List Of Contents | Contents of The Wandering Jew, V11, by Eugene Sue
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brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage.
In an instant, Father d'Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the
broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with
intrepidity.  For the short time that this unequal struggle lasted--
unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a devouring
fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants, mute in
their fury, uttered not a word or a cry.  Had any one been present at
this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how
they dealt their blows.  He would have seen two heads--frightful, livid,
convulsed--rising, falling, now here, now there--arms, now stiff as bars
of iron, and now twisting like serpents--and, in the midst of the
undulation of the blue coat of the marshal and the black cassock of the
Jesuit, from time to time the sudden gleam of the steel.  He would have
heard only a dull stamping, and now and then a deep breath.  In about two
minutes at most, the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other.
One of them--it was Father d'Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself
with a violent effort, and to rise upon his knees.  His arms fell
powerless by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal murmured:
"My children! Dagobert!"

"I have killed him," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a weak voice; "but I
feel--that I am wounded--to death."

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to his
bosom.  His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the
blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very sharp,
the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing inwards.

"Oh! I die--I choke," said Father d'Aigrigny, whose features were already
changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the
threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet
voice: "May I come in?"

At this dreadful irony, Father d'Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon
Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.

"Monster of hell!" he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of
rage and agony.  "Thou art the cause of my death."

"I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would
be fatal to you," answered Rodin with a frightful smile.  "Only a few
days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from
this old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which
is well--for the Scripture says: `All they that take the sword shall
perish with the sword.'  And then this Marshal Simon might have had some
claim on his daughter's inheritance.  And, between ourselves, my dear
father, what was I to do?  It was necessary to sacrifice you for the
common interest; the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for
me to-morrow.  But I am not so easily caught napping."

"Before I die," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a failing voice, "I will
unmask you."

"Oh, no, you will not," said Rodin, shaking his head with a knowing air;
"I alone, if you please, will receive your last confession."

"Oh! this is horrible," moaned Father d'Aigrigny, whose eyes were
closing.  "May God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!--Alas! at
this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great sinner--"

"And, above all, a great fool," said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders, and
watching with cold disdain the dying moments of his accomplice.

Father d'Aigrigny had now but a few minutes more to live.  Rodin
perceived it, and said: "It is time to call for help."  And the Jesuit
ran, with an air of alarm and consternation, into the courtyard of the

Others came at his cries; but, as he had promised, Rodin had only quitted
Father d'Aigrigny as the latter had breathed his last sigh.

That evening, alone in his chamber, by the glimmer of a little lamp,
Rodin sat plunged in a sort of ecstatic contemplation, before the print
representing Sixtus V.  The great house-clock struck twelve.  At the last
stroke, Rodin drew himself up in all the savage majesty of his infernal
triumph, and exclaimed: "This is the first of June.  There are no more
Renneponts!--Methinks, I hear the hour from the clock of St. Peter's at
Rome striking!"



While Rodin sat plunged in ambitious reverie, contemplating the portrait
of Sixtus V., good little Father Caboccini, whose warm embraces had so
much irritated the first mentioned personage, went secretly to Faringhea,
to deliver to him a fragment of an ivory crucifix, and said to him with
his usual air of jovial good-nature: "His Excellency Cardinal Malipieri,
on my departure from Rome, charged me to give you this only on the 31st
of May."

The half-caste, who was seldom affected by anything, started abruptly,
almost with an expression of pain.  His face darkened, and bending upon
the little father a piercing look, he said to him: "You were to add

"True," replied Father Caboccini; "the words I was to add are these:
'There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"

"It is well," said the other.  Heaving a deep sigh, he joined the
fragment of the ivory crucifix to a piece already in his possession; it
fitted exactly.

Father Caboccini looked at him with curiosity, for the cardinal had only
told him to deliver the ivory fragment to Faringhea, and to repeat the
above words.  Being somewhat mystified with all this, the reverend father
said to the half-caste: "What are you going to do with that crucifix?"

"Nothing," said Faringhea, still absorbed in painful thought.

"Nothing?" resumed the reverend father, in astonishment.  "What, then,
was the use of bringing it so far?"

Without satisfying his curiosity, Faringhea replied: "At what hour to-
morrow does Father Rodin go to the Rue Saint Francois?"

"Very early."

"Before leaving home, he will go to say prayers in the chapel?"

"Yes, according to the habit of our reverend fathers."

"You sleep near him?"

"Being his socius, I occupy the room next to his."

"It is possible," said Faringhea, after a moment's silence, "that the
reverend father, full of the great interests which occupy his mind, might
forget to go to the chapel.  In that case, pray remind him of this pious

"I shall not fail."

"Pray do not fail," repeated Faringhea, anxiously.

"Be satisfied," said the good little father; "I see that you take great
interest in his salvation."

"Great interest."

"It is very praiseworthy in you.  Continue as you have begun, and you may
one day belong, completely to our Company," said Father Caboccini,

"I am as yet but a poor auxiliary member," said Faringhea, humbly; "but
no one is more devoted to the Society, body and soul.  Bowanee is nothing
to it."

"Bowanee! who is that, my good friend?"

"Bowanee makes corpses which rot in the ground.  The Society makes
corpses which walk about."

"Ah, yes! Perinde ac cadaver--they were the last words of our great
saint, Ignatius de Loyola.  But who is this Bowanee?"

"Bowanee is to the Society what a child is to a man," replied the
Asiatic, with growing excitement.  "Glory to the Company--glory!  Were my
father its enemy, I would kill my father.  The man whose genius inspires
me most with admiration, respect, and terror--were he its enemy, I would
kill, in spite of all," said the half-caste, with an effort.  Then, after
a moment's silence, he looked full in Caboccini's face, and added: "I say
this, that you may report my words to Cardinal Malipieri, and beg him to
mention them to--"

Faringhea stopped short.  "To whom should the cardinal mention your
words?" asked Caboccini.

"He knows," replied the half-caste, abruptly.  "Good night!"

"Good-night, my friend!  I can only approve of your excellent sentiments
with regard to our Company.  Alas! it is in want of energetic defenders,
for there are said to be traitors in its bosom."

"For those," said Faringhea, "we must have no pity."

"Certainly," said the good little father; "we understand one another."

"Perhaps," said the half-caste.  "Do not, at all events, forget to remind
Father Rodin to go to chapel to-morrow morning."

"I will take care of that," said Father Caboccini.

The two men parted.  On his return to the house, Caboccini learned that a
courier, only arrived that night from Rome, had brought despatches to



The chapel belonging to the house of the reverend fathers in the Rue de
Vaugirard, was gay and elegant.  Large panes of stained glass admitted a
mysterious light; the altar shone with gold and silver; and at the
entrance of this little church, in an obscure corner beneath the organ-
loft, was a font for holy water in sculptured marble.  It was close to
this font, in a dark nook where he could hardly be seen, that Faringhea
knelt down, early on the 1st of June, as soon indeed as the chapel doors
were opened.  The half-caste was exceedingly sad.  From time to time he
started and sighed, as if agitated by a violent internal struggle.  This
wild, untamable being, possessed with the monomania of evil and
destruction, felt, as may be imagined, a profound admiration for Rodin,
who exercised over him a kind of magnetic fascination.  The half-caste,
almost a wild beast in human form, saw something supernatural in the
infernal genius of Rodin.  And the latter, too sagacious not to have
discovered the savage devotion of this wretch, had made, as we have seen,
good use of him, is bringing about the tragical termination of the loves
of Adrienne and Djalma.  But what excited to an incredible degree the
admiration of Faringhea, was what he knew of the Society of Jesus.  This
immense, occult power, which undermined the world by its subterraneous
ramifications, and reached its ends by diabolical means, had inspired the
half-caste with a wild enthusiasm.  And if anything in the world
surpassed his fanatical admiration for Rodin, it was his blind devotion
to the Company of Ignatius de Loyola, which, as he said, could make
corpses that walk about.  Hid in the shadow of the organ-loft, Faringhea
was reflecting deeply on these things, when footsteps were heard, and
Rodin entered the chapel, accompanied by his socius, the little one-eyed

Whether from absence of mind, or that the shadow of the orange-loft
completely concealed the half-caste, Rodin dipped his fingers into the
font without perceiving Faringhea, who stood motionless as a statue,
though a cold sweat streamed from his brow.  The prayer of Rodin was, as
may be supposed, short; he was in haste to get to the Rue Saint-Francois.
After kneeling down with Father Caboccini for a few seconds, he rose,
bowed respectfully to the altar, and returned towards the door, followed
by his socius.  At the moment Rodin approached the font he perceived the
tall figure of the half-caste standing out from the midst of the dark
shadow; advancing a little, Faringhea bowed respectfully to Rodin, who
said to him, in a low voice; "Come to me at two o'clock."

So saying, Rodin stretched forth his hand to dip it into the holy water;
but Faringhea spared him the trouble, by offering him the sprinkling-
brush, which generally stood in the font.

Pressing between his dirty fingers the damp hairs of the brush, which the
half-caste held by the handle, Rodin wetted his thumb and forefinger,
and, according to custom, traced the sign of the cross upon his forehead.
Then, opening the door of the chapel, he went out, after again repeating
to Faringhea: "Come to me at two o'clock."

Thinking he would also make use of the sprinkling-brush, which,
Faringhea, still motionless, held with a trembling hand, Father Caboccini
stretched out his fingers to reach it, when the half-breed, as if
determined to confine his favors to Rodin, hastily withdrew the
instrument.  Deceived in his expectation, Father Caboccini lost no time
in following Rodin, whom he was not to leave that day for a single
moment, and, getting into a hackney-coach with him, set out for the Rue
Saint-Francois.  It is impossible to describe the look which the half-
breed fixed upon Rodin as the latter quitted the chapel.  Left alone in
the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half
crouching, with his face buried in his hands.  As the coach drew near the
quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius de
Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of triumph,
were visible on the countenance of Rodin.  Two or three times he opened
his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates of death
of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time to time he
thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had wished to
hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.

The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and
his look had a strange and crafty expression.  At last the coach entered
the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the
old house, which had been closed for a century and a half.  Rodin sprang
from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently at
the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more
prudently to the ground.  No answer was returned to the loud knocking of
Rodin.  Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again.  This time, as he
listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching.  They stopped at
some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.

"It is keeping one upon red-hot coals," said Rodin, for he felt as if
there was a burning fire in his chest.  He again shook the door
violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.

Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath
the porch.  The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief.  Upon
his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to
dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.

"Who are you, gentlemen?" said Samuel.

"I am the bearer of a power of attorney from the Abbe Gabriel, the only
living representative of the Rennepont family," answered Rodin, hastily.
"This gentleman is my secretary," added he, pointing to Father Caboccini,
who bowed.

After looking attentively at Rodin, Samuel resumed: "I recognize you,
sir.  Please to follow me."  And the old guardian advanced towards the
house in the garden, making a sign to the two reverend fathers to follow.

"That confounded old man kept me so long at the door," said Rodin to his
socius, "that I think I have caught a cold in consequence.  My lips and
throat are dried up, like parchment baked at the fire."

"Will you not take something, my dear, good father?  Suppose you were to
ask this man for a glass of water," cried the little one-eyed priest,
with tender solicitude.

"No, no," answered Rodin; "it is nothing.  I am devoured by impatience.
That is all."

Pale and desolate, Bathsheba, the wife of Samuel, was standing at the
door of the apartment she occupied with her husband, in the building next

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