Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

“I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out of prison — to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a brief seclusion, entirely for your own interest.”

  “Can I go out to-morrow?”

  “To-day, my dear prince, if you please.”

  The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, “I must have friends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me.”

  “Certainly you have friends — excellent friends,” answered Rodin. At these words, Djalma’s countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. The most noble sentiments were expressed in his fine features; his large black eyes became slightly humid, and, after another interval of silence, he rose and said to Rodin with emotion: “Come!”

  “Whither, dear prince?” said the other, much surprised.

  “To thank my friends. I have waited three days. It is long.”

  “Permit me dear prince — I have much to tell you on this subject — please to be seated.”

  Djalma resumed his seat with docility. Rodin continued: “It is true that you have friends; or rather, you have a friend. Friends are rare.”

  “What are you?”

  “Well, then, you have two friends, my dear prince — myself, whom you know, and one other, whom you do not know, and who desires to remain unknown to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” answered Rodin, after a moment’s embarrassment. “Because the happiness he feels in giving you these proofs of his friendship and even his own tranquillity, depend upon preserving this mystery.”

  “Why should there be concealment when we do good?”

  “Sometimes, to conceal the good we do, my dear prince.”

  “I profit by this friendship; why should he conceal himself from one?” These repeated questions of the young Indian appeared to puzzle Rodin, who, however, replied: “I have told you, my dear prince, that your secret friend would perhaps have his tranquillity compromised, if he were known.”

  “If he were known — as my friend?”

  “Exactly so, dear prince.”

  The countenance of Djalma immediately assumed an appearance of sorrowful dignity; he raised his head proudly, and said in a stern and haughty voice: “Since this friend hides himself from me, he must either be ashamed of me, or there is reason for me to be ashamed of him. I only accept hospitality from those who are worthy of me, and who think me worthy of them. I leave this house.” So saying, Djalma rose with such an air of determination, that Rodin exclaimed: “Listen to me, my dear prince. Allow me to tell you, that your petulance and touchiness are almost incredible. Though we have endeavored to remind you of your beautiful country, we are here in Europe, in France, in the centre of Paris. This consideration may perhaps a little modify your views. Listen to me, I conjure you.”

  Notwithstanding his complete ignorance of certain social conventionalisms, Djalma had too much good sense and uprightness, not to appreciate reason, when it appeared reasonable. The words of Rodin calmed him. With that ingenuous modesty, with which natures full of strength and generosity are almost always endowed, he answered mildly: “You are right, father. I am no longer in my own country. Here the customs are different. I will reflect upon it.”

  Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himself perplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus he saw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for some minutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: “I have obeyed you, father: I have reflected.”

  “Well, my dear prince?”

  “In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honor conceal his friendship for another man of honor.”

  “But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?” said Rodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyed the Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.

  “I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defy danger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, in case this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor be excusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?”

  “I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying him from cowardice.”

  “Dear prince — listen to me.”

  “Adieu, father.”

  “Yet reflect!”

  “I have said it,” replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereign tone, as he walked towards the door.

  “But suppose a woman were concerned,” cried Rodin, driven to extremity, and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalma might rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.

  At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. “A woman!” said he, with a start, and turning red. “A woman is concerned?”

  “Why, yes! suppose it were a woman,” resumed Rodin, “would you not then understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?”

  “A woman!” repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest emotion. “A woman!” said he again. “A Parisian?”

  “Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian — a noble matron, endowed with the highest virtues — whose age alone merits all your respect.”

  “She is very old, then?” cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was thus abruptly dispelled.

  “She may be a few years older than I am,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comical disappointment or angry regret.

  But it was not so. To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had for a moment lighted up the prince’s features, there now succeeded a respectful and touching expression. He looked at Rodin with emotion, and said to him in a broken voice: “This woman, is then, a mother to me?”

  It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tender charm the Indian uttered the word mother.

  “You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be a mother to you. But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affection she feels for you. Only, believe me — this affection is sincere, and the cause honorable. If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us, the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred.”

  “That is right, and I will respect it. Without seeing her, I will love her — as I love God, without seeing Him.”

  “And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions of your maternal friend. This house will remain at your disposal, as long as you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at your orders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you. Then, as the son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room a casket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum will be provided: if it should not be found sufficient for your little amusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented.”

  At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add: “I must tell you at once, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease. First of all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about three months you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it will be easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden — and the sum cannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis — to repay these advances. Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies. You are expected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming the son of a king who was called the Father of the Generous. So once again I conjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum should not be sufficient—”

  “I will ask for more. My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought to live royally.”

  Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, and without any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers. This was natural. Djalma would have done
for others what they were doing for him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid hospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as moved as grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection. As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted it without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again, somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments to persuade the Indian to accept his offers.

  “Well, then, it’s all agreed, my dear prince,” resumed the Jesuit. “Now, as you must see the world, it’s just as well to enter by the best door, as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging to the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in Paris.”

  “Will you not introduce me, father?”

  “Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fitted for such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world. And then,” added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating, attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; “and then, you see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be laid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies — cowardly enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to try to avoid them — to fly, instead of resisting them openly.”

  At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them, Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness; his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance, expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed: “What is the matter, prince? You frighten me.”

  Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear of yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian, was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.

  “In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?” cried Rodin.

  “Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!” exclaimed Djalma, with menacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth, whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must make of Djalma what he really was a hero.

  Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit’s great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma’s fury was calmed thus instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin: “Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies.”

  “In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?”

  “Kill the cowards!”

  “Kill them! you must not think of it.”

  “Faringhea will aid me.”

  “Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not kill an enemy like a hunted tiger.”

  “One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed dog,” replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.

  “Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous,” said Rodin, in a grave voice; “what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures as cowardly as they are wicked?”

  “To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty.”

  “So prince, you seek for revenge.”

  “I do not revenge myself on a serpent,” said the Indian, with haughty bitterness; “I crush it.”

  “But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that manner. If we have cause of complaint—”

  “Women and children complain,” said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: “men strike.”

  “Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good reason, punishes.”

  “In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner.”

  “Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies, have you not? — Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that she were to ask you to forgive them — she, who saved you from their hands — what would you do then?”

  The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation, Rodin continued: “I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so — until she has pronounced, I must be silent.”

  Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment, Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: “A man with a letter, not finding you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes from the Abbe d’Aigrigny.

  “Certainly,” answered Rodin. “That is,” he added, “with the prince’s permission.”

  Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.

  “You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it to be sent on.”

  A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he delivered to Rodin — and the half-caste again withdrew.

  CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.

  WHEN FARINGHEA HAD quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe d’Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by the exclamations.

  “Oh! dear me! how vexatious!”

  “What is the matter?” asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in which he had been plunged for some minutes.

  “Alas! my dear prince!” replied Rodin, “the most vulgar and puerile accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely impossible for me to read this most important letter — and an immediate answer is expected — most simple and categorical — a yes or a no. Times presses; it is really most annoying. If,” added Rodin, laying great stress
on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince might remark it; “if only some one would render me the service to read it for me; but there is no one — no — one!”

  “Father,” said Djalma, obligingly, “shall I read it for you. When I have finished it, I shall forget what I have read.”

  “You?” cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared to him extravagant and dangerous; “it is impossible, prince, for you to read this letter.”

  “Then excuse my having offered,” said Djalma mildly.

  “And yet,” resumed Rodin, after a moment’s reflection, and as if speaking to himself, “why not?”

  And he added, addressing Djalma: “Would you really be so obliging, my dear prince? I should not have ventured to ask you this service.”

  So saying, Rodin delivered the letter to Djalma, who read aloud as follows: “‘Your visit this morning to Saint-Dizier House can only be considered, from what I hear, as a new act of aggression on your part.

  “‘Here is the last proposition I have to make. It may be as fruitless as the step I took yesterday, when I called upon you in the Rue Clovis.

  “‘After that long and painful explanation, I told you that I would write to you. I keep my promise, and here is my ultimatum.

  “‘First of all, a piece of advice. Beware! If you are determined to maintain so unequal a struggle, you will be exposed even to the hatred of those whom you so foolishly seek to protect. There are a thousand ways to ruin you with them, by enlightening them as to your protects. It will be proved to them, that you have shared in the plat, which you now pretend to reveal, not from generosity, but from cupidity.’” Though Djalma had the delicacy to feel that the least question on the subject of this letter would be a serious indiscretion, he could not forbear turning his head suddenly towards the Jesuit, as he read the last passage.

  “Oh, yes! it relates to me. Such as you see me, my dear prince,” added he, glancing at his shabby clothes, “I am accused of cupidity.”