Le Juif errant. English

  CHAPTER XL. THE EAST INDIAN IN PARIS.

  Since three days, Mdlle. de Cardoville had left Dr. Baleinier's. Thefollowing scene took place in a little dwelling in the Rue Blanche, towhich Djalma had been conducted in the name of his unknown protector.Fancy to yourself a pretty, circular apartment, hung with Indiandrapery, with purple figures on a gray ground, just relieved by afew threads of gold. The ceiling, towards the centre, is concealed bysimilar hangings, tied together by a thick, silken cord; the two endsof this cord, unequal in length, terminated, instead of tassels, in twotiny Indian lamps of gold filigreed-work, marvellously finished. By oneof those ingenious combinations, so common in barbarous countries,these lamps served also to burn perfumes. Plates of blue crystal, letin between the openings of the arabesque, and illumined by the interiorlight, shone with so limpid an azure, that the golden lamps seemedstarred with transparent sapphires. Light clouds, of whitish vapor roseincessantly from these lamps, and spread all around their balmy odor.

  Daylight was only admitted to this room (it was about two o'clock in theafternoon) through a little greenhouse, on the other side of a door ofplate-glass, made to slide into the thickness of the wall, by means of agroove. A Chinese shade was arranged so as to hide or replace thisglass at pleasure. Some dwarf palm tress, plantains, and other Indianproductions, with thick leaves of a metallic green, arranged in clustersin this conservatory, formed, as it were, the background to two largevariegated bushes of exotic flowers, which were separated by a narrowpath, paved with yellow and blue Japanese tiles, running to the foot ofthe glass. The daylight, already much dimmed by the leaves through whichit passed, took a hue of singular mildness as it mingled with the azurelustre of the perfumed lamps, and the crimson brightness of the firein the tall chimney of oriental porphyry. In the obscurity of thisapartment, impregnated with sweet odors and the aromatic vapor ofPersian tobacco, a man with brown, hanging locks, dressed in a long robeof dark green, fastened round the waist by a parti-colored sash, waskneeling upon a magnificent Turkey carpet, filling the golden bowl ofa hookah; the long, flexible tube of this pipe, after rolling its foldsupon the carpet, like a scarlet serpent with silver scales, restedbetween the slender fingers of Djalma, who was reclining negligently ona divan. The young prince was bareheaded; his jet-black hair, parted onthe middle of his forehead, streamed waving about his face and neck ofantique beauty--their warm transparent colors resembling amber or topaz.Leaning his elbow on a cushion, he supported his chin with the palm ofhis right hand. The flowing sleeve of his robe, falling back from hisarm, which was round as that of a woman, revealed mysterious signsformerly tattooed there in India by a Thug's needle. The son ofRadja-sing held in his left hand the amber mouthpiece of his pipe. Hisrobe of magnificent cashmere, with a border of a thousand hues, reachingto his knee, was fastened about his slim and well-formed figure by thelarge folds of an orange-colored shawl. This robe was half withdrawnfrom one of the elegant legs of this Asiatic Antinous, clad in a kindof very close fitting gaiter of crimson velvet, embroidered with silver,and terminating in a small white morocco slipper, with a scarlet heel.At once mild and manly, the countenance of Djalma was expressive of thatmelancholy and contemplative calmness habitual to the Indian and theArab, who possess the happy privilege of uniting, by a rare combination,the meditative indolence of the dreamer with the fiery energy of theman of action--now delicate, nervous, impressionable as women--nowdetermined, ferocious, and sanguinary as bandits.

  And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of theArab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardorof battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable totheir physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they havesmall extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicateand often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of anelasticity, and vigor truly masculine. Djalma's oblong eyes, like blackdiamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from theexotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the ambermouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration,half opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamelof his teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshlyscented by the rose-water through which it had passed.

  "Shall I put more tobacco in the hookah?" said the kneeling figure,turning towards Djalma, and revealing the marked and sinister featuresof Faringhea the Strangler.

  The young prince remained dumb, either that, from an oriental contemptfor certain races, he disdained to answer the half-caste, or that,absorbed in his reverie, he did not even hear him. The Strangler becameagain silent; crouching cross-legged upon the carpet, with his elbowsresting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyesfixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of himwhose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How hadFaringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder,been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came thisman, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence andferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of theGood Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, hadthis man, who, profiting by the young prince's blindness with regardto himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering toBowanee--why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine,did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom hehad only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of thisstory will answer all these questions. We can only say at present,that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug hadquitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.

  After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with hiseye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space,addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in thelanguage, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: "Time passes. Theold man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word ishis word."

  "His word is his word, my lord," repeated Faringhea, in an affirmativetone. "When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whitherthose wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed youin a deep sleep--after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant,into a similar state--he said to you: 'The unknown friend, who sent foryou to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence,and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.'--And again, he saidto you, my lord: 'Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Yourinterest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then berestored to perfect freedom.' You consented to those terms, my lord, andfor three days you have not left the house."

  "And I wait for the old man with impatience," said Djalma, "for thissolitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire inParis. Above all."

  Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. Aftersome moments' silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea,in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: "Speak to me!"

  "Of what shall I speak, my lord?"

  "Of what you will," said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixedon the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. "One thought pursuesme--I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me."

  Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the youngIndian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. "Mylord," said the half-caste, "I can guess your thought."

  Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latterresumed: "You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord."

  "Be silent, slave!" said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as ifsome painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.

  After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again withimpatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling botheyes with his hands: "Your words are better than silence. Cursed be mythoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!"

  "Why should you fly these thoughts, m
y lord? You are nineteen years ofage, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity.Up to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that youngChristian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage."

  Though Faringhea did not at all depart from his respectful deferencefor the prince, the latter felt that there was something of irony in thetone of the half-caste, as he pronounced the word "chaste."

  Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: "I do not wishto pass for a barbarian, as they call us, with these civilized people;therefore I glory in my chastity."

  "I do not understand, my lord."

  "I may perhaps love some woman, pure as was my mother when she marriedmy father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste asshe."

  At this, Faringhea could not refrain from a sardonic smile.

  "Why do you laugh, slave?" said the young prince, imperiously.

  "Among civilized people, as you call them, my lord, the man who marriedin the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule."

  "It is false, slave! He would only be ridiculous if he married one thatwas not pure as himself."

  "Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded--he would be killedoutright, for he would be doubly and unmercifully laughed at."

  "It is false! it is false. Where did you learn all this?"

  "I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry,my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talkedwith a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest."

  "So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women theinnocence they have themselves lost."

  "They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord."

  "To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; bywhat right?"

  "By the right of the strongest--as it is among us, my lord."

  "And what do the women do?"

  "They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in theeyes of the world."

  "But they kill a woman that is false?" said Djalma, raising himselfabruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled withlurid fire.

  "They kill her, my lord, as with us--when they find her out."

  "Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut uptheir women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?"

  "Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized,my lord."

  "All this is sad enough, if true," observed Djalma, with a pensive air,adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mysticand figurative language familiar to the people of his country; "yes,your talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cupof a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and tworays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burningand eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock."

  Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressiblegrace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyesshone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the palegold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank intoa deep reverie.

  Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: "If, like the proudand brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and variedpleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, richas you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductiveParisians--voluptuous phantoms of your nights--charming tormentorsof your dreams--were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge,supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires--do you not think that manya half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would nolonger be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain ofour life--no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem--a harempeopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make yourslaves. So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you.Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of ourcountry, that would become the love and pride of these women--the mostseductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but thoseof languor and passion."

  Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expressionof his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholyand dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother,and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, imagessufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; itwas no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at thethought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitementsof Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenanceof Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorousrespiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up ofthe passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hithertorestrained.

  So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light asa young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: "Thywords are burning poison!"

  "My lord," said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, "yourslave is your slave." This submission disarmed the prince.

  "My life belongs to you," repeated the half-caste.

  "I belong to you, slave!" cried Djalma, repulsing him. "Just now, I hungupon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies."

  "Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks willconfirm my words."

  "These women love me!--me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?"

  "The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on menand tigers, will make them adore, my lord."

  "You lie!"

  "I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, butwhich has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish tocaress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in ourforests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiledat the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait."

  "But I am a savage--a barbarian."

  "And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They willfeel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury,the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of yourblood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender,to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate,such you will be--and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them.Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a daggerglitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you,palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear--and you will be to them, nota man, but a god."

  "Dost think so?" cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by theThug's wild eloquence.

  "You know, you feel, that I speak the truth," cried the latter,extending his arm towards the young Indian.

  "Why, yes!" exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling,as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. "I know not if Ipossess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that youspeak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with madness and fury,because my love will be mad and furious they will tremble with pleasureand fear, because the very thought of it makes me tremble with delightand terror. Slave, it is true; there is something exciting and fearfulin such a love!" As he spoke forth these words, Djalma was superb in hisimpetuous sensuality. It is a rare thing to see a young man arrivein his native purity, at the age in which are developed, in all theirpowerful energy, those admirable instincts of love, which God hasimplanted in the heart of his creatures, and which, repressed,disguised, or perverted, may unseat the reason, or generate mad excessesand frightful crimes--but which, directed towards a great and noblepassion, may and must, by their very violence, elevate man, throughdevotion and tenderness, to the limits of the ideal.

  "Oh! this woman--this woman, before whom I am to tremble--and who,in turn, must tremble before me--where is she?" cried Djalma, withredoubled excitement. "Shall I ever find her?"

  "One is a good deal, m
y lord," replied Faringhea, with his sardoniccoolness; "he who looks for one woman, will rarely succeed in thiscountry; he who seeks women, is only at a loss to choose."

  As the half-caste made this impertinent answer to Djalma, a very elegantblue-and-white carriage stopped before the garden-gate of the house,which opened upon a deserted street. It was drawn by a pair of beautifulblood-horses, of a cream color, with black manes and tails. Thescutcheons on the harness were of silver, as were also the buttons ofthe servants' livery, which was blue with white collars. On the bluehammercloth, also laced with white, as well as on the panels of thedoors, were lozenge-shaped coats of arms, without crest or coronet, asusually borne by unmarried daughters of noble families. Two women werein this carriage--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine.