THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue




BOOK VII.

XL.        The East Indian in Paris
XLI.       Rising
XLII.      Doubts
XLIII.     The Letter
XLIV.      Adrienne and Djalma
XLV.       The Consultation
XLVI.      Mother Bunch's Diary
XLVII.     The Diary Continued
XLVIII.    The Discovery
XLIX.      The Trysting-Place of the Wolves
L.         The Common Dwelling-House
LI.        The Secret
LII.       Revelations




CHAPTER XL.

THE EAST INDIAN IN PARIS.

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

Daylight was only admitted to this room (it was about two o'clock in the
afternoon) through a little greenhouse, on the other side of a door of
plate-glass, made to slide into the thickness of the wall, by means of a
groove.  A Chinese shade was arranged so as to hide or replace this glass
at pleasure.  Some dwarf palm tress, plantains, and other Indian
productions, with thick leaves of a metallic green, arranged in clusters
in this conservatory, formed, as it were, the background to two large
variegated bushes of exotic flowers, which were separated by a narrow
path, paved with yellow and blue Japanese tiles, running to the foot of
the glass.  The daylight, already much dimmed by the leaves through which
it passed, took a hue of singular mildness as it mingled with the azure
lustre of the perfumed lamps, and the crimson brightness of the fire in
the tall chimney of oriental porphyry.  In the obscurity of this
apartment, impregnated with sweet odors and the aromatic vapor of Persian
tobacco, a man with brown, hanging locks, dressed in a long robe of dark
green, fastened round the waist by a parti-colored sash, was kneeling
upon a magnificent Turkey carpet, filling the golden bowl of a hookah;
the long, flexible tube of this pipe, after rolling its folds upon the
carpet, like a scarlet serpent with silver scales, rested between the
slender fingers of Djalma, who was reclining negligently on a divan.  The
young prince was bareheaded; his jet-black hair, parted on the middle of
his forehead, streamed waving about his face and neck of antique beauty--
their warm transparent colors resembling amber or topaz.  Leaning his
elbow on a cushion, he supported his chin with the palm of his right
hand.  The flowing sleeve of his robe, falling back from his arm, which
was round as that of a woman, revealed mysterious signs formerly tattooed
there in India by a Thug's needle.  The son of Radja-sing held in his
left hand the amber mouthpiece of his pipe.  His robe of magnificent
cashmere, with a border of a thousand hues, reaching to his knee, was
fastened about his slim and well-formed figure by the large folds of an
orange-colored shawl.  This robe was half withdrawn from one of the
elegant legs of this Asiatic Antinous, clad in a kind of 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 that
melancholy and contemplative calmness habitual to the Indian and the
Arab, who possess the happy privilege of uniting, by a rare combination,
the meditative indolence of the dreamer with the fiery energy of the man
of action--now delicate, nervous, impressionable as women--now
determined, ferocious, and sanguinary as bandits.

And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of the
Arab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardor of
battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable to
their physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they have
small extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicate
and often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of an
elasticity, and vigor truly masculine.  Djalma's oblong eyes, like black
diamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from the
exotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the amber
mouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration, half
opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamel of his
teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshly scented 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 features of
Faringhea the Strangler.

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

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

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

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

Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie.  After
some 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 fixed on
the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor.  "One thought pursues me
--I wish to be diverted from it.  Speak to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: "I do not wish
to 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 married my
father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste as she."

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 married
in the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule."

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

"Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded--he would be killed
outright, 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 talked with a
young officer, while you conversed with the young priest."

"So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the
innocence 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; by
what 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 the
eyes of the world."

"But they kill a woman that is false?" said Djalma, raising himself
abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with
lurid 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 up
their 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 mystic and
figurative language familiar to the people of his country; "yes, your
talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup of a
flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two rays
of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning and
eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock."

Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace,
yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like
stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his
complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep
reverie.

Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: "If, like the proud
and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied
pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich as you
are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive Parisians--voluptuous
phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors of your dreams--were you to
cast upon them looks bold as a challenge, supplicating as prayers, ardent
as desires--do you not think that many a half-veiled eye would borrow
fire from your glance?  Then it would no longer be the monotonous
delights of a single love, the heavy chain of our life--no, it would be
the thousand pleasures of the harem--a harem peopled with free and proud
beauties, whom happy love would make your slaves.  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 our country, that would become
the love and pride of these women--the most seductive in the world, who
would soon have for you no looks but those of languor and passion."

Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness.  The expression
of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy
and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and
finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images
sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was
no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought
of the permitted joys of a legitimate union.  No! the incitements of
Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of
Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous
respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of the
passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto
restrained.

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

"My lord," said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, "your
slave 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 hung
upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies."

"Lies, my lord?  Only appear before these women, and their looks will
confirm 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 men and

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