Produced by David Widger and Pat Castevens
By Eugene Sue
XV. The Constant Wanderer
XVI. The Luncheon
XVII. Rendering the Account
XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame
XIX. The Cholera Masquerade
XX. The Defiance
XXI. Brandy to the Rescue
XXII. Memories
XXIII. The Poisoner
XXIV. In the Cathedral
XXV. The Murderers
XXVI. The Patient
XXVII. The Lure
XXVIII. Good News
XXIX. The Operation
XXX. The Torture
XXXI. Vice and Virtue
XXXII. Suicide
It is night. The moon shines and the stars glimmer in the midst of aserene but cheerless sky; the sharp whistlings of the north wind, thatfatal, dry, and icy breeze, ever and anon burst forth in violent gusts.With its harsh and cutting breath, it sweeps Montmartre's Heights. On thehighest point of the hills, a man is standing. His long shadow is castupon the stony, moon-lit ground. He gazes on the immense city, which liesoutspread beneath his feet. PARIS—with the dark outline of its towers,cupolas, domes, and steeples, standing out from the limpid blue of thehorizon, while from the midst of the ocean of masonry, rises a luminousvapor, that reddens the starry azure of the sky. It is the distantreflection of the thousand fires, which at night, the hour of pleasures,light up so joyously the noisy capital.
"No," said the wayfarer; "it is not to be. The Lord will not exact it. Isnot twice enough?
"Five centuries ago, the avenging hand of the Almighty drove me hitherfrom the uttermost confines of Asia. A solitary traveller, I had leftbehind me more grief, despair, disaster, and death, than the innumerablearmies of a hundred devastating conquerors. I entered this town, and ittoo was decimated.
"Again, two centuries ago, the inexorable hand, which leads me throughthe world, brought me once more hither; and then, as the time before, theplague, which the Almighty attaches to my steps, again ravaged this city,and fell first on my brethren, already worn out with labor and misery.
"My brethren—mine?—the cobbler of Jerusalem, the artisan accursed bythe Lord, who, in my person, condemned the whole race of workmen, eversuffering, ever disinherited, ever in slavery, toiling on like me withoutrest or pause, without recompense or hope, till men, women, and children,young and old, all die beneath the same iron yoke—that murderous yoke,which others take in their turn, thus to be borne from age to age on thesubmissive and bruised shoulders of the masses.
"And now, for the third time in five centuries, I reach the summit of oneof the hills that overlook the city. And perhaps I again bring with mefear, desolation, and death.
"Yet this city, intoxicated with the sounds of its joys and its nocturnalrevelries, does not know—oh! does not know that I am at its gates.
"But no, no! my presence will not be a new calamity. The Lord, in hisimpenetrable views, has hitherto led me through France, so as to avoidthe humblest hamlet; and the sound of the funeral knell has notaccompanied my passage.
"And, moreover, the spectre has left me—the green, livid spectre, withits hollow, bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its dampand icy hands was no longer clasped in mine—and it disappeared.
"And yet—I feel that the atmosphere of