The Wandering Jew, Book VIII.. by Eugene Sue (best big ereader txt) 📖

fuddling

myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that'll do for me; I'm

only fit for that work now--and then, it will drive away thought."

 

"Oh what kind?"

 

"You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing," said Jacques,

gloomily.

 

"The Bacchanal queen?--still?" said Morok, in a disdainful tone.

 

"Still! rather: when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead--or

stupefied. Fiend!"

 

"You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!" replied Morok,

fastening his turban. The conversation was here interrupted. Morok's

aider entered hastily.

 

The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width. He was habited

like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick as

whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to

which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.

 

"Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?" said Morok.

 

"There's a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get

impatient, and are calling out like madmen. But if that were all!"

 

"Well, what else?"

 

"Death will not be able to play this evening."

 

Morok turned quickly around. He seemed uneasy. "Why so?" he exclaimed.

 

"I have just seen her! she's crouching at the bottom of her cage; her

ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off. You

know what that means."

 

"Is that all?" said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head

dress.

 

"It's quite enough; she's in one of her tearing fits. Since that night in

Germany, when she ripped up that old hack of a white horse, I've not seen

her look so savage! her eyes shine like burning candles."

 

"Then she must have her fine collar on," said Morok, quietly.

 

"Her fine collar?"

 

"Yes; her spring-collar."

 

"And I must be lady's-maid," said the giant. "A nice toilet to attend

to!"

 

"Hold your tongue!"

 

"That's not all--" continued Goliath, hesitating.

 

"What more?"

 

"I might as well tell you at once."

 

"Will you speak?"

 

"Well! he is here."

 

"Who, you stupid brute?"

 

"The Englishman!"

 

Morok started; his arms fell powerless by his side. Jacques was struck

with the lion-tamer's paleness and troubled countenance.

 

"The Englishman!--you have seen him?" cried Morok, addressing Goliath.

"You are quite sure?"

 

"Quite sure. I was looking through the peep-hole in the curtain; I saw

him in one of the stage-boxes--he wishes to see things close; he's easy

to recognize, with his pointed forehead, big nose, and goggle eyes."

 

Morok shuddered again; usually fierce and unmoved, he appeared to be more

and more agitated, and so alarmed, that Jacques said to him: "Who is this

Englishman?"

 

"He has followed me from Strasburg, where he fell in with me," said

Morok, with visible dejection. "He travelled with his own horses, by

short stages, as I did; stopping where I stopped, so as never to miss one

of my exhibitions. But two days before I arrived at Paris, he left me--I

thought I was rid of him," said Morok, with a sigh.

 

"Rid of him!--how you talk!" replied Jacques, surprised; "such a good

customer, such an admirer!"

 

"Aye!" said Morok, becoming more and more agitated; "this wretch has

wagered an enormous sum, that I will be devoured in his presence, during

one of my performances: he hopes to win his wager--that is why he follows

me about."

 

Sleepinbuff found the John Bull's idea so amusingly eccentric, that, for

the first time since a very long period, he burst into a peal of hearty

laughter. Morok, pale with rage, rushed towards him with so menacing an

air, that Goliath was obliged to interpose.

 

"Come, come," said Jacques, "don't be angry; if it is serious, I will not

laugh any more."

 

Morok was appeased, and said to Sleepinbuff in a hoarse voice: "Do you

think me a coward?"

 

"No, by heaven!"

 

"Well! And yet this Englishman, with his grotesque face, frightens me

more than any tiger or my panther!"

 

"You say so, and I believe it," replied Jacques; "but I cannot understand

why the presence of this man should alarm you."

 

"But consider, you dull knave!" cried Morok, "that, obliged to watch

incessantly the least movement of the ferocious beast, whom I keep in

subjection by my action and my looks, there is something terrible in

knowing that two eyes are there--always there--fixed--waiting till the

least absence of mind shall expose me to be torn in pieces by the

animals."

 

"Now, I understand," said Jacques, shuddering in his turn. "It is

terrible."

 

"Yes; for once there, though I may not see this cursed Englishman, I

fancy I have his two round eyes, fixed and wide open, always before me.

My tiger Cain once nearly mutilated my arm, when my attention was drawn

away by this Englishman, whom the devil take! Blood and thunder!" cried

Morok: "this man will be fatal to me." And Morok paced the room in great

agitation.

 

"Besides, Death lays her ears close to her skull," said Goliath,

brutally. "If you persist--mind, I tell you--the Englishman will win his

wager this evening."

 

"Go away, you brute!--don't vex my head with your confounded

predictions," cried Morok: "go and prepare Death's collar."

 

"Well, every one to his taste; you wish the panther to taste you," said

the giant, stalking heavily away, after this joke.

 

"But if you feel these fears," said Jacques, "why do you not say that the

panther is ill?"

 

Morok shrugged his shoulders, and replied with a sort of feverish

ferocity, "Have you ever heard of the fierce pleasure of the gamester,

who stakes his honor, his life, upon a card? Well! I too--in these daily

exhibitions where my life is at stake--find a wild, fierce pleasure in

braving death, before a crowded assembly, shuddering and terrified at my

audacity. Yes, even in the fear with which this Englishman inspires me, I

find, in spite of myself, a terrible excitement, which I abhor, and which

yet subjugates me."

 

At this moment, the stage-manager entered the room, and interrupted the

beast-tamer. "May we give the signal, M. Morok?" said the stage-manager.

"The overture will not last above ten minutes."

 

"I am ready," said Morok.

 

"The police-inspector has just now given orders, that the double chain of

the panther, and the iron ring riveted to the floor of the stage, at the

end of the cavern in the foreground, shall be again examined; and

everything has been reported quite secure."

 

"Yes--secure--except for me," murmured the beast-tamer.

 

"So, M. Morok, the signal may be given?"

 

"The signal may--be given," replied Morok. And the manager went out.

 

CHAPTER XIII. (UP WITH THE CURTAIN.)

 

The usual bell sounded with solemnity behind the scenes the overture

began, and, to say the truth, but little attention was paid to it. The

interior of the theatre offered a very animated view. With the exception

of two stage-boxes even with the dress circle, one to the left, the other

to the right of the audience, every seat was occupied. A great number of

very fashionable ladies, attracted, as is always the case, by the strange

wildness of the spectacle, filled the boxes. The stalls were crowded by

most of the young men who; in the morning, had walked their horses on the

Champs-Elysees. The observations which passed from one stall to another,

will give some idea of their conversation.

 

"Do you know, my dear boy, there would not be so crowded or fashionable

an audience to witness Racine's Athalia?"

 

"Undoubtedly. What is the beggarly howling of an actor, compared to the

roaring of the lion?"

 

"I cannot understand how the authorities permit this Morok to fasten his

panther with a chain to an iron ring in the corner of the stage. If the

chain were to break?"

 

"Talking of broken chains--there's little Mme. de Blinville, who is no

tigress. Do you see her in the second tier, opposite?"

 

"It becomes her very well to have broken, as you say, the marriage chain;

she looks very well this season."

 

"Oh! there is the beautiful Duchess de Saint-Prix; all the world is here

to-night--I don't speak of ourselves."

 

"It is a regular opera night--what a festive scene!"

 

"Well, after all, people do well to amuse themselves, perhaps it will not

be for long."

 

"Why so?"

 

"Suppose the cholera were to come to Paris?"

 

"Oh! nonsense!"

 

"Do you believe in the cholera?"

 

"To be sure I do! He's coming from the North, with his walking-stick

under his arm."

 

"The devil take him on the road! don't let us see his green visage here."

 

"They say he's at London."

 

"A pleasant journey to him."

 

"Come, let us talk of something else; it may be a weakness, if you

please, but I call this a dull subject."

 

"I believe you."

 

"Oh! gentlemen--I am not mistaken--no--it is she!"

 

"Who, then?"

 

"Mdlle. de Cardoville! She is coming into the stage-box with Morinval and

his wife. It is a complete resuscitation: this morning on the

Champs-Elysees; in the evening here."

 

"Faith, you are right! It is Mdlle. de Cardoville."

 

"Good heaven! how lovely she is!"

 

"Lend me your eyeglass."

 

"Well, what do you think of her?"

 

"Exquisite--dazzling."

 

"And in addition to her beauty, an inexhaustible flow of wit, three

hundred thousand francs a year, high birth, eighteen years of age,

and--free as air."

 

"Yes, that is to say, that, provided it pleased her, I might be to

morrow--or even to-day--the happiest of men."

 

"It is enough to turn one's brain."

 

"I am told that her mansion, Rue d'Anjou, is like an enchanted palace; a

great deal is said about a bath-room and bedroom, worthy of the Arabian

Nights."

 

"And free as air--I come back to that."

 

"Ah! if I were in her place!"

 

"My levity would be quite shocking."

 

"Oh! gentlemen, what a happy man will he be who is loved first!"

 

"You think, then, that she will have many lovers?"

 

"Being as free as air--"

 

"All the boxes are full, except the stage-box opposite to that in which

Mdlle. de Cardoville is seated. Happy the occupiers of that box!"

 

"Did you see the English ambassador's lady in the dress circle?"

 

"And the Princess d'Alvimar--what an enormous bouquet!"

 

"I should like to know the name--of that nosegay."

 

"Oh!--it's Germigny."

 

"How flattering for the lions and tigers, to attract so fashionable an

audience."

 

"Do you notice, gentlemen, how all the women are eye-glassing Mdlle. de

Cardoville?"

 

"She makes a sensation."

 

"She is right to show herself; they gave her out as mad."

 

"Oh! gentlemen, what a capital phiz!"

 

"Where--where?"

 

"There--in the omnibus-box beneath Mdlle. de Cardoville's."

 

"It's a Nuremburg nutcracker."

 

"An ourang-outang!"

 

"Did you ever see such round, staring eyes?"

 

"And the nose!"

 

"And the forehead!"

 

"It's a caricature."

 

"Order, order! the curtain rises."

 

And, in fact, the curtain rose. Some explanation is necessary for the

clear understanding of what follows. In the lower stage-box, to the left

of the audience, were several persons, who had been referred to by the

young men in the stalls. The omnibus-box was occupied by the Englishman,

the eccentric and portentous bettor, whose presence inspired Morok with

so much dread.

 

It would require Hoffman's rare and fantastic genius to describe worthily

that countenance, at once grotesque and frightful, as it stood out from

the dark background of the box. This Englishman was about fifty years

old; his forehead was quite bald, and of a conical shape; beneath this

forehead, surmounted by eyebrows like parenthesis marks, glittered large,

green eyes, remarkably round and staring, and set very close to a hooked

nose, extremely sharp and prominent; a chin like that on the old

fashioned nutcrackers was half-hidden in a broad and ample white cravat,

as stiffly-starched as the round-cornered shirt-collar, which nearly

touched his ears. The face was exceedingly thin and bony, and yet the

complexion was high-colored, approaching to purple, which made the bright

green of the pupils, and the white of the other part of the eyes, still

more conspicuous. The mouth, which was very wide, sometimes whistled

inaudibly the tune of a Scotch jig (always the same tune), sometimes was

slightly curled with a sardonic smite. The Englishman was dressed with

extreme care; his blue coat, with brass buttons, displayed his spotless

waistcoat, snowy, white as his ample cravat; his shirt was fastened with

two magnificent ruby studs, and his patrician hands were carefully kid

gloved.

 

To any one who knew the eccentric and cruel desire which attracted this

man to every representation, his grotesque face became almost terrific,

instead of exciting ridicule; and it was easy to understand the dread

experience by Morok at sight of those great, staring round eyes, which

appeared to