence, intrigue. What springs to put in motion! what plans to develop! To sport with all the passions, to touch the chords of love and friendship, and so draw the prey into one’s net — that is a glorious chase — it is a delight, a rapture, I tell you!’

  “Whoever was in India in the years 1831 and 1832, must remember the stupor and affright, which the discovery of this vast infernal machine spread through all classes of society. A great number of magistrates and administrators of provinces refused to believe in it, and could not be brought to comprehend that such a system had so long preyed on the body politic, under their eyes as it were, silently, and without betraying itself.” — See “British India in 183,” by Count Edward de Warren, 2 vols. in 8vo. Paris, 1844. — E. S.

  CHAPTER XXII. THE AMBUSCADE

  THE HALF-BLOOD FARINGHEA, wishing doubtless to escape from the dark thoughts which the words of the Indian on the mysterious course of the Cholera had raised within him, abruptly changed the subject of conversation. His eye shone with lurid fire, and his countenance took an expression of savage enthusiasm, as he cried: “Bowanee will always watch over us, intrepid hunters of men! Courage, brothers, courage! The world is large; our prey is everywhere. The English may force us to quit India, three chiefs of the good work — but what matter? We leave there our brethren, secret, numerous, and terrible, as black scorpions, whose presence is only known by their mortal sting. Exiles will widen our domains. Brother, you shall have America!” said he to the Hindoo, with an inspired air. “Brother, you shall have Africa!” said he to the negro. “Brothers, I will take Europe! Wherever men are to be found, there must be oppressors and victims — wherever there are victims, there must be hearts swollen with hate — it is for us to inflame that hate with all the ardor of vengeance! It is for us, servants of Bowanee, to draw towards us, by seducing wiles, all whose zeal, courage, and audacity may be useful to the cause. Let us rival each other in devotion and sacrifices; let us lend each other strength, help, support! That all who are not with us may be our prey, let us stand alone in the midst of all, against all, and in spite of all. For us, there must be neither country nor family. Our family is composed of our brethren; our country is the world.”

  This kind of savage eloquence made a deep impression on the negro and the Indian, over whom Faringhea generally exercised considerable influence, his intellectual powers being very superior to theirs, though they were themselves two of the most eminent chiefs of this bloody association. “Yes, you are right, brother!” cried the Indian, sharing the enthusiasm of Faringhea; “the world is ours. Even here, in Java, let us leave some trace of our passage. Before we depart, let us establish the good work in this island; it will increase quickly, for here also is great misery, and the Dutch are rapacious as the English. Brother, I have seen in the marshy rice-fields of this island, always fatal to those who cultivate them, men whom absolute want forced to the deadly task — they were livid as corpses — some of them worn out with sickness, fatigue, and hunger, fell — never to rise again. Brothers, the good work will prosper in this country!”

  “The other evening,” said the half-caste, “I was on the banks of the lake, behind a rock; a young woman came there — a few rags hardly covered her lean and sun-scorched body — in her arms she held a little child, which she pressed weeping to her milkless breast. She kissed it three times, and said to it: ‘You, at least, shall not be so unhappy as your father’ — and she threw it into the lake. It uttered one wail, and
disappeared. On this cry, the alligators, hidden amongst the reeds, leaped joyfully into the water. There are mothers here who kill their children out of pity. — Brothers, the good work will prosper in this country!”

  “This morning,” said the negro, “whilst they tore the flesh of one of his black slaves with whips, a withered old merchant of Batavia left his country-house to come to the town. Lolling in his palanquin, he received, with languid indolence, the sad caresses of two of those girls, whom he had bought, to people his harem, from parents too poor to give them food. The palanquin, which held this little old man, and the girls, was carried by twelve young and robust men. There are here, you see, mothers who in their misery sell their own daughters — slaves that are scourged — men that carry other men, like beasts of burden. — Brothers, the good work will prosper in this country!”

  “Yes, in this country — and in every land of oppression, distress, corruption, and slavery.”

  “Could we but induce Djalma to join us, as Mahal the Smuggler advised,” said the Indian, “our voyage to Java would doubly profit us; for we should then number among our band this brave and enterprising youth, who has so many motives to hate mankind.”

  “He will soon be here; let us envenom his resentments.”

  “Remind him of his father’s death!”

  “Of the massacre of his people!”

  “His own captivity!”

  “Only let hatred inflame his heart, and he will be ours.”

  The negro, who had remained for some time lost in thought, said suddenly: “Brothers, suppose Mahal the Smuggler were to betray us?”

  “He” cried the Hindoo, almost with indignation; “he gave us an asylum on board his bark; he secured our flight from the Continent; he is again to take us with him to Bombay, where we shall find vessels for America, Europe, Africa.”