The Wandering Jew. Эжен Сю
the devil; in riper years, they make others serve him; in their old age, they are horribly afraid of him; and this fear must continue till she has left us the Chateau de Cardoville, which, from its isolated position, will make us an excellent college. All then goes well. As for the affair of the medals, the 13th of February approaches, without news from Joshua—evidently, Prince Djalma is still kept prisoner by the English in the heart of India, or I must have received letters from Batavia. The daughters of General Simon will be detained at Leipsic for at least a month longer. All our foreign relations are in the best condition. As for our internal affairs—"
Here M. Rodin was interrupted in the current of his reflections by the entrance of Madame Dupont, who was zealously engaged in preparations to give assistance in case of need.
"Now," said she to the servant, "light a fire in the next room; put this warm wine there; your master may be in every minute."
"Well, my dear madam," said Rodin to her, "do they hope to save any of these poor creatures?"
"Alas! I do not know, sir. My husband has been gone nearly two hours. I am terribly uneasy on his account. He is so courageous, so imprudent, if once he thinks he can be of any service."
"Courageous even to imprudence," said Rodin to himself, impatiently; "I do not like that."
"Well," resumed Catherine, "I have here at hand my hot linen, my cordials—heaven grant it may all be of use!"
"We may at least hope so, my dear madam. I very much regretted that my age and weakness did not permit me to assist your excellent husband. I also regret not being able to wait for the issue of his exertions, and to wish him joy if successful—for I am unfortunately compelled to depart, my moments are precious. I shall be much obliged if you will have the carriage got ready."
"Yes, Sir; I will see about it directly."
"One word, my dear, good Madame Dupont. You are a woman of sense, and excellent judgment. Now I have put your husband in the way to keep, if he will, his situation as bailiff of the estate—"
"Is it possible? What gratitude do we not owe you! Without this place what would become of us at our time of life?"
"I have only saddled my promise with two conditions—mere trifles—he will explain all that to you."
"Ah, sir! we shall regard you as our deliverer."
"You are too good. Only, on two little conditions—"
"If there were a hundred, sir we should gladly accept them. Think what we should be without this place—penniless—absolutely penniless!"
"I reckon upon you then; for the interest of your husband, you will try to persuade him."
"Missus! I say, missus! here's master come back," cried a servant, rushing into the chamber.
"Has he many with him?"
"No, missus; he is alone."
"Alone! alone?"
"Quite alone, missus."
A few moments after, M. Dupont entered the room; his clothes were streaming with water; to keep his hat on in the midst of the storm, he had tied it down to his head by means of his cravat, which was knotted under his chin; his gaiters were covered with chalky stains.
"There I have thee, my dear love!" cried his wife, tenderly embracing him. "I have been so uneasy!"
"Up to the present moment—THREE SAVED."
"God be praised, my dear M. Dupont!" said Rodin; "at least your efforts will not have been all in vain."
"Three, only three?" said Catherine. "Gracious heaven!"
"I only speak of those I saw myself, near the little creek of Goelands.
Let us hope there may be more saved on other parts of the coast."
"Yes, indeed; happily, the shore is not equally steep in all parts."
"And where are these interesting sufferers, my dear sir?" asked Rodin, who could not avoid remaining a few instants longer.
"They are mounting the cliffs, supported by our people. As they cannot walk very fast, I ran on before to console my wife, and to take the necessary measures for their reception. First of all, my dear, you must get ready some women's clothes."
"There is then a woman amongst the persons saved?"
"There are two girls—fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most—mere children—and so pretty!"
"Poor little things!" said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.
"The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real hero!"
"A hero?"
"Yes; only fancy—"
"You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through."
"I'll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you that the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly his courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left here with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path, and arrived at the foot of the cliff—near the little creek of Goelands, fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the sea."
"Dear children! it is quite touching!" said M. Rodin, raising, as usual, the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though to dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.
"What struck me was their great resemblance to each other," resumed the bailiff; "only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the difference."
"Twin—sisters, no doubt," said Madame Dupont.
"One of the poor things," continued the bailiff, "held between her clasped hands a little bronze medal, which was suspended from her neck by a chain of the same material."
Rodin generally maintained a very stooping posture; but at these last words of the bailiff, he drew himself up suddenly, whilst a faint color spread itself over his livid cheeks. In any other person, these symptoms would have appeared of little consequence; but in Rodin, accustomed for long years to control and dissimulate his emotions, they announced no ordinary excitement. Approaching the bailiff, he said to him in a slightly agitated voice, but still with an air of indifference: "It was doubtless a pious relic. Did you see what was inscribed on this medal?"
"No, sir; I did not think of it."
"And the two young girls were like one another—very much like, you say?"
"So like, that one would hardly know which was which. Probably they are orphans, for they are dressed in mourning."
"Oh! dressed in mourning?" said M. Rodin, with another start.
"Alas! orphans so young!" said Madame Dupont, wiping her eyes.
"As they had fainted away, we carried them further on to a place where the sand was quite dry. While we were busy about this, we saw the head of a man appear from behind one of the rocks, which he was trying to climb, clinging to it by one hand; we ran to him, and luckily in the nick of time, for he was clean worn out, and fell exhausted into the arms of our men. It was of him I spoke when I talked of a hero; for, not content with having saved the two young girls by his admirable courage, he had attempted to rescue a third person, and had actually gone back amongst the rocks and breakers—but his strength failed him, and, without the aid of our men, he would certainly have been washed away from the ridge to which he clung."
"He must indeed be a fine fellow!" said Catherine.
Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to this conversation. The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged, only increased upon reflection. The two