The Wandering Jew. Эжен Сю
his horse's terror. The adjoining stable was occupied by the itinerant menagerie of the brute-tamer, and was only separated by the partition, which supported the mangers. The three horses of the Prophet, accustomed to these howlings, had remained perfectly quiet.
"Good!" said the soldier, recovering himself; "I understand it now. Jovial has heard another such roar before, and he can scent the animals of that insolent scoundrel. It is enough to frighten him," added he, as he carefully collected the oats from the manger; "once in another stable, and there must be others in this place, he will no longer leave his peck, and we shall be able to start early to-morrow morning!"
The terrified horse, after running and galloping about the yard, returned at the voice of the soldier, who easily caught him by the broken halter; and a hostler, whom Dagobert asked if there was another vacant stable, having pointed out one that was only intended for a single animal, Jovial was comfortably installed there.
When delivered from his ferocious neighbors, the horse became tranquil as before, and even amused himself much at the expense of Dagobert's top coat, which, thanks to his tricks, might have afforded immediate occupation for his master's needle, if the latter had not been fully engaged in admiring the eagerness with which Jovial dispatched his provender. Completely reassured on his account, the soldier shut the door of the stable, and proceeded to get his supper as quickly as possible, in order to rejoin the orphans, whom he reproached himself with having left so long.
CHAPTER V.
ROSE AND BLANCHE.
The orphans occupied a dilapidated chamber in one of the most remote wings of the inn, with a single window opening upon the country. A bed without curtains, a table, and two chairs, composed the more than modest furniture of this retreat, which was now lighted by a lamp. On the table, which stood near the window, was deposited the knapsack of the soldier.
The great Siberian dog, who was lying close to the door, had already twice uttered a deep growl, and turned his head towards the window—but without giving any further affect to this hostile manifestation.
The two sisters, half recumbent in their bed, were clad in long white wrappers, buttoned at the neck and wrists. They wore no caps, but their beautiful chestnut hair was confined at the temples by a broad piece of tape, so that it might not get tangled during the night. These white garments, and the white fillet that like a halo encircled their brows, gave to their fresh and blooming faces a still more candid expression.
The orphans laughed and chatted, for, in spite of some early sorrows, they still retained the ingenuous gayety of their age. The remembrance of their mother would sometimes make them sad, but this sorrow had in it nothing bitter; it was rather a sweet melancholy, to be sought instead of shunned. For them, this adored mother was not dead—she was only absent.
Almost as ignorant as Dagobert, with regard to devotional exercises, for in the desert where they had lived there was neither church nor priest, their faith, as was already said, consisted in this—that God, just and good, had so much pity for the poor mothers whose children were left on earth, that he allowed them to look down upon them from highest heaven—to see them always, to hear them always, and sometimes to send fair guardian angels to protect therein. Thanks to this guileless illusion, the orphans, persuaded that their mother incessantly watched over them, felt, that to do wrong would be to afflict her, and to forfeit the protection of the good angels.—This was the entire theology of Rose and Blanche—a creed sufficient for such pure and loving souls.
Now, on the evening in question, the two sisters chatted together whilst waiting for Dagobert. Their theme interested them much, for, since some days, they had a secret, a great secret, which often quickened the beatings of their innocent hearts, often agitated their budding bosoms, changed to bright scarlet the roses on their cheeks, and infused a restless and dreamy langour into the soft blue of their large eyes.
Rose, this evening, occupied the edge of the couch, with her rounded arms crossed behind her head, which was half turned towards her sister; Blanche, with her elbow resting on the bolster, looked at her smilingly, and said: "Do you think he will come again to-night?"
"Oh, yes! certainly. He promised us yesterday."
"He is so good, he would not break his promise."
"And so handsome, with his long fair curls."
"And his name—what a charming name!—How well it suits his face."
"And what a sweet smile and soft voice, when he says to us, taking us by the hand: 'My children, bless God that he has given you one soul. What others seek elsewhere, you will find in yourselves.'"
"'Since your two hearts,' he added, 'only make one.'"
"What pleasure to remember his words, sister!"
"We are so attentive! When I see you listening to him, it is as if I saw myself, my dear little mirror!" said Rose, laughing, and kissing her sister's forehead. "Well—when he speaks, your—or rather our eyes—are wide, wide open, our lips moving as if we repeated every word after him. It is no wonder we forget nothing that he says."
"And what he says is so grand, so noble, and generous."
"Then, my sister, as he goes on talking, what good thoughts rise within us! If we could but always keep them in mind."
"Do not be afraid! they will remain in our hearts, like little birds in their mother's nests."
"And how lucky it is, Rose, that he loves us both at the same time!"
"He could not do otherwise, since we have but one heart between us."
"How could he love Rose, without loving Blanche?"
"What would have become of the poor, neglected one?"
"And then again he would have found it so difficult to choose."
"We are so much like one another."
"So, to save himself that trouble," said Rose, laughing, "he has chosen us both."
"And is it not the best way? He is alone to love us; we are two together to think of him."
"Only he must not leave us till we reach Paris."
"And in Paris, too—we must see him there also."
"Oh, above all at Paris; it will be good to have him with us—and Dagobert, too—in that great city. Only think, Blanche, how beautiful it must be."
"Paris!—it must be like a city all of gold."
"A city, where every one must be happy, since it is so beautiful."
"But ought we, poor orphans, dare so much as to enter it? How people will look at us!"
"Yes—but every one there is happy, every one must be good also."
"They will love us."
"And, besides, we shall be with our friend with the fair hair and blue eyes."
"He has yet told us nothing of Paris."
"He has not thought of it; we must speak to him about it this very night."
"If he is in the mood for talking. Often you know, he likes best to gaze on us in silence—his eyes on our eyes."
"Yes. In those moments, his look recalls to me the gaze of our dear mother."
"And, as she sees it all, how pleased she must be at what has happened to us!"
"Because, when we are so much beloved, we must, I hope, deserve it."
"See what a vain thing it is!" said Blanche, smoothing with her slender fingers the parting of the hair on her sister's forehead.
After a moment's reflection, Rose said to her: "Don't you think we should relate all this to Dagobert?"
"If you think so, let us do it."