The Silver Cross or The Carpenter of Nazareth Part 19

'No longer drink their wine while courting their daughters, as here, as in Gaul, as in the whole world, in fact!'

'No more war! By Hercules! And what then will become of the strong and the valiant, cursed Nazarene? According to you, they will, from daybreak till night, labor in the field or weave cloths like base slaves, instead of dividing their time between battle, idleness, the tavern, and the pa.s.sion of love!'

'You, who call yourself the son of G.o.d,' said one of these Romans, raising his fist against the young man; 'you are, then, the son of the G.o.d Fear, coward that you are!'

'You, who call yourself the King of the Jews, would be acknowledged, then, as king of all the poltroons of the universe!'

'Comrades!' exclaimed one of the soldiers, bursting into a laugh, 'since he is king of the poltroons, let us crown him!'

This proposition was received with insulting joy; several voices immediately cried out:

'Yes, since he is king, we must invest him with the imperial purple.'

'We must put a sceptre in his hand; we will then proclaim him, and honor him like our august Emperor Tiberius.'

And whilst their companions continued to surround and insult the young Nazarene, indifferent to these outrages, several of the soldiers went out.--One took the red cloak of a horse soldier; another the cane of a centurion; a third remembering a heap of f.a.gots intended to be burnt, lying in a corner, chose a few sprigs of a th.o.r.n.y plant, and began weaving a crown. Several voices then exclaimed:

'We must now proceed to crown the King of the Jews.'

'Yes, let us crown the king of the cowards!'

'The son of G.o.d!'

'The son of the G.o.d Fear!'

'Companions, this coronation must be performed with pomp, as if it concerned a real Caesar.'

'As for me, I am crown bearer.'

'And I, sceptre-bearer.'

'And I, bearer of the imperial mantle.'

And amidst shouts and obscene jests, these Romans formed a sort of mock procession. The crown-bearer advanced the first, holding the crown of thorns with a solemn air; and followed by a certain number of soldiers; next came the sceptre-bearer, then other soldiers; lastly, the one who carried the mantle; and all sang in chorus:

'Hail to the King of the Jews!

'Hail to the Messiah!

'Hail to the Son of G.o.d!

'Hail to the Caesar of poltroons, hail!'

Jesus, seated on his bench, regarded the preparations for this insulting ceremony with unalterable placidity. The crown-bearer having approached first, raised the th.o.r.n.y emblem above the head of the young man, and said to him: 'I crown thee, O king!'

And the Roman placed the crown so brutally on the head of Jesus, that the thorns pierced the flesh; large drops of blood ran, like tears of blood, down the pale face of the victim; but, except the first involuntary shudder caused by the agony, the features of the meek and lowly sufferer maintained their usual placidity, and betrayed neither resentment nor rage.

'And I invest you with the imperial mantle, O king!' added another Roman, whilst one of his companions drew off the tunic that had been thrown over the shoulders of Jesus. No doubt the wool of this garment had already adhered to the living flesh, for at the moment it was violently s.n.a.t.c.hed from the shoulders of Jesus, he uttered a loud exclamation of pain, but this was all: he allowed himself to be patiently invested with the red cloak.

'Now, take thy sceptre, O great king!' added another soldier, kneeling before the young man, and placing in his hand the centurion's walking-stick; then all, with loud bursts of laughter, repeated, 'Hail to the King of the Jews, hail!'

A great many of them kneeled before him out of mockery, repeating:

'Hail, O great King!'

Jesus retained in his hand this mock sceptre, but p.r.o.nounced not a word; this unalterable resignation, this angelic sweetness, so struck his tormentors, that, at first they were stupified; then, their rage increasing in proportion to the patience of the young Nazarene, they emulated each other in irritation, exclaiming: 'This is not a man, it is a statue!'

'All the blood he had in his veins has left him with the rods of the executioner. The coward, he does not even complain!'

'Coward!' said a veteran in a thoughtful air, after having long contemplated Jesus, although at first he had been one of his most cruel tormentors: 'No, he is no coward! no, to endure patiently all that we have made him suffer, requires more courage than to throw oneself sword in hand on the enemy. No!' he repeated, drawing aside, 'no, this man is no coward!'

And Genevieve fancied she saw a tear drop on the grey moustache of the old soldier.

The other soldiers laughed at the compa.s.sion of their companion, and exclaimed:

'He does not see that the Nazarene feigns resignation that we may pity him.'

'It's true! within he is all rage and hatred, tho' outside he is so serene and compa.s.sionating.'

'He is a bashful tiger invested with a lamb's skin.'

At these insulting words Jesus contented himself with smiling mournfully and shaking his head; this movement made the blood fall in a spray around him, for the wounds made on his forehead by the thorns still bled.

At sight of this blood, Genevieve could not help murmuring to herself the chorus of the children of the mistletoe, mentioned in the recitals of her husband's ancestors:

'Flow, flow, blood of the captive! Fall, fall, incarnate dew! Germinate and grow, avenging harvest!'

'Oh,' said Genevieve to herself, 'the blood of this innocent, of this martyr, so basely abandoned by his friends, by this people, poor and oppressed, whom he cherished, this blood will return on them and their children. But may it also fertilize the b.l.o.o.d.y harvest of vengeance.'

The Romans, exasperated by the heavenly patience of Jesus, knew not what to think of to conquer him. Neither insults nor threats could move him, so one of the soldiers s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand the stick he continued to hold mechanically and broke it on his head, exclaiming,

'You will, perhaps, give some signs of life, statue of flesh and bones!'

but Jesus, having at first bowed his head beneath the blow, raised it, casting a look of pardon on the one who had struck him. No doubt this ineffable sweetness intimidated or embarra.s.sed the barbarians, for one of them, detaching his scarf, bandaged the eyes of the young man of Nazareth, saying to him:

'O great king! thy respectful subjects are not worthy to support thy glance!'

When Jesus had his eyes thus bandaged, the idea of a ferocious baseness struck the mind of the Romans; one of them approached the victim, gave him a slap in the face and said to him, bursting into a laugh:

'O great prophet! guess the name of him who has struck you.'

Then a horrible sport commenced. These robust and armed men, each struck in turn the fettered victim, broken by so many tortures, saying to him every time they struck him on the face:

'Can you guess this time who struck you?'

Jesus (and these were the only words that Genevieve heard him p.r.o.nounce during the whole martyrdom), Jesus said in a voice of compa.s.sion, lifting to heaven his eyes still covered with the bandage:

'May G.o.d forgive them, they know not what they do.'

Such was the only plaint uttered, by the sufferer, and it was not even a plaint; it was a prayer he addressed to G.o.d, imploring pardon for his tormentors. The Romans, far from being appeased by this divine forbearance, redoubled their violences and outrages. Some wretches were base enough to spit in Jesus' face. Genevieve could no longer have supported the spectacle of these enormities, even if the G.o.ds had not put an end to it; she heard in the street a great tumult, and saw arrive Doctor Baruch, Jonas the banker, and Caiphus the high priest. Two men in their suite carried a heavy wooden cross, a little longer than the height of a man. At sight of this instrument of torture, the persons waiting outside the gate of the guard-house, and amongst whom was Genevieve, cried in a triumphant voice: