Le Juif errant. English

  CHAPTER XLIII. PRAYER.

  It will doubtless be remembered that Rodin had gone (although a strangerto Hardy) to visit him at his factory, and inform him of De Blessac'sshameful treachery--a dreadful blow, which had only preceded by a fewmoments a second no less horrible misfortune; for it was in the presenceof Rodin that Hardy had learned the unexpected departure of the womanhe adored. Painful to him must have been the sudden appearance ofRodin. Yes, thanks to the salutary influence of Gabriel's counsels, herecovered himself by degrees, and the contraction of his features beingsucceeded by a melancholy calm, he said to Rodin: "I did not indeedexpect to meet you, sir, in this house."

  "Alas, sir!" answered Rodin, with a sigh, "I did not expect to comehither, probably to end my days beneath this roof, when I went, withoutbeing acquainted with you, but only as one honest man should serveanother, to unveil to you a great infamy."

  "Indeed, sir, you then rendered me a true service; perhaps, in thatpainful moment, I did not fully express my gratitude; for, at the samemoment in which you revealed to me the treachery of M. de Blessac--"

  "You were overwhelmed by another piece of painful intelligence," saidRodin, interrupting M. Hardy; "I shall never forget the sudden arrivalof that poor woman, who, pale and affrighted, and without considering mypresence, came to inform you that a person who was exceedingly dear toyou had quitted Paris abruptly."

  "Yes, sir; and, without stopping to thank you, I set out immediately,"answered Hardy, with a mournful air.

  "Do you know, sir," said Rodin, after a moment's silence, "that thereare sometimes very strange coincidences?"

  "To what do you allude, sir?"

  "While I went to inform you that you were betrayed in so infamous amanner--I was myself--"

  Rodin paused, as if unable to control his deep emotion, and hiscountenance wore the expression of such overpowering grief that Hardysaid to him, with interest: "What ails you, sir?"

  "Forgive me," replied Rodin, with a bitter smile. "Thanks to theghostly counsels of the angelic Abbe Gabriel, I have reached a sort ofresignation. Still, there are certain memories which affect me with themost acute pain. I told you," resumed Rodin, in a firmer voice, "or wasgoing to tell you, that the very day after that on which I informed youof the treachery practised against you, I was myself the victim of afrightful deception. An adopted son--a poor unfortunate child, whomI had brought up--" He paused again, drew his trembling hand over hiseyes, and added: "Pardon me, sir, for speaking of matters which mustbe indifferent to you. Excuse the intrusive sorrow of a poor, brokenhearted old man!"

  "I have suffered too much myself, sir, to be indifferent to any kind ofsorrow," replied Hardy. "Besides, you are no stranger to me--for youdid me a real service--and we both agree in our veneration for the sameyoung priest."

  "The Abbe Gabriel!" cried Rodin, interrupting Hardy; "ah, sir! he is mydeliverer, my benefactor. If you knew all his care and devotion, duringmy long illness, caused by intense grief--if you knew the ineffablesweetness of his counsels--"

  "I know them, sir," cried Hardy; "oh, yes! I know how salutary is theinfluence."

  "In his mouth, sir, the precepts of religion are full of mildness,"resumed Rodin, with excitement. "Do they not heal and console? do theynot make us love and hope, instead of fear and tremble?"

  "Alas, sir! in this very house," said Hardy, "I have been able to makethe comparison."

  "I was happy enough," said Rodin, "to have the angelic Abbe Gabriel formy confessor, or, rather, my confidant."

  "Yes," replied Hardy, "for he prefers confidence to confession."

  "How well you know him!" said Rodin, in a tone of the utmost simplicity.Then he resumed: "He is not a man but an angel. His words would convertthe most hardened sinner. Without being exactly impious, I had myselflived in the profession of what is called Natural Religion; but theangelic Abbe Gabriel has, by degrees, fixed my wavering belief, given itbody and soul, and, in fact, endowed me with faith."

  "Yes! he is a truly Christian priest--a priest of love and pardon!"cried Hardy.

  "What you say is perfectly true," replied Rodin; "for I came here almostmad with grief, thinking only of the unhappy boy who had repaid mypaternal goodness with the most monstrous ingratitude, and sometimes Iyielded to violent bursts of despair, and sometimes sank into a stateof mournful dejection, cold as the grave itself. But, suddenly, theAbbe Gabriel appeared--and the darkness fled before the dawning of a newday."

  "You were right, sir; there are strange coincidences," said Hardy,yielding more and more to the feeling of confidence and sympathy,produced by the resemblance of his real position to Rodin's pretendedone. "And to speak frankly," he added, "I am very glad I have seen youbefore quitting this house. Were I capable of falling back into fits ofcowardly weakness, your example alone would prevent me. Since I listento you, I feel myself stronger in the noble path which the angelic AbbeGabriel has opened before me, as you so well express it."

  "The poor old man will not then regret having listened to the firstimpulse of his heart, which urged him to come to you," said Robin, witha touching expression. "You will sometimes remember me in that world towhich you are returning?"

  "Be sure of it, sir; but allow me to ask one question: You remain, yousay, in this house?"

  "What would you have me do? There reigns here a calm repose, and one isnot disturbed in one's prayers," said Rodin, in a very gentle tone. "Yousee, I have suffered so much--the conduct of that unhappy youth wasso horrible--he plunged into such shocking excesses--that the wrath ofheaven must be kindled against him. Now I am very old, and it is only bypassing the few days that are left me in fervent prayer that I can hopeto disarm the just anger of the Lord. Oh! prayer--prayer! It wasthe Abbe Gabriel who revealed to me all its power and sweetness--andtherewith the formidable duties it imposes."

  "Its duties are indeed great and sacred," answered Hardy, with a pensiveair.

  "Do you remember the life of Rancey?" said Rodin, abruptly, as he darteda peculiar glance at Hardy.

  "The founder of La Trappe?" said Hardy, surprised at Rodin's question."I remember hearing a very vague account, some time ago, of the motivesof his conversion."

  "There is, mark you, no more striking an example of the power of prayer,and of the state of almost divine ecstasy, to which it may lead areligious soul. In a few words, I will relate to you this instructiveand tragic history. Rancey--but I beg your pardon; I fear I amtrespassing on your time."

  "No, no," answered Hardy, hastily; "You cannot think how interested Iam in what you tell me. My interview with the Abbe Gabriel was abruptlybroken off, and in listening to you I fancy that I hear the furtherdevelopment of his views. Go on, I conjure you.

  "With all my heart. I only wish that the instruction which, thanksto our angelic priest, I derived from the story of Rancey might be asprofitable to you as it was to me."

  "This, then, also came from the Abbe Gabriel?"

  "He related to me this kind of parable in support of his exhortations,"replied Rodin. "Oh, sir! do I not owe to the consoling words of thatyoung priest all that has strengthened and revived my poor old brokenheart?"

  "Then I shall listen to you with a double interest."

  "Rancey was a man of the world," resumed Rodin, as he looked attentivelyat Hardy; "a gentleman--young, ardent, handsome. He loved a young ladyof high rank. I cannot tell what impediments stood in the way of theirunion. But this love, though successful, was kept secret, and everyevening Rancey visited his mistress by means of a private staircase. Itwas, they say, one of those passionate loves which men feel but oncein their lives. The mystery, even the sacrifice made by the unfortunategirl, who forgot every duty, seemed to give new charms to this guiltypassion. In the silence and darkness of secrecy, these two lovers passedtwo years of voluptuous delirium, which amounted almost to ecstasy."

  At these words Hardy started. For the first time of late his brow wassuffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he rememberedthat he too had once known the ardent intoxica
tion of a guilty andhidden love. Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelongglance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made. "Sometimes," he continued, "thinking of the dangers to which his mistresswas exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished tosever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion,threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in thelanguage of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if hethought of leaving her. Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of hismistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselvesup to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earthand heaven!"

  M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity. TheJesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent andsecret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had beendrowned in tears. To the beneficent calm produced by the mild languageof Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with thereaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into astrange state of confusion.

  Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows: "Afatal day came at last. Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted thegirl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediatelyafter his letter. He came accordingly. It was night. He ascended, asusual, the private staircase which led to the chamber of his mistress;he entered the room, his heart beating with love and hope. His mistresshad died that morning!"

  "Ah!" cried Hardy, covering his face with his hands, in terror.

  "She was dead," resumed Rodin. "Two wax-candles were burning beside thefuneral couch. Rancey could not, would not believe that she was dead.He threw himself on his knees by the corpse. In his delirium, he seizedthat fair, beloved head, to cover it with kisses. The head parted fromthe body, and remained in his hands! Yes," resumed Rodin as Hardy drewback, pale and mute with terror, "yes, the girl had fallen a victimto so swift and extraordinary a disease, that she had not been able toreceive the last sacraments. After her death, the doctors, in the hopeof discovering the cause of this unknown malady, had begun to dissectthat fair form--"

  As Rodin reached this part of his narrative, night was almost come.A sort of hazy twilight alone reigned in this silent chamber, in thecentre of which appeared the pale and ghastly form of Rodin, clad in hislong black gown, whilst his eyes seemed to sparkle with diabolic fire.Overcome by the violent emotions occasioned by this story, in whichthoughts of death and voluptuousness, love and horror, were so strangelymingled, Hardy remained fixed and motionless, waiting for the words ofRodin, with a combination of curiosity, anguish and alarm.

  "And Rancey?" said he, at last, in an agitated voice, whilst he wipedthe cold sweat from his brow.

  "After two days of furious delirium," resumed Rodin, "he renounced theworld, and shut himself up in impenetrable solitude. The first periodof his retreat was frightful; in his despair, he uttered loud yells ofgrief and rage, that were audible at some distance. Twice he attemptedsuicide, to escape from the terrible visions."

  "He had visions, then?" said Hardy, with an increased agony ofcuriosity.

  "Yes," replied Rodin, in a solemn tone, "he had fearful visions. He sawthe girl, who, for his sake, had died in mortal sin, plunged in theheat of the everlasting flames of hell! On that fair face, disfigured byinfernal tortures, was stamped the despairing laugh of the damned! Herteeth gnashed with pain; her arms writhed in anguish! She wept tearsof blood, and, with an agonized and avenging voice, she cried to herseducer: 'Thou art the cause of my perdition--my curse, my curse be uponthee!'"

  As he pronounced these last words, Rodin advanced three steps nearer toHardy, accompanying each step with a menacing gesture. If we rememberthe state of weakness, trouble, and fear, in which M. Hardy was--if weremember that the Jesuit had just roused in the soul of this unfortunateman all the sensual and spiritual memories of a love, cooled, but notextinguished, in tears--if we remember, too, that Hardy reproachedhimself with the seduction of a beloved object, whom her departure fromher duties might (according to the Catholic faith) doom toeverlasting flames--we shall not wonder at the terrible effect of thisphantasmagoria, conjured up in silence and solitude, in the eveningdusk, by this fearful priest.

  The effect on Hardy was indeed striking, and the more dangerous, thatthe Jesuit, with diabolical craft, seemed only to be carrying out, fromanother point of view, the ideas of Gabriel. Had not the youngpriest convinced Hardy that nothing is sweeter, than to ask of heavenforgiveness for those who have sinned, or whom we have led astray? Butforgiveness implies punishment; and it was to the punishment alone thatRodin drew the attention of his victim, by painting it in these terriblehues. With hands clasped together, and eye fixed and dilated, Hardytrembled in all his limbs, and seemed still listening to Rodin, thoughthe latter had ceased to speak. Mechanically, he repeated: "My curse, mycurse be upon thee?"

  Then suddenly he exclaimed, in a kind of frenzy: "The curse is on mealso! The woman, whom I taught to forget her sacred duties, and tocommit mortal sin--one day plunged in the everlasting flames--her armswrithing in agony--weeping tears of blood--will cry to me from thebottomless pit: 'My curse, my curse be upon thee!'--One day," headded, with redoubled terror, "one day?--who knows? perhaps atthis moment!--for if the sea voyage had been fatal to her--if ashipwreck--oh, God! she too would have died in mortal sin--lost, lost,forever!--Oh, have mercy on her, my God! Crush me in Thy wrath--but havemercy on her--for I alone am guilty!"

  And the unfortunate man, almost delirious, sank with clasped hands uponthe ground.

  "Sir," cried Rodin, in an affectionate voice, as he hastened to lift himup, "my dear sir--my dear friend--be calm! Comfort yourself. I cannotbear to see you despond. Alas! my intention was quite the contrary tothat."

  "The curse! the curse! yes, she will curse me also--she, that I lovedso much--in the everlasting flames!" murmured Hardy, shuddering, andapparently insensible to the other's words.

  "But, my dear sir, listen to me, I entreat you," resumed the latter;"let me finish my story, and then you will find it as consoling as itnow seems terrible. For heaven's sake, remember the adorable words ofour angelic Abbe Gabriel, with regard to the sweetness of prayer."

  At the name of Gabriel, Hardy recovered himself a little, and exclaimed,in a heart-rending tone: "Ay! his words were sweet and beneficent. Whereare they now? For mercy's sake, repeat to me those consoling words."

  "Our angelic Abbe Gabriel," resumed Rodin, "spoke to you of thesweetness of prayer--"

  "Oh, yes! prayer!"

  "Well, my dear sir, listen to me, and you shall see how prayer savedRancey, and made a saint of him. Yes, these frightful torments, that Ihave just described, these threatening visions, were all conquered byprayer, and changed into celestial delights."

  "I beg of you," said Hardy, in a faint voice, "speak to me of Gabriel,speak to me of heaven--but no more flames--no more hell--where sinfulwomen weep tears of blood--"

  "No, no," replied Rodin; and even as, in describing hell, his tone hadbeen harsh and threatening, it now became warm and tender, as he utteredthe following words: "No; we will have no more images of despair--for,as I have told you, after suffering infernal tortures, Rancey, thanks tothe power of prayer, enjoyed the delights of paradise."

  "The delights of paradise?" repeated Hardy, listening with anxiousattention.

  "One day, at the height of his grief, a priest, a good priest--anotherAbbe Gabriel--came to Rancey. Oh, happiness! oh, providential change! Ina few days, he taught the sufferer the sacred mysteries of prayer--thatpious intercession of the creature, addressed to the Creator, infavor of a soul exposed to the wrath of heaven. Then Rancey seemedtransformed. His grief was at once appeased. He prayed; and the morehe prayed, the greater was his hope. He felt that God listened to hisprayer. Instead of trying to forget his beloved, he now thought of herconstantly, and prayed for her salvation. Happy in his obscure cell,alone with that adored r
emembrance, he passed days and nights in prayingfor her--plunged in an ineffable, burning, I had almost said amorousecstasy."

  It is impossible to give an idea of the tone of almost sensual energywith which Rodin pronounced the word "amorous." Hardy started, changingfrom hot to cold. For the first time, his weakened mind caught a glimpseof the fatal pleasures of asceticism, and of that deplorable catalepsy,described in the lives of St. Theresa, St. Aubierge and others.

  Rodin perceived the other's thoughts, and continued "Oh, Rancey was notnow the man to content himself with a vague, passing prayer, uttered inthe whirl of the world's business, which swallows it up, and preventsit from reaching the ear of heaven. No, no; in the depth of solitude, heendeavored to make his prayers even more efficacious, so ardently did hedesire the eternal salvation of his mistress."

  "What did he do then--oh! what did he do in his solitude?" cried Hardy,who was now powerless in the hands of the Jesuit.

  "First of all," said Rodin, with a slight emphasis, "he became a monk."

  "A monk!" repeated Hardy, with a pensive air.

  "Yes," resumed Rodin, "he became a monk, because his prayers were thusmore likely to be favorably accepted. And then, as in solitude ourthoughts are apt to wander, he fasted, and mortified his flesh, andbrought into subjection all that was carnal within him, so that,becoming all spirit, his prayers might issue like a pure flame from hisbosom, and ascend like the perfume of incense to the throne of the MostHigh!"

  "Oh! what a delicious dream!" cried Hardy, more and more under theinfluence of the spell; "to pray for the woman we have adored, and tobecome spirit--perfume--light!"

  "Yes; spirit, perfume, light!" said Rodin, with emphasis. "But it is nodream. How many monks, how many hermits, like Rancey, have, by prayers,and austerity, and macerations, attained a divine ecstasy! and if youonly knew the celestial pleasures of such ecstasies!--Thus, after hebecame a monk, the terrible dreams were succeeded by enchanting visions.Many times, after a day of fasting, and a night passed in prayers andmacerations, Rancey sank down exhausted on the floor of his cell! Thenthe spirit freed itself from the vile clogs of matter. His senses wereabsorbed in pleasure; the sound of heavenly harmony struck upon hisravished car; a bright, mild light, which was not of this world,dawned upon his half-closed eyes; and, at the height of the melodiousvibrations of the golden harps of the Seraphim, in the centre of aglory, compared to which the sun is pale, the monk beheld the image ofthat beloved woman--"

  "Whom by his prayers he had at length rescued from the eternal flames?"said Hardy, in a trembling voice.

  "Yes, herself," replied Rodin, with eloquent enthusiasm, for thismonster was skilled in every style of speech. "Thanks to the prayers ofher lover, which the Lord had granted, this woman no longer shed tearsof blood--no longer writhed her beautiful arms in the convulsions ofinfernal anguish. No, no; still fair--oh! a thousand times fairer thanwhen she dwelt on earth--fair with the everlasting beauty of angels--shesmiled on her lover with ineffable ardor, and, her eyes beaming with amild radiance, she said to him in a tender and passionate voice: 'Gloryto the Lord! glory to thee, O my beloved! Thy prayers and austeritieshave saved me. I am numbered amongst the chosen. Thanks, my beloved, andglory!'--And therewith, radiant in her felicity, she stooped tokiss, with lips fragrant with immortality, the lips of the enrapturedmonk--and their souls mingled in that kiss, burning as love, chaste asdivine grace immense as eternity!"

  "Oh!" cried Hardy, completely beside himself; "a whole life of prayer,fasting, torture, for such a moment--with her, whom I mourn--with her,whom I have perhaps led to perdition!"

  "What do you say? such a moment!" cried Rodin, whose yellow forehead wasbathed in sweat like that of a magnetizer, and who now took Hardy bythe hand, and drew still closer, as if to breathe into him the burningdelirium; "it was not once in his religious life--it was almost everyday, that Rancey, plunged in divine ecstasy, enjoyed these delicious,ineffable, superhuman pleasures, which are to the pleasures of earthwhat eternity is to man's existence!"

  Seeing, no doubt, that Hardy was now at the point to which he wished tobring him, and the night being almost entirely come, the reverend fathercoughed two or three times in a significant manner, and looked towardsthe door. At this moment, Hardy, in the height of his frenzy, exclaimed,with a supplicating voice: "A cell--a tomb--and the Ecstatic Vision!"

  The door of the room opened, and Father d'Aigrigny entered, with a cloakunder his arm. A servant followed him, bearing a light.

  About ten minutes after this scene, a dozen robust men with frank,open countenances, led by Agricola, entered the Rue de Vaugirard, andadvanced joyously towards the house of the reverend fathers. It was adeputation from the former workmen of M. Hardy. They came to escort him,and to congratulate him on his return amongst them. Agricola walked attheir head. Suddenly he saw a carriage with post-horses issuing fromthe gateway of the house. The postilion whipped up the horses, andthey started at full gallop. Was it chance or instinct? The nearer thecarriage approached the group of which he formed a part, the more didAgricola's heart sink within him.

  The impression became so vivid that it was soon changed into a terribleapprehension; and at the moment when the vehicle, which had its blindsdown, was about to pass close by him, the smith, in obedience to aresistless impulse, exclaimed, as he rushed to the horses' heads: "Help,friends! stop them!"

  "Postilion! ten louis if you ride over him!" cried from the carriage themilitary voice of Father d'Aigrigny.

  The cholera was still raging. The postilion had heard of the murder ofthe poisoners. Already frightened at the sudden attack of Agricola,he struck him a heavy blow on the head with the butt of his whip whichstretched him senseless on the ground. Then, spurring with all hismight, he urged his three horses into a triple gallop, and the carriagerapidly disappeared, whilst Agricola's companions, who had neitherunderstood his actions nor the sense of his words, crowded around thesmith, and did their best to revive him.