by Erckmann-Chatrian [Émile Erckmann & Alexandre Chatrian].
Originally published in Strange Stories (Contes Fantastiques). (D. Appleton & Co.; 1880).
I.
The reputation of Rembrandt was firmly established as early as the year 1646. His admirable engravings had popularized his original and weird style throughout Europe. Each of his works marked a certain progress in art; the admirable harmony of his clare-obscure, the strange contrast of his lights and shadows, and the nocturnal perspective with which he explored mysterious depths, justified the enthusiasm of his numerous admirers.
It would be difficult to follow the successive developments of Rembrandt's genius. The fact is that the eye of this.artist saw things more clearly in the hall-tints of twilight than in the full radiance of the midday sun.
Rembrandt had an inborn love for darkness. In his youth he was often found in dingy taverns, where a few old Flemish heads, gathered around a table, were barely distinguishable in the yellow, uncertain radiance of a solitary oil lamp, or the gray, sickly light that stole in through a single window.
After the death of his wife, Rembrandt withdrew to an old house in Jew Street, at Amsterdam. His family consisted of only a sister, who managed the house affairs, and of a son, some eighteen or twenty years of age, who had not yet chosen a vocation.
The dealers, always on the lookout for his pictures, were frequent visitors at the painter's.
One evening in the month of March, 1656, Rembrandt, whose disposition was serious and thoughtful, displayed. an exceptional exuberance of spirits. At supper he indulged his love of pleasantry mainly at the expense of his sister Louise, who, he said, had arrived at an age to marry. She was sixty.
He extolled the virtues of his son Titus, recognizing in him all sorts of excellent qualities of which he had, till then, been ignorant. Finally, he ordered up a pitcher of old porter—a thing he did but rarely—of which he drank more than was his wont.
When ten o'clock struck, and the watchman had disturbed the silence of the night with his lugubrious cry, Rembrandt lighted a lamp and left the room, wishing good night to Louise and Titus.
They heard him cross the vestibule, open the door of his studio, and enter.
This room was very high, and received its light from a single window, which extended from the floor to the ceiling. The window was curtained with red silk, open in the middle, so that it could be drawn aside in both directions. On the walls hung a variety of old arms—casques, battle-axes, poniards, and swords, all well covered with rust.
Rembrandt, with little regard for the traditions of Greece and Italy, called them his "antiques." Before his window, on an easel, there was a middle-sized picture. The artist drew forward a chair and sat down, holding the light toward the freshly painted canvas. It was "Abraham's Offering," the one of Rembrandt's masterpieces which ornaments the museum of St. Petersburg.
In the presence of his work, the plebeian face of the painter lighted up with something of the fire of genius.
"Good! good!" he soliloquized, with a proud smile; but then his enthusiasm yielded place to a disposition to analyze. His heavy eyebrows slowly approached each other, and he set himself to the examination of every detail of the picture. Now an exclamation of satisfaction would escape him, and now one of dissatisfaction. Suddenly he seized his palette, and seemed about to make some change; then he drew back to reflect. His inarticulate mutterings showed plainly that he was not fully satisfied with the execution—that he did not consider it fully up to his high standard.
Meantime, another figure, not less striking in appearance, nor less enthusiastic, had appeared in the half-open doorway, and now looked intently at the picture over Rembrandt's shoulder.
It was the figure of a Jew, such as we see in the pictures of the Flemish artists. Imagine a long, spare body, wrapped in a sort of large plaid, green robe; a long, misshapen shoe, with large silver buckles, protruded from under the robe, while a pair of bow-legs indicated their knotty joints from beneath. Finally, this green-robed frame was surmounted with an ashen-yellow head wearing a cocked hat, and furrowed by so many wrinkles that it might have been taken for the product of an ancient Egyptian mausoleum. The skin, drawn tightly over the bald head and cheek-bones, shone like ivory. A long nose, sunken lips, and a chin prominent and pointed completed this strange physiognomy. But that which gave him a truly inconceivable intelligence of expression was his look. His large, gray, lynx-like eyes were scarcely less brilliant than luminous bodies as, they peered from under his heavy, white brows.
This personage entered the studio, and placed himself behind the painter so noiselessly that he was unheard as well as unseen.
It was a strange spectacle to see these two figures intently contemplating the same work. In the features of the one could be seen the pride of the artist, but also the severe self-critic. In the features of the other, astonishment and unlimited enthusiasm were equally apparent.
It was evident that the admiration of the Jew surpassed that of the painter. There was adoration in his pose, his gestures, his look.
Suddenly Rembrandt seized a brush, and leaned forward, saying:
"This won't do; I must change it."
But the Jew, impelled by an irresistible impulse, clutched the painter's arm.
"No, no!" he cried, "don't touch it. You can't improve it."
Startled by this sudden apparition, Rembrandt turned with an expression of surprise; but, recognizing the dealer Jonas, he burst out laughing.
"Ah, it's you, Jonas," said he. "How the deuce did you get in here?"
Without answering the question, the old Jew cried out:
"Master Rembrandt, this is a masterpiece. It is magnificent, sublime! Oh, the God of Israel performed a miracle in saving the son of Abraham, but this picture is still more marvelous. You have never reached such perfection, never—you have surpassed yourself!"
"Bah! you always say the same things. According to you, my last picture is always my best."
"It is true," said Jonas. "It is true, Master Rembrandt, you surpass yourself every time; but you are as far as you will ever get—as far as it is possible to go."
"The fact is, Jonas, I might well doubt the judgment of one who knows his own business so badly. Instead, of criticising my work, you praise it so highly that—"
"What!" interrupted the Jew; "depreciate a picture such as this! Only a knave or a fool could do it. And, then, don't you know its value just as well as the shrewdest dealer in Amsterdam?"
"True," said Rembrandt, with a suspicion of vanity; "I think I may be very well satisfied with my work, and if the picture were not sold—"
"Eh, what! sold?" cried the Jew. "Sold!—impossible! Sold to whom?"
"To a rich German amateur; the price was fixed in advance."
"The price was fixed!". repeated the Jew; "but what price?"
"A thousand ducats."
"Are you mad! What is a thousand ducats for a masterpiece like that? You will never paint better—perhaps never again as well!"
"Humph!" returned the painter, with a smile.
"One thousand ducats! I'll give you fifteen hundred for it," continued Jonas.
"Impossible, impossible."
"Two thousand!"
"I tell you the picture is sold, and that I can't let you have it at any price," said Rembrandt, in a tremulous tone, for he loved money.
"Two thousand five hundred ducats!" cried Jonas, sinking into a chair as though he was terrified at his exorbitant offer.
Rembrandt looked at him as though he would assure himself that what he heard was not a dream.
"It is too much, Jonas;" said he; "you would lose."
"Ay, ay, the price is ruinous; I know it is," groaned the Jew, "I know it is; but how can I ever allow such a work to go into the hands of another?"
After a moment's silence the old enthusiast added:
"Master Rembrandt, I have promised to purchase for a rich amateur the next picture that comes from your studio; my word is pledged."
"I too have pledged my word," said Rembrandt, rising, "and I am as desirous to keep it as you are to keep yours; besides, the contract is signed."
The Jew rose, and, approaching the artist, took his hand.
"Neighbor," said he, in a tone that was more significant than his words, "I can not offer you more. I have a daughter; you know my little Rebecca. If I were alone in the world, I would offer you more; but I must think of my child. Two thousand five hundred ducats is a large sum of money—an enormous sum for a single picture; but a masterpiece such as this is priceless. Come, tell me how much you want? Is not two thousand five hundred ducats enough? If not, tell me how much will be."
"But, Jonas," said Rembrandt, pointing to a faint outline of a coat of arms on the canvas, "the picture, I tell you, is sold; the contract was long ago executed in duplicate."
"Then the Lord's will be done," groaned the Jew. "I will return to-morrow in the hope of seeing the purchaser, and if he will let me have the picture, I will give him the difference in our prices."
"Your offer will be rejected," said Rembrandt, "for the purchaser of this picture is the Prince of Hesse-Cassel. Another time I hope we shall both be more fortunate, Jonas. I am as sorry as you are that things are as they are. I lose fifteen hundred ducats—a large sum for a poor artist and the father of a family."
They both instinctively turned toward the door, and as they left the studio it would have been difficult to tell which one seemed most chagrined.
"Apropos," said Rembrandt, as they reached the vestibule, "how did you get in here? I did not hear you."
"Your sister told me where I would find you," replied Jonas.
"So, so; I see," said the painter.
They separated just as the cathedral clock struck eleven.
Rembrandt crossed a small yard in front of his house. The moon shone in the heavens, pale and meditative. He watched Jonas, as he wended his way down the street, as long as he could see him; then he closed the street gate, adjusted the bar, loosened two enormous dogs, and reëntered the house, sad and thoughtful.
Rembrandt the miser, Rembrandt the usurer, had lost fifteen hundred ducats!
II.
The city of Amsterdam could boast at this time of having a remarkable establishment of its kind—the tavern of the Free Soldiers.
It was there that the scions of the better families completed their educations; it was there that they learned to drink ale and porter, to play at cards, to throw dice, and to formulate an oath after the most approved fashion. But what a magnificent tavern!
It was not one of those miserable public resorts where the voices of the convives are lost in the angles of the walls or are deadened by low ceilings. There, there were no chairs, tables, nor chandeliers—fragile things that offer little resistance to the joyous demonstrations of a gathering of merry-makers. No; the tavern of the Free Soldiers was an immense cellar, whose vaulted ceiling, thirty feet high, supplied the chorus to the bacchanalian songs of its frequenters, and never failed to repeat the refrain.
By a judicious provision of Dame Catherine, the mistress of the establishment, the jugs did service for chairs and the wine-casks for tables, and their solid construction resisted every manner of attack.
The night on which Rembrandt closed his doors with so much care and loosened his dogs in the court-yard, Titus, the exemplary young man whom he eulogized so eloquently at the supper-table, was among the habitués of the famous cellar of the Free Soldiers.
The hour was far advanced, and the tavern was well nigh deserted. A single group of drinkers still remained, gathered around an enormous wine-cask.
A single lamp placed in the center of the group struggled with the darkness. All the faces around it evinced the liveliest interest in the business of the moment.
The son of Rembrandt, seated in the first circle, seemed to be deeply agitated. In front of him sat a big, ill-looking man, with a rapier lying across his lap, a leather mug in one hand and a plumed hat in the other. It seemed that they were antagonists. They were playing a heavy game, and Titus was losing.
"Seven," said Titus, as he threw the dice on the cask.
All the spectators stretched their necks to see the throw.
"Nine," cried the other.
A profound silence ensued, save the rattling of the dice in the box.
"Ten," said Titus.
"Twelve," cried his adversary.
The excitement among the lookers-on was redoubled. Titus threw his dice-box against the wall and cursed his ill luck.
"So, comrade, you owe me twenty-five ducats," said the ill-looking fellow.
"Well, are you afraid you won't get them?" asked Titus, angrily.
"No—oh no; I know you always pay."
"Thunder and blazes!" cried a burly Dutchman, with a nose like a beet, "Titus pay! He always pays. He paid yesterday, he'll pay to-day, he'll pay to-morrow, and he'll pay all the time. He's the bank-breaker, don't you know he is?"
At this bit of coarse pleasantry they all laughed heartily.
"Van Hopp," cried Titus, "find somebody else to make fun of, if you please."
"I make fun of no one," replied Van Hopp; "I only say that you are on the road to bankruptcy."
"And you," retorted Titus—"you haven't the pluck to risk a single ducat: I defy you!"
"That's possible; but, at any rate, I don't play till I see the money I'm to play against, and you haven't a shilling in your pocket," said Van Hopp.
This reply exasperated Titus, but he managed to control himself.
"Wait for me; I'll soon show you some money to play against. And you, Van Eick, if you wait you shall be paid immediately."
With this he hastened away.
All the convives seated themselves around the wine-cask, relighted their pipes, and awaited the return of young Rembrandt.
"Ho! Dame Catherine," cried Titus's adversary, "some wine!"
The hostess hastened to place a well-filled pitcher on the cask. The cups were refilled. Van Eick threw his arm around the rotund figure of Catherine and imprinted a kiss on her neck. She submitted with little ado; she had her money.
Clouds of smoke rose above the heads of the drinkers. All their coarse, ruddy faces expressed that content which results from the having one's material wants supplied. Not a word, not a look was exchanged; the silence lasted a full quarter of an hour. Finally the pipe of the rotund and rubicund Van Hopp went out. He mechanically emptied the bowl, and broke the silence by re-marking:
"Do you know I can't understand Master Rembrandt? It can't be denied that he is a great painter and a man of good sense in most things; but he allows his son to do strange things. I can't understand it."
Another pause.
After a few seconds, Van Hopp emphasized his remark by adding:
"It is simply inconceivable."
"Titus has lost over three hundred ducats this week," observed a third. "Master Rembrandt must be blind not to see that his son is a fool."
"Bah!" said Van Eick, with a sardonic smile; "Master Titus is taking his first lessons in the way of the world. When I have given him a few more lessons, you will see him quite presentable. His father understands that, and—"
"His father!" interrupted Van FIopp; "his father is a miser, and I am sure he does not give him a ducat."
At this moment the door opened, and Titus appeared, with a triumphant air, holding in his hand a well-filled sack of ducats.
"Well, here I am again," said he. "Are you ready?"
He approached Van Eick, and laid a handful of gold down before him.
"Now I owe you nothing. And you, Van Hopp, since you want to see the money, here it is. How much will you stake?"
"All I have about me," was the reply.
Herewith they proceeded to lay their wagers.
The fascination of gaming has something infernal in it. It makes our muscles tremble, our temples throb, our flesh creep. Fear, joy, triumph, despair, terror, and hatred—all the passions are aroused by it; it throws them all into disorder.
Contemplate these faces, which a moment since were immobile, apathetic—these features, which but now were expressionless. They are not the players—they are only spectators; and yet they are a prey to the satanic fascination of the game; it holds them spell-bound in its magic grasp.
An hour later, and Titus's ducats had passed into the pockets of Van Hopp.
III.
Titus left the tavern humming a familiar air; but, as soon as he was in the street, he gave vent to his feelings in curses and self-reproaches.
"Ten thousand devils seize the whole of you!" he cried, looking back at the door.
He seized his velvet cap as though he would tear it in pieces; but he replaced it on his head, and burst out laughing.
"Bah!" he exclaimed; "what is two or three hundred ducats? Doesn't Jonas offer to share his purse with me? Can't I put my hand into it when I will? Oh, most noble and generous Jew! By all the gods, I'll turn Israelite and marry your pretty daughter."
Suddenly Titus quickens his pace; some thought seems all at once to have occurred to him.
The night was dark and the silence profound. Only an occasional star shone through the flying clouds, like the phosphorescent lights that come of the breaking of the waves. His way led him along the bank of a canal, whose muddy water reflected the dark and menacing sky, which reminded him of some of his father's engravings.
Finally, he turned the corner of the cathedral, whose clock just then struck two, and stopped before a large house, and looked up at one of its windows. It was one of those antique structures that date from the middle ages. The gable-end projected out over the street, and small, symmetrically disposed beams formed part of the wall. In the rear there was a spacious garden.
Titus scaled the inclosure, and made a signal. Scarcely a minute had elapsed when a small window opened.
"Is it you, mynheer?" inquired a cracked voice.
"Yes, Esther; it is I."
"Very well, very well."
In a moment a key turned in the lock of the street-door, which was opened by a thin, tremulous hand.
"Ah, Mynheer Rembrandt," said the old woman—"ah, you have made us wait a long time. My poor little Rebecca had given up all hope of seeing you to-night. She has been crying for this hour."
Titus mounted the stairs; Esther followed him slowly.
She was a kind old soul, was Esther. She had served Jonas for near half a century. She was so fond of her little Rebecca that she could refuse her nothing. In appearance Esther resembled the Cumæan Sibyl: short, shriveled, and infirm, with little, round, piercing eyes. As for her mouth, it disappeared when her nose and chin completed the formation of a sort of beak.
Titus hastened down a long hall, pushed open a padded door, and found himself in a room with Rebecca.
All that our modern luxury could furnish that is sumptuous and rich would be eclipsed by the splendor of this little boudoir. Imagine an apartment, high, small, and arched en ogive; the angles are decorated with beautiful paintings; from the center of the arch a bronze chandelier is suspended by a silver chain. An Indian rug of the most costly fabric covers the floor. Two high Gothic windows, with their brass sashes and colored panes, admit a light that dazzles by the brilliancy of its colors.
Finally, on a luxurious divan reposes la petite Rebecca.
Oh, Titus! fortunate young man!
The daughter of Jonas, a veritable Oriental pearl of ideal purity, sighs and waits for the son of Rembrandt. Her elbow resting on the end of the sofa, her head in her hand, her hair hanging loosely about her white shoulders, the poor child has a sad and dejected mien. A tear glistens on her long lashes: the ingrate does not come.
When he suddenly burst into the room, she could not suppress a cry of joy.
"Oh, thank Heaven! at last! at last! But I have waited so, so long!"
The young man, on his knees beside her, winds his arm around her supple form; their eyes meet, their breath and their hair intermingle.
"How beautiful, how lovely you are to-night!" he exclaims.
An hour passes. The lovers take no note of time. They speak in a tone so low that not even the silence is disturbed.
Suddenly the clock of the old cathedral strikes, and its solemn reverberations seem to travel far into the stillness of the night. At the same moment a door opens at the extremity of the passage. Titus trembles with fear, and listens.
Slow, shuffling steps approach the little boudoir. Titus springs toward the chandelier and extinguishes the lights.
Some one stops before the door; the light of a candle shines through the key-hole and forms a star on the opposite wall. Titus hardly dares to breathe. Finally, the nocturnal wanderer continues his way along the passage; the luminous point describes a circle on the wall, and disappears as the steps grow fainter without.
"Who is it?" whispers Titus.
"My father," says Rebecca. "He often goes about the house at night."
Impelled by an irresistible curiosity, Titus opened the door sufficiently to look out. There was Jonas at the end of the hall enveloped in a long gown; in one hand he held a lamp, while with the other he unlocked and opened a heavy oaken door and disappeared, closing the door behind him.
There was something so strange and weird in the old Jew's movements that Titus turned to Rebecca, and asked:
"What is he doing at this hour?"
"I do not know," she replied. 'I was quite small when I heard him the first time going about at night. At first I felt afraid, but I have long since become accustomed to hearing him. He always stops for a moment before my door; then he goes on down,the passage just as he did tonight."
"It is very strange," said Titus. "He never comes in?"
"No, never."
"What is there behind this big oaken door?"
"I do not know; he always keeps the key. No one ever enters there but himself."
"It is strange, very strange," half soliloquized Titus.
"Very true," said Rebecca; "but why concern yourself about what you can not fathom? Come back, and tell me again how much you love me."
"It is better I should go. Your father might discover—"
"No danger. We shall hear nothing more of him for an hour."
She exerted herself to make him prolong his stay, but Titus could not be persuaded. He donned his cap, took a hasty leave of the gentle Rebecca, and found his way to the street as quickly and noiselessly as possible.
IV.
The next day the Prince of Hesse-Cassel, in order to do honor to the painter, deigned to present himself personally at Rembrandt's.
This Prince was un homme superbe; it was only necessary to see his mustache with its corkscrew curl, his white-plumed hat, his embroidered velvet coat, his gold-hilted sword, his silver spurs, his imposing gait, his lordly mien, to be convinced that he was one of those superior beings predestined by their ancient nobility and by the purity of their blood to rule over men.
And Nature, whose ways are ever just as well as beneficent, had placed him at the head of a principality.
Rembrandt came forward to receive him on the very threshold of his modest abode, wearing a suit of coarse blue cloth, a felt hat of the Flemish fashion, while a triumphant smile lighted up his vulgar features.
The Prince's coach had stopped at a little distance from Rembrandt's house.
An attendant, dressed in black, thin as a spindle, his cheeks pale and hollow and his nose pointed, bowing low and smiling obsequiously, followed the Prince. When Rembrandt saw him carrying a long sack, presumably filled with ducats, his avaricious heart would have been overjoyed had it not been for the magnificent offer he had been compelled to refuse the previous evening.
"Well, maestro," said the Prince, "we come, you see, in person to carry off your picture, 'Abraham's Offering.' It is, I am sure, a conquest worthy of us."
"Monseigneur," said the painter, "no fortress can withstand the assault of a mule loaded with gold."
"Eh, what! do you take our worthy steward for a quadruped?"
"I speak of the sack," said Rembrandt; "the animal is only an accessory."
The steward made a grimace.
"Diable! Rembrandt, you are malicious. Defend yourself, Master Genodet."
"Monseigneur," replied the steward, "I would never presume to speak in the presence of your Highness."
"I believe him," thought the painter; "he would rather steal his ducats in silence."
They entered the studio.
To show his picture to the best advantage, Rembrandt had hung it against the wall, where it would have the most favorable light; and then he had covered it with a green linen cloth, thinking that its effect on the Prince would be heightened when he unveiled it.
"Be so good as to stand here, monseigneur," said he. "The picture is there. I will uncover it."
The royal visitor took the position indicated. Then Rembrandt, full of ardor, removed the cloth. But, amazement! the picture had disappeared!
The Prince thought he had been hoaxed, and Rembrandt for a moment or two seemed to question his own sanity; he could hardly believe his eyes—he was utterly confounded. Then, in his semi-delirium, he set to searching every corner of his studio and overturning everything, exclaiming, "My picture! where is my picture?"
"Master Rembrandt," said the Prince, "is this a comedy you are acting? I am not your dupe."
A sardonic smile played about the thin, colorless lips of the steward.
The Prince's insinuation very naturally increased the painter's frenzy.
"Comedy! What! I play comedy! I try to deceive you! I am robbed! My picture has been stolen!"
His cries were such that his sister and Titus hastened to the studio. As they entered he darted toward them.
"Is it you? Have you taken my picture?" he cried, seizing Titus by the collar.
"What picture?" asked Titus.
"Oh, it was you! Who else is there in the house to do it? I see, I see, my boy—a practical joke, is it not? I forgive you, but tell me quickly where it is."
"I assure you, father, that I know nothing of your picture, that I have not touched it."
"Ah! you villain, you deny it, do you?" He was about to deal him a blow, when the sister interposed.
"Why, brother! are you mad?" she cried.
"You know he is incapable of taking your picture. What would he do with it?"
"You defend him, do you? Then it was you!"
"I!" said the poor woman, with tears in her eyes. "How can you accuse me of such a thing?"
Rembrandt sank into a chair without adding a word. He was completely overcome.
"Let us be gone," said the Prince. "This scene is disgusting; it was doubtless rehearsed in some tavern. The picture has been sold. I regret that anything ever induced me to darken the door of this room."
Without waiting to see or to hear more, his Highness left the house, followed by his obsequious steward.
V.
The sudden and incomprehensible disappearance of his picture threw Rembrandt into a most unhappy frame of mind.
For a long time he found it impossible to work. At table with Louise and Titus, he would glance first at the one and then at the other with a look full of defiance, and never opened his mouth but to complain of traitors and ingrates.
"Ay, ay," said he, "one thinks he has an affectionate and devoted sister and son; one gives them his confidence, and what do they prove to be? his greatest enemies. Great Heaven! whom can we trust? The honest man is the prey of villains and thieves. His own family to rob him!"
Poor Louise kept silent. What could be said in reply to one in his mental condition?
Sometimes Rembrandt, impelled by an indescribable feeling between doubt and fear, would search over and again every nook and corner of his house like a veritable madman. Often also he was seen in the court-yard, walking slowly and gravely to and fro, with his arms folded over his chest, his head inclined forward, and muttering unintelligibly to himself.
When his dogs would. come toward him, wagging their tails with pleasure, he would cry out to them: "Out with you! You, too, are a couple of traitors! The thief and you are good friends, I have no doubt, and you would lick his hand as soon as mine."
At eight o'clock each evening Rembrandt closed the portal of his house, adjusted the bar, sent Louise and Titus away, and then, with a long rapier in his hand, remained in ambuscade in the yard until he could keep his eyes open no longer, when he would retire, cursing the weakness of his will because he could not conquer nature.
Nevertheless, despite his fears, his doubts, and suspicions, which amounted to little less than insanity, Rembrandt, after a few weeks, returned to his work, and completed one of his most famous pictures, "The Meditative Philosopher," which is characterized by a melancholy so profound and a sadness so true.
One evening several energetic raps were heard at the portal of the court. The painter went out and asked who was there.
"It is I, Master Rembrandt," replied the voice of Jonas. "What the devil do you close your doors for at such an early hour? I have something to say to you."
Rembrandt opened the wicket in the portal, and inquired in anything but an encouraging tone:
"Well, what is it?"
The face of the old Jew presented itself, with its innumerable wrinkles and leather complexion.
"I came to inquire," said he, "if you have not a picture to sell? I have a buyer, if I can find anything that will please him."
"Bring him to me to-morrow," said the painter. "I have just completed a work of imagination."
"The gentleman came to me," said Jonas, "and you understand—"
"Oh, I see; you want a commission. In future I shall sell my pictures myself."
He closed the wicket, and went into the house.
It was thus that Jonas was dismissed, for the humor of the painter, not the most agreeable at the best, had of late been materially soured.
Although he could not work by lamp-light, Rembrandt rarely left his studio in the evening. The neighbors saw a light in this room every night, and often a shadow was outlined on the red silk curtain.
What was the painter doing at these late hours, when the whole town was supposed to be asleep, when a profound stillness reigned in the streets far and near, when the eyes of the cat shine as though she carried a flambeau in her head? At these unwonted hours Rembrandt was still awake. He raises a heavy trap-door in the center of his studio, and descends a few steps. A feverish agitation makes his muscles twitch; his eyes glisten with a supernatural expression. He thrusts his hand into a deep cavity, and with an effort draws forth an iron casket. His coarse features redden with delight. He raises the cover, and fixes his eyes with a satanic smile on the contents. For a moment the raiser is speechless with emotion; then he grasps a handful of the gold, and chuckles:
"Ha! ha! my beauties, are you there? There's no deceit in you. You, at least, will never betray me."
As the miser soliloquized, he picked up handful after handful of coin, and let it slide back into the casket, feasting his avaricious ears on the dull clinking it made.
But suddenly his features undergo an entire change of expression. His eyes are fixed on space, his mouth is wide open, his neck seems elongated, he breathes inaudibly, he listens. A slight noise is heard in the vestibule, then the steps of the stairs creak beneath a rapid step.
Softly and hastily the miser slips the casket back into its resting-place, regains the floor of his studio, and closes the trap behind him. Without giving a moment to reflection, he seizes a poniard that hangs on the wall, and, like a tiger that springs from his cage, he darts into the vestibule, crying:
"Ah, villain! I have you!"
At this moment a shadow disappears from the head of the stairs as if by enchantment. Rembrandt is stupefied; but a thought seizes him. He runs to his easel—his new picture is gone!
Louise, who had been aroused by a cry of terror and despair that was well-nigh inhuman, quickly arrived on the scene, covered with a cold perspiration, and trembling in every limb. She had recognized the voice of her brother. After this one cry, which seemed to come from the very depths of his being, all was as silent as it had been before; not a sound disturbed the general stillness.
Despite her terror, Louise had had the courage to seek her brother.
She found him leaning against the wall, his feet wide apart, his hands clinched, pale, his eyes open but immovable. He looked like a corpse, except that he was standing, rather than like a live man.
Louise tried to speak, but the spectacle before her paralyzed her tongue; she herself had to seek support to avoid falling.
Little by little Rembrandt came to himself. First a movement, then a heavy sigh. With animation came rage.
"I am robbed again! robbed!" he cried.
"Brother!" entreated Louise; "brother!"
"Is it you?" he asked, glaring at her like a maniac. "You were there?"
"I came when I heard you cry out," she replied.
"And Titus?"
"He is in bed."
"In bed? We will go and see."
Rembrandt led the way to his son's chamber. Louise followed.
"Titus!" he called, opening the door.
No response. He drew aside the curtains of the alcove. The bed was empty.
He tore off the pillows, the covering. He could not, it seemed, believe his eyes, and yet to doubt was impossible. There was certainly no Titus there. A smile, a bitter, melancholy smile, curled his lip.
"So, so!" said he, in a concentrated, smothered tone; "now I know the thief."
Louise made no response, but burst into tears.
VI.
Titus had passed the night at the tavern of the Free Soldiers. Toward four o'clock in the morning, just as the first faint rays of light began to whiten the tops of the chimneys, our youth, slightly over the bay, wended his way quietly through Jew Street, on his way home. Arrived there, he introduced a skeleton key into the lock of the street-portal and opened it. He expected to be greeted, as usual, by the two dogs, his accomplices; what, therefore, was his astonishment when a heavy, muscular hand seized him by the collar, and the voice of his father cried out:
"Ah, villain! I have you!"
He was dragged into the house with such rapidity that he had no time to acknowledge his wrong-doing or to beg for mercy.
Rembrandt and his son, in the center of the studio, looked at each other, face to face, each seemingly marshaling his powers for the contest. Titus was red, and shook with terror; Rembrandt was pale, and trembled with rage.
For a few seconds they were both silent. The young man felt a sort of chill creep down his back.
"I know, sir," stammered Titus, finally breaking silence, "that I am much in the wrong—that I deserve your reproaches."
"My picture!" screamed the father; "my picture!—where is my picture?"
As Titus did not answer immediately, Rembrandt continued:
"My two pictures! Speak, thief! Where are they? What have you done with them?"
"I don't know, sir, where your pictures are; I have not touched them," said Titus.
"Where have you been? Where have you spent the night?"
"I have been at—at the tavern."
"You have been at the tavern—at the tavern, eh?" cried Rembrandt. "And you eat, you drink, you play at the tavern, do you not?"
No response.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself? You eat, you drink, you play at the tavern—of course you do, or you would not go there. Where do you get your money?"
Titus hesitated.
"Where and how do you get your money?" howled Rembrandt. "Speak, you rascal! or I'll break every bone in your body."
He raised a big cudgel he had in his hand, and poor Titus felt his flesh creep, so great was his fear; but Rembrandt lowered his arm, and continued:
"I know where you get your money: you steal my pictures and sell them."
"No, sir, I do not steal; I borrow."
"You borrow," cried Rembrandt, with renewed fury—"you borrow! Of whom?"
"Of Jonas," said Titus.
"What! Jonas—a Jew, a usurer! He lends you money! How much? how much?"
"Five hundred ducats." Titus was so terrified that he did not dare to confess but half the sum he had already received from the Jew.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Rembrandt dealt him such a blow with the cudgel that he fell on the floor, exclaiming, "Oh, I am killed!"
But Rembrandt was merciless. He seized him, and dragged him into an adjoining room that had but one window, and that was grated.
"You young gallows-bird!" said he, "tell me where my pictures are, or you shall die of hunger."
He left the room, locking the door securely behind him.
Titus, his back aching from the effects of the blow with the cudgel, remained alone in the little dark room, with no other prospect before him than starvation. What a contrast between now and an hour ago at the tavern of the Free Soldiers!
When Rembrandt returned to the vestibule, he met Louise. The poor woman's eyes were red from weeping, and she seemed to be in a state of nervous bewilderment well calculated to excite commiseration.
"Well, what do you want?" he asked.
"Brother, I can not believe that—"
"See here," interrupted Rembrandt; "I forbid you to criticise my acts, and if you presume to do it, I'll turn you out of doors!"
"But, brother, I don't presume to criticise; I only say—"
"You have nothing to say in the matter," he cried, furiously. "You attend to your house affairs, and let what doesn't concern you alone."
Louise saw that in his present mood remonstrance was useless, and withdrew.
When she had the breakfast prepared, she called her brother.
"I want no breakfast," said he.
"And Titus?"
"He wants none either."
"Nor I," said Louise, and returned to her kitchen.
Toward evening a remarkable scene was enacted.
Titus had the appetite of a cannibal; Rembrandt also, but he abstained from eating. Titus set to shOuting out that he was hungry, when his father went to the door of the extemporized prison, and asked:
"Where are my pictures?"
"I am hungry!" was all the reply Titus would make.
"So am I," muttered Rembrandt, in a low tone; "so am I."
At six o'clock Louise announced supper.
"I want no supper," said Rembrandt; but, as he replied, he snuffed the odor of the frying-pan, and involuntarily turned toward the kitchen.
Louise insisted.
"I tell you I'm not hungry. Close the door; the smell of your kitchen is disagreeable."
"And Titus?"
"Titus! Let him tell me where my pictures are, and I'll forgive him."
He spoke in a loud tone, in order that the prisoner might hear him. In reply, Titus every now and then gave the door a kick, and cried out, "I'm hungry! I'm hungry!"
"The obstinate young rascal!" said Rembrandt. "We'll see who can hold out the longest."
Despite his anger, the father had determined to subject himself to the same deprivation he imposed on his son. The father suffered, but the miser made the law.
VII.
The house of Jonas was the scene of an unusual commotion.
Rebecca had waited for Titus till it was very late, and in consequence of her disappointment she had gone to bed in tears.
For several days she had complained of a loss of appetite, of headaches and dizziness, and had been a prey to an indescribable unrest akin to real indisposition. The presence of Titus alone made her forget, for the moment, that she was not in her usual state of buoyant health.
Her symptoms were such that they would have justified the fear that she was threatened with a disorder of some gravity.
On the day of which we speak, Titus having neglected to make his little visit on the previous evening, the symptoms had assumed an alarming aspect. When old Esther in the morning entered the chamber of her young mistress, she found her pale and feyerish; her temples burned, and her general aspect was that of one who is on the eve of being seriously ill.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she moaned; "I am going to die, I know I am!"
"Die!" remonstrated Esther; "die! Don't talk that way, my child."
"Yes, yes, I'm sick, I'm very sick. I have a pain here," and she put her hand on the pit of her stomach. "I can hardly breathe."
Esther was frightened, and hastened to notify Jonas, who was at his daughter's bedside with all possible dispatch. His daughter's appearance, her moans, and, above all, the tears in her large, dark eyes, filled him with terror. He invoked the aid of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob with a fervor that no other circumstance could have inspired.
"Oh, my child, my treasure!" he cried, "what can be the matter with you? Where do you feel pain? Tell me."
Instead of replying, Rebecca only agitated her arms and dropped her pretty head, while tears glistened beneath her long lashes.
In despair, Jonas hastened out of the house, while Esther prepared a calming potion which she had been in the habit of administering, for full two generations, as a remedy for every human ailment that had come under her ministration.
But a few moments had elapsed when Jonas reappeared, accompanied by the distinguished Dr. Jerosonimus.
Imagine a man between seventy and eighty years of age, thin, and hard and dry as a post. He wears a long green-silk toga; the twelve signs of the zodiac are pictured on the wide red border, and all the constellations, embroidered in silver, are seen on a sort of mantle he wears. Further, a high, pointed hat rises above the head of the Doctor; a long white beard, equally pointed, reaches nearly to his waist; and spectacles of colossal dimensions are adjusted on his thin, pointed nose. Jerosonimus looks over his spectacles, and his little black eyes seem to pierce the very recesses of your heart. Under his arm he carries an ebony box ornamented with gold, a veritable miniature pharmacy. Finally, the stride of this remarkable personage is majestic, his gesture imposing, and his speech sententious.
He placed his box on a marble-topped table, and opened it, displaying innumerable little cases and vials containing elixirs, opiates, and electuaries of every imaginable color.
It was very beautiful, and at sight of this arsenal directed against the long list of maladies, no one could fail to be convinced that Dr. Jerosonimus was a well, a cistern, an abyss of science.
"Here is hellebore," he said to Jonas, showing him a little package. "It is one of our surest antidotes for insanity. I myself gathered it on the summit of Mount Himalaya. Here is some of the manna that sustained our ancestors for forty years in the desert; it has every imaginable taste. I received it as a present from a priest of Jerusalem, whose son I cured of the pest. Since the escape from Egypt, it had been transmitted, in a sealed bottle, from father to son, and from male to male by order of primogeniture. Here is an elixir of long life, that I myself compounded of the marrow of an antelope, the gall of a giraffe, and the brain of a sphinx. Here is a water that will cause hair to grow on the soles of the feet; and here—"
"Oh, Doctor Jerosonimus," interrupted Jonas, "you are a wonderful, a sublime genius. You alone are able to save my Rebecca. Deign to look at the poor child, who lies here suffering from as many pains as you have remedies in your little box."
This reminded Dr. Jerosonimus of the object of his visit. He turned toward the couch on which Rebecca lay, and, with a grave mien and measured step, he approached her.
"Nature," said. he, "engenders innumerable ills, but science dominates nature, and lays bare her secrets. My child, give me your hand."
Rebecca obeyed.
The Doctor put the ends of his fingers on her pulse, counted the number of beats, half closed his little black eyes, and seemed to reflect; then, turning toward his patient, he said:
"Your tongue."
She opened her mouth. Jerosonimus adjusted his ponderous spectacles, glanced at the oral cavity she displayed, and then, with an oracular shake of the head, he said:
"Serious, very!"
Meanwhile, Esther and Jonas had exchanged innumerable significant glances. When the Doctor said, "Serious, very!" the Jew raised his hands toward heaven in mute despair.
"Very serious," repeated Jerosonimus; "but we have a remedy—one, and one only. It is fortunate, Mynheer Jonas, that you came for me. I alone am able to penetrate the mystery of this malady."
"Oh, Doctor," cried Jonas, "save my child, and my gratitude shall be testified to the utmost limit of my poor fortune!"
The Doctor ran his eyes over the rich furniture of the room, and smiled. Then he said:
"My child, tell me how you feel."
At this question Rebecca burst into tears.
"I feel," said she, in a childlike tone—"I feel dizzy; all the time I want to gape; sometimes I can hardly breathe; and when I eat, I feel a kind of nausea."
Jerosonimus's features assumed a peculiar expression. He turned to Jonas, and said:
"I should be glad to be alone with your daughter for a few moments."
As the father hesitated, he pointed to the few locks of white hair that still remained on his now well-nigh sterile scalp.
Jonas and old Esther withdrew, but they remained as near as possible to the door. As soon as the Doctor was alone with his patient, he leaned forward, and, in a confidential tone, asked:
"When did you see him last?"
"See him! who?"
"The young man you are in love with."
"Titus!" said she, astonished. "Do you know Titus? He didn't come yesterday."
"That's sufficient," said the Doctor.
He turned toward the door and opened it.
"Come in, Jonas; I have some good news for you. Your daughter is out of danger."
"Ah, Heaven be praised!" cried Jonas.
"Ay, ay, you may rejoice. The Lord said to our father Abraham: 'I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea-shore.'"
At the same time he whispered a few words in his ear, which caused the aged Hebrew to start as though he had been pricked by a thousand needles. He raised his fist to the Doctor and cried:
"'Tis false! 'tis false! How dare you? My daughter is incapable of—"
"She herself just told me so," said Jerosonimus calmly.
"She told you so! Impossible!"
Jonas darted toward his daughter, saying:
"Tell me, my child, tell me! What he says is not true?"
"What?" she asked naively. "What does Dr. Jerosonimus say?"
"He says, he says that you have confessed—"
"I have confessed! I have confessed nothing."
"Ah, I was sure of it," cried Jonas, triumphantly. "She has confessed nothing!"
"What!" said the Doctor; "did you not tell me that a certain young man, one Titus, was the cause—"
"The cause of what?"
"Of your disorder."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Rebecca, with the utmost simplicity; "how could Titus be the cause of my loss of appetite? It is true that I am very unhappy when he neglects to come to see me."
"When he does not come to see you!" howled Jonas. "He comes to see you? He comes here?"
"Why, yes, quite often."
"Oh, hussy! hussy!" cried Jonas, tearing his robe. "And you, you old traitress, why did you not tell me? Why did you allow this?"
In his fury he seized Esther by the throat as though he would choke her to death.
"But," cried the old sibyl, struggling to free herself from his grasp, "have you not always said that the son of Master Rembrandt was an excellent young man?"
"The son of Rembrandt!" cried Jonas—"the son of Rembrandt! I see in this the hand of Heaven!"
Without uttering another word, he left the room and the house.
The Doctor, Esther, and Rebecca thought the poor old man was bereft of his senses.
Jonas, with all possible speed, directed his steps toward Jew Street.
At sight of him everybody stopped and wondered. His long legs were taking strides that made them look more like stilts than jointed members of the human body; his thin, sharp nose never varied the direction in which it pointed; his sugar-loaf hat was pushed back on the nape of his neck, while his ample dressing-gown fluttered in the wind. He might have reminded one of a stork that was making a futile attempt to rise into the air. His whole appearance, in fact, even to the flowing sleeves of his gown, distended by his long, bony arms, lent him something of the look of this singular bird.
Jonas did not slacken his pace till he reached the domicile of the Rembrandts.
VIII.
Rembrandt had said to his son:
"If you do not tell where my pictures are, you shall die of hunger."
This terrible threat bade fair to be executed. For eight and forty hours Titus had not had a mouthful. Stretched out on the floor, pale and haggard, the poor fellow had long since stopped kicking the door; he could now scarcely stand on his feet.
Rembrandt, seated near the door of the little room, well-nigh as pale and not more vigorous than his prisoner, but as determined as at first, continued to call out from time to time:
"Tell where my pictures are, and you shall have something to eat."
As the only reply he got was the hollow echo of his voice in the vestibule, he rose, listened at the door, and then, looking through the key-hole, muttered:
"He doesn't reply. Perhaps he's dead."
Involuntarily he put his hand to the pocket in which he had the key; then he resumed his seat, saying:
"No, I have fasted as long as he has; he can't be dead yet. There is no danger. He's only obstinate." He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and bit his lips. In a few minutes he continued:
"The rascal! if he'd only confess, if he'd only tell me where my pictures are, we'd have something to eat. The young brigand! Oh, he has them, or he has sold them! Borrow five hundred ducats! five hundred ducats! The rascal! the rascal! let him starve. I wish it were all over! This hunger is something terrible."
Meantime other thoughts came to take possession of the miser. What he suffered enabled him to appreciate the suffering of his son.
What he loved next to his gold was Titus. As we see, his paternal affection forbade his imposing a great deprivation on him without subjecting himself to it at the same time. At those moments when the father was in the ascendancy, he would cry out:
"Titus! Titus, my boy! Confess, and I'll pardon you! Confess, and we'll have something to eat, and some porter."
But, receiving no response, the rage of the miser would be rekindled.
Toward noon a paroxysm of ravenousness seized him. He suddenly sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"I can stand it no longer!"
Just then the door opened, and Jonas, the exasperated Jonas, stood on the threshold.
At sight of the Jew, to whom he attributed his son's shortcomings, Rembrandt's plebeian physiognomy assumed an expression menacing beyond description. If he had not felt so feeble, he would have made an effort to strangle the old Jew then and there.
Jonas, on his part, was not less furious. His long, yellow, furrowed face was a picture of indignation and despair.
What had just come to his knowledge with regard to his daughter had put him in a frame of mind which the jeers of the people he had passed in the streets had very naturally aggravated.
To see these two men, as they stood for a moment face to face, breathing defiance at each other, the one tall and cadaverous, the other short and stout, one would have been reminded of a battle between a heron and a hawk.
"Master Rembrandt," cried Jonas, "your son is a villain! He has disgraced my daughter, my little Rebecca, an angel of innocence and purity."
"And you," Rembrandt replied, "you old scoundrel, you have been doing what you could to ruin my son. You have been lending him money. The devil take you and your Rebecca, and the sooner the better!"
"I don't come for my money, I don't care for my money," said Jonas, "although I have lent him a thousand ducats."
"A thousand ducats!" howled Rembrandt. "It's false! You have lent him only five hundred."
"Some other time I will prove what I say; but now I come for something else."
Rembrandt was livid with rage.
"A thousand ducats!" he cried; and, despite his weakness, he attempted to seize the Jew, but his strength failed him. He fell back into his chair, repeating, "A thousand ducats! a thousand ducats!"
"I don't care for the money," repeated Jonas, "if your son will consent to embrace the religion of Moses and marry my daughter."
"What!" cried Rembrandt--"what! my son become a Jew! Are you mad, you old vagabond?"
"Your son has compromised my daughter, I say, and—"
Rembrandt uttered a cry of rage that fairly made Jonas tremble.
"Out of ray house, you old usurer!" he cried; "out of my house, or I'll tear you in pieces!"
His exasperation seemed to give him all his wonted vigor. He sprang toward the Jew to put his threat into execution. Jonas, in defending himself, retreated to the door. They both cried out and heaped imprecations on each other's head till they were breathless. Meanwhile the old Jew, though attacked in front, had managed to open the door; and now, standing on the threshold, he raised his long arms, and, in a tone full of solemnity, he cried:
"Master Rembrandt, I, a poor old man, whose gray hairs your son has dishonored—I, the most unhappy of men, who ask of you only what is right and just, and whom you brutally repulse, showing no regard either for my age or my tears—I curse you! Ay, I curse you to the twentieth generation! May you be poor, despised, and wretched! May Dales take up his abode within your doors and devour you!"
So saying, he staggered toward the street, covering his bald head with a flap of his gown, for he had lost his hat in the battle.
Rembrandt, exhausted and bewildered, hastened to the little room in which he had Titus imprisoned and opened the door. Titus, aroused by the noise of the battle, had risen from the floor. His father, without saying a word, seized him by the hand and led him into the vestibule. There he took a loaf of bread from. a cupboard, cut it in two, gave him half of it, and then pushed him out of doors, saying:
"Never let me see you again, never! You have no longer a father—I no longer a son!"
IX.
At first Titus did not comprehend the extent of his misfortunes. After having taken a few steps along the wall, against which he leaned for support, he sat down on a big stone, and ate the bread his father had given him. Then he went to a fountain at the corner of the street, and quenched his thirst. He was now so much refreshed that he was able to collect his thoughts, and give some form to his confused ideas.
The sudden disappearance of the picture, his father's rage, the punishment he had endured. the appearance of Jonas on the scene, the words exchanged between him and his father, the battle that followed—all this came back to him like the remembrance of a dream that had been forgotten. He also recalled his father's words: "Never let me see you again, never! You have no longer a father—I no longer a son!"
And where go now? What do?
The canal was near. He went to its bank, and seemed to reflect; but the water was black and muddy. He turned away, saying:
"If, now, it were only schiedam or porter, there would be some sense in drowning one's self in it; but in water, and such as that? No!"
He directed his steps mechanically toward the tavern of the Free Soldiers, and found a goodly company assembled there: Van Eick, Van Hopp, and several others. They gave him a boisterous welcome, and invited him to drink, to eat, and to play. They gave him a glass, and he seated himself among them, and naively recounted what had happened to him since he was last there.
His story being told, he was amazed to see the change that had come over the manner and mien of his joyous comrades. One after another, they turned away from him; his glass was empty, but none of them seemed to notice it.
"What the devil!" cried Van Eick, in a most offensive tone; "did anybody ever hear such a ridiculous story as this one you tell us?"
Titus vowed and protested that his statement was literally true, but they all refused to believe him.
"And then," said Van Hopp, "if Mynheer Titus tells the truth, I think it exceedingly indelicate for him to present himself here, and to accept civilities he is not able to return."
"Very true," said the others; "his is a way of doing that is new, and that we hope no one else will be inclined to adopt."
Just then Van Eick made a gesture, in response to which Dame Catherine came and took away Titus's glass.
Titus's cheeks burned with shame and rage, and his jaws closed convulsively. What he was compelled to endure now was a thousand times worse than what he had just endured at the hands of his father. He rose, and with a look of supreme contempt replied:
"You are ignoble wretches! You insult me because I have no more money!"
"Quite right," said Van Hopp, with a coarse laugh; "you have more penetration than I thought you had. But, if you take my advice, you will make haste to get out of here; if you don't, we'll thrash your jacket for you to teach you manners."
Titus was already at the door when this advice was given him. He continued on his way, hastening his steps to get out of hearing as soon as possible of their laughter and low jests.
This time the poor fellow thought seriously of having recourse to the canal, black and muddy as the water was; but fortunately another thought suddenly occurred to him. As he walked on in a thoughtful mood, he muttered:
"Jonas has money—any amount of it. My father says he never wants to see me again. If I should return home and be received, which is doubtful, what a life I should have of it! No more porter, no more schiedam, no more card-playing, no more anything! I'd sooner swallow the whole canal. By heavens! I'll see what I can do with old Jonas. I'll throw myself at his feet, and declare that the light of Mount Sinai has penetrated my inmost heart."
Meantime night had come, and, seemingly by accident, Titus found himself in front of old Jonas's house. He walked round it several times, apparently maturing his course of action, until finally he scaled the garden wall and made the usual signal; but this time he made it in vain—it called forth no response. Old Esther had doubtless been driven in disgrace from the house.
For fully three hours Titus waited, watched, and debated. The cold, damp night-air gradually added to his discomfort; he became desperate. All at once he thought he saw a light flit past one of the windows; but, upon closer inspection, he concluded that it was only a delusion of his distempered imagination, as all the blinds seemed so firmly closed as to preclude the possibility of a ray of light escaping. Weary of waiting, he resolved to try the door. To his surprise, he found it was not fastened. He opened it and entered. Aglow with joy, he groped his way to the stairs with the view of going directly to Rebecca's boudoir; but, at the moment he reached the hall of the second story, a door opened at its extreme end, and Jonas, in a long night-robe, a candle in his hand, came directly toward him. Titus's first impulse was to fly; but he had not the time, for Jonas approached with the air of one in great haste. Titus stood bolt upright against a door and kept perfectly still, in the hope that the old man would pass without noticing him; but, arrived in front of him, the Jew stopped and fixed his eyes directly upon him. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyes were wide open, but they were dull and expressionless, like the eyes of the dead.
At sight of him Titus was petrified with horror; Jonas looked to him like a walking corpse. He would have cried out, but he was unable to utter a sound.
After stopping a moment, Jonas, without speaking a word, or changing the expression of his long, thin face in the slightest degree, continued his nocturnal promenade.
Titus readily comprehended that there was something abnormal in the old Jew's movements, and determined, if possible, to watch him. He therefore followed him closely; his courage, after taking in the situation, had returned to him. Jonas's long strides soon brought him to the big oaken door; he opened it, and entered the room into which it led.
To Titus the room seemed like the interior of a church, it was so large and high. Jonas's candle shone in it like a luminous point in space. At the same time, Titus noticed that a strong odor of painting pervaded the place; and on glancing at the walls, in the uncertain light of the single candle, they seemed to be covered from floor to ceiling with pictures.
On entering the gallery—such the room really was—Jonas went directly to a ladder in one corner, which he ascended with great agility, though he could use only one hand to steady himself, haying his candle in the other. Arrived at the top of the ladder, the old man straightened up, and, reaching out his candle toward the angle under the ceiling, he brought into full view Rembrandt's lost picture, "Abraham's Offering."
Titus, seeing Jonas in this perilous position, bending backward without anything seemingly to prevent his falling, could not refrain from crying out:
"Jonas, Jonas what are you doing? Take care!"
This cry seemed to thrill the old Jew like an electric shock; he twisted, rather than turned, partly round, extending his hands for support; as he did so the candle fell from his grasp. The next moment Titus heard a heavy thud followed by a deep groan.
* * * * *
Some days passed.
Jonas's windows remained closed. A death-like silence reigned throughout his spacious residence. The authorities of the good city of Amsterdam, being advised of these facts, ordered an inquiry to be made as to the cause. This resulted, not only in the finding of the Jew's dead body, but also in the discovery of his magnificent gallery of pictures. But the feature of this discovery that caused the greatest sensation was the fact that a considerable number of the most remarkable pictures in Jonas's collection were recognized by the artists who painted them, or by dilettanti to whom they had belonged.
They all stated that these paintings had gone out of their possession, some at one time, some at another, in a manner they could never account for.
Among the claimants was Rembrandt, who rejoiced in the recovery of his "Meditating Philosopher" and his "Abraham's Offering."
Titus and Rebecca had flown to Bruges, where they ended their days. Titus became as great a miser as his father. The reception his comrades Van Eick and Van Hopp gave him at the tavern of the Free Soldiers, the last time he was there, taught him the value of money.