by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XIX. THE SMUGGLER
The tempest of the morning has long been over. The sun is vergingtowards the horizon. Some hours have elapsed, since the Stranglerintroduced himself into Djalma's cabin, and tattooed him with amysterious sign during his sleep.
A horseman advances rapidly down a long avenue of spreading trees.Sheltered by the thick and verdant arch, a thousand birds salute thesplendid evening with songs and circlings; red and green parrots climb,by help of their hooked beaks, to the top of pink-blossomed acacias;large Morea birds of the finest and richest blue, whose throats andlong tails change in the light to a golden brown, are chasing the princeoriels, clothed in their glossy feathers of black and orange; Kolodoves, of a changeable violet hue, are gently cooing by the side of thebirds of paradise, in whose brilliant plumage are mingled the prismaticcolors of the emerald and ruby, the topaz and sapphire.
This avenue, a little raised, commanded a view of a small pond, whichreflected at intervals the green shade of tamarind trees. In the calm,limpid waters, many fish were visible, some with silver scales andpurple fins, others gleaming with azure and vermilion; so still werethey that they looked as if set in a mass of bluish crystal, and, asthey dwelt motionless near the surface of the pool, on which played adazzling ray of the sun, they revelled in the enjoyment of the lightand heat. A thousand insects--living gems, with wings of flame--glided,fluttered and buzzed over the transparent wave, in which, at anextraordinary depth, were mirrored the variegated tints of the aquaticplants on the bank.
It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the exuberant nature ofthis scene, luxuriant in the sunlight, colors, and perfumes, whichserved, so to speak, as a frame to the young and brilliant rider, whowas advancing along the avenue. It was Djalma. He had not yet perceivedthe indelible marks, which the Strangler had traced upon his left arm.
His Japanese mare, of slender make, full of fire and vigor, is blackas night. A narrow red cloth serves instead of saddle. To moderate theimpetuous bounds of the animal, Djalma uses a small steel bit, withheadstall and reins of twisted scarlet silk, fine as a thread.
Not one of those admirable riders, sculptured so masterly on the friezeof the Parthenon, sits his horse more gracefully and proudly than thisyoung Indian, whose fine face, illumined by the setting sun, is radiantwith serene happiness; his eyes sparkle with joy, and his dilatednostrils and unclosed lips inhale with delight the balmy breeze, thatbrings to him the perfume of flowers and the scent of fresh leaves, forthe trees are still moist from the abundant rain that fell after thestorm.
A red cap, similar to that worn by the Greeks, surmounting theblack locks of Djalma, sets off to advantage the golden tint of hiscomplexion; his throat is bare; he is clad in his robe of white muslinwith large sleeves, confined at the waist by a scarlet sash; very fulldrawers, in white cotton stuff, leave half uncovered his tawny andpolished legs; their classic curve stands out from the dark sides of thehorse, which he presses tightly between his muscular calves. He has nostirrups; his foot, small and narrow, is shod with a sandal of moroccoleather.
The rush of his thoughts, by turns impetuous and restrained, wasexpressed in some degree by the pace he imparted to his horse--now boldand precipitate, like the flight of unbridled imagination--now calm andmeasured, like the reflection which succeeds an idle dream. But, inall this fantastic course, his least movements were distinguished by aproud, independent and somewhat savage grace.
Dispossessed of his paternal territory by the English, and at firstdetained by them as a state-prisoner after the death of his father--who(as M. Joshua Van Dael had written to M. Rodin) had fallen sword inhand--Djalma had at length been restored to liberty. Abandoning thecontinent of India, and still accompanied by General Simon, who hadlingered hard by the prison of his old friend's son, the young Indiancame next to Batavia, the birthplace of his mother, to collect themodest inheritance of his maternal ancestors. And amongst this property,so long despised or forgotten by his father, he found some importantpapers, and a medal exactly similar to that worn by Rose and Blanche.
General Simon was not more surprised than pleased at this discovery,which not only established a tie of kindred between his wife andDjalma's mother, but which also seemed to promise great advantages forthe future. Leaving Djalma at Batavia, to terminate some business there,he had gone to the neighboring island of Sumatra, in the hope of findinga vessel that would make the passage to Europe directly and rapidly;for it was now necessary that, cost what it might, the young Indian alsoshould be at Paris on the 13th February, 1832. Should General Simonfind a vessel ready to sail for Europe, he was to return immediately, tofetch Djalma; and the latter, expecting him daily, was now going to thepier of Batavia, hoping to see the father of Rose and Blanche arrive bythe mail boat from Sumatra.
A few words are here necessary on the early life of the son of Kadjasing.
Having lost his mother very young, and brought up with rude simplicity,he had accompanied his father, whilst yet a child, to the great tigerhunts, as dangerous as battles; and, in the first dawn of youth, he hadfollowed him to the stern bloody war, which he waged in defence of hiscountry. Thus living, from the time of his mother's death, in themidst of forests and mountains and continual combats, his vigorous andingenuous nature had preserved itself pure, and he well merited the nameof "The Generous" bestowed on him. Born a prince, he was--which by nomeans follows--a prince indeed. During the period of his captivity,the silent dignity of his bearing had overawed his jailers. Never areproach, never a complaint--a proud and melancholy calm was all thathe opposed to a treatment as unjust as it was barbarous, until he wasrestored to freedom.
Having thus been always accustomed to a patriarchal life, or to a war ofmountaineers, which he had only quitted to pass a few months in prison,Djalma knew nothing, so to speak, of civilized society. Without itsexactly amounting to a defect, he certainly carried his good qualitiesto their extreme limits. Obstinately faithful to his pledged word,devoted to the death, confiding to blindness, good almost to a completeforgetfulness of himself, he was inflexible towards ingratitude,falsehood, or perfidy. He would have felt no compunction to sacrificea traitor, because, could he himself have committed a treason, he wouldhave thought it only just to expiate it with his life.
He was, in a word, the man of natural feelings, absolute and entire.Such a man, brought into contact with the temperaments, calculations,falsehoods, deceptions, tricks, restrictions, and hollowness of arefined society, such as Paris, for example, would, without doubt,form a very curious subject for speculation. We raise this hypothesis,because, since his journey to France had been determined on, Djalma hadone fixed, ardent desire--to be in Paris.
In Paris--that enchanted city--of which, even in Asia, the land ofenchantment, so many marvelous tales were told.
What chiefly inflamed the fresh, vivid imagination of the young Indian,was the thought of French women--those attractive Parisian beauties,miracles of elegance and grace, who eclipsed, he was informed, even themagnificence of the capitals of the civilized world. And at this verymoment, in the brightness of that warm and splendid evening, surroundedby the intoxication of flowers and perfumes, which accelerated thepulses of his young fiery heart, Djalma was dreaming of those exquisitecreatures, whom his fancy loved to clothe in the most ideal garbs.
It seemed to him as if, at the end of the avenue, in the midst of thatsheet of golden light, which the trees encompassed with their full,green arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a hostof adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tipsof their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carriedaway by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep,manly, and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him inthe excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the darkvault of the avenue, shone full upon him.
For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stoppeda moment in the s
hade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It wasindeed a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzlinglustre, this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his whiteand flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare,who covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thickmane floated on the evening breeze.
But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalmasoon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowedthe reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantlystopping, stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in thedirection of the personage, whom it could see approaching through thecoppice.
This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and avery low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-markedfeatures, and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.
In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. "You are PrinceDjalma?" said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfullyto his hat.
"What would you?" said the Indian.
"You are the son of Kadja-sing?"
"Once again, what would you?"
"The friend of General Simon?"
"General Simon?" cried Djalma.
"You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since youexpect his return from Sumatra?"
"Yes, but how do you know all this?" said the Indian looking at theSmuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.
"Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?"
"Are you sent by him?"
"Perhaps," said Mahal, with a distrustful air. "But are you really theson of Kadja-sing?"
"Yes, I tell you--but where have you seen General Simon?"
"If you are the son of Kadja-sing," resumed Mahal, continuing to regardDjalma with a suspicious eye, "what is your surname?"
"My sire was called the 'Father of the Generous,'" answered the youngIndian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.
These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity ofDjalma; but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed:"You must have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon,written from Sumatra?"
"Yes; but why so many questions?"
"To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and toexecute the orders I have received."
"From whom?"
"From General Simon."
"But where is he?"
"When I have proof that you are Prince Djalma, I will tell you. I wasinformed that you would be mounted on a black mare, with a red bridle.But--"
"By the soul of my mother! speak what you have to say!"
"I will tell you all--if you can tell me what was the printed paper,contained in the last letter that General Simon wrote you from Sumatra."
"It was a cutting from a French newspaper."
"Did it announce good or bad news for the general?"
"Good news--for it related that, during his absence, they hadacknowledged the last rank and title bestowed on him by the Emperor, asthey had done for others of his brothers in arms, exiled like him."
"You are indeed Prince Djalma," said the Smuggler, after a moment'sreflection. "I may speak. General Simon landed last night in Java, buton a desert part of the coast."
"On a desert part?"
"Because he has to hide himself."
"Hide himself!" exclaimed Djalma, in amazement; "why?"
"That I don't know."
"But where is he?" asked Djalma, growing pale with alarm.
"He is three leagues hence--near the sea-shore--in the ruins ofTchandi."
"Obliged to hide himself!" repeated Djalma, and his countenanceexpressed increasing surprise and anxiety.
"Without being certain, I think it is because of a duel he fought inSumatra," said the Smuggler, mysteriously.
"A duel--with whom?"
"I don't know--I am not at all certain on the subject. But do you knowthe ruins of Tchandi?"
"Yes."
"The general expects you there; that is what he ordered me to tell you."
"So you came with him from Sumatra?"
"I was pilot of the little smuggling coaster, that landed him in thenight on a lonely beach. He knew that you went every day to the mole,to wait for him; I was almost sure that I should meet you. He gave medetails about the letter you received from him as a proof that he hadsent me. If he could have found the means of writing, he would havewritten."
"But he did not tell you why he was obliged to hide himself?"
"He told me nothing. Certain words made me suspect what I told you--aduel."
Knowing the mettle of General Simon, Djalma thought the suspicions ofthe Smuggler not unfounded. After a moment's silence he said to him:"Can you undertake to lead home my horse? My dwelling is without thetown--there, in the midst of those trees--by the side of the new mosque.In ascending the mountain of Tchandi, my horse would be in my way; Ishall go much faster on foot."
"I know where you live; General Simon told me. I should have gone thereif I had not met you. Give me your horse."
Djalma sprang lightly to the ground, threw the bridle to Mahal, unrolledone end of his sash, took out a silk purse, and gave it to the Smuggler,saying: "You have been faithful and obedient. Here!--it is a trifle--butI have no more."
"Kadja-sing was rightly called the 'Father of the Generous,'" saidthe Smuggler, bowing with respect and gratitude. He took the road toBatavia, leading Djalma's horse. The young Indian, on the contrary,plunged into the coppice, and, walking with great strides, he directedhis course towards the mountain, on which were the ruins of Tchandi,where he could not arrive before night.
