Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Come, I say! a private carriage!” said the coachman. “Good horses those, to come up the Rue Blanche at a trot.”

  The coachman was just making this observation, when, by favor of a momentary gleam of light, he saw a man step from the carriage, advance rapidly to the little door, open it, and go in, closing it after him.

  “It gets thicker and thicker!” said the coachman. “One comes out, and the other goes in.”

  So saying, he walked up to the carriage. It was splendidly harnessed, and drawn by two handsome and vigorous horses. The driver sat motionless, in his great box-coat, with the handle of his whip resting on his right knee.

  “Here’s weather to drive about in, with such tidy dukes as yours, comrade!” said the humble hackney-coachman to this automaton, who remained mute and impassible, without even appearing to know that he was spoken to.

  “He doesn’t understand French — he’s an Englishman. One could tell that by his horses,” said the coachman, putting this interpretation on the silence of his brother whip. Then, perceiving a tall footman at a little distance, dressed in a long gray livery coat, with blue collar and silver buttons, the coachman addressed himself to him, by way of compensation, but without much varying his phrase: “Here’s nice weather to stand about in, comrade!” On the part of the footman, he was met with the same imperturbable silence.

  “They’re both Englishmen,” resumed the coachman, philosophically; and, though somewhat astonished at the incident of the little door, he recommenced his walk in the direction of his own vehicle.

  While these facts were passing, the man in the cloak, and the man with the Italian accent continued their conversation, the one still in the coach, and the other leaning with his hand on the door. It had already lasted for some time, and was carried on in Italian. They were evidently talking of some absent person, as will appear from the following.

  “So,” said the voice from the coach, “that is agreed to?”

  “Yes, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak; “but only in case the eagle should become a serpent.”

  “And, in the contrary event, you will receive the other half of the ivory crucifix I gave you.”

  “I shall know what it means, my lord.”

  “Continue to merit and preserve his confidence.”

  “I will merit and preserve it, my lord, because I admire and respect this man, who is stronger than the strongest, by craft, and courage, and will. I have knelt before him with humility, as I would kneel before one of the three black idols that stand between Bowanee and her worshippers; for his religion, like mine, teaches to change life into nothingness.”

  “Humph!” said the voice, in a tone of some embarrassment; “these comparisons are useless and inaccurate. Only think of obeying him, without explaining your obedience.”

  “Let him speak, and I perform his will! I am in his hands like a corpse, as he himself expresses it. He has seen, he sees every day, my devotion to his interests with regard to Prince Djalma. He has only to say: ‘Kill him! ‘and this son of a king—”

  “For heaven’s salve, do not have such ideas!” cried the voice, interrupting the man in the cloak. “Thank heaven, you will never be asked for such proofs of your submission.”

  “What I am ordered I do. Bowanee sees me.”

  “I do not doubt your zeal. I know that you are a loving and intelligent barrier, placed between the prince and many guilty interests; and it is because I have heard of that zeal, of your skill in circumventing this young Indian, and, above all, of the motives of your blind devotion, that I have wished to inform you of everything. You are the fanatical worshipper of him you serve. That is well; man should be the obedient slave of the god he chooses for himself.”

  “Yes, my lord; so long as the god remains a god.”

  “We understand each other perfectly. As for your recompense, you know what I have promised.”

  “My lord, I have my reward already.”

  “How so?”

  “I know what I know.”

  “Very well. Then as for secrecy—”

  “You have securities, my lord.”

  “Yes — and sufficient ones.”

  “The interest of the cause I serve, my lord, would alone be enough to secure my zeal and discretion.”

  “True; you are a man of firm and ardent convictions.”

  “I strive to be so, my lord.”

  “And, after all, a very religious man in your way. It is very praiseworthy, in these irreligious times, to have any views at all on such matters — particularly when those views will just enable me to count upon your aid.”

  “You may count upon it, my lord, for the same reason that the intrepid hunter prefers a jackal to ten foxes, a tiger to ten jackals, a lion to ten tigers, and the welmiss to ten lions.”

  “What is the welmiss?”

  “It is what spirit is to matter, the blade to the scabbard, the perfume to the flower, the head to the body.”

  “I understand. There never was a more just comparison. You are a man of sound judgment. Always recollect what you have just told me, and make yourself more and more worthy of the confidence of — your idol.”

  “Will he soon be in a state to hear me, my lord?”

  “In two or three days, at most. Yesterday a providential crisis saved his life; and he is endowed with so energetic a will, that his cure will be very rapid.”

  “Shall you see him again to-morrow, my lord?”

  “Yes, before my departure, to bid him farewell.”

  “Then tell him a strange circumstance, of which I have not been able to inform him, but which happened yesterday.”

  “What was it?”

  “I had gone to the garden of the dead. I saw funerals everywhere, and lighted torches, in the midst of the black night, shining upon tombs. Bowanee smiled in her ebon sky. As I thought of that divinity of destruction, I beheld with joy the dead-cart emptied of its coffins. The immense pit yawned like the mouth of hell; corpses were heaped upon corpses, and still it yawned the same. Suddenly, by the light of a torch, I saw an old man beside me. He wept. I had seen him before. He is a Jew — the keeper of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois — you know what I mean.” Here the man in the cloak started.

  “Yes, I know; but what is the matter? why do you stop short?”

  “Because in that house there has been for a hundred and fifty years the portrait of a man whom I once met in the centre of India, on the banks of the Ganges.” And the man in the cloak again paused and shuddered.

  “A singular resemblance, no doubt.”

  “Yes, my lord, a singular resemblance — nothing more.”

  “But the Jew — the old Jew?”

  “I am coming to that, my lord. Still weeping, he said to a gravedigger, ‘Well! and the coffin?’ ‘You were right,’ answered the man; ‘I found it in the second row of the other grave. It had the figure of a cross on it, formed by seven black nails. But how could you know the place and the mark?’ ‘Alas! it is no matter,’ replied the old Jew, with bitter melancholy. ‘You see that I was but too well informed on the subject. But where is the coffin?’ ‘Behind the great tomb of black marble; I have hidden it there. So make haste; for, in the confusion, nothing will be noticed. You have paid me well, and I wish you to succeed in what you require.’”

  “And what did the old Jew do with the coffin marked with the seven black nails?”

  “Two men accompanied him, my lord, bearing a covered litter, with curtains drawn round it. He lighted a lantern, and, followed by these two men, went towards the place pointed out by the gravedigger. A stoppage, occasioned by the dead-carts, made me lose sight of the old Jew, whom I was following amongst the tombs. Afterwards I was unable to find him.”

  “It is indeed a strange affair. What could this old Jew want with the coffin?”

  “It is said, my lord, that they use dead bodies in preparing their magic charms.”

  “Those unbelievers are capable of anything — even of holding comm
unication with the Enemy of mankind. However, we will look after this: the discovery may be of importance.”

  At this instant a clock struck twelve in the distance.

  “Midnight! already?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I must be gone. Good-bye — but for the last time swear to me that, should matters so turn out, as soon as you receive the other half of the ivory crucifix I have just given you, you will keep your promise.”

  “I have sworn it by Bowanee, my lord.”

  “Don’t forget that, to make all sure, the person who will deliver to you the other half of the crucifix is to say — come, what is he to say?”

  “He is to say, my lord: ‘There is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’”

  “Very well. Adieu! secrecy and fidelity!”

  “Secrecy and fidelity, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak.

  Some seconds after the hackney-coach started, carrying with it Cardinal Malipieri, one of the speakers in the above dialogue. The other, whom the reader has no doubt recognized as Faringhea, returned to the little garden-door of the house occupied by Djalma. At the moment he was putting the key into the lock, the door opened, to his great astonishment, and a man came forth. Faringhea rushed upon the unknown, seized him violently by the collar, and exclaimed: “Who are you? whence came you?”

  The stranger evidently found the tone of this question anything but satisfactory; for, instead of answering, he struggled to disengage himself from Faringhea’s hold, and cried out, in a loud voice: “Help! Peter!”

  Instantly the carriage, which had been standing a few yards off, dashed up at full speed, and Peter, the tall footman, seizing the half-breed by the shoulders, flung him back several paces, and thus made a seasonable diversion in favor of the unknown.

  “Now, sir,” said the latter to Faringhea, shaking himself, and still protected by the gigantic footman, “I am in a state to answer your questions, though you certainly have a very rough way of receiving an old acquaintance. I am Dupont, ex-bailiff of the estate of Cardoville, and it was I who helped to fish you out of the water, when the ship was wrecked in which you had embarked.”

  By the light of the carriage-lamps, indeed, the half-caste recognized the good, honest face of Dupont, formerly bailiff, and now house-steward, to Mdlle. de Cardoville. It must not be forgotten that Dupont had been the first to write to Mdlle. de Cardoville, to ask her to interest herself for Djalma, who was then detained at Cardoville Castle by the injuries he had received during the shipwreck.

  “But, sir, what is your business here? Why do you introduce yourself clandestinely into this house?” said Faringhea, in an abrupt and suspicious tone.

  “I will — just observe to you that there is nothing clandestine in the matter. I came here in a carriage, with servants in the livery of my excellent mistress, Mdlle. de Cardoville, charged by her, without any disguise or mystery, to deliver a letter to Prince Djalma, her cousin,” replied Dupont, with dignity.

  On these words, Faringhea trembled with mute rage, as he answered: “And why, sir, come at this late hour, and introduce yourself by this little door?”

  “I came at this hour, my dear sir, because such was Mdlle. de Cardoville’s command, and I entered by this little gate because there is every reason to believe that if I had gone around to the other I should not have been permitted to see the prince.”

  “You are mistaken, sir,” replied the half-caste.

  “It is possible: but as we knew that the prince usually passed a good portion of the night in the little saloon, which communicates with the greenhouse, and as Mdlle. de Cardoville had kept a duplicate key of this door, I was pretty certain, by taking this course, to be able to deliver into the prince’s own hands the letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville, his cousin, which I have now had the honor of doing, my dear sir; and I have been deeply touched by the kindness with which the prince deigned to receive me and to remember our last interview.”

  “And who kept you so well informed, sir, of the prince’s habits?” said Faringhea, unable to control his vexation.

  “If I have been well informed as to his habits, my dear sir, I have had no such correct knowledge of yours,” answered Dupont, with a mocking air; “for I assure you that I had no more notion of seeing you than you had of seeing me.”

  So saying, M. Dupont bowed with something like mock politeness to the half-caste, and got into the carriage, which drove off rapidly, leaving Faringhea in a state of the utmost surprise and anger.

  CHAPTER XXXIX. THE APPOINTMENT.

  THE MORNING AFTER — Dupont’s mission to Prince Djalma, the latter was walking with hasty and impatient step up and down the little saloon, which communicated, as we already know, with the greenhouse from which Adrienne had entered when she first appeared to him. In remembrance of that day, he had chosen to dress himself as on the occasion in question; he wore the same tunic of white cashmere, with a cherry-colored turban, to match with his girdle; his gaiters, of scarlet velvet, embroidered with silver, displayed the fine form of his leg, and terminated in small white morocco slippers, with red heels. Happiness has so instantaneous, and, as it were, material an influence upon young, lively, and ardent natures, that Djalma, dejected and despairing only the day before, was no longer like the same person. The pale, transparent gold of his complexion was no longer tarnished by a livid hue. His large eyes, of late obscured like black diamonds by a humid vapor, now shone with mild radiance in the centre of their pearly setting; his lips, long pale, had recovered their natural color, which was rich and soft as the fine purple flowers of his country.

  Ever and anon, pausing in his hasty walk, he stopped suddenly, and drew from his bosom a little piece of paper, carefully folded, which he pressed to his lips with enthusiastic ardor. Then, unable to restrain the expression of his full happiness, he uttered a full and sonorous cry of joy, and with a bound he was in front of the plate-glass which separated the saloon from the conservatory, in which he had first seen Mdlle. de Cardoville. By a singular power of remembrance, or marvellous hallucination of a mind possessed by a fixed idea, Djalma had often seen, or fancied he saw, the adored semblance of Adrienne appear to him through this sheet of crystal. The illusion had been so complete, that, with his eyes ardently fixed on the vision he invoked, he had been able, with the aid of a pencil dipped in carmine, to trace with astonishing exactness, the profile of the ideal countenance which the delirium of his imagination had presented to his view.(42) It was before these delicate lines of bright carmine that Djalma now stood in deep contemplation, after perusing and reperusing, and raising twenty times to his lips, the letter he had received the night before from the hands of Dupont. Djalma was not alone. Faringhea watched all the movements of the prince, with a subtle, attentive, and gloomy aspect. Standing respectfully in a corner of the saloon, the half-caste appeared to be occupied in unfolding and spreading out Djalma’s sash, light, silky Indian web, the brown ground of which was almost entirely concealed by the exquisite gold and silver embroidery with which it was overlaid.

  The countenance of the half-caste wore a dark and gloomy expression. He could not deceive himself. The letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville, delivered by Dupont to Djalma, must have been the cause of the delight he now experienced, for, without doubt, he knew himself beloved. In that event, his obstinate silence towards Faringhea, ever since the latter had entered the saloon, greatly alarmed the half-caste, who could not tell what interpretation to put upon it. The night before, after parting with Dupont, he had hastened, in a state of anxiety easily understood, to look for the prince, in the hope of ascertaining the effect produced by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s letter. But he found the parlor door closed, and when he knocked, he received no answer from within. Then, though the night was far advanced, he had dispatched a note to Rodin, in which he informed him of Dupont’s visit and its probable intention. Djalma had indeed passed the night in a tumult of happiness and hope, and a fever of impatience quite impossible to describe. Repairing to hi
s bed-chamber only towards the morning, he had taken a few moments of repose, and had then dressed himself without assistance.

  Many times, but in vain, the half-caste had discreetly knocked at the door of Djalma’s apartment. It was only in the early part of the afternoon that the prince had rung the bell to order his carriage to be ready by half-past two. Faringhea having presented himself, the prince had given him the order without looking at him, as he might have done to any other of his servants. Was this suspicion, aversion, or mere absence of mind on the part of Djalma? Such were the questions which the half caste put to himself with growing anguish; for the designs of which he was the most active and immediate instrument might all be ruined by the least suspicion in the prince.

  “Oh! the hours — the hours — how slow they are!” cried the young Indian, suddenly, in a low and trembling voice.

  “The day before yesterday, my lord, you said the hours were very long,” observed Faringhea, as he drew near Djalma in order to attract his attention. Seeing that he did not succeed in this he advanced a few steps nearer, and resumed: “Your joy seems very great, my lord; tell the cause of it to your poor and faithful servant, that he also may rejoice with you.”

  If he heard the words, Djalma did not pay any attention to them. He made no answer, and his large black eyes gazed upon vacancy. He seemed to smile admiringly upon some enchanting vision, and he folded his two hands upon his bosom, in the attitude which his countrymen assume at the hour of prayer. After some instants of contemplation, he said: “What o’clock is it?” — but he asked this question of himself, rather than of any third person.

  “It will soon be two o’clock, my lord,” said Faringhea.

  Having heard this answer, Djalma seated himself, and hid his face in his hands, as if completely absorbed in some ineffable meditation. Urged on by his growing anxiety, and wishing at any cost to attract the attention of Djalma, Faringhea approached still nearer to him, and, almost certain of the effect of the words he was about to utter, said to him in a slow and emphatic voice: “My lord, I am sure that you owe the happiness which now transports you to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”