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diff --git a/7079-0.txt b/7079-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d73025c --- /dev/null +++ b/7079-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25483 @@ +Project Gutenberg’s The Companions of Jehu, by Alexandre Dumas, père + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Companions of Jehu + +Author: Alexandre Dumas, père + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7079] +Posting Date: March 21, 2009 +Last Updated: November 21, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPANIONS OF JEHU *** + + + + +Produced by Robert J. Hall + + + + + +THE COMPANIONS OF JEHU + +By Alexandre Dumas, père + + + +CONTENTS + + An Introductory Word to the Reader. + Prologue--The City of Avignon. + I. A Table d’Hôte. + II. An Italian Proverb. + III. The Englishman. + IV. The Duel. + V. Roland. + VI. Morgan. + VII. The Chartreuse of Seillon. + VIII. How the Money of the Directory was Used. + IX. Romeo and Juliet + X. The Family of Roland. + XI. Château des Noires-Fontaines. + XII. Provincial Pleasures. + XIII. The Wild-Boar. + XIV. An Unpleasant Commission. + XV. The Strong-Minded Man. + XVI. The Ghost. + XVII. Investigations. + XVIII. The Trial. + XIX. The Little House in the Rue de la Victoire. + XX. The Guests of General Bonaparte. + XXI. The Schedule of the Directory. + XXII. The Outline of a Decree. + XXIII. Alea Jacta Est. + XXIV. The Eighteenth Brumaire. + XXV. An Important Communication. + XXVI. The Ball of the Victims. + XXVII. The Bear’s Skin. + XXVIII. Family Matters. + XXIX. The Geneva Diligence. + XXX. Citizen Fouché’s Report. + XXXI. The Son of the Miller of Guerno. + XXXII. White and Blue. + XXXIII. The Law of Retaliation. + XXXIV. The Diplomacy of Georges Cadoudal. + XXXV. A Proposal of Marriage. + XXXVI. Sculpture and Painting. + XXXVII. The Ambassador. + XXXVIII. The Two Signals. + XXXIX. The Grotto of Ceyzeriat. + XL. A False Scent. + XLI. The Hôtel de la Poste. + XLII. The Chambéry Mail-Coach. + XLIII. Lord Grenville’s Reply. + XLIV. Change of Residence. + XLV. The Follower of Trails. + XLVI. An Inspiration. + XLVII. A Reconnoissance. + XLVIII. In which Morgan’s Presentiments are Verified. + XLIX. Roland’s Revenge. + L. Cadoudal at the Tuileries. + LI. The Army of the Reserves. + LII. The Trial. + LIII. In which Amélie Keeps Her Word. + LIV. The Confession. + LV. Invulnerable. + LVI. Conclusion. + + + + +AN INTRODUCTORY WORD TO THE READER + +Just about a year ago my old friend, Jules Simon, author of “Devoir,” + came to me with a request that I write a novel for the “Journal pour +Tous.” I gave him the outline of a novel which I had in mind. The +subject pleased him, and the contract was signed on the spot. + +The action occurred between 1791 and 1793, and the first chapter opened +at Varennes the evening of the king’s arrest. + +Only, impatient as was the “Journal pour Tous,” I demanded a fortnight +of Jules Simon before beginning my novel. I wished to go to Varennes; I +was not acquainted with the locality, and I confess there is one thing I +cannot do; I am unable to write a novel or a drama about localities with +which I am not familiar. + +In order to write “Christine” I went to Fontainebleau; in writing “Henri +III.” I went to Blois; for “Les Trois Mousquetaires” I went to Boulogne +and Béthune; for “Monte-Cristo” I returned to the Catalans and the +Château d’If; for “Isaac Laquedem” I revisited Rome; and I certainly +spent more time studying Jerusalem and Corinth from a distance than if I +had gone there. + +This gives such a character of veracity to all that I write, that the +personages whom I create become eventually such integral parts of the +places in which I planted them that, as a consequence, many end by +believing in their actual existence. There are even some people who +claim to have known them. + +In this connection, dear readers, I am going to tell you something +in confidence--only do not repeat it. I do not wish to injure honest +fathers of families who live by this little industry, but if you go to +Marseilles you will be shown there the house of Morel on the Cours, the +house of Mercédès at the Catalans, and the dungeons of Dantès and Faria +at the Château d’If. + +When I staged “Monte-Cristo” at the Theâtre-Historique, I wrote to +Marseilles for a plan of the Château d’If, which was sent to me. This +drawing was for the use of the scene painter. The artist to whom I had +recourse forwarded me the desired plan. He even did better than I would +have dared ask of him; he wrote beneath it: “View of the Château d’If, +from the side where Dantès was thrown into the sea.” + +I have learned since that a worthy man, a guide attached to the Château +d’If, sells pens made of fish-bone by the Abbé Faria himself. + +There is but one unfortunate circumstance concerning this; the fact is, +Dantès and the Abbé Faria have never existed save in my imagination; +consequently, Dantès could not have been precipitated from the top to +the bottom of the Château d’If, nor could the Abbé Faria have made pens. +But that is what comes from visiting these localities in person. + +Therefore, I wished to visit Varennes before commencing my novel, +because the first chapter was to open in that city. Besides, +historically, Varennes worried me considerably; the more I perused the +historical accounts of Varennes, the less I was able to understand, +topographically, the king’s arrest. + +I therefore proposed to my young friend, Paul Bocage, that he accompany +me to Varennes. I was sure in advance that he would accept. To merely +propose such a trip to his picturesque and charming mind was to make him +bound from his chair to the tram. We took the railroad to Châlons. +There we bargained with a livery-stable keeper, who agreed, for a +consideration of ten francs a day, to furnish us with a horse and +carriage. We were seven days on the trip, three days to go from Châlons +to Varennes, one day to make the requisite local researches in the city, +and three days to return from Varennes to Châlons. + +I recognized with a degree of satisfaction which you will easily +comprehend, that not a single historian had been historical, and with +still greater satisfaction that M. Thiers had been the least accurate of +all these historians. I had already suspected this, but was not certain. +The only one who had been accurate, with absolute accuracy, was Victor +Hugo in his book called “The Rhine.” It is true that Victor Hugo is a +poet and not a historian. What historians these poets would make, if +they would but consent to become historians! + +One day Lamartine asked me to what I attributed the immense success of +his “Histoire des Girondins.” + +“To this, because in it you rose to the level of a novel,” I answered +him. He reflected for a while and ended, I believe, by agreeing with me. + +I spent a day, therefore, at Varennes and visited all the localities +necessary for my novel, which was to be called “René d’Argonne.” Then +I returned. My son was staying in the country at Sainte-Assise, near +Melun; my room awaited me, and I resolved to go there to write my novel. + +I am acquainted with no two characters more dissimilar than Alexandre’s +and mine, which nevertheless harmonize so well. It is true we pass many +enjoyable hours during our separations; but none I think pleasanter than +those we spend together. + +I had been installed there for three or four days endeavoring to begin +my “René d’Argonne,” taking up my pen, then laying it aside almost +immediately. The thing would not go. I consoled myself by telling +stories. Chance willed that I should relate one which Nodier had told +me of four young men affiliated with the Company of Jehu, who had been +executed at Bourg in Bresse amid the most dramatic circumstances. One of +these four young men, he who had found the greatest difficulty in dying, +or rather he whom they had the greatest difficulty in killing, was but +nineteen and a half years old. + +Alexandre listened to my story with much interest. When I had finished: +“Do you know,” said he, “what I should do in your place?” + +“What?” + +“I should lay aside ‘René d’Argonne,’ which refuses to materialize, and +in its stead I should write ‘The Companions of Jehu.’” + +“But just think, I have had that other novel in mind for a year or two, +and it is almost finished.” + +“It never will be since it is not finished now.” + +“Perhaps you are right, but I shall lose six months regaining my present +vantage-ground.” + +“Good! In three days you will have written half a volume.” + +“Then you will help me.” + +“Yes, for I shall give you two characters.” + +“Is that all?” + +“You are too exacting! The rest is your affair; I am busy with my +‘Question d’Argent.’” + +“Well, who are your two characters, then?” + +“An English gentleman and a French captain.” + +“Introduce the Englishman first.” + +“Very well.” And Alexandre drew Lord Tanlay’s portrait for me. + +“Your English gentleman pleases me,” said I; “now let us see your French +captain.” + +“My French captain is a mysterious character, who courts death with all +his might, without being able to accomplish his desire; so that each +time he rushes into mortal danger he performs some brilliant feat which +secures him promotion.” + +“But why does he wish to get himself killed?” + +“Because he is disgusted with life.” + +“Why is he disgusted with life?” + +“Ah! That will be the secret of the book.” + +“It must be told in the end.” + +“On the contrary, I, in your place, would not tell it.” + +“The readers will demand it.” + +“You will reply that they have only to search for it; you must leave +them something to do, these readers of yours.” + +“Dear friend, I shall be overwhelmed with letters.” + +“You need not answer them.” + +“Yes, but for my personal gratification I, at least, must know why my +hero longs to die.” + +“Oh, I do not refuse to tell you.” + +“Let me hear, then.” + +“Well, suppose, instead of being professor of dialectics, Abelard had +been a soldier.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, let us suppose that a bullet--” + +“Excellent!” + +“You understand? Instead of withdrawing to Paraclet, he would have +courted death at every possible opportunity.” + +“Hum! That will be difficult.” + +“Difficult! In what way?” + +“To make the public swallow that.” + +“But since you are not going to tell the public.” + +“That is true. By my faith, I believe you are right. Wait.” + +“I am waiting.” + +“Have you Nodier’s ‘Souvenirs de la Révolution’? I believe he wrote one +or two pages about Guyon, Leprêtre, Amiet and Hyvert.” + +“They will say, then, that you have plagiarized from Nodier.” + +“Oh! He loved me well enough during his life not to refuse me whatever +I shall take from him after his death. Go fetch me the ‘Souvenirs de la +Révolution.’” + +Alexandre brought me the book. I opened it, turned over two or three +pages, and at last discovered what I was looking for. A little of +Nodier, dear readers, you will lose nothing by it. It is he who is +speaking: + + +The highwaymen who attacked the diligences, as mentioned in the article +on Amiet, which I quoted just now, were called Leprêtre, Hyvert, Guyon +and Amiet. + +Leprêtre was forty-eight years old. He was formerly a captain of +dragoons, a knight of St. Louis, of a noble countenance, prepossessing +carriage and much elegance of manner. Guyon and Amiet have never been +known by their real names. They owe that to the accommodating spirit +prevailing among the vendors of passports of those days. Let the reader +picture to himself two dare-devils between twenty and thirty years of +age, allied by some common responsibility, the sequence, perhaps of +some misdeed, or, by a more delicate and generous interest, the fear of +compromising their family name. Then you will know of Guyon and Amiet +all that I can recall. The latter had a sinister countenance, to which, +perhaps, he owes the bad reputation with which all his biographers have +credited him. Hyvert was the son of a rich merchant of Lyons, who had +offered the sub-officer charged with his deportation sixty thousand +francs to permit his escape. He was at once the Achilles and the Paris +of the band. He was of medium height but well formed, lithe, and of +graceful and pleasing address. His eyes were never without animation nor +his lips without a smile. His was one of those countenances which +are never forgotten, and which present an inexpressible blending of +sweetness and strength, tenderness and energy. When he yielded to the +eloquent petulance of his inspirations he soared to enthusiasm. His +conversation revealed the rudiments of an excellent early education and +much natural intelligence. That which was so terrifying in him was his +tone of heedless gayety, which contrasted so horribly with his position. +For the rest, he was unanimously conceded to be kind, generous, humane, +lenient toward the weak, while with the strong he loved to display a +vigor truly athletic which his somewhat effeminate features were far +from indicating. He boasted that he had never been without money, and +had no enemies. That was his sole reply to the charges of theft and +assassination. He was twenty-two years old. + +To these four men was intrusted the attack upon a diligence conveying +forty thousand francs of government money. This deed was transacted +in broad daylight, with an exchange of mutual courtesy almost; and the +travellers, who were not disturbed by the attack, gave little heed to +it. But a child of only ten years of age, with reckless bravado, +seized the pistol of the conductor and fired it into the midst of the +assailants. As this peaceful weapon, according to the custom, was only +charged with powder, no one was injured; but the occupants of the coach +quite naturally experienced a lively fear of reprisals. The little +boy’s mother fell into violent hysterics. This new disturbance created +a general diversion which dominated all the preceding events and +particularly attracted the attention of the robbers. One of them flew to +the woman’s side, reassuring her in the most affectionate manner, while +complimenting her upon her son’s precocious courage, and courteously +pressed upon her the salts and perfumes with which these gentlemen were +ordinarily provided for their own use. She regained consciousness. In +the excitement of the moment her travelling companions noticed that the +highwayman’s mask had fallen off, but they did not see his face. + +The police of those days, restricted to mere impotent supervision, were +unable to cope with the depredations of these banditti, although they +did not lack the means to follow them up. Appointments were made at the +cafés, and narratives relating to deeds carrying with them the penalty +of death circulated freely through all the billiard-halls in the land. +Such was the importance which the culprits and the public attached to +the police. + +These men of blood and terror assembled in society in the evening, +and discussed their nocturnal expeditions as if they had been mere +pleasure-parties. + +Leprêtre, Hyvert, Amiet and Guyon were arraigned before the tribunal +of a neighboring department. No one save the Treasury had suffered from +their attack, and there was no one to identify them save the lady +who took very good care not to do so. They were therefore acquitted +unanimously. + +Nevertheless, the evidence against them so obviously called for +conviction, that the Ministry was forced to appeal from this decision. +The verdict was set aside; but such was the government’s vacillation, +that it hesitated to punish excesses that might on the morrow be +regarded as virtues. The accused were cited before the tribunal of +Ain, in the city of Bourg, where dwelt a majority of their friends, +relatives, abettors and accomplices. The Ministry sought to propitiate +the one party by the return of its victims, and the other by the almost +inviolate safeguards with which it surrounded the prisoners. The return +to prison indeed resembled nothing less than a triumph. + +The trial recommenced. It was at first attended by the same results as +the preceding one. The four accused were protected by an alibi, patently +false, but attested by a hundred signatures, and for which they could +easily have obtained ten thousand. All moral convictions must fail +in the presence of such authoritative testimony. An acquittal seemed +certain, when a question, perhaps involuntarily insidious, from the +president, changed the aspect of the trial. + +“Madam,” said he to the lady who had been so kindly assisted by one +of the highwaymen, “which of these men was it who tendered you such +thoughtful attention?” + +This unexpected form of interrogation confused her ideas. It is probable +that she believed the facts to be known, and saw in this a means of +modifying the fate of the man who interested her. + +“It was that gentleman,” said she, pointing to Leprêtre. The four +accused, who were included in a common alibi, fell by this one admission +under the executioner’s axe. They rose and bowed to her with a smile. + +“Faith!” said Hyvert, falling back upon his bench with a burst of +laughter, “that, Captain, will teach you to play the gallant.” + +I have heard it said that the unhappy lady died shortly after of +chagrin. + +The customary appeal followed; but, this time, there was little hope. +The Republican party, which Napoleon annihilated a month later, was in +the ascendency. That of the Counter-Revolution was compromised by its +odious excesses. The people demanded examples, and matters were arranged +accordingly, as is ordinarily the custom in strenuous times; for it is +with governments as with men, the weakest are always the most cruel. Nor +had the Companies of Jehu longer an organized existence. The heroes of +these ferocious bands, Debeauce, Hastier, Bary, Le Coq, Dabri, Delbourbe +and Storkenfeld, had either fallen on the scaffold or elsewhere. The +condemned could look for no further assistance from the daring courage +of these exhausted devotees, who, no longer capable of protecting their +own lives, coolly sacrificed them, as did Piard, after a merry supper. +Our brigands were doomed to die. + +Their appeal was rejected, but the municipal authorities were not the +first to learn of this. The condemned men were warned by three shots +fired beneath the walls of their dungeon. The Commissioner of the +Executive Directory, who had assumed the rôle of Public Prosecutor at +the trial, alarmed at this obvious sign of connivance, requisitioned a +squad of armed men of whom my uncle was then commander. At six o’clock +in the morning sixty horsemen were drawn up before the iron gratings of +the prison yard. + +Although the jailers had observed all possible precautions in entering +the dungeon where these four unfortunate men were confined, and whom +they had left the preceding day tightly pinioned and heavily loaded +with chains, they were unable to offer them a prolonged resistance. +The prisoners were free and armed to the teeth. They came forth without +difficulty, leaving their guardians under bolts and bars, and, supplied +with the keys, they quickly traversed the space that separated them +from the prison yard. Their appearance must have been terrifying to the +populace awaiting them before the iron gates. + +To assure perfect freedom of action, or perhaps to affect an appearance +of security more menacing even than the renown for strength and +intrepidity with which their names were associated, or possibly even to +conceal the flow of blood which reveals itself so readily beneath white +linen, and betrays the last agonies of a mortally wounded man, their +breasts were bared. Their braces crossed upon the chest--their wide red +belts bristling with arms--their cry of attack and rage, all that must +have given a decidedly fantastic touch to the scene. Arrived in the +square, they perceived the gendarmerie drawn up in motionless ranks, +through which it would have been impossible to force a passage. They +halted an instant and seemed to consult together. Leprêtre, who was, as +I have said, their senior and their chief, saluted the guard with his +hand, saying with that noble grace of manner peculiar to him: + +“Very well, gentlemen of the gendarmerie!” + +Then after a brief, energetic farewell to his comrades, he stepped in +front of them and blew out his brains. Guyon, Amiet and Hyvert assumed +a defensive position, their double-barrelled pistols levelled upon their +armed opponents. They did not fire; but the latter, considering this +demonstration as a sign of open hostility, fired upon them. Guyon fell +dead upon Leprêtre’s body, which had not moved. Amiet’s hip was broken +near the groin. The “Biographie des Contemporains” says that he was +executed. I have often heard it said that he died at the foot of the +scaffold. Hyvert was left alone, his determined brow, his terrible eye, +the pistol in each practiced and vigorous hand threatening death to +the spectators. Perhaps it was involuntary admiration, in his desperate +plight, for this handsome young man with his waving locks, who was +known never to have shed blood, and from whom the law now demanded the +expiation of blood; or perhaps it was the sight of those three corpses +over which he sprang like a wolf overtaken by his hunters, and the +frightful novelty of the spectacle, which for an instant restrained +the fury of the troop. He perceived this and temporized with them for a +compromise. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “I go to my death! I die with all my heart! But +let no one approach me or I shall shoot him--except this gentleman,” he +continued, pointing to the executioner. “This is an affair that concerns +us alone and merely needs a certain understanding between us.” + +This concession was readily accorded, for there was no one present who +was not suffering from the prolongation of this horrible tragedy, and +anxious to see it finished. Perceiving their assent, he placed one +of his pistols between his teeth, and drawing a dagger from his belt, +plunged it in his breast up to the hilt. He still remained standing and +seemed greatly surprised. There was a movement toward him. + +“Very well, gentlemen!” cried he, covering the men who sought to +surround him with his pistols, which he had seized again, while the +blood spurted freely from the wound in which he had left his poniard. +“You know our agreement; either I die alone or three of us will die +together. Forward, march!” He walked straight to the guillotine, turning +the knife in his breast as he did so. + +“Faith,” said he, “my soul must be centred in my belly! I cannot die. +See if you can fetch it out.” + +This last was addressed to his executioner. An instant later his head +fell. Be it accident or some peculiar phenomenon of the vitality, it +rebounded and rolled beyond the circle of the scaffolding, and they will +still tell you at Bourg, that Hyvert’s head spoke. + + +Before I had finished reading I had decided to abandon René d’Argonne +for the Companions of Jehu. On the morrow I came down with my travelling +bag under my arm. + +“You are leaving?” said Alexandre to me. + +“Yes.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“To Bourg, in Bresse.” + +“What are you going to do there?” + +“Study the neighborhood and consult with the inhabitants who saw +Leprêtre, Amiet, Guyon and Hyvert executed.” + + * * * * * + +There are two roads to Bourg--from Paris, of course; one may leave the +train at Mâcon, and take stage from Mâcon to Bourg, or, continuing as +far as Lyons, take train again from Lyons to Bourg. + +I was hesitating between these two roads when one of the travellers who +was temporarily occupying my compartment decided me. He was going to +Bourg, where he frequently had business. He was going by way of Lyons; +therefore, Lyons was the better way. + +I resolved to travel by the same route. I slept at Lyons, and on the +morrow by ten in the morning I was at Bourg. + +A paper published in the second capital of the kingdom met my eye. It +contained a spiteful article about me. Lyons has never forgiven me since +1833, I believe, some twenty-four years ago, for asserting that it was +not a literary city. Alas! I have in 1857 the same opinion of Lyons as I +had in 1833. I do not easily change my opinion. There is another city +in France that is almost as bitter against me as Lyons, that is Rouen. +Rouen has hissed all my plays, including Count Hermann. + +One day a Neapolitan boasted to me that he had hissed Rossini and +Malibran, “The Barbiere” and “Desdemona.” + +“That must be true,” I answered him, “for Rossini and Malibran on their +side boast of having been hissed by Neapolitans.” + +So I boast that the Rouenese have hissed me. Nevertheless, meeting a +full-blooded Rouenese one day I resolved to discover why I had been +hissed at Rouen. I like to understand these little things. + +My Rouenese informed me: “We hiss you because we are down on you.” + +Why not? Rouen was down on Joan of Arc. Nevertheless it could not be +for the same reason. I asked my Rouenese why he and his compatriots were +ill-disposed to me; I had never said anything evil of apple sugar, I +had treated M. Barbet with respect during his entire term as mayor, +and, when a delegate from the Society of Letters at the unveiling of the +statue of the great Corneille, I was the only one who thought to bow to +him before beginning my speech. There was nothing in that which could +have reasonably incurred the hatred of the Rouenese. + +Therefore to this haughty reply, “We hiss you because we have a grudge +against you,” I asked humbly: + +“But, great Heavens! why are you down on me?” + +“Oh, you know very well,” replied my Rouenese. + +“I?” I exclaimed. + +“Yes, you.” + +“Well, never mind; pretend I do not know.” + +“You remember the dinner the city gave you, in connection with that +statue of Corneille?” + +“Perfectly. Were they annoyed because I did not return it?” + +“No, it is not that.” + +“What is it then?” + +“Well, at that dinner they said to you: ‘M. Dumas, you ought to write a +play for Rouen based upon some subject taken from its own history.’” + +“To which I replied: ‘Nothing easier; I will come at your first summons +and spend a fortnight in Rouen. You can suggest the subject, and during +that fortnight I will write the play, the royalties of which I shall +devote to the poor.’” + +“That is true, you said that.” + +“I see nothing sufficiently insulting in that to incur the hatred of the +Rouenese.” + +“Yes, but they added: ‘Will you write it in prose?’ To which you +replied--Do you remember what you answered?” + +“My faith! no.” + +“You replied: ‘I will write it in verse; it is soonest done.’” + +“That sounds like me. Well, what then?” + +“Then! That was an insult to Corneille, M. Dumas; that is why the +Rouenese are down on you, and will be for a long time.” + +Verbatim! + +Oh, worthy Rouenese! I trust that you will never serve me so ill as to +forgive and applaud me. + +The aforesaid paper observed that M. Dumas had doubtless spent but one +night in Lyons because a city of such slight literary standing was not +worthy of his longer sojourn. M. Dumas had not thought about this at +all. He had spent but one night at Lyons because he was in a hurry to +reach Bourg. And no sooner had M. Dumas arrived at Bourg than he asked +to be directed to the office of its leading newspaper. + +I knew that it was under the management of a distinguished archeologist, +who was also the editor of my friend Baux’s work on the church of Brou. + +I asked for M. Milliet. M. Milliet appeared. We shook hands and I +explained the object of my visit. + +“I can fix you perfectly,” said he to me. “I will take you to one of +our magistrates, who is at present engaged upon a history of the +department.” + +“How far has he got in this history?” + +“1822.” + +“Then that’s all right. As the events I want to relate occurred in 1799, +and my heroes were executed in 1800, he will have covered that epoch, +and can furnish me with the desired information. Let us go to your +magistrate.” + +On the road, M. Milliet told me that this same magisterial historian was +also a noted gourmet. Since Brillat-Savarin it has been the fashion +for magistrates to be epicures. Unfortunately, many are content to be +gourmands, which is not at all the same thing. + +We were ushered into the magistrate’s study. I found a man with a shiny +face and a sneering smile. He greeted me with that protecting air which +historians deign to assume toward poets. + +“Well, sir,” he said to me, “so you have come to our poor country in +search of material for your novel?” + +“No, sir; I have my material already. I have come simply to consult your +historical documents.” + +“Good! I did not know that it was necessary to give one’s self so much +trouble in order to write novels.” + +“There you are in error, sir; at least in my instance. I am in the habit +of making exhaustive researches upon all the historical events of which +I treat.” + +“You might at least have sent some one else.” + +“Any person whom I might send, sir, not being so completely absorbed +in my subject, might have overlooked many important facts. Then, too, I +make use of many localities which I cannot describe unless I see them.” + +“Oh, then this is a novel which you intend writing yourself?” + +“Yes, certainly, sir. I allowed my valet to write my last; but he had +such immense success that the rogue asked so exorbitant an increase of +wages that, to my great regret, I was unable to keep him.” + +The magistrate bit his lips. Then, after a moment’s silence, he said: + +“Will you kindly tell me, sir, how I can assist you in this important +work?” + +“You can direct my researches, sir. As you have compiled the history of +the department, none of the important event which have occurred in its +capital can be unknown to you.” + +“Truly, sir, I believe that in this respect I am tolerably well +informed.” + +“Then, sir, in the first place, your department was the centre of the +operations of the Company of Jehu.” + +“Sir, I have heard speak of the Companions of Jesus,” replied the +magistrate with his jeering smile. + +“The Jesuits, you mean? That is not what I am seeking, sir.” + +“Nor is it of them that I am speaking. I refer to the stage robbers who +infested the highroads from 1797 to 1800.” + +“Then, sir, permit me to tell you they are precisely the ones I have +come to Bourg about, and that they were called the Companions of Jehu, +and not the Companions of Jesus.” + +“What is the meaning of this title ‘Companions of Jehu’? I like to get +at the bottom of everything.” + +“So do I, sir; that is why I did not wish to confound these highwaymen +with the Apostles.” + +“Truly, that would not have been very orthodox.” + +“But it is what you would have done, nevertheless, sir, if I, a poet, +had not come here expressly to correct the mistake you, as historian, +have made.” + +“I await your explanation, sir,” resumed the magistrate, pursing his +lips. + +“It is short and simple. Elisha consecrated Jehu, King of Israel, +on condition that he exterminate the house of Ahab; Elisha was Louis +XVIII.; Jehu was Cadoudal; the house of Ahab, the Revolution. That is +why these pillagers of diligences, who filched the government money to +support the war in the Vendée, were called the Companions of Jehu.” + +“Sir, I am happy to learn something at my age.” + +“Oh, sir! One can always learn, at all times and at all ages; during +life one learns man; in death one learns God.” + +“But, after all,” my interlocutor said to me with a gesture of +impatience, “may I know in what I can assist you?” + +“Thus, sir. Four of these young men, leaders of the Companions of Jehu, +were executed at Bourg, on the Place du Bastion.” + +“In the first place, sir, in Bourg executions do not take place at the +Bastion; they execute on the Fair grounds.” + +“Now, sir--these last fifteen or twenty years, it is true--since Peytel. +But before, especially during the Revolution, they executed on the Place +du Bastion.” + +“That is possible.” + +“It is so. These four young men were called Guyon, Leprêtre, Amiet, and +Hyvert.” + +“This is the first time I have heard those names.” + +“Yet their names made a certain noise at Bourg.” + +“Are you sure, sir, that these men were executed here?” + +“I am positive.” + +“From whom have you derived your information?” + +“From a man whose uncle, then in command of the gendarmerie, was present +at the execution.” + +“Will you tell me this man’s name?” + +“Charles Nodier.” + +“Charles Nodier, the novelist, the poet?” + +“If he were a historian I would not be so insistent, sir. Recently, +during a trip to Varennes, I learned what dependence to place upon +historians. But precisely because he is a poet, a novelist, I do +insist.” + +“You are at liberty to do so; but I know nothing of what you desire to +learn, and I dare even assert that, if you have come to Bourg solely to +obtain information concerning the execution of--what did you call them?” + +“Guyon, Leprêtre, Amiet, and Hyvert.” + +“You have undertaken a futile voyage. For these last twenty years, sir, +I have been searching the town archives, and I have never seen anything +relating to what you have just told me.” + +“The town archives are not those of the registrar, sir; perhaps at the +record office I may be able to find what I am seeking.” + +“Ah! sir, if you can find anything among those archives you will be a +very clever man! The record office is a chaos, a veritable chaos. You +would have to spend a month here, and then--then--” + +“I do not expect to stay here more than a day, sir; but if in that day I +should find what I am seeking will you permit me to impart it to you?” + +“Yes, sir; yes, sir; and you will render me a great service by doing +so.” + +“No greater than the one I asked of you. I shall merely give you some +information about a matter of which you were ignorant, that is all.” + +You can well understand that on leaving my magistrate, my honor was +piqued. I determined, cost what it might, to procure this information +about the Companions of Jehu. I went back to Milliet, and cornered him. + +“Listen,” he said. “My brother-in-law is a lawyer.” + +“He’s my man! Let’s go find the brother-in-law.” + +“He’s in court at this hour.” + +“Then let us go to court.” + +“Your appearance will create a sensation, I warn you.” + +“Then go alone--tell him what we want, and let him make a search. I will +visit the environs of the town to base my work on the localities. We +will meet at four o’clock at the Place du Bastion, if you are agreed.” + +“Perfectly.” + +“It seems to me that I saw a forest, coming here.” + +“The forest of Seillon.” + +“Bravo!” + +“Do you need a forest?” + +“It is absolutely indispensable to me.” + +“Then permit me--” + +“What?” + +“I am going to take you to a friend of mine, M. Leduc, a poet who in his +spare moments is an inspector.” + +“Inspector of what?” + +“Of the forest.” + +“Are there any ruins in the forest?” + +“The Chartreuse, which is not in the forest, but merely some hundred +feet from it.” + +“And in the forest?” + +“There is a sort of hermitage which is called La Correrie, belonging to +the Chartreuse, with which it communicates by a subterranean passage.” + +“Good! Now, if you can provide me with a grotto you will overwhelm me.” + +“We have the grotto of Ceyzeriat, but that is on the other side of the +Reissouse.” + +“I don’t mind. If the grotto won’t come to me, I will do like Mahomet--I +will go to the grotto. In the meantime let us go to M. Leduc.” + +Five minutes later we reached M. Leduc’s house. He, on learning what we +wanted, placed himself, his horse, and his carriage at my disposal. I +accepted all. There are some men who offer their services in such a way +that they place you at once at your ease. + +We first visited the Chartreuse. Had I built it myself it could not have +suited me better. A deserted cloister, devastated garden, inhabitants +almost savages. Chance, I thank thee! + +From there we went to the Correrie; it was the supplement of the +Chartreuse. I did not yet know what I could do with it; but evidently it +might be useful to me. + +“Now, sir,” I said to my obliging guide, “I need a pretty site, rather +gloomy, surrounded by tall trees, beside a river. Have you anything like +that in the neighborhood?” + +“What do you want to do with it?” + +“To build a château there.” + +“What kind of a château?” + +“Zounds! of cards! I have a family to house, a model mother, a +melancholy young girl, a mischievous brother, and a poaching gardener.” + +“There is a place called Noires-Fontaines.” + +“In the first place the name is charming.” + +“But there is no château there.” + +“So much the better, for I should have been obliged to demolish it.” + +“Let us go to Noires-Fontaines.” + +We started; a quarter of an hour later we descended at the ranger’s +lodge. + +“Shall we take this little path?” said M. Leduc; “it will take us where +you want to go.” + +It led us, in fact, to a spot planted with tall trees which overshadowed +three or four rivulets. + +“We call this place Noires-Fontaines,” M. Leduc explained. + +“And here Madame de Montrevel, Amélie and little Edouard will dwell. Now +what are those villages which I see in front of me?” + +“Here, close at hand, is Montagnac; yonder, on the mountain side, +Ceyzeriat.” + +“Is that where the grotto is?” + +“Yes. But how did you know there was a grotto at Ceyzeriat?” + +“Never mind, go on. The name of those other villages, if you please.” + +“Saint-Just, Tréconnas, Ramasse, Villereversure.” + +“That will do.” + +“Have you enough?” + +“Yes.” + +I drew out my note-book, sketched a plan of the locality and wrote about +in their relative positions the names of the villages which M. Leduc had +just pointed out to me. + +“That’s done!” said I. + +“Where shall we go now?” + +“Isn’t the church of Brou near this road?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then let us go to the church of Brou.” + +“Do you need that in your novel?” + +“Yes, indeed; you don’t imagine I am going to lay my scene in a country +which contains the architectural masterpiece of the sixteenth century +without utilizing that masterpiece, do you?” + +“Let us go to the church of Brou.” + +A quarter of an hour later the sacristan showed us into this granite +jewel-case which contains the three marble gems called the tombs of +Marguerite of Austria, Marguerite or Bourbon, and of Philibert le Beau. + +“How is it,” I asked the sacristan, “that all these masterpieces were +not reduced to powder during the Revolution?” + +“Ah! sir, the municipality had an idea.” + +“What was it?” + +“That of turning the church into a storage house for fodder.” + +“Yes, and the hay saved the marble; you are right, my friend, that _was_ +an idea.” + +“Does this idea of the municipality afford you another?” asked M. Leduc. + +“Faith, yes, and I shall have poor luck if I don’t make something out of +it.” + +I looked at my watch. “Three o’clock! Now for the prison. I have an +appointment with M. Milliet at four on the Place du Bastion.” + +“Wait; there is one thing more.” + +“What is that?” + +“Have you noticed Marguerite of Austria’s motto?” + +“No; where is it?” + +“Oh, all over. In the first place, look above her tomb.” + +“‘Fortune, infortune, fort’une.’” + +“Exactly.” + +“Well, what does this play of words mean?” + +“Learned men translate it thus: ‘Fate persecutes a woman much.’” + +“Explain that a little.” + +“You must, in the first place, assume that it is derived from the +Latin.” + +“True, that is probable.” + +“Well, then: ‘Fortuna infortunat--’” + +“Oh! Oh! ‘Infortunat.’” + +“Bless me!” + +“That strongly resembles a solecism!” + +“What do you want?” + +“An explanation.” + +“Explain it yourself.” + +“Well; ‘Fortuna, infortuna, forti una.’ ‘Fortune and misfortune are +alike to the strong.’” + +“Do you know, that may possibly be the correct translation?” + +“Zounds! See what it is not to be learned, my dear sir; we are endowed +with common-sense, and that sees clearer than science. Have you anything +else to tell me?” + +“No.” + +“Then let us go to the prison.” + +We got into the carriage and returned to the city, stopping only at the +gate of the prison. I glanced out of the window. + +“Oh!” I exclaimed, “they have spoiled it for me.” + +“What! They’ve spoiled it for you?” + +“Certainly, it was not like this in my prisoners’ time. Can I speak to +the jailer?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Then let us consult him.” + +We knocked at the door. A man about forty opened it. He recognized M. +Leduc. + +“My dear fellow,” M. Leduc said to him, “this is one of my learned +friends--” + +“Come, come,” I exclaimed, interrupting him, “no nonsense.” + +“Who contends,” continued M. Leduc, “that the prison is no longer the +same as it was in the last century?” + +“That is true, M. Leduc, it was torn down and rebuilt in 1816.” + +“Then the interior arrangements are no longer the same?” + +“Oh! no, sir, everything was changed.” + +“Could I see the old plan?” + +“M. Martin, the architect, might perhaps be able to find one for you.” + +“Is he any relation to M. Martin, the lawyer?” + +“His brother.” + +“Very well, my friend, then I can get my plan.” + +“Then we have nothing more to do here?” inquired M. Leduc. + +“Nothing.” + +“Then I am free to go home?” + +“I shall be sorry to leave you, that is all.” + +“Can you find your way to the Bastion without me?” + +“It is close by.” + +“What are you going to do this evening?” + +“I will spend it with you, if you wish.” + +“Very good! You will find a cup of tea waiting for you at nine.” + +“I shall be on hand for it.” + +I thanked M. Leduc. We shook hands and parted. + +I went down the Rue des Lisses (meaning Lists, from a combat which +took place in the square to which it leads), and skirting the Montburon +Garden, I reached the Place du Bastion. This is a semicircle now used as +the town marketplace. In the midst stands the statue of Bichat by +David d’Angers. Bichat, in a frockcoat--why that exaggeration of +realism?--stands with his hand upon the heart of a child about nine or +ten years old, perfectly nude--why that excess of ideality? Extended +at Bichat’s feet lies a dead body. It is Bichat’s book “Of Life and +of Death” translated into bronze. I was studying this statue, which +epitomizes the defects and merits of David d’Angers, when I felt some +one touch my shoulder. I turned around; it was M. Milliet. He held a +paper in his hand. + +“Well?” I asked. + +“Well, victory!” + +“What is that you have there?” + +“The minutes of the trial and execution.” + +“Of whom?” + +“Of your men.” + +“Of Guyon, Leprêtre, Amiet--!” + +“And Hyvert.” + +“Give it to me.” + +“Here it is.” + +I took it and read: + + REPORT OF THE DEATH AND EXECUTION OF LAURENT GUYON, ETIENNE + HYVERT, FRANÇOIS AMIET, ANTOINE LEPRÊTRE. Condemned the twentieth + Thermidor of the year VIII., and executed the twenty-third + Vendemiaire of the year IX. + + To-day, the twenty-third Vendemiaire of the year IX., the + government commissioner of the tribunal, who received at eleven + of the evening the budget of the Minister of Justice, containing + the minutes of the trial and the judgment which condemns to + death Laurent Guyon, Etienne Hyvert, François Amiet and Antoine + Leprêtre;--the decision of the Court of Appeals of the sixth + inst., rejecting the appeal against the sentence of the + twenty-first Thermidor of the year VIII., I did notify by letter, + between seven and eight of the morning, the four accused that + their sentence of death would take effect to-day at eleven o’clock. + In the interval which elapsed before eleven o’clock, the four + accused shot themselves with pistols and stabbed themselves with + blows from a poinard in prison. Leprêtre and Guyon, according + to public rumor, were dead; Hyvert fatally wounded and dying; + Amiet fatally wounded, but still conscious. All four, in this + state, were conveyed to the scaffold, and, living or dead, were + guillotined. At half after eleven, the sheriff, Colin, handed in + the report of their execution to the Municipality for registration + upon the death roll: + + The captain of gendarmerie remitted to the Justice of the Peace + a report of what had occurred in the prison, of which he was a + witness. I, who was not present, do certify to what I have learned + by hearsay only. + + (Signed) DUBOST, _Clerk_. + + Bourg, 23d Vendemiaire of the year IX. + +Ah! so it was the poet who was right and not the historian! The captain +of gendarmerie, who remitted the report of the proceedings in the prison +to the Justice of the Peace, at which he was present, was Nodier’s +uncle. This report handed to the Justice of the Peace was the story +which, graven upon the young man’s mind, saw the light some forty +years later unaltered, in that masterpiece entitled “Souvenirs de la +Révolution.” The entire series of papers was in the record office. M. +Martin offered to have them copied for me; inquiry, trial and judgment. + +I had a copy of Nodier’s “Souvenirs of the Revolution” in my pocket. +In my hand I held the report of the execution which confirmed the facts +therein stated. + +“Now let us go to our magistrate,” I said to M. Milliet. + +“Let us go to our magistrate,” he repeated. + +The magistrate was confounded, and I left him convinced that poets know +history as well as historians--if not better. + +ALEX. DUMAS. + + + + +PROLOGUE. THE CITY OF AVIGNON + +We do not know if the prologue we are going to present to our readers’ +eyes be very useful, nevertheless we cannot resist the desire to make of +it, not the first chapter, but the preface of this book. + +The more we advance in life, the more we advance in art, the more +convinced we become that nothing is abrupt and isolated; that nature +and society progress by evolution and not by chance, and that the event, +flower joyous or sad, perfumed or fetid, beneficent or fatal, which +unfolds itself to-day before our eyes, was sown in the past, and had +its roots sometimes in days anterior to ours, even as it will bear its +fruits in the future. + +Young, man accepts life as it comes, enamored of yestereen, careless +of the day, heeding little the morrow. Youth is the springtide with its +dewy dawns and its beautiful nights; if sometimes a storm clouds the +sky, it gathers, mutters and disperses, leaving the sky bluer, the +atmosphere purer, and Nature more smiling than before. What use is there +in reflecting on this storm that passes swift as a caprice, ephemeral +as a fancy? Before we have discovered the secret of the meteorological +enigma, the storm will have disappeared. + +But it is not thus with the terrible phenomena, which at the close of +summer, threaten our harvests; or in the midst of autumn, assail our +vintages; we ask whither they go, we query whence they come, we seek a +means to prevent them. + +To the thinker, the historian, the poet, there is a far deeper subject +for reflection in revolutions, these tempests of the social atmosphere +which drench the earth with blood, and crush an entire generation of +men, than in those upheavals of nature which deluge a harvest, or flay +the vineyards with hail--that is to say, the fruits of a single harvest, +wreaking an injury, which can at the worst be repaired the ensuing year; +unless the Lord be in His days of wrath. + +Thus, in other days, be it forgetfulness, heedlessness or ignorance +perhaps--(blessed he who is ignorant! a fool he who is wise!)--in other +days in relating the story which I am going to tell you to-day I would, +without pausing at the place where the first scene of this book occurs, +have accorded it but a superficial mention, and traversing the Midi like +any other province, have named Avignon like any other city. + +But to-day it is no longer the same; I am no longer tossed by the +flurries of spring, but by the storms of summer, the tempests of +autumn. To-day when I name Avignon, I evoke a spectre; and, like Antony +displaying Cæsar’s toga, say: + + “Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through; + See what a rent the envious Casca made; + Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed--” + +So, seeing the bloody shroud of the papal city, I say: “Behold the blood +of the Albigenses, and here the blood of the Cevennais; behold the blood +of the Republicans, and here the blood of the Royalists; behold the +blood of Lescuyer; behold the blood of Maréchal Brune.” + +And I feel myself seized with a profound sadness, and I begin to write, +but at the first lines I perceive that, without suspecting it, the +historian’s chisel has superseded the novelist’s pen in my hand. + +Well, let us be both. Reader, grant me these ten, fifteen, twenty pages +to the historian; the novelist shall have the rest. + +Let us say, therefore, a few words about Avignon, the place where the +first scene of the new book which we are offering to the public, opens. +Perhaps, before reading what we have to say, it would be well to cast a +glance at what its native historian, François Nouguier, says of it. + +“Avignon,” he writes, “a town noble for its antiquity, pleasing in +its site, superb for its walls, smiling for the fertility of its soil, +charming for the gentleness of its inhabitants, magnificent for its +palace, beautiful in its broad streets, marvellous in the construction +of its bridge, rich because of its commerce, and known to all the +world.” + +May the shade of François Nouguier pardon us if we do not at first see +his city with the same eyes as he does. To those who know Avignon be it +to say who has best described it, the historian or the novelist. + +It is but just to assert in the first place that Avignon is a town +by itself, that is to say, a town of extreme passions. The period of +religious dissensions, which culminated for her in political hatreds, +dates from the twelfth century. After his flight from Lyons, the valleys +of Mont Ventoux sheltered Pierre de Valdo and his Vaudois, the ancestors +of those Protestants who, under the name of the Albigenses, cost the +Counts of Toulouse, and transferred to the papacy, the seven châteaux +which Raymond VI. possessed in Languedoc. + +Avignon, a powerful republic governed by podestats, refused to submit +to the King of France. One morning Louis VIII., who thought it easier +to make a crusade against Avignon like Simon de Montfort, than against +Jerusalem like Philippe Auguste; one morning, we say, Louis VIII. +appeared before the gates of Avignon, demanding admission with lances at +rest, visor down, banners unfurled and trumpets of war sounding. + +The bourgeois refused. They offered the King of France, as a last +concession, a peaceful entrance, lances erect, and the royal banner +alone unfurled. The King laid siege to the town, a siege which lasted +three months, during which, says the chronicler, the bourgeois of +Avignon returned the French soldiers arrow for arrow, wound for wound, +death for death. + +The city capitulated at length. Louis VIII. brought the Roman +Cardinal-Legate, Saint-Angelo, in his train. It was he who dictated the +terms, veritable priestly terms, hard and unconditional. The Avignonese +were commanded to demolish their ramparts, to fill their moats, to raze +three hundred towers, to sell their vessels, and to burn their engines +and machines of war. They had moreover to pay an enormous impost, to +abjure the Vaudois heresy, and maintain thirty men fully armed and +equipped, in Palestine, to aid in delivering the tomb of Christ. And +finally, to watch over the fulfillment of these terms, of which the bull +is still extant in the city archives, a brotherhood of penitents was +founded which, reaching down through six centuries, still exists in our +days. + +In opposition to these penitents, known as the “White Penitents,” the +order of the “Black Penitents” was founded, imbued with the spirit of +opposition of Raymond of Toulouse. + +From that day forth the religious hatreds developed into political +hatreds. It was not sufficient that Avignon should be the land of +heresy. She was destined to become the theatre of schisms. + +Permit us, in connection with this French Rome, a short historical +digression. Strictly speaking, it is not essential to the subject +of which we treat, and we were perhaps wiser to launch ourselves +immediately into the heart of the drama; but we trust that we will be +forgiven. We write more particularly for those who, in a novel, like +occasionally to meet with something more than fiction. + +In 1285 Philippe le Bel ascended the throne. + +It is a great historical date, this date of 1285. The papacy which, in +the person of Gregory VII., successfully opposed the Emperor of Germany; +the papacy which, vanquished in matters temporal by Henry IV., yet +vanquished him morally. This papacy was slapped by a simple Sabine +gentleman, and the steel gauntlet of Colonna reddened the cheek of +Boniface VIII. But the King of France, whose hand had really dealt this +blow, what happened to him under the successor of Boniface VIII.? + +This successor was Benedict XI., a man of low origin, but who might +perhaps have developed into a man of genius, had they allowed him the +time. Too weak for an open struggle with Philippe le Bel, he found a +means which would have been the envy of the founder of a celebrated +order two hundred years later. He pardoned Colonna openly. + +To pardon Colonna was to declare Colonna culpable, since culprits alone +have need of pardon. If Colonna were guilty, the King of France was at +least his accomplice. + +There was some danger in supporting such an argument; also Benedict +XI. was pope but eight months. One day a veiled woman, a pretended +lay-sister of Sainte-Petronille at Perugia, came to him while he was +at table, offering him a basket of figs. Did it conceal an asp like +Cleopatra’s? The fact is that on the morrow the Holy See was vacant. + +Then Philippe le Bel had a strange idea; so strange that it must, at +first, have seemed an hallucination. + +It was to withdraw the papacy from Rome, to install it in France, to put +it in jail, and force it to coin money for his profit. + +The reign of Philippe le Bel was the advent of gold. Gold! that was the +sole and unique god of this king who had slapped a pope. Saint Louis had +a priest, the worthy Abbé Suger, for minister; Philippe le Bel had two +bankers, two Florentines, Biscio and Musiato. + +Do you expect, dear reader, that we are about to fall into the +philosophical commonplace of anathematizing gold? You are mistaken. + +In the thirteenth century gold meant progress. Until then nothing was +known but the soil. Gold was the soil converted into money, the +soil mobilized, exchangeable, transportable, divisible, subtilized, +spiritualized, as it were. + +So long as the soil was not represented by gold, man, like the god +Thermes, that landmark of the fields, had his feet imprisoned by the +earth. Formerly the earth bore man, to-day man bears the earth. + +But this gold had to be abstracted from its hiding-place, and it was +hidden far otherwise than in the mines of Chile or Mexico. All the gold +was in the possession of the churches and the Jews. To extract it from +this double mine it needed more than a king; it required a pope. + +And that is why Philippe le Bel, that great exploiter of gold, resolved +to have a pope of his own. Benedict XI. dead, a conclave was held at +Perugia; at this conclave the French cardinals were in the majority. +Philippe le Bel cast his eyes upon the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Bertrand +de Got, and to him he gave rendezvous in a forest near Saint-Jean +d’Angely. + +Bertrand de Got took heed not to miss that appointment. + +The King and the Archbishop heard mass there, and at the moment when the +Host was elevated, they bound themselves by this God they glorified to +absolute secrecy. Bertrand de Got was still ignorant of the matter in +question. Mass over, Philippe le Bel said: + +“Archbishop, I have it in my power to make thee pope.” + +Bertrand de Got listened no longer, but cast himself at the King’s feet, +saying: + +“What must I do to obtain this?” + +“Accord me the six favors which I shall ask of thee,” replied Philippe +le Bel. + +“It’s for thee to command and for me to obey,” said the future Pope. + +The vow of servitude was taken. + +The King raised Bertrand de Got, and, kissing him on the mouth, said: + +“The six favors which I demand of thee are these: First, thou shalt +reconcile me completely with the Church, and grant me pardon for the +misdeed that I committed toward Boniface VIII. Second, thou shalt +restore to me and mine the right of communion of which the Court of Rome +deprived me. Third, thou shalt grant me the clergy’s tithe in my kingdom +for the next five years, to help defray the expenses of the war in +Flanders. Fourth, thou shalt destroy and annul the memory of Pope +Boniface VIII. Fifth, thou shalt bestow the dignity of cardinal upon +Messires Jacopo and Pietro de Colonna. As to the sixth favor and +promise, that I shall reserve to speak to thee thereof in its time and +place.” + +Bertrand de Got swore to the promises and favors known, and to the +promise and favor unknown. This last, which the King had not dared to +mention in connection with the others, was the abolition of the Knights +Templar. Besides the promises made on the Corpus Domini, Bertrand de Got +gave as hostages his brother and two of his nephews. The King swore on +his side that he should be elected pope. + +This scene, set in the deep shadows of a crossroad in the forest, +resembled rather an evocation between magician and demon than an +agreement entered upon between king and pope. + +Also the coronation of the King, which took place shortly afterward +at Lyons, and which began the Church’s captivity, seemed but little +agreeable to God. Just as the royal procession was passing, a wall +crowded with spectators fell, wounding the King and killing the Duc de +Bretagne. The Pope was thrown to the ground, and his tiara rolled in the +mud. + +Bertrand de Got was elected pope under the name of Clement V. + +Clement V. paid all that Bertrand de Got had promised. Philippe was +absolved, Holy Communion restored to him and his, the purple again +descended upon the shoulders of the Colonna, the Church was obliged +to defray the expenses of the war in Flanders and Philippe de Valois’s +crusade against the Greek Empire. The memory of Pope Boniface VIII. was, +if not destroyed and annulled, at least besmirched; the walls of the +Temple were razed, and the Templars burned on the open space of the Pont +Neuf. + +All these edicts--they were no longer called bulls from the moment the +temporal power dictated them--all these edicts were dated at Avignon. + +Philippe le Bel was the richest of all the kings of the French monarchy; +he possessed an inexhaustible treasury, that is to say, his pope. He had +purchased him, he used him, he put him to the press, and as cider flows +from apples, so did this crushed pope bleed gold. The pontificate, +struck by the Colonna in the person of Boniface VIII., abdicated the +empire of the world in the person of Clement V. + +We have related the advent of the king of blood and the pope of gold. +We know how they ended. Jacques de Molay, from his funeral pyre, adjured +them both to appear before God within the year. _Ae to geron sithullia_, +says Aristophanes. “Dying hoary heads possess the souls of sibyls.” + +Clement V. departed first. In a vision he saw his palace in flames. +“From that moment,” says Baluze, “he became sad and lasted but a short +time.” + +Seven months later it was Philippe’s turn. Some say that he was killed +while hunting, overthrown by a wild boar. Dante is among their number. +“He,” said he, “who was seen near the Seine falsifying the coin of the +realm shall die by the tusk of a boar.” But Guillaume de Nangis makes +the royal counterfeiter die of a death quite otherwise providential. + +“Undermined by a malady unknown to the physicians, Philippe expired,” + said he, “to the great astonishment of everybody, without either his +pulse or his urine revealing the cause of his malady or the imminence of +the danger.” + +The King of Debauchery, the King of Uproar, Louis X., called the Hutin, +succeeded his father, Philippe le Bel; John XXII. to Clement V. + +Avignon then became in truth a second Rome. John XXII. and Clement VI. +anointed her queen of luxury. The manners and customs of the times made +her queen of debauchery and indulgence. In place of her towers, razed by +Romain de Saint-Angelo, Hernandez de Héredi, grand master of Saint-Jean +of Jerusalem, girdled her with a belt of walls. She possessed dissolute +monks, who transformed the blessed precincts of her convents into places +of debauchery and licentiousness; her beautiful courtesans tore the +diamonds from the tiara to make of them bracelets and necklaces; and +finally she possessed the echoes of Vaucluse, which wafted the melodious +strains of Petrarch’s songs to her. + +This lasted until King Charles V., who was a virtuous and pious prince, +having resolved to put an end to the scandal, sent the Maréchal de +Boucicaut to drive out the anti-pope, Benedict XIII., from Avignon. But +at sight of the soldiers of the King of France the latter remembered +that before being pope under the name of Benedict XIII. he had been +captain under the name of Pierre de Luna. For five months he defended +himself, pointing his engines of war with his own hands from the heights +of the château walls, engines otherwise far more murderous than his +pontifical bolts. At last forced to flee, he left the city by a +postern, after having ruined a hundred houses and killed four thousand +Avignonese, and fled to Spain, where the King of Aragon offered him +sanctuary. + +There each morning, from the summit of a tower, assisted by the two +priests who constituted his sacred college, he blessed the whole world, +which was none the better for it, and excommunicated his enemies, who +were none the worse for it. At last, feeling himself nigh to death, +and fearing lest the schism die with him, he elected his two vicars +cardinals on the condition that after his death one of the two would +elect the other pope. The election was made. The new pope, supported by +the cardinal who made him, continued the schism for awhile. Finally both +entered into negotiations with Rome, made honorable amends, and returned +to the fold of Holy Church, one with the title of Arch bishop of +Seville, the other as Archbishop of Toledo. + +From this time until 1790 Avignon, widowed of her popes, was governed +by legates and vice-legates. Seven sovereign pontiffs had resided +within her walls some seven decades; she had seven hospitals, seven +fraternities of penitents, seven monasteries, seven convents, seven +parishes, and seven cemeteries. + +To those who know Avignon there was at that epoch--there is yet--two +cities within a city: the city of the priests, that is to say, the Roman +city, and the city of the merchants, that is to say, the French city. +The city of the priests, with its papal palace, its hundred churches, +its innumerable bell-towers, ever ready to sound the tocsin of +conflagration, the knell of slaughter. The town of the merchants, with +its Rhone, its silk-workers, its crossroads, extending north, east, +south and west, from Lyons to Marseilles, from Nimes to Turin. The +French city, the accursed city, longing for a king, jealous of its +liberties, shuddering beneath its yoke of vassalage, a vassalage of the +priests with the clergy for its lord. + +The clergy--not the pious clergy, tolerantly austere in the practice +of its duty and charity, living in the world to console and edify +it, without mingling in its joys and passions--but a clergy such as +intrigue, cupidity, and ambition had made it; that is to say, the +court abbés, rivalling the Roman priests, indolent, libertine, elegant, +impudent, kings of fashion, autocrats of the salon, kissing the hands of +those ladies of whom they boasted themselves the paramours, giving their +hands to kiss to the women of the people whom they honored by making +their mistresses. + +Do you want a type of those abbés? Take the Abbé Maury. Proud as a duke, +insolent as a lackey, the son of a shoemaker, more aristocratic than the +son of a great lord. + +One understands that these two categories of inhabitants, representing +the one heresy, the other orthodoxy; the one the French party, the other +the Roman party; the one the party of absolute monarchy, the other that +of progressive constitutionalism, were not elements conducive to the +peace and security of this ancient pontifical city. One understands, +we say, that at the moment when the revolution broke out in Paris, and +manifested itself by the taking of the Bastille, that the two parties, +hot from the religious wars of Louis XIV., could not remain inert in the +presence of each other. + +We have said, Avignon, city of priests; let us add, city of hatreds. +Nowhere better than in convent towns does one learn to hate. The heart +of the child, everywhere else free from wicked passions, was born there +full of paternal hatreds, inherited from father to son for the last +eight hundred years, and after a life of hate, bequeathed in its turn, a +diabolical heritage, to his children. + +Therefore, at the first cry of liberty which rang through France the +French town rose full of joy and hope. The moment had come at last for +her to contest aloud that concession made by a young queen, a minor, +in expiation of her sins, of a city and a province, and with it half a +million souls. By what right had she sold these souls in æternum to the +hardest and most exacting of all masters, the Roman Pontiff? + +All France was hastening to assemble in the fraternal embrace of the +Federation at the Champ de Mars. Was she not France? Her sons ejected +delegates to wait upon the legate and request him respectfully to leave +the city, giving him twenty-four hours in which to do so. + +During the night the papists amused themselves by hanging from a gibbet +an effigy of straw wearing the tri-color cockade. + +The course of the Rhone has been controlled, the Durance canalled, dikes +have been built to restrain the fierce torrents, which, at the melting +of the snows, pour in liquid avalanches from the summits of Mt. Ventoux. +But this terrible flood, this living flood, this human torrent that +rushed leaping through the rapid inclines of the streets of Avignon, +once released, once flooding, not even God Himself has yet sought to +stay it. + +At sight of this manikin with the national colors, dancing at the end +of a cord, the French city rose upon its very foundations with terrible +cries of rage. Four papist, suspected of this sacrilege, two marquises, +one burgher, and a workman, were torn from their homes and hung in the +manikin’s stead. This occurred the eleventh of June, 1790. + +The whole French town wrote to the National Assembly that she gave +herself to France, and with her the Rhone, her commerce, the Midi, and +the half of Provence. + +The National Assembly was in one of its reactionary moods. It did not +wish to quarrel with the Pope; it dallied with the King, and the matter +was adjourned. From that moment the rising became a revolt, and the Pope +was free to do with Avignon what the court might have done with Paris, +if the Assembly had delayed its proclamation of the Rights of Man. +The Pope ordered the annulment of all that had occurred at the Comtat +Venaissin, the re-establishment of the privileges of the nobles and +clergy, and the reinstallation of the Inquisition in all its rigor. The +pontifical decrees were affixed to the walls. + +One man, one only, in broad daylight dared to go straight to the walls, +in face of all, and tear down the decree. His name was Lescuyer. He +was not a young man; and therefore it was not the fire of youth that +impelled him. No, he was almost an old man who did not even belong to +the province. He was a Frenchman from Picardy, ardent yet reflective, a +former notary long since established at Avignon. + +It was a crime that Roman Avignon remembered; a crime so great that the +Virgin wept! + +You see Avignon is another Italy. She must have her miracles, and if +God will not perform them, so surely will some one be at hand to invent +them. Still further, the miracle must be a miracle pertaining to the +Virgin. La Madonna! the mind, the heart, the tongue of the Italians are +full of these two words. + +It was in the Church of the Cordeliers that this miracle occurred. The +crowd rushed there. It was much that the Virgin should weep; but a rumor +spread at the same time that brought the excitement to a climax. A large +coffer, tightly sealed, had been carried through the city; this chest +had excited the curiosity of all Avignon. What did it contain? Two hours +later it was no longer a coffer; but eighteen trunks had been seen going +toward the Rhone. As for their contents, a porter had revealed that; +they contained articles from the Mont-de-Piété that the French party +were taking with them into exile. Articles from the Mont-de-Piété, that +is to say, the spoils of the poor! The poorer the city the richer its +pawn-shops. Few could boast such wealth as those of Avignon. It was no +longer a factional affair, it was a theft, an infamous theft. Whites +and Reds rushed to the Church of the Cordeliers, shouting that the +municipality must render them an accounting. + +Lescuyer was the secretary of the municipality. His name was thrown to +the crowd, not for having torn down the pontifical decrees--from that +moment he would have had defenders--but for having signed the order to +the keeper of the Mont-de-Piété permitting the removal of the articles +in pawn. + +Four men were sent to seize Lescuyer and bring him to the church. They +found him in the street on his way to the municipality. The four men +fell upon him and dragged him to the church with the most ferocious +cries. Once there, Lescuyer understood from the flaming eyes that met +his, from the clinched fists threatening him, the shrieks demanding his +death; Lescuyer understood that instead of being in the house of the +Lord he was in one of those circles of hell forgotten by Dante. + +The only idea that occurred to him as to this hatred against him was +that he had caused it by tearing down the pontifical decrees. He climbed +into the pulpit, expecting to convert it into a seat of justice, and in +the voice of a man who not only does not blame himself, but who is even +ready to repeat his action, he said: + +“Brothers, I consider the revolution necessary; consequently I have done +all in my power--” + +The fanatics understood that if Lescuyer explained, Lescuyer was saved. +That was not what they wanted. They flung themselves upon him, tore him +from the pulpit, and thrust him into the midst of this howling mob, who +dragged him to the altar with that sort of terrible cry which combines +the hiss of the serpent and the roar of the tiger, the murderous zou! +zou! peculiar to the people of Avignon. + +Lescuyer recognized that fatal cry; he endeavored to gain refuge at the +foot of the altar. He found none; he fell there. + +A laborer, armed with a stick, dealt him such a blow on the head that +the stick broke in two pieces. Then the people hurled themselves upon +the poor body, and, with that mixture of gayety and ferocity peculiar to +Southern people, the men began to dance on his stomach, singing, while +the women, that he might better expiate his blasphemies against the +Pope, cut or rather scalloped his lips with their scissors. + +And out of the midst of this frightful group came a cry, or rather a +groan; this death groan said: “In the name of Heaven! in the name of the +Virgin! in the name of humanity! kill me at once.” + +This cry was heard, and by common consent the assassins stood aside. +They left the unfortunate man bleeding, disfigured, mangled, to taste of +his death agony. + +This lasted five hours, during which, amid shouts of laughter, insults, +and jeers from the crowd, this poor body lay palpitating upon the steps +of the altar. That is how they kill at Avignon. + +Stay! there is yet another way. A man of the French party conceived the +idea of going to the Mont-de-Piété for information. Everything was in +order there, not a fork or a spoon had been removed. It was therefore +not as an accomplice of theft that Lescuyer had just been so cruelly +murdered, it was for being a patriot. + +There was at that time in Avignon a man who controlled the populace. All +these terrible leaders of the Midi have acquired such fatal celebrity +that it suffices to name them for every one, even the least educated, +to know them. This man was Jourdan. Braggart and liar, he had made the +common people believe that it was he who had cut off the head of the +governor of the Bastille. So they called him Jourdan, Coupe-tête. +That was not his real name, which was Mathieu Jouve. Neither was he a +Provencal; he came from Puy-en-Velay. He had formerly been a muleteer +on those rugged heights which surround his native town; then a soldier +without going to war--war had perhaps made him more human; after that +he had kept a drink-shop in Paris. In Avignon he had been a vendor of +madder. + +He collected three hundred men, carried the gates of the town, left +half of his troop to guard them, and with the remainder marched upon +the Church of the Cordeliers, preceded by two pieces of cannon. These he +stationed in front of the church and fired them into it at random. The +assassins fled like a flock of frightened birds, leaving some few dead +upon the church steps. Jourdan and his men trampled over the bodies and +entered the holy precincts. No one was there but the Virgin, and the +wretched Lescuyer, still breathing. Jourdan and his comrades took good +care not to despatch Lescuyer; his death agony was a supreme means +of exciting the mob. They picked up this remnant of a sentient being, +three-quarters dead, and carried it along, bleeding, quivering, gasping, +with them. + +Every one fled from the sight, closing doors and windows. At the end of +an hour, Jourdan and his three hundred men were masters of the town. + +Lescuyer was dead, but what of that; they no longer needed his agony. +Jourdan profited by the terror he had inspired to arrest or have +arrested eighty people, murderers, or so-called murderers of Lescuyer. +Thirty, perhaps, had never even set foot within the church. But when one +has such a good opportunity to be rid of one’s enemies, one must profit +by it; good opportunities are rare. + +These eighty people were huddled into the Trouillas Tower. Historically +it is known as the Tower de la Glacière; but why change this name of +the Trouillas Tower? The name is unclean and harmonizes well with the +unclean deed which was now to be perpetrated there. + +It had been the scene of the inquisitorial tortures. One can still see +on the walls the greasy soot which rose from the smoke of the funeral +pyre where human bodies were consumed. They still show you to-day the +instruments of torture which they have carefully preserved--the caldron, +the oven, the wooden horse, the chains, the dungeons, and even the +rotten bones. Nothing is wanting. + +It was in this tower, built by Clement V., that they now confined the +eighty prisoners. These eighty men, once arrested and locked up in the +Trouillas Tower, became most embarrassing. Who was to judge them? There +were no legally constituted courts except those of the Pope. Could they +kill these unfortunates as they had killed Lescuyer? + +We have said that a third, perhaps half of them, had not only taken no +part in the murder, but had not even set foot in the church. How should +they kill them? The killing must be placed upon the basis of reprisals. +But the killing of these eighty people required a certain number of +executioners. + +A species of tribunal was improvised by Jourdan and held session in +one of the law-courts. It had a clerk named Raphel; a president, half +Italian, half French; an orator in the popular dialect named Barbe +Savournin de la Roua, and three or four other poor devils, a baker, a +pork butcher--their names are lost in the multitude of events. + +These were the men who cried: “We must kill all! If one only escapes he +will be a witness against us.” + +But, as we have said, executioners were wanting. There were barely +twenty men at hand in the courtyard, all belonging to the petty +tradesfolk of Avignon--a barber, a shoemaker, a cobbler, a mason, and an +upholsterer--all insufficiently armed at random, the one with a sabre, +the other with a bayonet, a third with an iron bar, and a fourth with a +bit of wood hardened by fire. All of these people were chilled by a fine +October rain. It would be difficult to turn them into assassins. + +Pooh! Is anything too difficult for the devil? + +There comes an hour in such crises when God seems to abandon the earth. +Then the devil’s chance comes. + +The devil in person entered this cold, muddy courtyard. Assuming the +features, form and face of an apothecary of the neighborhood named +Mendes, he prepared a table lighted by two lanterns, on which he placed +glasses, jugs, pitchers and bottles. + +What infernal beverage did these mysterious and curiously formed +receptacles contain? No one ever knew, but the result is well known. +All those who drank that diabolical liquor were suddenly seized with a +feverish rage, a lust of blood and murder. From that moment it was only +necessary to show them the door; they hurtled madly into the dungeon. + +The massacre lasted all night; all night the cries, the sobs, the +groans of the dying sounded through the darkness. All were killed, all +slaughtered, men and women. It was long in doing; the killers, we have +said, were drunk and poorly armed. But they succeeded. + +Among these butchers was a child remarked for his bestial cruelty, his +immoderate thirst for blood. It was Lescuyer’s son. He killed and then +killed again; he boasted of having with his childish hand alone killed +ten men and four women. + +“It’s all right! I can kill as I like,” said he. “I am not yet fifteen, +so they can do nothing to me for it.” + +As the killing progressed, they threw their victims, the living, dead +and wounded, into the Trouillas Tower, some sixty feet, down into the +pit. The men were thrown in first, and the women later. The assassins +wanted time to violate the bodies of those who were young and pretty. At +nine in the morning, after twelve hours of massacre, a voice was still +heard crying from the depths of the sepulchre: + +“For pity’s sake, come kill me! I cannot die.” + +A man, the armorer Bouffier, bent over the pit and looked down. The +others did not dare. + +“Who was that crying?” they asked. + +“That was Lami,” replied Bouffier. Then, when he had returned, they +asked him: + +“Well, what did you see at the bottom?” + +“A queer marmalade,” said he. “Men and women, priests and pretty girls, +all helter-skelter. It’s enough to make one die of laughter.” + +“Decidedly man is a vile creature,” said the Count of Monte-Cristo to M. +de Villefort. + +Well, it is in this town, still reeking with blood, still warm, still +stirred by these last massacres, that we now introduce two of the +principal personages of our story. + + + + +CHAPTER I. A TABLE D’HÔTE + +The 9th of October, 1799, on a beautiful day of that meridional autumn +which ripens the oranges of Hyères and the grapes of Saint-Peray, at the +two extremities of Provence, a travelling chaise, drawn by three post +horses, galloped at full speed over the bridge that crosses the Durance, +between Cavailhon and Château-Renard, on its way to Avignon, the ancient +papal city which a decree, issued the 25th of May, 1791, eight years +earlier, had reunited to France--a reunion confirmed by the treaty +signed in 1797, at Tolentino, between General Bonaparte and Pope Pius +VI. + +The carriage entered by the gate of Aix and, without slackening speed, +traversed the entire length of the town, with its narrow, winding +streets, built to ward off both wind and sun, and halted at fifty paces +from the Porte d’Oulle, at the Hotel du Palais-Egalité, which they were +again beginning to quietly rename the Hotel du Palais-Royal, a name +which it bore formerly and still bears to-day. + +These few insignificant words about the name of the inn, before which +halted the post-chaise which we had in view, indicate sufficiently well +the state of France under the government of the Thermidorian reaction, +called the Directory. + +After the revolutionary struggle which had occurred between the 14th of +July, 1789, and the 9th Thermidor, 1794; after the days of the 5th and +6th of October, of the 21st of June, of the 10th of August, of the 2d +and 3d of September, of the 21st of May, of the 29th Thermidor and the +1st Prairial; after seeing fall the heads of the King and his judges, +and the Queen and her accusers, of the Girondins and the Cordeliers, the +Moderates and the Jacobins, France experienced that most frightful and +most nauseous of all lassitudes, the lassitude of blood! + +She had therefore returned, if not to a need of monarchy, at least to a +desire for a stable government, in which she might place her confidence, +upon which she might lean, which would act for her, and which would +permit her some repose while it acted. + +In the stead of this vaguely desired government, the country obtained +the feeble and irresolute Directory, composed for the moment of the +voluptuous Barrès, the intriguing Sièyes, the brave Moulins, the +insignificant Roger Ducos, and the honest but somewhat too ingenuous +Gohier. The result was a mediocre dignity before the world at large and +a very questionable tranquillity at home. + +It is true that at the moment of which we write our armies, so glorious +during those epic campaigns of 1796 and 1797, thrown back for a time +upon France by the incapacity of Scherer at Verona and Cassano, and by +the defeat and death of Joubert at Novi, were beginning to resume +the offensive. Moreau had defeated Souvarow at Bassignano; Brune had +defeated the Duke of York and General Hermann at Bergen; Masséna had +annihilated the Austro-Russians at Zurich; Korsakof had escaped only +with the greatest difficulty; the Austrian, Hotz, with three other +generals, were killed, and five made prisoners. Masséna saved France at +Zurich, as Villars, ninety years earlier, had saved it at Denain. + +But in the interior, matters were not in so promising a state, and the +government of the Directory was, it must be confessed, much embarrassed +between the war in the Vendée and the brigandages of the Midi, to which, +according to custom, the population of Avignon were far from remaining +strangers. + +Beyond doubt the two travellers who descended from the carriage at the +door of the Hotel du Palais-Royal had reason to fear the state of mind +in which the always excitable papal town might be at that time; for just +before reaching Orgon, at a spot where three crossroads stretched out +before the traveller--one leading to Nimes, the second to Carpentras, +the third to Avignon--the postilion had stopped his horses, and, turning +round, asked: + +“Will the citizens go by way of Avignon or Carpentras?” + +“Which of the two roads is the shorter?” asked the elder of the two +travellers in a harsh, strident voice. Though visibly the elder, he was +scarcely thirty years of age. + +“Oh, the road to Avignon, citizen, by a good four miles at least.” + +“Then,” he had replied, “go by way of Avignon.” + +And the carriage had started again at a gallop, which proclaimed that +the citizen travellers, as the postilion called them, although the title +of Monsieur was beginning to reappear in conversation, paid a fee of at +least thirty sous. + +The same desire to lose no time manifested itself at the hotel entrance. +There, as on the road, it was the elder of the two travellers who spoke. +He asked if they could dine at once, and the way this demand was made +indicated that he was ready to overlook many gastronomical exigencies +provided that the repast in question be promptly served. + +“Citizens,” replied the landlord, who, at the sound of carriage wheels +hastened, napkin in hand, to greet the travellers, “you will be promptly +and comfortably served in your room; but if you will permit me to +advise--” He hesitated. + +“Oh, go on! go on!” said the younger of the travellers, speaking for the +first time. + +“Well, it would be that you dine at the table d’hôte, like the traveller +for whom this coach, already harnessed, is waiting. The dinner is +excellent and all served.” + +The host at the same time indicated a comfortably appointed carriage, +to which were harnessed two horses who were pawing the ground, while the +postilion sought patience in the bottle of Cahors wine he was emptying +near the window-ledge. The first movement of him to whom this proposal +was made was negative; nevertheless, after a second’s reflection, +the elder of the two travellers, as if he had reconsidered his first +decision, made an interrogative sign to his companion, who replied with +a look which signified, “You know that I am at your orders.” + +“Very well, so be it,” said the other, “we will dine at the table +d’hôte.” Then, turning to the postilion, who, hat in hand, awaited +his order, he added, “Let the horses be ready in a half hour, at the +latest.” + +And the landlord pointing out the way, they both entered the +dining-room, the elder of the two walking first, the other following +him. + +Everyone knows the impression generally produced at a table d’hôte by +new-comers. All eyes were bent upon them and the conversation, which +seemed to be quite animated, stopped. + +The guests consisted of the frequenters of the hotel, the traveller +whose carriage was waiting harnessed at the door, a wine merchant from +Bordeaux, sojourning temporarily at Avignon for reasons we shall shortly +relate, and a certain number of travellers going from Marseilles to +Lyons by diligence. + +The new arrivals greeted the company with a slight inclination of the +head, and sat down at the extreme end of the table, thereby isolating +themselves from the other guests by three or four empty places. This +seemingly aristocratic reserve redoubled the curiosity of which they +were the object; moreover, they were obviously people of unquestionable +distinction, although their garments were simple in the extreme. Both +wore hightop boots and breeches, long-tailed coats, travelling overcoats +and broad-brimmed hats, the usual costume of the young men of that day. +But that which distinguished them from the fashionables of Paris, and +even of the provinces, was their long straight hair, and their black +stocks buckled round the neck, military fashion. The Muscadins--that +was the name then given to young dandies--the Muscadins wore dogs’ ears +puffing at the temples, the rest of the hair combed up tightly in a bag +at the back, and an immense cravat with long floating ends, in which +the chin was completely buried. Some had even extended this reaction to +powder. + +As to the personality of the two young men, they presented two +diametrically opposite types. + +The elder of the two, he who, as we have already remarked, had taken +the initiative several times, and whose voice, even in its most familiar +intonations, denoted the habit of command, was about thirty years of +age. His black hair was parted in the middle, falling straight from +his temples to his shoulders. He had the swarthy skin of a man who has +travelled long in southern climes, thin lips, a straight nose, white +teeth, and those hawk-like eyes which Dante gives to Cæsar. He was short +rather than tall, his hand was delicate, his foot slender and elegant. +His manner betrayed a certain awkwardness, suggesting that he was at +the moment wearing a costume to which he was not accustomed, and when he +spoke, his hearers, had they been beside the Loire instead of the Rhone, +would have detected a certain Italian accent in his pronunciation. + +His companion seemed to be some three or four years younger than he. He +was a handsome young man with a rosy complexion, blond hair and light +blue eyes, a straight, firm nose and prominent but almost beardless +chin. He was perhaps a couple of inches taller than his companion, +and though his figure was somewhat above medium height, he was so well +proportioned, so admirably free in his movements, that he was evidently +if not extraordinarily strong, at least uncommonly agile and dexterous. +Although attired in the same manner and apparently on a footing of +equality, he evinced remarkable deference to the dark young man, +which, as it could not result from age, was doubtless caused by some +inferiority of position. Moreover, he called his companion citizen, +while the other addressed him as Roland. + +These remarks which we make to initiate the reader more profoundly into +our story, were probably not made as extensively by the guests at the +table d’hôte; for after bestowing a few seconds of attention upon +the new-comers, they turned their eyes away, and the conversation, +interrupted for an instant, was resumed. It must be confessed that +it concerned a matter most interesting to the travellers--that of the +stoppage of a diligence bearing a sum of sixty thousand francs belonging +to the government. The affair had occurred the day before on the road +from Marseilles to Avignon between Lambesc and Pont-Royal. + +At the first words referring to this event, the two young men listened +with unmistakable interest. It had taken place on the same road which +they had just followed, and the narrator, the wine merchant of Bordeaux, +had been one of the principal actors in the scene on the highroad. Those +who seemed the most curious to hear the details were the travellers in +the diligence which had just arrived and was soon to depart. The other +guests, who belonged to the locality, seemed sufficiently conversant +with such catastrophes to furnish the details themselves instead of +listening to them. + +“So, citizen,” said a stout gentleman against whom a tall woman, very +thin and haggard, was crowding in her terror. “You say that the robbery +took place on the very road by which we have just come?” + +“Yes, citizen, between Lambesc and Pont-Royal. Did you notice the spot +where the road ascends between two high banks? There are a great many +rocks there.” + +“Yes, yes, my friend,” said the wife, pressing her husband’s arm, “I +noticed it; I even said, as you must remember, ‘Here is a bad place; I +would rather pass here by day than at night.’” + +“Oh! madame,” said a young man whose voice affected to slur his r’s +after the fashion of the day, and who probably assumed to lead the +conversation at the table d’hôte, on ordinary occasions, “you know the +Companions of Jehu know no day or night.” + +“What! citizen,” asked the lady still more alarmed, “were you attacked +in broad daylight?” + +“In broad daylight, citizeness, at ten o’clock in the morning.” + +“And how many were there?” asked the stout gentleman. + +“Four, citizen.” + +“Ambushed beside the road?” + +“No; they were on horseback, armed to the teeth and masked.” + +“That’s their custom,” said the young frequenter of the table d’hôte, +“and they said, did they not: ‘Do not defend yourself, we will not harm +you. We only want the government money.’” + +“Word for word, citizen.” + +“Then,” continued this well-informed young man, “two dismounted from +their horses, flinging their bridles to their comrades, and commanded +the conductor to deliver up the money.” + +“Citizen,” said the stout man astonished, “you describe the thing as if +you had seen it.” + +“Monsieur was there, perhaps,” said one of the travellers, half in jest, +half in earnest. + +“I do not know, citizen, whether in saying that you intend a rudeness,” + carelessly observed the young man who had so pertinently and obligingly +come to the narrator’s assistance, “but my political opinions are +such that I do not consider your suspicion an insult. Had I had the +misfortune to be among those attacked, or the honor to be one of those +who made the attack, I should admit it as frankly in the one case as in +the other. But yesterday at ten o’clock, at precisely the moment when +the diligence was stopped, twelve miles from here, I was breakfasting +quietly in this very seat. And, by-the-bye, with the two citizens who +now do me the honor to sit beside me.” + +“And,” asked the younger of the two travellers who had lately joined the +table, whom his companion called Roland, “how many men were you in the +diligence?” + +“Let me think; we were--yes, that’s it--we were seven men and three +women.” + +“Seven men, not including the conductor?” repeated Roland. + +“Yes.” + +“And you seven men allowed yourselves to be plundered by four brigands? +I congratulate you, gentlemen.” + +“We knew with whom we had to deal,” replied the wine merchant, “and we +took good care not to defend ourselves.” + +“What! with whom you had to deal?” retorted the young man. “Why, it +seems to me, with thieves and bandits.” + +“Not at all. They gave their names.” + +“They gave their names?” + +“They said, ‘Gentlemen, it is useless to defend yourselves; ladies, do +not be alarmed, we are not bandits, we are Companions of Jehu.’” + +“Yes,” said the young man of the table d’hôte, “they warned you that +there might be no misunderstanding. That’s their way.” + +“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed Roland; “and who is this Jehu who has such +polite companions? Is he their captain?” + +“Sir,” said a man whose dress betrayed somewhat the secularized priest, +and who seemed also to be, not only an habitual guest at the table +d’hôte, but also an initiate into the mysteries of the honorable company +whose merits were then under discussion, “if you were better versed than +you seem to be in the Holy Scriptures, you would know that this Jehu +died something like two thousand six hundred years ago, and that +consequently he cannot at the present time stop coaches on the +highways.” + +“Monsieur l’Abbé,” replied Roland, who had recognized an ecclesiastic, +“as, in spite of the sharp tone in which you speak, you seem a man of +learning, permit a poor ignoramus to ask you a few details about this +Jehu, dead these two thousand six hundred years, who, nevertheless, is +honored by followers bearing his name.” + +“Jehu!” replied the churchman, in the same sour tone, “was a King of +Israel anointed by Elisha, on condition that he punish the crimes of the +house of Ahab and Jezbel, and put to death the priests of Baal.” + +“Monsieur l’Abbé,” replied the young man laughing, “I thank you for the +explanation. I don’t doubt it is correct, and, above all, very learned. +But I must admit it doesn’t tell me much.” + +“What, citizen!” exclaimed the abbé, “don’t you understand that Jehu +is his Majesty Louis XVIII., anointed on condition that he punish the +crimes of the Revolution and put to death all the priests of Baal; that +is to say, all those who had taken any part whatsoever in the abominable +state of things which, for these last seven years, has been called the +republic?” + +“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed the young man; “of course I understand. But +among those whom the Companions of Jehu are appointed to fight, do +you reckon the brave soldiers who have repulsed the enemy along the +frontiers of France, and the illustrious generals who have commanded the +armies of the Tyrol, the Sambre-and-Meuse, and of Italy?” + +“Why, beyond doubt, those foremost and before all.” + +The young man’s eyes flashed lightning; his nostrils quivered and his +lips tightened. He rose from his chair, but his comrade touched his coat +and forced him to sit down again, while with a single glance he silenced +him. Then he who had thus given proof of his power, speaking for the +first time, addressed the young man of the table d’hôte. + +“Citizen, excuse two travellers who are just arrived from the end of the +earth, from America, or India as it were. Absent from France these last +two years; we are completely ignorant of all that has occurred here, and +most desirous to obtain information.” + +“Why, as to that,” replied the young man, to whom these words were +addressed, “that is but fair, citizen. Question us and we will answer +you.” + +“Well,” continued the dark young man with the eagle eye, the straight +black hair, and the granite complexion, “now that I know who Jehu is, +and to what end his company was instituted, I should like to know what +his companions do with the money they take.” + +“Oh! that is very simple, citizen. You know there is much talk of the +restoration of the Bourbon monarchy?” + +“No, I did not know it,” replied the dark young man, in a tone which he +vainly strove to render artless; “I am but just arrived, as I told you, +from the end of the earth.” + +“What! you did not know that? Well, six months hence it will be an +accomplished fact.” + +“Really!” + +“I have the honor to tell you so, citizen.” + +The two soldier-like young men exchanged a glance and a smile, though +the young blond one was apparently chafing under the weight of his +extreme impatience. + +Their informant continued: “Lyons is the headquarters of the conspiracy, +if one can call conspiracy a plot which was organized openly. ‘The +provisional government’ would be a more suitable word.” + +“Well, then, citizen,” said the dark young man with a politeness not +wholly exempt from satire, “let us call it ‘provisional government.’” + +“This provisional government has its staff and its armies.” + +“Bah! its staff perhaps--but its armies--” + +“Its armies, I repeat.” + +“Where are they?” + +“One is being organized in the mountains of Auvergne, under the orders +of M. de Chardon; another in the Jura Mountains, under M. Teyssonnet; +and, finally, a third is operating most successfully at this time, +in the Vendée, under the orders of Escarboville, Achille Leblond and +Cadoudal.” + +“Truly, citizen, you render me a real service in telling me this. I +thought the Bourbons completely resigned to their exile. I supposed the +police so organized as to suppress both provisional royalist committees +in the large towns and bandits on the highways. In fact, I believed the +Vendée had been completely pacificated by Hoche.” + +The young man to whom this reply was addressed burst out laughing. + +“Why, where do you come from?” he exclaimed. + +“I told you, citizen, from the end of the earth.” + +“So it seems.” Then he continued: “You understand, the Bourbons are +not rich, the émigrés whose property was confiscated are ruined. It is +impossible to organize two armies and maintain a third without money. +The royalists faced an embarrassing problem; the republic alone could +pay for its enemies’ troops and, it being improbable that she would do +so of her own volition, the shady negotiation was abandoned, and it was +adjudged quicker to take the money without permission than to ask her +for it.” + +“Ah! I understand at last.” + +“That’s very fortunate.” + +“Companions of Jehu then are the intermediaries between the Republic and +the Counter-Revolution, the tax-collectors of the royalist generals?” + +“Yes. It is not robbery, but a military operation, rather a feat of +arms like any other. So there you are, citizen, and now you are as well +informed on this point as ourselves.” + +“But,” timidly hazarded the wine merchant of Bordeaux, “if the +Companions of Jehu--observe that I say nothing against them--want the +government money--” + +“The government money, no other. Individual plunder on their part is +unheard of.” + +“How does it happen, then, that yesterday, in addition to the government +money, they carried off two hundred louis of mine?” + +“My dear sir,” replied the young man of the table d’hôte, “I have +already told you that there is some mistake. As surely as my name is +Alfred de Barjols, this money will be returned to you some day.” + +The wine merchant heaved a sigh and shook his head, as if, in spite of +that assurance, he still retained some doubts. But at this moment, as if +the promise given by the young noble, who had just revealed his social +position by telling his name, had stirred the delicacy of those whom he +thus guaranteed, a horse stopped at the entrance, steps were heard in +the corridor, the dining-room door opened, and a masked man, armed to +the teeth, appeared on the threshold. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, in the profound silence occasioned by his +apparition, “is there a traveller here named Jean Picot, who was in the +diligence that was held up yesterday between Lambesc and Pont-Royal?” + +“Yes,” said the wine merchant, amazed. + +“Are you he?” asked the masked man. + +“I am.” + +“Was anything taken from you?” + +“Oh, yes, two hundred louis, which I had intrusted to the conductor.” + +“And I may add,” said the young noble, “that the gentleman was speaking +of it at this very moment. He looked upon it as lost.” + +“The gentleman was wrong,” said the masked unknown, “we war upon +the government and not against individuals. We are partisans and not +robbers. Here are your two hundred Louis, sir, and if a similar mistake +should occur in the future, claim your loss, mentioning the name of +Morgan.” + +So saying, the masked individual deposited a bag of gold beside the wine +merchant, bowed courteously to the other guests, and went out, leaving +some terrified and others bewildered by such daring. + + + + +CHAPTER II. AN ITALIAN PROVERB + +Although the two sentiments which we have just indicated were the +dominant ones, they did not manifest themselves to an equal degree +in all present. The shades were graduated according to the sex, age, +character, we may almost say, the social positions of the hearers. The +wine merchant, Jean Picot, the principal personage in the late event, +recognizing at first sight by his dress, weapons, mask, one of the +men who had stopped the coach on the preceding day, was at first sight +stupefied, then little by little, as he grasped the purport of this +mysterious brigand’s visit to him, he had passed from stupefaction to +joy, through the intermediate phases separating these two emotions. His +bag of gold was beside him, yet he seemingly dared not touch it; perhaps +he feared that the instant his hand went forth toward it, it would melt +like the dream-gold which vanishes during that period of progressive +lucidity which separates profound slumber from thorough awakening. + +The stout gentleman of the diligence and his wife had displayed, like +their travelling companions, the most absolute and complete terror. +Seated to the left of Jean Picot, when the bandit approached the wine +merchant, the husband, in the vain hope of maintaining a respectable +distance between himself and the Companion of Jehu, pushed his chair +back against that of his wife, who, yielding to the pressure, in turn +endeavored to push back hers. But as the next chair was occupied by +citizen Alfred de Barjols, who had no reason to fear these men whom +he had just praised so highly, the chair of the stout man’s wife +encountered an obstacle in the immovability of the young noble; so, +as at Marengo, eight or nine months later, when the general in command +judged it time to resume the offensive, the retrograde movement was +arrested. + +As for him--we are speaking of the citizen Alfred de Barjols--his +attitude, like that of the abbé who had given the Biblical explanation +about Jehu, King of Israel, and his mission from Elisha, his attitude, +we say, was that of a man who not only experiences no fear, but who even +expects the event in question, however unexpected it may be. His lips +wore a smile as he watched the masked man, and had the guests not been +so preoccupied with the two principal actors in this scene, they might +have remarked the almost imperceptible sign exchanged between the eyes +of the bandit and the young noble, and transmitted instantly by the +latter to the abbé. + +The two travellers whom we introduced to the table d’hôte, and who as +we have said sat apart at the end of the table, preserved an attitude +conformable to their respective characters. The younger of the two had +instinctively put his hand to his side, as if to seek an absent weapon, +and had risen with a spring, as if to rush at the masked man’s throat, +in which purpose he had certainly not failed had he been alone; but +the elder, who seemed to possess not only the habit but the right of +command, contented himself by regrasping his coat, and saying, in an +imperious, almost harsh tone: “Sit down, Roland!” And the young man had +resumed his seat. + +But one of the guests had remained, in appearance at least, the most +impassible during this scene. He was a man between thirty-three and +thirty-four years of age, with blond hair, red beard, a calm, handsome +face, with large blue eyes, a fair skin, refined and intelligent lips, +and very tall, whose foreign accent betrayed one born in that island of +which the government was at that time waging bitter war against France. +As far as could be judged by the few words which had escaped him, he +spoke the French language with rare purity, despite the accent we have +just mentioned. At the first word he uttered, in which that English +accent revealed itself, the elder of the two travellers started. Turning +to his companion, he asked with a glance, to which the other seemed +accustomed, how it was that an Englishman should be in France when the +uncompromising war between the two nations had naturally exiled all +Englishmen from France, as it had all Frenchmen from England. No doubt +the explanation seemed impossible to Roland, for he had replied with his +eyes, and a shrug of the shoulders: “I find it quite as extraordinary +as you; but if you, mathematician as you are, can’t solve the problem, +don’t ask me!” + +It was evident to the two young men that the fair man with the +Anglo-Saxon accent was the traveller whose comfortable carriage awaited +him harnessed in the courtyard, and that this traveller hailed from +London, or, at least, from some part of Great Britain. + +As to his remarks, they, as we have stated, were infrequent, so laconic, +in reality, that they were mere exclamations rather than speech. But +each time an explanation had been asked concerning the state of France, +the Englishman openly drew out a note-book and requested those about +him, the wine merchant, the abbé, or the young noble to repeat their +remarks; to which each had complied with an amiability equal to the +courteous tone of the request. He had noted down the most important, +extraordinary and, picturesque features of the robbery of the diligence, +the state of Vendée, and the details about the Companions of Jehu, +thanking each informant by voice and gesture with the stiffness peculiar +to our insular cousins, replacing his note-book enriched each time by a +new item in a side pocket of his overcoat. + +Finally, like a spectator enjoying an unexpected scene, he had given a +cry of satisfaction at sight of the masked man, had listened with all +his ears, gazed with all his eyes, not losing him from sight until the +door closed behind him. Then drawing his note-book hastily from his +pocket-- + +“Ah, sir,” he said to his neighbor, who was no other than the abbé, +“will you be so kind, should my memory fail me, as to repeat what that +gentleman who has just gone out said?” + +He began to write immediately, and the abbé’s memory agreeing with +his, he had the satisfaction of transcribing literally and verbatim the +speech made by the Companion of Jehu to citizen Jean Picot. Then, this +conversation written down, he exclaimed with an accent that lent a +singular stamp of originality to his words: + +“Of a truth! it is only in France that such things can happen; France +is the most curious country in the world. I am delighted, gentlemen, to +travel in France and become acquainted with Frenchmen.” + +The last sentence was said with such courtesy that nothing remained save +to thank the speaker from whose serious mouth it issued, though he was +a descendant of the conquerors of Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt. It was +the younger of the two travellers who acknowledged this politeness in +that heedless and rather caustic manner which seemed habitual to him. + +“‘Pon my word! I am exactly like you, my lord--I say my lord, because I +presume you are English.” + +“Yes, sir,” replied the gentleman, “I have that honor.” + +“Well! as I was saying,” continued the young man, “I am delighted to +travel in France and see what I am seeing. One must live under the +government of citizens Gohier, Moulins, Roger Ducos, Sièyes and Barras +to witness such roguery. I dare wager than when the tale is told, fifty +years hence, of the highwayman who rode into a city of thirty thousand +inhabitants in broad day, masked and armed with two pistols and a sword +at his belt, to return the two hundred louis which he had stolen the day +previous to the honest merchant who was then deploring their loss, and +when it is added that this occurred at a table d’hôte where twenty or +twenty-five people were seated, and that this model bandit was allowed +to depart without one of those twenty or twenty-five people daring to +molest him; I dare wager, I repeat, that whoever has the audacity to +tell the story will be branded as an infamous liar.” + +And the young man, throwing himself back in his chair, burst into +laughter, so aggressive, so nervous, that every one gazed at him in +wonderment, while his companion’s eyes expressed an almost paternal +anxiety. + +“Sir,” said citizen Alfred de Barjols, who, moved like the others by +this singular outburst, more sad, or rather dolorous, than gay, had +waited for its last echo to subside. “Sir, permit me to point out to you +that the man whom you have just seen is not a highwayman.” + +“Bah! Frankly, what is he then?” + +“He is in all probability a young man of as good a family as yours or +mine.” + +“Count Horn, whom the Regent ordered broken on the wheel at the Place +de Grève, was also a man of good family, and the proof is that all the +nobility of Paris sent their carriages to his execution.” + +“Count Horn, if I remember rightly, murdered a Jew to steal a note +of hand which he was unable to meet. No one would dare assert that a +Companion of Jehu had ever so much as harmed the hair of an infant.” + +“Well, be it so. We will admit that the Company was founded upon a +philanthropic basis, to re-establish the balance of fortunes, redress +the whims of chance and reform the abuses of society. Though he may be +a robber, after the fashion of Karl Moor, your friend Morgan--was it not +Morgan that this honest citizen called himself?” + +“Yes,” said the Englishman. + +“Well, your friend Morgan is none the less a thief.” + +Citizen Alfred de Barjols turned very pale. + +“Citizen Morgan is not my friend,” replied the young aristocrat; “but if +he were I should feel honored by his friendship.” + +“No doubt,” replied Roland, laughing. “As Voltaire says: ‘The friendship +of a great man is a blessing from the gods.’” + +“Roland, Roland!” observed his comrade in a low tone. + +“Oh! general,” replied the latter, letting his companion’s rank escape +him, perhaps intentionally, “I implore you, let me continue this +discussion, which interests me in the highest degree.” + +His friend shrugged his shoulders. + +“But, citizen,” continued the young man with strange persistence, “I +stand in need of correction. I left France two years ago, and during my +absence so many things have changed, such as dress, morals, and accents, +that even the language may have changed also. In the language of the day +in France what do you call stopping coaches and taking the money which +they contain?” + +“Sir,” said the young noble, in the tone of a man determined to sustain +his argument to its end, “I call that war. Here is your companion whom +you have just called general; he as a military man will tell you that, +apart from the pleasure of killing and being killed, the generals of +all ages have never done anything else than what the citizen Morgan is +doing?” + +“What!” exclaimed the young man, whose eyes flashed fire. “You dare to +compare--” + +“Permit the gentleman to develop his theory, Roland,” said the dark +traveller, whose eyes, unlike those of his companion, which dilated as +they flamed, were veiled by long black lashes, thus concealing all that +was passing in his mind. + +“Ah!” said the young man in his curt tone, “you see that you, yourself, +are becoming interested in the discussion.” Then, turning to the young +noble, whom he seemed to have selected for his antagonist, he said: +“Continue, sir, continue; the general permits it.” + +The young noble flushed as visibly as he had paled a moment before. +Between clinched teeth, his elbow on the table, his chin on his clinched +hand, as if to draw as close to his adversary as possible, he said with +a Provençal accent, which grew more pronounced as the discussion waxed +hotter: “Since _the general_ permits”--emphasizing the two words--“I +shall have the honor to tell him and you, too, citizen, that I believe +I have read in Plutarch that Alexander the Great, when he started for +India, took with him but eighteen or twenty talents in gold, something +like one hundred or one hundred and twenty thousand francs. Now, do +you suppose that with these eighteen or twenty talents alone he fed his +army, won the battle of Granicus, subdued Asia Minor, conquered Tyre, +Gaza, Syria and Egypt, built Alexandria, penetrated to Lybia, had +himself declared Son of Jupiter by the oracle of Ammon, penetrated +as far as the Hyphases, and, when his soldiers refused to follow him +further, returned to Babylon, where he surpassed in luxury, debauchery +and self-indulgence the most debauched and voluptuous of the kings +of Asia? Did Macedonia furnish his supplies? Do you believe that King +Philip, most indigent of the kings of poverty-stricken Greece, honored +the drafts his son drew upon him? Not so. Alexander did as citizen +Morgan is doing; only, instead of stopping the coaches on the highroads, +he pillaged cities, held kings for ransom, levied contributions from +the conquered countries. Let us turn to Hannibal. You know how he left +Carthage, don’t you? He did not have even the eighteen or twenty talents +of his predecessor; and as he needed money, he seized and sacked the +city of Saguntum in the midst of peace, in defiance of the fealty of +treaties. After that he was rich and could begin his campaign. Forgive +me if this time I no longer quote Plutarch, but Cornelius Nepos. I will +spare you the details of his descent from the Pyrenees, how he crossed +the Alps and the three battles which he won, seizing each time the +treasures of the vanquished, and turn to the five or six years he spent +in Campania. Do you believe that he and his army paid the Capuans for +their subsistence, and that the bankers of Carthage, with whom he had +quarrelled, supplied him with funds? No; war fed war--the Morgan system, +citizen. Let us pass on to Cæsar. Ah, Cæsar! That’s another story. He +left for Spain with some thirty millions of debt, and returned with +practically the same. He started for Gaul, where he spent ten years with +our ancestors. During these ten years he sent over one hundred millions +to Rome, repassed the Alps, crossed the Rubicon, marched straight to the +Capitol, forced the gates of the Temple of Saturn, where the treasury +was, seized sufficient for his private needs--and not for those of the +Republic--three thousand pounds of gold in ingots; and died (he whom +creditors twenty years earlier refused to allow to leave his little +house in the Suburra) leaving two or three thousand sesterces per head +to the citizens, ten or twelve millions to Calpurnia, and thirty or +forty millions to Octavius; always the Morgan system, save that Morgan, +I am sure, would die sooner than subvert to his personal needs either +the silver of the Gauls or the gold of the capital. Now let us spring +over eighteen centuries and come to the General Buonaparté.” And the +young aristocrat, after the fashion of the enemies of the Conqueror of +Italy, affected to emphasize the _u_, which Bonaparte had eliminated +from his name, and the _e_, from which he had removed the accent. + +This affectation seemed to irritate Roland intensely. He made a movement +as if to spring forward, but his companion stopped him. + +“Let be,” said he, “let be, Roland. I am quite sure that citizen Barjols +will not say the General Buonaparté, as he calls him, is a thief.” + +“No, I will not say it; but there is an Italian proverb which says it +for me.” + +“What is the proverb?” demanded the general in his companion’s stead, +fixing his calm, limpid eye upon the young noble. + +“I give it in all its simplicity: ‘Francesi non sono tutti ladroni, ma +buona parte’; which means: ‘All Frenchmen are not thieves, but--” + +“A good part are?” concluded Roland. + +“Yes, ‘Buonaparté,’” replied Alfred de Barjols. + +Scarcely had these insolent words left the young aristocrat’s lips than +the plate with which Roland was playing flew from his hands and struck +De Barjols full in the face. The women screamed, the men rose to their +feet. Roland burst into that nervous laugh which was habitual with him, +and threw himself back in his chair. The young aristocrat remained calm, +although the blood was trickling from his brow to his cheek. + +At this moment the conductor entered with the usual formula: + +“Come! citizen travellers, take your places.” + +The travellers, anxious to leave the scene of the quarrel, rushed to the +door. + +“Pardon me, sir,” said Alfred de Barjols to Roland, “you do not go by +diligence, I hope?” + +“No, sir, I travel by post; but you need have no fear; I shall not +depart.” + +“Nor I,” said the Englishman. “Have them unharness my horses; I shall +remain.” + +“I must go,” sighed the dark young man whom Roland had addressed as +general. “You know it is necessary, my friend; my presence yonder is +absolutely imperative. But I swear that I would not leave you if I could +possibly avoid it.” + +In saying these words his voice betrayed an emotion of which, judging +from its usual harsh, metallic ring, it had seemed incapable. Roland, on +the contrary, seemed overjoyed. His belligerent nature seemed to expand +at the approach of a danger to which he had perhaps not given rise, but +which he at least had not endeavored to avoid. + +“Good! general,” he said. “We were to part at Lyons, since you have had +the kindness to grant me a month’s furlough to visit my family at Bourg. +It is merely some hundred and sixty miles or so less than we intended, +that is all. I shall rejoin you in Paris. But you know if you need a +devoted arm, and a man who never sulks, think of me!” + +“You may rest easy on that score, Roland,” exclaimed the general. +Then, looking attentively at the two adversaries, he added with an +indescribable note of tenderness: “Above all, Roland, do not let +yourself be killed; but if it is a possible thing don’t kill your +adversary. Everything considered, he is a gallant man, and the day will +come when I shall need such men at my side.” + +“I shall do my best, general; don’t be alarmed.” At this moment the +landlord appeared upon the thresh-hold of the door. + +“The post-chaise is ready,” said he. + +The general took his hat and his cane, which he had laid upon the chair. +Roland, on the contrary, followed him bareheaded, that all might see +plainly he did not intend to leave with his friend. Alfred de Barjols, +therefore, offered no opposition to his leaving the room. Besides, it +was easy to see that his adversary was of those who seek rather than +avoid quarrels. + +“Just the same,” said the general, seating himself in the carriage to +which Roland had escorted him, “my heart is heavy at leaving you thus, +Roland, without a friend to act as your second.” + +“Good! Don’t worry about that, general; seconds are never lacking. There +are and always will be enough men who are curious to see how one man can +kill another.” + +“Au revoir, Roland. Observe, I do not say farewell, but au revoir!” + +“Yes, my dear general,” replied the young man, in a voice that revealed +some emotion, “I understand, and I thank you.” + +“Promise that you will send me word as soon as the affair is over, or +that you will get some one to write if you are disabled.” + +“Oh, don’t worry, general. You will have a letter from me personally +in less than four days,” replied Roland, adding, in a tone of profound +bitterness: “Have you not perceived that I am protected by a fatality +which prevents me from dying?” + +“Roland!” exclaimed the general in a severe tone, “Again!” + +“Nothing, nothing,” said the young man, shaking his head and assuming +an expression of careless gayety which must have been habitual with him +before the occurrence of that unknown misfortune which oppressed his +youth with this longing for death. + +“Very well. By the way, try to find out one thing.” + +“What is that, general?” + +“How it happens that at a time when we are at war with England an +Englishman stalks about France as freely and as easily as if he were at +home.” + +“Good; I will find out.” + +“How?” + +“I do not know; but when I promise you to find out I shall do so, though +I have to ask it of himself.” + +“Reckless fellow! Don’t get yourself involved in another affair in that +direction.” + +“In any case, it would not be a duel. It would be a battle, as he is a +national enemy.” + +“Well, once more--till I see you again. Embrace me.” + +Roland flung himself with passionate gratitude upon the neck of the +personage who had just given him this permission. + +“Oh, general!” he exclaimed, “how happy I should be--if I were not so +unhappy!” + +The general looked at him with profound affection, then asked: “One day +you will tell me what this sorrow is, will you not, Roland?” + +Roland laughed that sorrowful laugh which had already escaped his lips +once or twice. + +“Oh! my word, no,” said he, “you would ridicule me too much.” + +The general stared at him as one would contemplate a madman. + +“After all,” he murmured, “one must accept men as they come.” + +“Especially when they are not what they seem to be.” + +“You must mistake me for OEdipe since you pose me with these enigmas, +Roland.” + +“Ah! If you guess this one, general, I will herald you king of Thebes! +But, with all my follies, I forgot that your time is precious and that I +am detaining you needlessly with my nonsense.” + +“That is so! Have you any commissions for Paris?” + +“Yes, three; my regards to Bourrienne, my respects to your brother +Lucien, and my most tender homage to Madame Bonaparte.” + +“I will deliver them.” + +“Where shall I find you in Paris?” + +“At my house in the Rue de la Victoire, perhaps.” + +“Perhaps--” + +“Who knows? Perhaps at Luxembourg!” Then throwing himself back as if +he regretted having said so much, even to a man he regarded as his +best friend, he shouted to the postilion, “Road to Orange! As fast as +possible.” + +The postilion, who was only waiting for the order, whipped up his +horses; the carriage departed rapidly, rumbling like a roll of thunder, +and disappeared through the Porte d’Oulle. + + + + +CHAPTER III. THE ENGLISHMAN + +Roland remained motionless, not only as long as he could see the +carriage, but long after it had disappeared. Then, shaking his head as +if to dispel the cloud which darkened his brow, he re-entered the inn +and asked for a room. + +“Show the gentleman to number three,” said the landlord to a +chambermaid. + +The chambermaid took a key hanging from a large black wooden tablet on +which were arranged the numbers in white in two rows, and signed to the +young traveller to follow her. + +“Send up some paper, and a pen and ink,” Roland said to the landlord, +“and if M. de Barjols should ask where I am tell him the number of my +room.” + +The landlord promised to obey Roland’s injunctions and the latter +followed the girl upstairs whistling the Marseillaise. Five minutes +later he was seated at a table with the desired paper, pen and ink +before him preparing to write. But just as he was beginning the first +line some one knocked, three times at the door. + +“Come in,” said he, twirling his chair on one of its hind legs so as to +face his visitor, whom he supposed to be either, M. de Barjols or one of +his friends. + +The door opened with a steady mechanical motion and the Englishman +appeared upon the threshold. + +“Ah!” exclaimed Roland, enchanted with this visit, in view of his +general’s recommendation; “is it you?” + +“Yes,” said the Englishman, “it is I.” + +“You are welcome.” + +“Oh! if I am welcome, so much the better! I was not sure that I ought to +come.” + +“Why not?” + +“On account of Aboukir.” + +Roland began to laugh. + +“There are two battles of Aboukir,” said he; “one which we lost; the +other we won.” + +“I referred to the one you lost.” + +“Good!” said Roland, “we fight, kill, and exterminate each other on the +battlefield, but that does not prevent us from clasping hands on neutral +ground. So I repeat, you are most welcome, especially if you will tell +me why you have come.” + +“Thank you; but, in the first place, read that.” And the Englishman drew +a paper from his pocket. + +“What is that?” asked Roland. + +“My passport.” + +“What have I to do with your passport?” asked Roland, “I am not a +gendarme.” + +“No, but I have come to offer you my services. Perhaps you will not +accept them if you do not know who I am.” + +“Your services, sir?” + +“Yes; but read that first.” + +Roland read: + + In the name of the French Republic--The Executive Directory hereby + orders that Sir John Tanlay, Esq., be permitted to travel freely + throughout the territory of the Republic, and that both assistance + and protection be accorded him in case of need. + (Signed) FOUCHÉ. + +And below: + + To whom it may concern--I recommend Sir John Tanlay particularly + as a philanthropist and a friend of liberty. + (Signed) BARRAS. + +“Have you read it?” + +“Yes; what of it?” + +“What of it? Well, my father, Lord Tanlay, rendered M. Barras some +services; that is why M. Barras permits me to roam about France. And I +am very glad to roam about; it amuses me very much.” + +“Oh, I remember, Sir John; you did us the honor to say so at dinner.” + +“I did say so, it is true; I also said that I liked the French people +heartily.” + +Roland bowed. + +“And above all General Bonaparte,” continued Sir John. + +“You like General Bonaparte very much?” + +“I admire him; he is a great, a very great, man.” + +“By Heavens! Sir John, I am sorry he is not here to hear an Englishman +say that of him.” + +“Oh! if he were here I should not say it.” + +“Why not?” + +“I should not want him to think I was trying to please him. I say so +because it is my opinion.” + +“I don’t doubt it, my lord,” said Roland, who did not see what the +Englishman was aiming at, and who, having learned all that he wished to +know through the passport, held himself upon his guard. + +“And when I heard,” continued the Englishman with the same phlegm, “you +defend General Bonaparte, I was much pleased.” + +“Really?” + +“Much pleased,” repeated the Englishman, nodding his head affirmatively. + +“So much the better!” + +“But when I saw you throw a plate at M. Alfred de Barjols’ head, I was +much grieved.” + +“You were grieved, my lord, and why?” + +“Because in England no gentleman would throw a plate at the head of +another gentleman.” + +“My lord,” said Roland, rising with a frown, “have you perchance come +here to read me a lecture?” + +“Oh, no; I came to suggest that you are perhaps perplexed about finding +a second?” + +“My faith, Sir John! I admit that the moment when you knocked at the +door I was wondering of whom I could ask this service.” + +“Of me, if you wish,” said the Englishman. “I will be your second.” + +“On my honor!” exclaimed Roland, “I accept with all my heart.” + +“That is the service I wished to render you!” + +Roland held out his hand, saying: “Thank you!” + +The Englishman bowed. + +“Now,” continued Roland, “as you have had the good taste, my lord, to +tell me who you were before offering your services, it is but fair that, +since I accept them, I should tell you who I am.” + +“Oh! as you please.” + +“My name is Louis de Montrevel; I am aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte.” + +“Aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte. I am very glad.” + +“That will explain why I undertook, rather too warmly perhaps, my +general’s defence.” + +“No, not too warmly; only, the plate--” + +“Oh, I know well that the provocation did not entail that plate. But +what would you have me do! I held it in my hand, and, not knowing what +to do with it, I threw it at M. de Barjols’ head; it went of itself +without any will of mine.” + +“You will not say that to him?” + +“Reassure yourself; I tell you to salve your conscience.” + +“Very well; then you will fight?” + +“That is why I have remained here, at any rate.” + +“What weapons?” + +“That is not our affair, my lord.” + +“What! not our affair?” + +“No; M. de Barjols is the one insulted; the choice is his.” + +“Then you will accept whatever he proposes?” + +“Not I, Sir John, but you in my name, since you do me the honor to act +as my second.” + +“And if he selects pistols, what is the distance to be and how will you +fight?” + +“That is your affair, my lord, and not mine. I don’t know how you do in +England, but in France the principals take no part in the arrangements. +That duty devolves upon the seconds; what they decide is well decided!” + +“Then my arrangements will be satisfactory?” + +“Perfectly so, my lord.” + +The Englishman bowed. + +“What hour and what day?” + +“Oh! as soon as possible; I have not seen my family for two years, and I +confess that I am in a hurry to greet them.” + +The Englishman looked at Roland with a certain wonder; he spoke with +such assurance, as if he were certain that he would not be killed. Just +then some one knocked at the door, and the voice of the innkeeper asked: +“May I come in?” + +The young man replied affirmatively. The door opened and the landlord +entered, holding a card in his hand which he handed his guest. The young +man took the card and read: “Charles du Valensolle.” + +“From M. Alfred de Barjols,” said the host. + +“Very well!” exclaimed Roland. Then handing the card to the Englishman, +he said: “Here, this concerns you; it is unnecessary for me to see this +monsieur--since we are no longer citizens--M. de Valensolle is M. de +Barjols’ second; you are mine. Arrange this affair between you. Only,” + added the young man, pressing the Englishman’s hand and looking fixedly +at him, “see that it holds a chance of certain death for one of us. +Otherwise I shall complain that it has been bungled.” + +“Don’t worry,” said the Englishman, “I will act for you as for myself.” + +“Excellent! Go now, and when everything is arranged come back. I shall +not stir from here.” + +Sir John followed the innkeeper. Roland reseated himself, twirled his +chair back to its former position facing the table, took up his pen and +began to write. + +When Sir John returned, Roland had written and sealed two letters and +was addressing a third. He signed to the Englishman to wait until he had +finished, that he might give him his full attention. Then, the address +finished, he sealed the letter, and turned around. + +“Well,” he asked, “is everything arranged?” + +“Yes,” said the Englishman, “it was an easy matter. You are dealing with +a true gentleman.” + +“So much the better!” exclaimed Roland, waiting. + +“You will fight two hours hence by the fountain of Vaucluse--a charming +spot--with pistols, advancing to each other, each to fire as he pleases +and continuing to advance after his adversary’s fire.” + +“By my faith! you are right, Sir John. That is, indeed, excellent. Did +you arrange that?” + +“I and M. de Barjols’ second, your adversary having renounced his rights +of the insulted party.” + +“Have you decided upon the weapons?” + +“I offered my pistols. They were accepted on my word of honor that you +were as unfamiliar with them as was M. de Barjols. They are excellent +weapons. I can cut a bullet on a knife blade at twenty paces.” + +“Peste! You are a good shot, it would seem, my lord.” + +“Yes, I am said to be the best shot in England.” + +“That is a good thing to know. When I wish to be killed, Sir John, I’ll +pick a quarrel with you.” + +“Oh! don’t pick a quarrel with me,” said the Englishman, “it would +grieve me too much to have to fight you.” + +“We will try, my lord, not to cause you such grief. So it is settled +then, in two hours.” + +“Yes, you told me you were in a hurry.” + +“Precisely. How far is it to this charming spot?” + +“From here to Vaucluse?” + +“Yes.” + +“Twelve miles.” + +“A matter of an hour and a half. We have no time to lose, so let us rid +ourselves of troublesome things in order to have nothing but pleasure +before us.” + +The Englishman looked at the young man in astonishment. Roland did not +seem to pay any attention to this look. + +“Here are three letters,” said he; “one for Madame de Montrevel, my +mother; one for Mlle. de Montrevel, my sister; one for the citizen, +Bonaparte, my general. If I am killed you will simply put them in the +post. Will that be too much trouble?” + +“Should that misfortune occur, I will deliver your letters myself,” said +the Englishman. “Where do your mother and sister live?” + +“At Bourg, the capital of the Department of Ain.” + +“That is near here,” observed the Englishman. “As for General Bonaparte, +I will go to Egypt if necessary. I should be extremely pleased to meet +General Bonaparte.” + +“If you take the trouble, as you say, my lord, of delivering my letters +yourself, you will not have to travel such a distance. Within three days +General Bonaparte will be in Paris.” + +“Oh!” said the Englishman, without betraying the least surprise, “do you +think so?” + +“I am sure of it,” replied Roland. + +“Truly, he is a very extraordinary man, your General Bonaparte. Now, +have you any other recommendations to make to me, M. de Montrevel?” + +“One only, my lord.” + +“Oh! as many as you please.” + +“No, thank you, one only, but that is very important.” + +“What is it?” + +“If I am killed--but I doubt if I be so fortunate.” + +Sir John looked at Roland with that expression of wonder which he had +already awakened three or four times. + +“If I am killed,” resumed Roland; “for after all one must be prepared +for everything--” + +“Yes, if you are killed, I understand.” + +“Listen well, my lord, for I place much stress on my directions being +carried out exactly in this matter.” + +“Every detail shall be observed,” replied Sir John, “I am very +punctilious.” + +“Well, then, if I am killed,” insisted Roland, laying his hand upon his +second’s shoulder, to impress his directions more firmly on his memory, +“you must not permit any one to touch my body, which is to be placed in +a leaden coffin without removing the garments I am wearing; the coffin +you will have soldered in your presence, then inclosed in an oaken bier, +which must also be nailed up in your presence. Then you will send it to +my mother, unless you should prefer to throw it into the Rhone, which I +leave absolutely to your discretion, provided only that it be disposed +of in some way.” + +“It will be no more difficult,” replied the Englishman, “to take the +coffin, since I am to deliver your letter.” + +“Decidedly, my lord,” said Roland, laughing in his strange way. “You +are a capital fellow. Providence in person brought us together. Let us +start, my lord, let us start!” + +They left Roland’s room; Sir John’s chamber was on the same floor. +Roland waited while the Englishman went in for his weapons. He returned +a few seconds later, carrying the box in his hand. + +“Now, my lord,” asked Roland, “how shall we reach Vaucluse? On horseback +or by carriage?” + +“By carriage, if you are willing. It is much more convenient in case one +is wounded. Mine is waiting below.” + +“I thought you had given the order to have it unharnessed?” + +“I did, but I sent for the postilion afterward and countermanded it.” + +They went downstairs. + +“Tom! Tom!” called Sir John at the door, where a servant, in the severe +livery of an English groom, was waiting, “take care of this box.” + +“Am I going with you, my lord?” asked the servant. + +“Yes!” replied Sir John. + +Then showing Roland the steps of his carriage, which the servant +lowered, he said: + +“Come, M. de Montrevel.” + +Roland entered the carriage and stretched himself out luxuriously. + +“Upon my word!” said he. “It takes you English to understand travelling. +This carriage is as comfortable as a bed. I warrant you pad your coffins +before you are put in them!” + +“Yes, that is a fact,” said Sir John, “the English people +understand comfort, but the French people are much more curious and +amusing--postilion, to Vaucluse!” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE DUEL + +The road was passable only from Avignon to l’Isle. They covered the nine +miles between the two places in an hour. During this hour Roland, as he +resolved to shorten the time for his travelling companion, was witty +and animated, and their approach to the duelling ground only served to +redouble his gayety. To one unacquainted with the object of this +drive, the menace of dire peril impending over this young man, with +his continuous flow of conversation and incessant laughter, would have +seemed incredible. + +At the village of l’Isle they were obliged to leave the carriage. +Finding on inquiry that they were the first to arrive, they entered the +path which led to the fountain. + +“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “there ought to be a fine echo here.” And he +gave one or two cries to which Echo replied with perfect amiability. + +“By my faith!” said the young man, “this is a marvellous echo. I know +none save that of the Seinonnetta, at Milan, which can compare with it. +Listen, my lord.” + +And he began, with modulations which revealed an admirable voice and an +excellent method, to sing a Tyrolean song which seemed to bid defiance +to the human throat with its rebellious music. Sir John watched Roland, +and listened to him with an astonishment which he no longer took the +trouble to conceal. When the last note had died away among the cavities +of the mountain, he exclaimed: + +“God bless me! but I think your liver is out of order.” + +Roland started and looked at him interrogatively. But seeing that Sir +John did not intend to say more, he asked: + +“Good! What makes you think so?” + +“You are too noisily gay not to be profoundly melancholy.” + +“And that anomaly astonishes you?” + +“Nothing astonishes me, because I know that it has always its reason for +existing.” + +“True, and it’s all in knowing the secret. Well, I’m going to enlighten +you.” + +“Oh! I don’t want to force you.” + +“You’re too polite to do that; still, you must admit you would be glad +to have your mind set at rest about me.” + +“Because I’m interested in you.” + +“Well, Sir John, I am going to tell you the secret of the enigma, +something I have never done with any one before. For all my seeming good +health, I am suffering from a horrible aneurism that causes me spasms of +weakness and faintness so frequent as to shame even a woman. I spend +my life taking the most ridiculous precautions, and yet Larrey warns me +that I am liable to die any moment, as the diseased artery in my breast +may burst at the least exertion. Judge for yourself how pleasant for +a soldier! You can understand that, once I understood my condition, I +determined incontinently to die with all the glory possible. Another +more fortunate than I would have succeeded a hundred times already. +But I’m bewitched; I am impervious alike to bullets and balls; even the +swords seem to fear to shatter themselves upon my skin. Yet I never miss +an opportunity; that you must see, after what occurred at dinner. Well, +we are going to fight. I’ll expose myself like a maniac, giving my +adversary all the advantages, but it will avail me nothing. Though +he shoot at fifteen paces, or even ten or five, at his very pistol’s +point, he will miss me, or his pistol will miss fire. And all this +wonderful luck that some fine day when I least expect it, I may die +pulling on my boots! But hush I here comes my adversary.” + +As he spoke the upper half of three people could be seen ascending the +same rough and rocky path that Roland and Sir John had followed, growing +larger as they approached. Roland counted them. + +“Three!” he exclaimed. “Why three, when we are only two?” + +“Ah! I had forgotten,” replied the Englishman. “M. de Barjols, as much +in your interest as in his own, asked permission to bring a surgeon, one +of his friends.” + +“What for?” harshly demanded Roland, frowning. + +“Why, in case either one of you was wounded. A man’s life can often be +saved by bleeding him promptly.” + +“Sir John,” exclaimed Roland, ferociously, “I don’t understand these +delicacies in the matter of a duel. When men fight they fight to kill. +That they exchange all sorts of courtesies beforehand, as your ancestors +did at Fontenoy, is all right; but, once the swords are unsheathed or +the pistols loaded, one life must pay for the trouble they have taken +and the heart beats they have lost. I ask you, on your word of honor, +Sir John, to promise that, wounded or dying, M. de Barjols’ surgeon +shall not be allowed to touch me.” + +“But suppose, M. Roland--” + +“Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take me if I +fight at all.” + +The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face was +livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror. Sir John, +without understanding this strange dread, passed his word. + +“Good!” exclaimed Roland. “This, you see, is one of the effects of my +charming malady. The mere thought of surgical instruments, a bistoury or +a lance, makes me dizzy. Didn’t I grow very pale?” + +“I did think for an instant you were going to faint.” + +“What a stunning climax!” exclaimed Roland with a laugh. “Our +adversaries arrive and you are dosing me with smelling salts like a +hysterical woman. Do you know what they, and you, first of all, would +have said? That I was afraid.” + +Meantime, the three new-comers having approached within earshot, Sir +John was unable to answer Roland. They bowed, and Roland, with a smile +that revealed his beautiful teeth, returned their greeting. Sir John +whispered in his ear: + +“You are still a trifle pale. Go on toward the fountain; I will fetch +you when we are ready.” + +“Ah! that’s the idea,” said Roland. “I have always wanted to see that +famous fountain of Vaucluse, the Hippocrene of Petrarch. You know his +sonnet? + + “‘Chiari, fresche e dolci acque + Ove le belle membra + Pose colei, che sola a me perdona.’ + +This opportunity lost, I may never have another. Where is your +fountain?” + +“Not a hundred feet off. Follow the path; you’ll find it at the turn of +the road, at the foot of that enormous bowlder you see.” + +“My lord,” said Roland, “you are the best guide I know; thanks!” + +And, with a friendly wave of the hand, he went off in the direction +of the fountain, humming the charming pastoral of Philippe Desportes +beneath his breath: + + “‘Rosette, a little absence + Has turned thine heart from me; + I, knowing that inconstance, + Have turned my heart from thee. + No wayward beauty o’er me + Such power shall obtain; + We’ll see, my fickle lassie, + Who first will turn again.’” + +Sir John turned as he heard the modulations of that fresh sweet voice, +whose higher notes had something at a feminine quality. His cold +methodical mind understood nothing of that nervous impulsive nature, +save that he had under his eyes one of the most amazing organisms one +could possibly meet. + +The other two young men were waiting for him; the surgeon stood a little +apart. Sir John carried his box of pistols in his hands. Laying it upon +a table-shaped rock, he drew a little key from his pocket, apparently +fashioned by a goldsmith rather than a locksmith, and opened the box. +The weapons were magnificent, although of great simplicity. They +came from Manton’s workshop, the grandfather of the man who is still +considered one of the best gunsmiths in London. He handed them to M. +de Barjols’ second to examine. The latter tried the triggers and played +with the lock, examining to see if they were double-barrelled. They were +single-barrelled. M. de Barjols cast a glance at them but did not even +touch them. + +“Our opponent does not know these weapons?” queried M. Valensolle. + +“He has not even seen them,” replied Sir John, “I give you my word of +honor.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed M. de Valensolle, “a simple denial suffices.” + +The conditions of the duel were gone over a second time to avoid +possible misunderstanding. Then, these conditions determined, the +pistols were loaded. They were then placed, loaded, in the box, the box +left in the surgeon’s charge, and Sir John, with the key in his pocket, +went after Roland. + +He found him chatting with a little shepherd boy who was herding three +goats on the steep rocky slope of the mountain, and throwing pebbles +into the fountain. Sir John opened his lips to tell Roland that all +was ready; but the latter, without giving the Englishman time to speak, +exclaimed: + +“You don’t know what this child has been telling me, my lord! A perfect +legend of the Rhine. He says that this pool, whose depth is unknown, +extends six or eight miles under the mountain, and a fairy, half woman +half serpent, dwells here. Calm summer nights she glides over the +surface of water calling to the shepherds of the mountains, showing +them, of course, nothing more than her head with its long locks and her +beautiful bare shoulders and arms. The fools, caught by this semblance +of a woman, draw nearer, beckoning to her to come to them, while she +on her side signs to them to go to her. The unwary spirits advance +unwittingly, giving no heed to their steps. Suddenly the earth fails +them, the fairy reaches out her arms, and plunges down into her dripping +palaces, to reappear the next day alone. Where the devil did these +idiots of shepherds get the tale that Virgil related in such noble verse +to Augustus and Mecænas?” + +He remained pensive an instant, his eyes bent upon the azure depths, +then turning to Sir John: + +“They say that, no matter how vigorous the swimmer, none has ever +returned from this abyss. Perhaps were I to try it, my lord, it might be +surer than M. de Barjols’ bullet. However, it always remains as a last +resort; in the meantime let us try the bullet. Come, my lord, come.” + +Then turning to the Englishman, who listened, amazed by this mobility +of mind, he led him back to the others who awaited them. They in the +meantime had found a suitable place. + +It was a little plateau, perched as it were on a rocky proclivity, +jutting from the mountain side, exposed to the setting sun, on which +stood a ruined castle where the shepherds were wont to seek shelter when +the mistral overtook them. A flat space, some hundred and fifty feet +long, and sixty wide, which might once have been the castle platform, +was now to be the scene of the drama which was fast approaching its +close. + +“Here we are, gentlemen,” said Sir John. + +“We are ready, gentlemen,” replied M. de Valensolle. + +“Will the principals kindly listen to the conditions of the duel?” said +Sir John. Then addressing M. de Valensolle, he added: “Repeat them, +monsieur; you are French and I am a foreigner, you will explain them +more clearly than I.” + +“You belong to those foreigners, my lord, who teach us poor Provençals +the purity of our language; but since you so courteously make me +spokesman, I obey you.” Then exchanging bows with Sir John, he +continued: “Gentlemen, it is agreed that you stand at forty paces, that +you advance toward each other, that each will fire at will, and wounded +or not will have the right to advance after your adversary’s fire.” + +The two combatants bowed in sign of assent, and with one voice, and +almost at the same moment, they said: + +“The pistols!” + +Sir John drew the little key from his pocket and opened the box. Then +approaching M. de Barjols he offered it to him open. The latter wished +to yield the choice of weapons to his opponent; but with a wave of his +hand Roland refused, saying in a tone almost feminine in its sweetness: + +“After you, M. de Barjols. Although you are the insulted party, you +have, I am told, renounced your advantages. The least I can do is to +yield you this one, if for that matter it is an advantage.” + +M. de Barjols no longer insisted. He took one of the two pistols at +random. Sir John offered the other to Roland, who took it, and, without +even examining its mechanism, cocked the trigger, then let it fall at +arm’s-length at his side. + +During this time M. de Valensolle had measured forty paces, staking a +cane as a point of departure. + +“Will you measure after me?” he asked Sir John. + +“Needless, sir,” replied the latter: “M. de Montrevel and myself rely +entirely upon you.” + +M. de Valensolle staked a second cane at the fortieth pace. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “when you are ready.” + +Roland’s adversary was already at his post, hat and cloak removed. +The surgeon and the two seconds stood aside. The spot had been so well +chosen that neither had any advantage of sun or ground. Roland tossed +off hat and coat, stationed himself forty paces from M. de Barjols, +facing him. Both, one to right the other to the left, cast a glance at +the same horizon. The aspect harmonized with the terrible solemnity of +the scene about to take place. + +Nothing was visible to Roland’s right and to M. de Barjols’ left, except +the mountain’s swift incline and gigantic peak. But on the other side, +that is to say, to M. de Barjols’ right and Roland’s left, it was a far +different thing. + +The horizon stretched illimitable. In the foreground, the plain, its +ruddy soil pierced on all sides by rocks, like a Titan graveyard with +its bones protruding through the earth. Then, sharply outlined in the +setting sun, was Avignon with its girdle of walls and its vast palace, +like a crouching lion, seeming to hold the panting city in its claws. +Beyond Avignon, a luminous sweep, like a river of molten gold, defined +the Rhone. Beyond the Rhone, a deep-hued azure vista, stretched the +chain of hills which separate Avignon from Nimes and d’Uzes. And far +off, the sun, at which one of these two men was probably looking for the +last time, sank slowly and majestically in an ocean of gold and purple. + +For the rest these two men presented a singular contrast. One, with his +black hair, swarthy skin, slender limbs and sombre eyes, was the type of +the Southern race which counts among its ancestors Greeks, Romans, Arabs +and Spaniards. The other, with his rosy skin, large blue eyes, and hands +dimpled like a woman’s, was the type of that race of temperate zones +which reckons Gauls, Germans and Normans among its forebears. + +Had one wished to magnify the situation it were easy to believe this +something greater than single combat between two men. One might have +thought it was a duel of a people against another people, race against +race, the South against the North. + +Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled Roland’s +mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery. + +Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten +seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this +magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols’ voice aroused him from this +poetical stupor. + +“When you are ready, sir,” said he, “I am.” + +Roland started. + +“Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir,” said he. “You should not have +considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now.” + +Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze, +unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his opponent, +on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such a case, Roland +advanced straight toward M. de Barjols. + +Sir John’s face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed a profound +anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened rapidly. M. de +Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when Roland was but ten paces +from him. + +The ball clipped one of Roland’s curls, but did not touch him. The young +man turned toward his second: + +“Well,” said he, “what did I tell you?” + +“Fire, monsieur, fire!” said the seconds. + +M. de Barjols stood silent and motionless on the spot where he had +fired. + +“Pardon me, gentlemen,” replied Roland; “but you will, I hope, permit me +to be the judge of the time and manner of retaliating. Since I have felt +M. de Barjols’ shot, I have a few words to say to him which I could not +say before.” Then, turning to the young aristocrat, who was pale and +calm, he said: “Sir, perhaps I was somewhat too hasty in our discussion +this morning.” + +And he waited. + +“It is for you to fire, sir,” replied M. de Barjols. + +“But,” continued Roland, as if he had not heard, “you will understand +my impetuosity, and perhaps excuse it, when you hear that I am a soldier +and General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp.” + +“Fire, sir,” replied the young nobleman. + +“Say but one word of retraction, sir,” resumed the young officer. “Say +that General Bonaparte’s reputation for honor and delicacy is such that +a miserable Italian proverb, inspired by ill-natured losers, cannot +reflect discredit on him. Say that, and I throw this weapon away to +grasp your hand; for I recognize in you, sir, a brave man.” + +“I cannot accord that homage to his honor and delicacy until your +general has devoted the influence which his genius gives him over France +as Monk did--that is to say, to reinstate his legitimate sovereign upon +the throne.” + +“Ah!” cried Roland, with a smile, “that is asking too much of a +republican general.” + +“Then I maintain what I said,” replied the young noble. “Fire! monsieur, +fire!” Then as Roland made no haste to obey this injunction, he shouted, +stamping his foot: “Heavens and earth! will you fire?” + +At these words Roland made a movement as if he intended to fire in the +air. + +“Ah!” exclaimed M. de Barjols. Then with a rapidity of gesture and +speech that prevented this, “Do not fire in the air, I beg, or I shall +insist that we begin again and that you fire first.” + +“On my honor!” cried Roland, turning as pale as if the blood had left +his body, “this is the first time I have done so much for any man. Go to +the devil! and if you don’t want to live, then die!” + +At the same time he lowered his arm and fired, without troubling to take +aim. + +Alfred de Barjols put his hand to his breast, swayed back and forth, +turned around and fell face down upon the ground. Roland’s bullet had +gone through his heart. + +Sir John, seeing M. de Barjols fall, went straight to Roland and drew +him to the spot where he had thrown his hat and coat. + +“That is the third,” murmured Roland with a sigh; “but you are my +witness that this one would have it.” + +Then giving his smoking pistol to Sir John, he resumed his hat and coat. +During this time M. de Valensolle picked up the pistol which had escaped +from his friend’s hand, and brought it, together with the box, to Sir +John. + +“Well?” asked the Englishman, motioning toward Alfred de Barjols with +his eyes. + +“He is dead,” replied the second. + +“Have I acted as a man of honor, sir?” asked Roland, wiping away the +sweat which suddenly inundated his brow at the announcement of his +opponent’s death. + +“Yes, monsieur,” replied M. de Valensolle; “only, permit me to say this: +you possess the fatal hand.” + +Then bowing to Roland and his second with exquisite politeness, he +returned to his friend’s body. + +“And you, my lord,” resumed Roland, “what do you say?” + +“I say,” replied Sir John, with a sort of forced admiration, “you +are one of those men who are made by the divine Shakespeare to say of +themselves: + + “‘Danger and I-- + We were two lions littered in one day, + But I the elder.’” + + + + +CHAPTER V. ROLAND + +The return was silent and mournful; it seemed that with the hopes of +death Roland’s gayety had disappeared. + +The catastrophe of which he had been the author played perhaps a part +in his taciturnity. But let us hasten to say that in battle, and more +especially during the last campaign against the Arabs, Roland had been +too frequently obliged to jump his horse over the bodies of his victims +to be so deeply impressed by the death of an unknown man. + +His sadness was, due to some other cause; probably that which he +confided to Sir John. Disappointment over his own lost chance of death, +rather than that other’s decease, occasioned this regret. + +On their return to the Hotel du Palais-Royal, Sir John mounted to his +room with his pistols, the sight of which might have excited something +like remorse in Roland’s breast. Then he rejoined the young officer and +returned the three letters which had been intrusted to him. + +He found Roland leaning pensively on a table. Without saying a word the +Englishman laid the three letters before him. The young man cast his +eyes over the addresses, took the one destined for his mother, unsealed +it and read it over. As he read, great tears rolled down his cheeks. Sir +John gazed wonderingly at this new phase of Roland’s character. He had +thought everything possible to this many-sided nature except those tears +which fell silently from his eyes. + +Shaking his head and paying not the least attention to Sir John’s +presence, Roland murmured: + +“Poor mother! she would have wept. Perhaps it is better so. Mothers were +not made to weep for their children!” + +He tore up the letters he had written to his mother, his sister, and +General Bonaparte, mechanically burning the fragments with the utmost +care. Then ringing for the chambermaid, he asked: + +“When must my letters be in the post?” + +“Half-past six,” replied she. “You have only a few minutes more.” + +“Just wait then.” + +And taking a pen he wrote: + + My DEAR GENERAL--It is as I told you; I am living and he is + dead. You must admit that this seems like a wager. Devotion + to death. + + Your Paladin + + ROLAND. + +Then he sealed the letter, addressed it to General Bonaparte, Rue de la +Victoire, Paris, and handed it to the chambermaid, bidding her lose no +time in posting it. Then only did he seem to notice Sir John, and held +out his hand to him. + +“You have just rendered me a great service, my lord,” he said. “One +of those services which bind men for all eternity. I am already your +friend; will you do me the honor to become mine?” + +Sir John pressed the hand that Roland offered him. + +“Oh!” said he, “I thank you heartily. I should never have dared ask this +honor; but you offer it and I accept.” + +Even the impassible Englishman felt his heart soften as he brushed away +the tear that trembled on his lashes. Then looking at Roland, he said: +“It is unfortunate that you are so hurried; I should have been pleased +and delighted to spend a day or two with you.” + +“Where were you going, my lord, when I met you?” + +“Oh, I? Nowhere. I am travelling to get over being bored. I am +unfortunately often bored.” + +“So that you were going nowhere?” + +“I was going everywhere.” + +“That is exactly the same thing,” said the young officer, smiling. +“Well, will you do something for me?” + +“Oh! very willingly, if it is possible.” + +“Perfectly possible; it depends only on you.” + +“What is it?” + +“Had I been killed you were going to take me to my mother or throw me +into the Rhone.” + +“I should have taken you to your mother and not thrown you into the +Rhone.” + +“Well, instead of accompanying me dead, take me living. You will be all +the better received.” + +“Oh!” + +“We will remain a fortnight at Bourg. It is my natal city, and one of +the dullest towns in France; but as your compatriots are pre-eminent for +originality, perhaps you will find amusement where others are bored. Are +we agreed?” + +“I should like nothing better,” exclaimed the Englishman; “but it seems +to me that it is hardly proper on my part.” + +“Oh! we are not in England, my lord, where etiquette holds absolute +sway. We have no longer king nor queen. We didn’t cut off that poor +creature’s head whom they called Marie Antoinette to install Her +Majesty, Etiquette, in her stead.” + +“I should like to go,” said Sir John. + +“You’ll see, my mother is an excellent woman, and very distinguished +besides. My sister was sixteen when I left; she must be eighteen now. +She was pretty, and she ought to be beautiful. Then there is my brother +Edouard, a delightful youngster of twelve, who will let off fireworks +between your legs and chatter a gibberish of English with you. At the +end of the fortnight we will go to Paris together.” + +“I have just come from Paris,” said the Englishman. + +“But listen. You were willing to go to Egypt to see General Bonaparte. +Paris is not so far from here as Cairo. I’ll present you, and, +introduced by me, you may rest assured that you will be well received. +You were speaking of Shakespeare just now--” + +“Oh! I am always quoting him.” + +“Which proves that you like comedies and dramas.” + +“I do like them very much, that’s true.” + +“Well, then, General Bonaparte is going to produce one in his own style +which will not be wanting in interest, I answer for it!” + +“So that,” said Sir John, still hesitating, “I may accept your offer +without seeming intrusive?” + +“I should think so. You will delight us all, especially me.” + +“Then I accept.” + +“Bravo! Now, let’s see, when will you start?” + +“As soon as you wish. My coach was harnessed when you threw that +unfortunate plate at Barjols’ head. However, as I should never have +known you but for that plate, I am glad you did throw it at him!” + +“Shall we start this evening?” + +“Instantly. I’ll give orders for the postilion to send other horses, and +once they are here we will start.” + +Roland nodded acquiescence. Sir John went out to give his orders, and +returned presently, saying they had served two cutlets and a cold fowl +for them below. Roland took his valise and went down. The Englishman +placed his pistols in the coach box again. Both ate enough to enable +them to travel all night, and as nine o’clock was striking from the +Church of the Cordeliers they settled themselves in the carriage and +quitted Avignon, where their passage left a fresh trail of blood, Roland +with the careless indifference of his nature, Sir John Tanlay with +the impassibility of his nation. A quarter of an hour later both were +sleeping, or at least the silence which obtained induced the belief that +both had yielded to slumber. + +We shall profit by this instant of repose to give our readers some +indispensable information concerning Roland and his family. + +Roland was born the first of July, 1773, four years and a few days later +than Bonaparte, at whose side, or rather following him, he made his +appearance in this book. He was the son of M. Charles de Montrevel, +colonel of a regiment long garrisoned at Martinique, where he had +married a creole named Clotilde de la Clémencière. Three children were +born of this marriage, two boys and a girl: Louis, whose acquaintance we +have made under the name of Roland, Amélie, whose beauty he had praised +to Sir John, and Edouard. + +Recalled to France in 1782, M. de Montrevel obtained admission for young +Louis de Montrevel (we shall see later how the name of Louis was changed +to Roland) to the Ecole Militaire in Paris. + +It was there that Bonaparte knew the child, when, on M. de Keralio’s +report, he was judged worthy of promotion from the Ecole de Brienne to +the Ecole Militaire. Louis was the youngest pupil. Though he was only +thirteen, he had already made himself remarked for that ungovernable and +quarrelsome nature of which we have seen him seventeen years later give +an example at the table d’hôte at Avignon. + +Bonaparte, a child himself, had the good side of this character; that +is to say, without being quarrelsome, he was firm, obstinate, and +unconquerable. He recognized in the child some of his own qualities, and +this similarity of sentiments led him to pardon the boy’s defects, +and attached him to him. On the other hand the child, conscious of a +supporter in the Corsican, relied upon him. + +One day the child went to find his great friend, as he called Napoleon, +when the latter was absorbed in the solution of a mathematical problem. +He knew the importance the future artillery officer attached to this +science, which so far had won him his greatest, or rather his only +successes. + +He stood beside him without speaking or moving. The young mathematician +felt the child’s presence, and plunged deeper and deeper into his +mathematical calculations, whence he emerged victorious ten minutes +later. Then he turned to his young comrade with that inward satisfaction +of a man who issues victorious from any struggle, be it with science or +things material. + +The child stood erect, pale, his teeth clinched, his arms rigid and his +fists closed. + +“Oh! oh!” said young Bonaparte, “what is the matter now?” + +“Valence, the governor’s nephew, struck me.” + +“Ah!” said Bonaparte, laughing, “and you have come to me to strike him +back?” + +The child shook his head. + +“No,” said he, “I have come to you because I want to fight him--” + +“Fight Valence?” + +“Yes.” + +“But Valence will beat you, child; he is four times as strong as you.” + +“Therefore I don’t want to fight him as children do, but like men +fight.” + +“Pooh!” + +“Does that surprise you?” asked the child. + +“No,” said Bonaparte; “what do you want to fight with?” + +“With swords.” + +“But only the sergeants have swords, and they won’t lend you one.” + +“Then we will do without swords.” + +“But what will you fight with?” + +The child pointed to the compass with which the young mathematician had +made his equations. + +“Oh! my child,” said Bonaparte, “a compass makes a very bad wound.” + +“So much the better,” replied Louis; “I can kill him.” + +“But suppose he kills you?” + +“I’d rather that than bear his blow.” + +Bonaparte made no further objections; he loved courage, instinctively, +and his young comrade’s pleased him. + +“Well, so be it!” he replied; “I will tell Valence that you wish to +fight him, but not till to-morrow.” + +“Why to-morrow?” + +“You will have the night to reflect.” + +“And from now till to-morrow,” replied the child, “Valence will think me +a coward.” Then shaking his head, “It is too long till to-morrow.” And +he walked away. + +“Where are you going?” Bonaparte asked him. + +“To ask some one else to be my friend.” + +“So I am no longer your friend?” + +“No, since you think I am a coward.” + +“Very well,” said the young man rising. + +“You will go?” + +“I am going.” + +“At once?” + +“At once.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed the child, “I beg your pardon; you are indeed my +friend.” And he fell upon his neck weeping. They were the first tears he +had shed since he had received the blow. + +Bonaparte went in search of Valence and gravely explained his mission to +him. Valence was a tall lad of seventeen, having already, like certain +precocious natures, a beard and mustache; he appeared at least twenty. +He was, moreover, a head taller than the boy he had insulted. + +Valence replied that Louis had pulled his queue as if it were a +bell-cord (queues were then in vogue)--that he had warned him twice to +desist, but that Louis had repeated the prank the third time, whereupon, +considering him a mischievous youngster, he had treated him as such. + +Valence’s answer was reported to Louis, who retorted that pulling a +comrade’s queue was only teasing him, whereas a blow was an insult. +Obstinacy endowed this child of thirteen with the logic of a man of +thirty. + +The modern Popilius to Valence returned with his declaration of war. The +youth was greatly embarrassed; he could not fight with a child without +being ridiculous. If he fought and wounded him, it would be a horrible +thing; if he himself were wounded, he would never get over it so long as +he lived. + +But Louis’s unyielding obstinacy made the matter a serious one. A +council of the Grands (elder scholars) was called, as was usual in +serious cases. The Grands decided that one of their number could not +fight a child; but since this child persisted in considering himself +a young man, Valence must tell him before all his schoolmates that he +regretted having treated him as a child, and would henceforth regard him +as a young man. + +Louis, who was waiting in his friend’s room, was sent for. He was +introduced into the conclave assembled in the playground of the younger +pupils. + +There Valence, to whom his comrades had dictated a speech carefully +debated among themselves to safeguard the honor of the Grands toward the +Petits, assured Louis that he deeply deplored the occurrence; that +he had treated him according to his age and not according to his +intelligence and courage, and begged him to excuse his impatience and to +shake hands in sign that all was forgotten. + +But Louis shook his head. + +“I heard my father, who is a colonel, say once,” he replied, “that he +who receives a blow and does not fight is a coward. The first time I see +my father I shall ask him if he who strikes the blow and then apologizes +to avoid fighting is not more of a coward than he who received it.” + +The young fellows looked at each other. Still the general opinion was +against a duel which would resemble murder, and all, Bonaparte included, +were unanimously agreed that the child must be satisfied with what +Valence had said, for it represented their common opinion. Louis +retired, pale with anger, and sulked with his great friend, who, said +he, with imperturbable gravity, had sacrificed his honor. + +The morrow, while the Grands were receiving their lesson in mathematics, +Louis slipped into the recitation-room, and while Valence was making a +demonstration on the blackboard, he approached him unperceived, climbed +on a stool to reach his face, and returned the slap he had received the +preceding day. + +“There,” said he, “now we are quits, and I have your apologies to boot; +as for me, I shan’t make any, you may be quite sure of that.” + +The scandal was great. The act occurring in the professor’s presence, +he was obliged to report it to the governor of the school, the Marquis +Tiburce Valence. The latter, knowing nothing of the events leading up +to the blow his nephew had received, sent for the delinquent and after +a terrible lecture informed him that he was no longer a member of the +school, and must be ready to return to his mother at Bourg that very +day. Louis replied that his things would be packed in ten minutes, and +he out of the school in fifteen. Of the blow he himself had received he +said not a word. + +The reply seemed more than disrespectful to the Marquis Tiburce Valence. +He was much inclined to send the insolent boy to the dungeon for a week, +but reflected that he could not confine him and expel him at the same +time. + +The child was placed in charge of an attendant, who was not to leave him +until he had put him in the coach for Mâcon; Madame de Montrevel was to +be notified to meet him at the end of the journey. + +Bonaparte meeting the boy, followed by his keeper, asked an explanation +of the sort of constabulary guard attached to him. + +“I’d tell you if you were still my friend,” replied the child; “but you +are not. Why do you bother about what happens to me, whether good or +bad?” + +Bonaparte made a sign to the attendant, who came to the door while Louis +was packing his little trunk. He learned then that the child had been +expelled. The step was serious; it would distress the entire family, and +perhaps ruin his young comrade’s future. + +With that rapidity of decision which was one of the distinctive +characteristics of his organization, he resolved to ask an audience +of the governor, meantime requesting the keeper not to hasten Louis’s +departure. + +Bonaparte was an excellent pupil, beloved in the school, and highly +esteemed by the Marquis Tiburce Valence. His request was immediately +complied with. Ushered into the governor’s presence, he related +everything, and, without blaming Valence in the least, he sought to +exculpate Louis. + +“Are you sure of what you are telling me, sir?” asked the governor. + +“Question your nephew himself. I will abide by what he says.” + +Valence was sent for. He had already heard of Louis’s expulsion, and +was on his way to tell his uncle what had happened. His account tallied +perfectly with what you Bonaparte had said. + +“Very well,” said the governor, “Louis shall not go, but you will. You +are old enough to leave school.” Then ringing, “Bring me the list of the +vacant sub-lieutenancies,” he said. + +That same day an urgent request for a sub-lieutenancy was made to the +Ministry, and that same night Valence left to join his regiment. He went +to bid Louis farewell, embracing him half willingly, half unwillingly, +while Bonaparte held his hand. The child received the embrace +reluctantly. + +“It’s all right now,” said he, “but if ever we meet with swords by our +sides--” A threatening gesture ended the sentence. + +Valence left. Bonaparte received his own appointment as sub-lieutenant +October 10, 1785. His was one of fifty-eight commissions which Louis +XVI. signed for the Ecole Militaire. Eleven years later, November 15, +1796, Bonaparte, commander-in-chief of the army of Italy, at the Bridge +of Arcola, which was defended by two regiments of Croats and two pieces +of cannon, seeing his ranks disseminated by grapeshot and musket balls, +feeling that victory was slipping through his fingers, alarmed by the +hesitation of his bravest followers, wrenched the tri-color from the +rigid fingers of a dead color-bearer, and dashed toward the bridge, +shouting: “Soldiers! are you no longer the men of Lodi?” As he did so he +saw a young lieutenant spring past him who covered him with his body. + +This was far from what Bonaparte wanted. He wished to cross first. Had +it been possible he would have gone alone. + +Seizing the young man by the flap of his coat, he drew him back, +saying: “Citizen, you are only a lieutenant, I a commander-in-chief! The +precedence belongs to me.” + +“Too true,” replied the other; and he followed Bonaparte instead of +preceding him. + +That evening, learning that two Austrian divisions had been cut to +pieces, and seeing the two thousand prisoners he had taken, together +with the captured cannons and flags, Bonaparte recalled the young man +who had sprung in front of him when death alone seemed before him. + +“Berthier,” said he, “tell my aide-de-camp, Valence, to find that young +lieutenant of grenadiers with whom I had a controversy this morning at +the Bridge of Arcola.” + +“General,” stammered Berthier, “Valence is wounded.” + +“Ah! I remember I have not seen him to-day. Wounded? Where? How? On the +battlefield?” + +“No, general,” said he, “he was dragged into a quarrel yesterday, and +received a sword thrust through his body.” + +Bonaparte frowned. “And yet they know very well I do not approve of +duels; a soldier’s blood belongs not to himself, but to France. Give +Muiron the order then.” + +“He is killed, general.” + +“To Elliot, in that case.” + +“Killed also.” + +Bonaparte drew his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his +brow, which was bathed with sweat. + +“To whom you will, then; but I want to see that lieutenant.” + +He dared not name any others, fearing to hear again that fatal “Killed!” + +A quarter of an hour later the young lieutenant was ushered into his +tent, which was lighted faintly by a single lamp. + +“Come nearer, lieutenant,” said Bonaparte. + +The young man made three steps and came within the circle of light. + +“So you are the man who wished to cross the bridge before me?” continued +Bonaparte. + +“It was done on a wager, general,” gayly answered the young lieutenant, +whose voice made the general start. + +“Did I make you lose it?” + +“Maybe, yes; maybe, no.” + +“What was the wager?” + +“That I should be promoted captain to-day.” + +“You have won it.” + +“Thank you, general.” + +The young man moved hastily forward as if to press Bonaparte’s hand, +but checked himself almost immediately. The light had fallen full on his +face for an instant; that instant sufficed to make the general notice +the face as he had the voice. Neither the one nor the other was +unknown to him. He searched his memory for an instant, but finding it +rebellious, said: “I know you!” + +“Possibly, general.” + +“I am certain; only I cannot recall your name.” + +“You managed that yours should not be forgotten, general.” + +“Who are you?” + +“Ask Valence, general.” + +Bonaparte gave a cry of joy. + +“Louis de Montrevel,” he exclaimed, opening wide his arms. This time the +young lieutenant did not hesitate to fling himself into them. + +“Very good,” said Bonaparte; “you will serve eight days with the +regiment in your new rank, that they may accustom themselves to your +captain’s epaulets, and then you will take my poor Muiron’s place as +aide-de-camp. Go!” + +“Once more!” cried the young man, opening his arms. + +“Faith, yes!” said Bonaparte, joyfully. Then holding him close after +kissing him twice, “And so it was you who gave Valence that sword +thrust?” + +“My word!” said the new captain and future aide-de-camp, “you were there +when I promised it to him. A soldier keeps his word.” + +Eight days later Captain Montrevel was doing duty as staff-officer +to the commander-in-chief, who changed his name of Louis, then in +ill-repute, to that of Roland. And the young man consoled himself +for ceasing to be a descendant of St. Louis by becoming the nephew of +Charlemagne. + +Roland--no one would have dared to call Captain Montrevel Louis after +Bonaparte had baptized him Roland--made the campaign of Italy with his +general, and returned with him to Paris after the peace of Campo Formio. + +When the Egyptian expedition was decided upon, Roland, who had been +summoned to his mother’s side by the death of the Brigadier-General de +Montrevel, killed on the Rhine while his son was fighting on the Adige +and the Mincio, was among the first appointed by the commander-in-chief +to accompany him in the useless but poetical crusade which he was +planning. He left his mother, his sister Amélie, and his young brother +Edouard at Bourg, General de Montrevel’s native town. They resided +some three-quarters of a mile out of the city, at Noires-Fontaines, +a charming house, called a château, which, together with the farm and +several hundred acres of land surrounding it, yielded an income of six +or eight thousand livres a year, and constituted the general’s entire +fortune. Roland’s departure on this adventurous expedition deeply +afflicted the poor widow. The death of the father seemed to presage that +of the son, and Madame de Montrevel, a sweet, gentle Creole, was far +from possessing the stern virtues of a Spartan or Lacedemonian mother. + +Bonaparte, who loved his old comrade of the Ecole Militaire with all his +heart, granted him permission to rejoin him at the very last moment +at Toulon. But the fear of arriving too late prevented Roland from +profiting by this permission to its full extent. He left his mother, +promising her--a promise he was careful not to keep--that he would +not expose himself unnecessarily, and arrived at Marseilles eight days +before the fleet set sail. + +Our intention is no more to give the history of the campaign of +Egypt than we did that of Italy. We shall only mention that which +is absolutely necessary to understand this story and the subsequent +development of Roland’s character. The 19th of May, 1798, Bonaparte and +his entire staff set sail for the Orient; the 15th of June the Knights +of Malta gave up the keys of their citadel. The 2d of July the army +disembarked at Marabout, and the same day took Alexandria; the 25th, +Bonaparte entered Cairo, after defeating the Mamelukes at Chebreïss and +the Pyramids. + +During this succession of marches and battles, Roland had been the +officer we know him, gay, courageous and witty, defying the scorching +heat of the day, the icy dew of the nights, dashing like a hero or a +fool among the Turkish sabres or the Bedouin bullets. During the forty +days of the voyage he had never left the interpreter Ventura; so that +with his admirable facility he had learned, if not to speak Arabic +fluently, at least to make himself understood in that language. +Therefore it often happened that, when the general did not wish to use +the native interpreter, Roland was charged with certain communications +to the Muftis, the Ulemas, and the Sheiks. + +During the night of October 20th and 21st Cairo revolted. At five in the +morning the death of General Dupey, killed by a lance, was made known. +At eight, just as the revolt was supposedly quelled, an aide-de-camp of +the dead general rode up, announcing that the Bedouins from the plains +were attacking Bab-el-Nasr, or the Gate of Victory. + +Bonaparte was breakfasting with his aide-de-camp Sulkowsky, so severely +wounded at Salahieh that he left his pallet of suffering with the +greatest difficulty only. Bonaparte, in his preoccupation forgetting the +young Pole’s condition, said to him: “Sulkowsky, take fifteen Guides and +go see what that rabble wants.” + +Sulkowsky rose. + +“General,” interposed Roland, “give me the commission. Don’t you see my +comrade can hardly stand?” + +“True,” said Bonaparte; “do you go!” + +Roland went out and took the fifteen Guides and started. But the order +had been given to Sulkowsky, and Sulkowsky was determined to execute it. +He set forth with five or six men whom he found ready. + +Whether by chance, or because he knew the streets of Cairo better than +Roland, he reached the Gate of Victory a few seconds before him. When +Roland arrived, he saw five or six dead men, and an officer being led +away by the Arabs, who, while massacring the soldiers mercilessly, will +sometimes spare the officers in hope of a ransom. Roland recognized +Sulkowsky; pointing him out with his sabre to his fifteen men, he +charged at a gallop. + +Half an hour later, a Guide, returning alone to head-quarters, announced +the deaths of Sulkowsky, Roland and his twenty-one companions. + +Bonaparte, as we have said, loved Roland as a brother, as a son, as he +loved Eugene. He wished to know all the details of the catastrophe, and +questioned the Guide. The man had seen an Arab cut off Sulkowsky’s +head and fasten it to his saddle-bow. As for Roland, his horse had +been killed. He had disengaged himself from the stirrups and was seen +fighting for a moment on foot; but he had soon disappeared in a general +volley at close quarters. + +Bonaparte sighed, shed a tear and murmured: “Another!” and apparently +thought no more about it. But he did inquire to what tribe belonged +these Bedouins, who had just killed two of the men he loved best. He was +told that they were an independent tribe whose village was situated some +thirty miles off. Bonaparte left them a month, that they might become +convinced of their impunity; then, the month elapsed, he ordered one of +his aides-de-camp, named Crosier, to surround the village, destroy +the huts, behead the men, put them in sacks, and bring the rest of the +population, that is to say, the women and children, to Cairo. + +Crosier executed the order punctually; all the women and children who +could be captured were brought to Cairo, and also with them one living +Arab, gagged and bound to his horse’s back. + +“Why is this man still alive?” asked Bonaparte. “I ordered you to behead +every man who was able to bear arms.” + +“General,” said Crosier, who also possessed a smattering of Arabian +words, “just as I was about to order his head cut off, I understood him +to offer to exchange a prisoner for his life. I thought there would be +time enough to cut off his head, and so brought him with me. If I am +mistaken, the ceremony can take place here as well as there; what is +postponed is not abandoned.” + +The interpreter Ventura was summoned to question the Bedouin. He replied +that he had saved the life of a French officer who had been grievously +wounded at the Gate of Victory, and that this officer, who spoke a +little Arabic, claimed to be one of General Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp. +He had sent him to his brother who was a physician in a neighboring +tribe, of which this officer was a captive; and if they would promise +to spare his life, he would write to his brother to send the prisoner to +Cairo. + +Perhaps this was a tale invented to gain time, but it might also be +true; nothing was lost by waiting. + +The Arab was placed in safe keeping, a scribe was brought to write at +his dictation. He sealed the letter with his own seal, and an Arab +from Cairo was despatched to negotiate the exchange. If the emissary +succeeded, it meant the Bedouin’s life and five hundred piastres to the +messenger. + +Three days later he returned bringing Roland. Bonaparte had hoped for +but had not dared to expect this return. + +This heart of iron, which had seemed insensible to grief, was now melted +with joy. He opened his arms to Roland, as on the day when he had found +him, and two tears, two pearls--the tears of Bonaparte were rare--fell +from his eyes. + +But Roland, strange as it may seem, was sombre in the midst of the joy +caused by his return. He confirmed the Arab’s tale, insisted upon his +liberation, but refused all personal details about his capture by the +Bedouins and the treatment he had received at the hands of the doctor. +As for Sulkowsky, he had been killed and beheaded before his eyes, so it +was useless to think more of him. Roland resumed his duties, but it was +noticeable his native courage had become temerity, and his longing for +glory, desire for death. + +On the other hand, as often happens with those who brave fire and sword, +fire and sword miraculously spared him. Before, behind and around Roland +men fell; he remained erect, invulnerable as the demon of war. During +the campaign in Syria two emissaries were sent to demand the surrender +of Saint Jean d’Acre of Djezzar Pasha. Neither of the two returned; they +had been beheaded. It was necessary to send a third. Roland applied +for the duty, and so insistent was he, that he eventually obtained the +general’s permission and returned in safety. He took part in each of the +nineteen assaults made upon the fortress; at each assault he was seen +entering the breach. He was one of the ten men who forced their way into +the Accursèd Tower; nine remained, but he returned without a scratch. +During the retreat, Bonaparte commanded his cavalry to lend their horses +to the wounded and sick. All endeavored to avoid the contagion of the +pest-ridden sick. To them Roland gave his horse from preference. Three +fell dead from the saddle; he mounted his horse after them, and reached +Cairo safe and sound. At Aboukir he flung himself into the mélée, +reached the Pasha by forcing his way through the guard of blacks who +surrounded him; seized him by the beard and received the fire of his two +pistols. One burned the wadding only, the other ball passed under his +arm, killing a guard behind him. + +When Bonaparte resolved to return to France, Roland was the first to +whom the general announced his intention. Another had been overjoyed; +but he remained sombre and melancholy, saying: “I should prefer to +remain here, general. There is more chance of my being killed here.” + +But as it would have appeared ungrateful on his part to refuse to follow +the general, he returned with him. During the voyage he remained sad +and impenetrable, until the English fleet was sighted near Corsica. +Then only did he regain his wonted animation. Bonaparte told Admiral +Gantheaume that he would fight to the death, and gave orders to sink +the frigate sooner than haul down the flag. He passed, however, unseen +through the British fleet, and disembarked at Frejus, October 8, 1799. + +All were impatient to be the first to set foot on French soil. Roland +was the last. Although the general paid no apparent attention to these +details, none escaped him. He sent Eugène, Berthier, Bourrienne, his +aides-de-camp and his suite by way of Gap and Draguignan, while he took +the road to Aix strictly incognito, accompanied only by Roland, to judge +for himself of the state of the Midi. Hoping that the joy of seeing his +family again would revive the love of life in his heart crushed by its +hidden sorrow, he informed Roland at Aix that they would part at Lyons, +and gave him three weeks’ furlough to visit his mother and sister. + +Roland replied: “Thank you, general. My sister and my mother will be +very happy to see me.” Whereas formerly his words would have been: +“Thank you, general. I shall be very happy to see my mother and sister +again.” + +We know what occurred at Avignon; we have seen with what profound +contempt for danger, bitter disgust of life, Roland had provoked +that terrible duel. We heard the reason he gave Sir John for this +indifference to death. Was it true or false? Sir John at all events +was obliged to content himself with it, since Roland was evidently not +disposed to furnish any other. + +And now, as we have said, they were sleeping or pretending to sleep as +they were drawn by two horses at full speed along the road of Avignon to +Orange. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. MORGAN + +Our readers must permit us for an instant to abandon Roland and Sir +John, who, thanks to the physical and moral conditions in which we left +them, need inspire no anxiety, while we direct our attention seriously +to a personage who has so far made but a brief appearance in this +history, though he is destined to play an important part in it. + +We are speaking of the man who, armed and masked, entered the room of +the table d’hôte at Avignon to return Jean Picot the two hundred louis +which had been stolen from him by mistake, stored as it had been with +the government money. + +We speak of the highwayman, who called himself Morgan. He had ridden +into Avignon, masked, in broad daylight, entered the hotel of the +Palais-Egalité leaving his horse at the door. This horse had enjoyed +the same immunity in the pontifical and royalist town as his master; he +found it again at the horse post, unfastened its bridle, sprang into +the saddle, rode through the Porte d’Oulle, skirting the walls, +and disappeared at a gallop along the road to Lyons. Only about +three-quarters of a mile from Avignon, he drew his mantle closer about +him, to conceal his weapons from the passers, and removing his mask he +slipped it into one of the holsters of his saddle. + +The persons whom he had left at Avignon who were curious to know if +this could be the terrible Morgan, the terror of the Midi, might have +convinced themselves with their own eyes, had they met him on the road +between Avignon and Bédarides, whether the bandit’s appearance was as +terrifying as his renown. We do not hesitate to assert that the features +now revealed would have harmonized so little with the picture their +prejudiced imagination had conjured up that their amazement would have +been extreme. + +The removal of the mask, by a hand of perfect whiteness and delicacy, +revealed the face of a young man of twenty-four or five years of age, +a face that, by its regularity of feature and gentle expression, had +something of the character of a woman’s. One detail alone gave it or +rather would give it at certain moments a touch of singular firmness. +Beneath the beautiful fair hair waving on his brow and temples, as was +the fashion at that period, eyebrows, eyes and lashes were black as +ebony. The rest of the face was, as we have said, almost feminine. There +were two little ears of which only the tips could be seen beneath the +tufts of hair to which the Incroyables of the day had given the name of +“dog’s-ears”; a straight, perfectly proportioned nose, a rather large +mouth, rosy and always smiling, and which, when smiling, revealed a +double row of brilliant teeth; a delicate refined chin faintly tinged +with blue, showing that, if the beard had not been carefully and +recently shaved, it would, protesting against the golden hair, have +followed the same color as the brows, lashes and eyes, that is to say, a +decided black. As for the unknown’s figure, it was seen, when he entered +the dining-room, to be tall, well-formed and flexible, denoting, if not +great muscular strength, at least much suppleness and agility. + +The manner he sat his horse showed him to be a practiced rider. With his +cloak thrown back over his shoulders, his mask hidden in the holster, +his hat pulled low over his eyes, the rider resumed his rapid pace, +checked for an instant, passed through Bédarides at a gallop, and +reaching the first houses in Orange, entered the gate of one which +closed immediately behind him. A servant in waiting sprang to the bit. +The rider dismounted quickly. + +“Is your master here?” he asked the domestic. + +“No, Monsieur the Baron,” replied the man; “he was obliged to go away +last night, but he left word that if Monsieur should ask for him, to say +that he had gone in the interests of the Company.” + +“Very good, Baptiste. I have brought back his horse in good condition, +though somewhat tired. Rub him down with wine, and give him for two or +three days barley instead of oats. He has covered something like one +hundred miles since yesterday morning.” + +“Monsieur the Baron was satisfied with him?” + +“Perfectly satisfied. Is the carriage ready?” + +“Yes, Monsieur the Baron, all harnessed in the coach-house; the +postilion is drinking with Julien. Monsieur recommended that he should +be kept outside the house that he might not see him arrive.” + +“He thinks he is to take your master?” + +“Yes, Monsieur the Baron. Here is my master’s passport, which we used +to get the post-horses, and as my master has gone in the direction of +Bordeaux with Monsieur the Baron’s passport, and as Monsieur the Baron +goes toward Geneva with my master’s passport, the skein will probably +be so tangled that the police, clever as their fingers are, can’t easily +unravel it.” + +“Unfasten the valise that is on the croup of my saddle, Baptiste, and +give it to me.” + +Baptiste obeyed dutifully, but the valise almost slipped from his hands. +“Ah!” said he laughing, “Monsieur the Baron did not warn me! The devil! +Monsieur the Baron has not wasted his time it seems.” + +“Just where you’re mistaken, Baptiste! if I didn’t waste all my time, I +at least lost a good deal, so I should like to be off again as soon as +possible.” + +“But Monsieur the Baron will breakfast?” + +“I’ll eat a bite, but quickly.” + +“Monsieur will not be delayed. It is now two, and breakfast has been +ready since ten this morning. Luckily it’s a cold breakfast.” + +And Baptiste, in the absence of his master, did the honors of the house +to the visitor by showing him the way to the dining-room. + +“Not necessary,” said the visitor, “I know the way. Do you see to the +carriage; let it be close to the house with the door wide open when I +come out, so that the postilion can’t see me. Here’s the money to pay +him for the first relay.” + +And the stranger whom Baptiste had addressed as Baron handed him a +handful of notes. + +“Why, Monsieur,” said the servant, “you have given me enough to pay all +the way to Lyons!” + +“Pay him as far as Valence, under pretext that I want to sleep, and keep +the rest for your trouble in settling the accounts.” + +“Shall I put the valise in the carriage-box?” + +“I will do so myself.” + +And taking the valise from the servant’s hands, without letting it be +seen that it weighed heavily, he turned toward the dining-room, while +Baptiste made his way toward the nearest inn, sorting his notes as he +went. + +As the stranger had said, the way was familiar to him, for he passed +down a corridor, opened a first door without hesitation, then a second, +and found himself before a table elegantly served. A cold fowl, two +partridges, a ham, several kinds of cheese, a dessert of magnificent +fruit, and two decanters, the one containing a ruby-colored wine, and +the other a yellow-topaz, made a breakfast which, though evidently +intended for but one person, as only one place was set, might in case of +need have sufficed for three or four. + +The young man’s first act on entering the dining-room was to go straight +to a mirror, remove his hat, arrange his hair with a little comb which +he took from his pocket; after which he went to a porcelain basin with +a reservoir above it, took a towel which was there for the purpose, +and bathed his face and hands. Not until these ablutions were +completed--characteristic of a man of elegant habits--not until these +ablutions had been minutely performed did the stranger sit down to the +table. + +A few minutes sufficed to satisfy his appetite, to which youth and +fatigue had, however, given magnificent proportions; and when Baptiste +came in to inform the solitary guest that the carriage was ready he +found him already afoot and waiting. + +The stranger drew his hat low over his eyes, wrapped his coat about him, +took the valise under his arm, and, as Baptiste had taken pains to lower +the carriage-steps as close as possible to the door, he sprang into the +post-chaise without being seen by the postilion. Baptiste slammed the +door after him; then, addressing the man in the top-boots: + +“Everything is paid to Valence, isn’t it, relays and fees?” he asked. + +“Everything; do you want a receipt?” replied the postilion, jokingly. + +“No; but my master, the Marquise de Ribier, don’t want to be disturbed +until he gets to Valence.” + +“All right,” replied the postilion, in the same bantering tone, “the +citizen Marquis shan’t be disturbed. Forward, hoop-la!” And he started +his horses, and cracked his whip with that noisy eloquence which says to +neighbors and passers-by: “‘Ware here, ‘ware there! I am driving a man +who pays well and who has the right to run over others.” + +Once in the carriage the pretended Marquis of Ribier opened the window, +lowered the blinds, raised the seat, put his valise in the hollow, sat +down on it, wrapped himself in his cloak, and, certain of not being +disturbed till he reached Valence, slept as he had breakfasted, that is +to say, with all the appetite of youth. + +They went from Orange to Valence in eight hours. Our traveller awakened +shortly before entering the city. Raising one of the blinds cautiously, +he recognized the little suburb of Paillasse. It was dark, so he struck +his repeater and found it was eleven at night. Thinking it useless to go +to sleep again, he added up the cost of the relays to Lyons and counted +out the money. As the postilion at Valence passed the comrade who +replaced him, the traveller heard him say: + +“It seems he’s a ci-devant; but he was recommended from Orange, and, as +he pays twenty sous fees, you must treat him as you would a patriot.” + +“Very well,” replied the other; “he shall be driven accordingly.” + +The traveller thought the time had come to intervene. He raised the +blind and said: + +“And you’ll only be doing me justice. A patriot? Deuce take it! I pride +myself upon being one, and of the first calibre, too! And the proof +is--Drink this to the health of the Republic.” And he handed a +hundred-franc assignat to the postilion who had recommended him to his +comrade. Seeing the other looking eagerly at this strip of paper, he +continued: “And the same to you if you will repeat the recommendation +you’ve just received to the others.” + +“Oh! don’t worry, citizen,” said the postilion; “there’ll be but one +order to Lyons--full speed!” + +“And here is the money for the sixteen posts, including the double +post of entrance in advance. I pay twenty sous fees. Settle it among +yourselves.” + +The postilion dug his spurs into his horse and they were off at a +gallop. The carriage relayed at Lyons about four in the afternoon. While +the horses were being changed, a man clad like a porter, sitting with +his stretcher beside him on a stone post, rose, came to the carriage and +said something in a low tone to the young Companion of Jehu which seemed +to astonish the latter greatly. + +“Are you quite sure?” he asked the porter. + +“I tell you that I saw him with my own eyes!” replied the latter. + +“Then I can give the news to our friends as a positive fact?” + +“You can. Only hurry.” + +“Have they been notified at Servas?” + +“Yes; you will find a horse ready between Servas and Sue.” + +The postilion came up; the young man exchanged a last glance with +the porter, who walked away as if charged with a letter of the utmost +importance. + +“What road, citizen?” asked the postilion. + +“To Bourg. I must reach Servas by nine this evening; I pay thirty sous +fees.” + +“Forty-two miles in five hours! That’s tough. Well, after all, it can be +done.” + +“Will you do it.” + +“We can try.” + +And the postilion started at full gallop. Nine o’clock was striking as +they entered Servas. + +“A crown of six livres if you’ll drive me half-way to Sue without +stopping here to change horses!” cried the young man through the window +to the postilion. + +“Done!” replied the latter. + +And the carriage dashed past the post house without stopping. + +Morgan stopped the carriage at a half mile beyond Servas, put his head +out of the window, made a trumpet of his hands, and gave the hoot of a +screech-owl. The imitation was so perfect that another owl answered from +a neighboring woods. + +“Here we are,” cried Morgan. + +The postilion pulled up, saying: “If we’re there, we needn’t go +further.” + +The young man took his valise, opened the door, jumped out and stepped +up to the postilion. + +“Here’s the promised ecu.” + +The postilion took the coin and stuck it in his eye, as a fop of our +day holds his eye-glasses. Morgan divined that this pantomime had a +significance. + +“Well,” he asked, “what does that mean?” + +“That means,” said the postilion, “that, do what I will, I can’t help +seeing with the other eye.” + +“I understand,” said the young man, laughing; “and if I close the other +eye--” + +“Damn it! I shan’t see anything.” + +“Hey! you’re a rogue who’d rather be blind than see with one eye! Well, +there’s no disputing tastes. Here!” + +And he gave him a second crown. The postilion stuck it up to his other +eye, wheeled the carriage round and took the road back to Servas. + +The Companion of Jehu waited till he vanished in the darkness. Then +putting the hollow of a key to his lips, he drew a long trembling sound +from it like a boatswain’s whistle. + +A similar call answered him, and immediately a horseman came out of the +woods at full gallop. As he caught sight of him Morgan put on his mask. + +“In whose name have you come?” asked the rider, whose face, hidden as it +was beneath the brim of an immense hat, could not be seen. + +“In the name of the prophet Elisha,” replied the young man with the +mask. + +“Then you are he whom I am waiting for.” And he dismounted. + +“Are you prophet or disciple?” asked Morgan. + +“Disciple,” replied the new-comer. + +“Where is your master?” + +“You will find him at the Chartreuse of Seillon.” + +“Do you know how many Companions are there this evening?” + +“Twelve.” + +“Very good; if you meet any others send them there.” + +He who had called himself a disciple bowed in sign of obedience, +assisted Morgan to fasten the valise to the croup of the saddle, and +respectfully held the bit while the young man mounted. Without even +waiting to thrust his other foot into the stirrup, Morgan spurred his +horse, which tore the bit from the groom’s hand and started off at a +gallop. + +On the right of the road stretched the forest of Seillon, like a shadowy +sea, its sombre billows undulating and moaning in the night wind. Half +a mile beyond Sue the rider turned his horse across country toward the +forest, which, as he rode on, seemed to advance toward him. The horse, +guided by an experienced hand, plunged fearlessly into the woods. Ten +minutes later he emerged on the other side. + +A gloomy mass, isolated in the middle of a plain, rose about a hundred +feet from the forest. It was a building of massive architecture, shaded +by five or six venerable trees. The horseman paused before the portal, +over which were placed three statues in a triangle of the Virgin, our +Lord, and St. John the Baptist. The statue of the Virgin was at the apex +of the triangle. + +The mysterious traveller had reached his goal, for this was the +Chartreuse of Seillon. This monastery, the twenty-second of its order, +was founded in 1178. In 1672 a modern edifice had been substituted for +the old building; vestiges of its ruins can be seen to this day. These +ruins consist externally of the above-mentioned portal with the three +statues, before which our mysterious traveller halted; internally, a +small chapel, entered from the right through the portal. A peasant, his +wife and two children are now living there, and the ancient monastery +has become a farm. + +The monks were expelled from their convent in 1791; in 1792 the +Chartreuse and its dependencies were offered for sale as ecclesiastical +property. The dependencies consisted first of the park, adjoining the +buildings, and the noble forest which still bears the name of Seillon. +But at Bourg, a royalist and, above all, religious town, no one dared +risk his soul by purchasing property belonging to the worthy monks whom +all revered. The result was that the convent, the park and the forest +had become, under the title of state property, the property of the +republic; that is to say, they belonged to nobody, or were at the best +neglected. The republic having, for the last seven years, other things +to think of than pointing walls, cultivating an orchard and cutting +timber. + +For seven years, therefore, the Chartreuse had been completely +abandoned, and if by chance curious eyes peered through the keyhole, +they caught glimpses of grass-grown courtyards, brambles in the orchard, +and brush in the forest, which, except for one road and two or three +paths that crossed it, had become almost impenetrable. The Correrie, a +species of pavilion belonging to the monastery and distant from it about +three-quarters of a mile, was mossgrown too in the tangle of the forest, +which, profiting by its liberty, grew at its own sweet will, and had +long since encircled it in a mantle of foliage which hid it from sight. + +For the rest, the strangest rumors were current about these two +buildings. They were said to be haunted by guests invisible by day, +terrifying at night. The woodsmen and the belated peasants, who went to +the forest to exercise against the Republic the rights which the town of +Bourg had enjoyed in the days of the monks, pretended that, through the +cracks of the closed blinds, they had seen flames of fire dancing along +the corridors and stairways, and had distinctly heard the noise of +chains clanking over the cloister tilings and the pavement of the +courtyards. The strong-minded denied these things; but two very opposite +classes opposed the unbelievers, confirming the rumors, attributing +these terrifying noises and nocturnal lights to two different causes +according to their beliefs. The patriots declared that they were +the ghosts of the poor monks buried alive by cloister tyranny in the +In-pace, who were now returned to earth, dragging after them their +fetters to call down the vengeance of Heaven upon their persecutors. +The royalists said that they were the imps of the devil, who, finding +an empty convent, and fearing no further danger from holy water, were +boldly holding their revels where once they had not dared show a claw. +One fact, however, left everything uncertain. Not one of the believers +or unbelievers--whether he elected for the souls of the martyred monks +or for the Witches’ Sabbath of Beelzebub--had ever had the courage to +venture among the shadows, and to seek during the solemn hours of night +confirmation of the truth, in order to tell on the morrow whether the +Chartreuse were haunted, and if haunted by whom. + +But doubtless these tales, whether well founded or not, had no influence +over our mysterious horseman; for although, as we have said, nine +o’clock had chimed from the steeples of Bourg, and night had fallen, +he reined in his horse in front of the great portal of the deserted +monastery, and, without dismounting, drew a pistol from his holster, +striking three measured blows with the butt on the gate, after the +manner of the Freemasons. Then he listened. For an instant he doubted if +the meeting were really there; for though he looked closely and listened +attentively, he could perceive no light, nor could he hear a sound. +Still he fancied he heard a cautious step approaching the portal from +within. He knocked a second time with the same weapon and in the same +manner. + +“Who knocks?” demanded a voice. + +“He who comes from Elisha,” replied the traveller. + +“What king do the sons of Isaac obey?” + +“Jehu.” + +“What house are they to exterminate?” + +“That of Ahab.” + +“Are you prophet or disciple?” + +“Prophet.” + +“Welcome then to the House of the Lord!” said the voice. + +Instantly the iron bars which secured the massive portal swung back, the +bolts grated in their sockets, half of the gate opened silently, and the +horse and his rider passed beneath the sombre vault, which immediately +closed behind them. + +The person who had opened the gate, so slow to open, so quick to close, +was attired in the long white robe of a Chartreuse monk, of which the +hood, falling over his face, completely concealed his features. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE CHARTREUSE OF SEILLON + +Beyond doubt, like the first affiliated member met on the road to Sue by +the man who styled himself prophet, the monk who opened the gate was of +secondary rank in the fraternity; for, grasping the horse’s bridle, he +held it while the rider dismounted, rendering the young man the service +of a groom. + +Morgan got off, unfastened the valise, pulled the pistols from the +holsters, and placed them in his belt, next to those already there. +Addressing the monk in a tone of command, he said: “I thought I should +find the brothers assembled in council.” + +“They are assembled,” replied the monk. + +“Where?” + +“At La Correrie. Suspicious persons have been seen prowling around the +Chartreuse these last few days, and orders have been issued to take the +greatest precautions.” + +The young man shrugged his shoulders as if he considered such +precautions useless, and, always in the same tone of command, said: +“Have some one take my horse to the stable and conduct me to the +council.” + +The monk summoned another brother, to whom he flung the bridle. He +lighted a torch at a lamp, in the little chapel which can still be +seen to the right of the great portal, and walked before the new-comer. +Crossing the cloister, he took a few steps in the garden, opened a door +leading into a sort of cistern, invited Morgan to enter, closed it as +carefully as he had the outer door, touched with his foot a stone which +seemed to be accidentally lying there, disclosed a ring and raised a +slab, which concealed a flight of steps leading down to a subterraneous +passage. This passage had a rounded roof and was wide enough to admit +two men walking abreast. + +The two men proceeded thus for five or six minutes, when they reached +a grated door. The monk, drawing a key from his frock, opened it. Then, +when both had passed through and the door was locked again, he asked: +“By what name shall I announce you?” + +“As Brother Morgan.” + +“Wait here; I will return in five minutes.” + +The young man made a sign with his head which showed that he was +familiar with these precautions and this distrust. Then he sat down upon +a tomb--they were in the mortuary vaults of the convent--and waited. +Five minutes had scarcely elapsed before the monk reappeared. + +“Follow me,” said he; “the brothers are glad you have come. They feared +you had met with some mishap.” + +A few seconds later Morgan was admitted into the council chamber. + +Twelve monks awaited him, their hoods drawn low over their eyes. But, +once the door had closed and the serving brother had disappeared, while +Morgan was removing his mask, the hoods were thrown back and each monk +exposed his face. + +No brotherhood had ever been graced by a more brilliant assemblage of +handsome and joyous young men. Two or three only of these strange monks +had reached the age of forty. All hands were held out to Morgan and +several warm kisses were imprinted upon the new-comer’s cheek. + +“‘Pon my word,” said one who had welcomed him most tenderly, “you have +drawn a mighty thorn from my foot; we thought you dead, or, at any rate, +a prisoner.” + +“Dead, I grant you, Amiet; but prisoner, never! citizen--as they still +say sometimes, and I hope they’ll not say it much longer. It must be +admitted that the whole affair was conducted on both sides with touching +amenity. As soon as the conductor saw us he shouted to the postilion to +stop; I even believe he added: ‘I know what it is.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘if +you know what it is, my dear friend, our explanations needn’t be long.’ +‘The government money?’ he asked. ‘Exactly,’ I replied. Then as there +was a great commotion inside the carriage, I added: ‘Wait! first come +down and assure these gentlemen, and especially the ladies, that we +are well-behaved folk and will not harm them--the ladies; you +understand--and nobody will even look at them unless they put their +heads out of the window.’ One did risk it; my faith! but she was +charming. I threw her a kiss, and she gave a little cry and retired +into the carriage, for all the world like Galatea, and as there were +no willows about, I didn’t pursue her. In the meantime the guard was +rummaging in his strong-box in all expedition, and to such good purpose, +indeed, that with the government money, in his hurry, he passed over two +hundred louis belonging to a poor wine merchant of Bordeaux.” + +“Ah, the devil!” exclaimed the brother called Amiet--an assumed +name, probably, like that of Morgan--“that is annoying! You know the +Directory, which is most imaginative, has organized some bands of +chauffeurs, who operate in our name, to make people believe that we rob +private individuals. In other words, that we are mere thieves.” + +“Wait an instant,” resumed Morgan; “that is just what makes me late. +I heard something similar at Lyons. I was half-way to Valence when I +discovered this breach of etiquette. It was not difficult, for, as if +the good man had foreseen what happened, he had marked his bag ‘Jean +Picot, Wine Merchant at Fronsac, Bordeaux.’” + +“And you sent his money back to him?” + +“I did better; I returned it to him.” + +“At Fronsac?” + +“Ah! no, but at Avignon. I suspected that so careful a man would stop +at the first large town to inquire what chance he had to recover his two +hundred louis. I was not mistaken. I inquired at the inn if they knew +citizen Jean Picot. They replied that not only did they know him, but in +fact he was then dining at the table d’hôte. I went in. You can imagine +what they were talking about--the stoppage of the diligence. Conceive +the sensation my apparition caused. The god of antiquity descending from +the machine produced a no more unexpected finale than I. I asked which +one of the guests was called Jean Picot. The owner of this distinguished +and melodious name stood forth. I placed the two hundred louis +before him, with many apologies, in the name of the Company, for the +inconvenience its followers had occasioned him. I exchanged a friendly +glance with Barjols and a polite nod with the Abbé de Rians who were +present, and, with a profound bow to the assembled company, withdrew. It +was only a little thing, but it took me fifteen hours; hence the delay. +I thought it preferable to leaving a false conception of us in our wake. +Have I done well, my masters?” + +The gathering burst into bravos. + +“Only,” said one of the participants, “I think you were somewhat +imprudent to return the money yourself to citizen Jean Picot.” + +“My dear colonel,” replied the young man, “there’s an Italian proverb +which says: ‘Who wills, goes; who does not will, sends.’ I willed--I +went.” + +“And there’s a jolly buck who, if you ever have the misfortune to fall +into the hands of the Directory, will reward you by recognizing you; a +recognition which means cutting off your head!” + +“Oh! I defy him to recognize me.” + +“What can prevent it?” + +“Oh! You seem to think that I play such pranks with my face uncovered? +Truly, my dear colonel, you mistake me for some one else. It is well +enough to lay aside my mask among friends; but among strangers--no, +no! Are not these carnival times? I don’t see why I shouldn’t disguise +myself as Abellino or Karl Moor, when Messieurs Gohier, Sieyès, Roger +Ducos, Moulin and Barras are masquerading as kings of France.” + +“And you entered the city masked?” + +“The city, the hotel, the dining-room. It is true that if my face was +covered, my belt was not, and, as you see, it is well garnished.” + +The young man tossed aside his coat, displaying his belt, which was +furnished with four pistols and a short hunting-knife. Then, with a +gayety which seemed characteristic of his careless nature, he added: “I +ought to look ferocious, oughtn’t I? They may have taken me for the late +Mandrin, descending from the mountains of Savoy. By the bye, here are +the sixty thousand francs of Her Highness, the Directory.” And the young +man disdainfully kicked the valise which he had placed on the ground, +which emitted a metallic sound indicating the presence of gold. Then he +mingled with the group of friends from whom he had been separated by the +natural distance between a narrator and his listeners. + +One of the monks stooped and lifted the valise. + +“Despise gold as much as you please, my dear Morgan, since that doesn’t +prevent you from capturing it. But I know of some brave fellows who are +awaiting these sixty thousand francs, you so disdainfully kick aside, +with as much impatience and anxiety as a caravan, lost in the desert, +awaits the drop of water which is to save it from dying of thirst.” + +“Our friends of the Vendée, I suppose?” replied Morgan. “Much good may +it do them! Egotists, they are fighting. These gentlemen have chosen +the roses and left us the thorns. Come! don’t they receive anything from +England?” + +“Oh, yes,” said one of the monks, gayly; “at Quiberon they got bullets +and grapeshot.” + +“I did not say from the English,” retorted Morgan; “I said from +England.” + +“Not a penny.” + +“It seems to me, however,” said one of those present, who apparently +possessed a more reflective head than his comrades, “it seems to me that +our princes might send a little gold to those who are shedding their +blood for the monarchy. Are they not afraid the Vendée may weary +some day or other of a devotion which up to this time has not, to my +knowledge, won her a word of thanks.” + +“The Vendée, dear friend,” replied Morgan, “is a generous land which +will not weary, you may be sure. Besides, where is the merit of fidelity +unless it has to deal with ingratitude? From the instant devotion meets +recognition, it is no longer devotion. It becomes an exchange which +reaps its reward. Let us be always faithful, and always devoted, +gentlemen, praying Heaven that those whom we serve may remain +ungrateful, and then, believe me, we shall bear the better part in the +history of our civil wars.” + +Morgan had scarcely formulated this chivalric axiom, expressive of a +desire which had every chance of accomplishment, than three Masonic +blows resounded upon the door through which he had entered. + +“Gentlemen,” said the monk who seemed to fill the rôle of president, +“quick, your hoods and masks. We do not know who may be coming to us.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. HOW THE MONEY OF THE DIRECTORY WAS USED + +Every one hastened to obey. The monks lowered the hoods of their long +robes over their faces, Morgan replaced his mask. + +“Enter!” said the superior. + +The door opened and the serving-brother appeared. + +“An emissary from General Georges Cadoudal asks to be admitted,” said +he. + +“Did he reply to the three passwords?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Then let him in.” + +The lay brother retired to the subterranean passage, and reappeared a +couple of minutes later leading a man easily recognized by his costume +as a peasant, and by his square head with its shock of red hair for a +Breton. He advanced in the centre of the circle without appearing in +the least intimidated, fixing his eyes on each of the monks in turn, and +waiting until one of these twelve granite statues should break silence. +The president was the first to speak to him. + +“From whom do you come?” he asked him. + +“He who sent me,” replied the peasant, “ordered me to answer, if I were +asked that question, that I was sent by Jehu.” + +“Are you the bearer of a verbal or written message?” + +“I am to reply to the questions which you ask me, and exchange a slip of +paper for some money.” + +“Very good; we will begin with the questions. What are our brothers in +the Vendée doing?” + +“They have laid down their arms and are awaiting only a word from you to +take them up again.” + +“And why did they lay down their arms?” + +“They received the order to do so from his Majesty Louis XVIII.” + +“There is talk of a proclamation written by the King’s own hand. Have +they received it?” + +“Here is a copy.” + +The peasant gave a paper to the person who was interrogating him. The +latter opened it and read: + + The war has absolutely no result save that of making the monarchy + odious and threatening. Monarchs who return to their own through + its bloody succor are never loved; these sanguinary measures must + therefore be abandoned; confide in the empire of opinion which + returns of itself to its saving principles. “God and the King,” + will soon be the rallying cry of all Frenchmen. The scattered + elements of royalism must be gathered into one formidable sheaf; + militant Vendée must be abandoned to its unhappy fate and marched + within a more pacific and less erratic path. The royalists of the + West have fulfilled their duty; those of Paris, who have prepared + everything for the approaching Restoration, must now be relied + upon-- + +The president raised his head, and, seeking Morgan with a flash of the +eye which his hood could not entirely conceal, said: “Well, brother, +I think this is the fulfilment of your wish of a few moments ago. +The royalists of the Vendée and the Midi will have the merit of pure +devotion.” Then, lowering his eyes to the proclamation, of which there +still remained a few lines to read, he continued: + + The Jews crucified their King, and since that time they have + wandered over the face of the earth. The French guillotined + theirs, and they shall be dispersed throughout the land. + + Given at Blankenbourg, this 25th of August, 1799, on the day + of St. Louis and the sixth year of our reign. + + (Signed) LOUIS. + +The young men looked at each other. + +“‘Quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat!’” said Morgan. + +“Yes,” said the president; “but when those whom Jupiter wishes to +destroy represent a principle, they must be sustained not only against +Jupiter but against themselves. Ajax, in the midst of the bolts and +lightning, clung to a rock, and, threatening Heaven with his clinched +hand, he cried, ‘I will escape in spite of the gods!’” Then turning +toward Cadoudal’s envoy, “And what answer did he who sent you make to +this proclamation?” + +“About what you yourself have just answered. He told me to come and +inform myself whether you had decided to hold firm in spite of all, in +spite of the King himself.” + +“By Heavens! yes,” said Morgan. + +“We are determined,” said the President. + +“In that case,” replied the peasant, “all is well. Here are the real +names of our new chiefs, and their assumed names. The general recommends +that you use only the latter as far as is possible in your despatches. +He observes that precaution when he, on his side, speaks of you.” + +“Have you the list?” asked the President. + +“No; I might have been stopped, and the list taken. Write yourself; I +will dictate them to you.” + +The president seated himself at the table, took a pen, and wrote the +following names under the dictation of the Breton peasant: + +“Georges Cadoudal, Jehu or Roundhead; Joseph Cadoudal, Judas Maccabeus; +Lahaye Saint-Hilaire, David; Burban-Malabry, Brave-la-Mort; Poulpiquez, +Royal-Carnage; Bonfils, Brise-Barrière; Dampherné, Piquevers; Duchayla, +La Couronne; Duparc, Le Terrible; La Roche, Mithridates; Puisaye, Jean +le Blond.” + +“And these are the successors of Charette, Stoffiet, Cathelineau, +Bonchamp, d’Elbée, la Rochejaquelin, and Lescure!” cried a voice. + +The Breton turned toward him who had just spoken. + +“If they get themselves killed like their predecessors,” said he, “what +more can you ask of them?” + +“Well answered,” said Morgan, “so that--” + +“So that, as soon as our general has your reply,” answered the peasant, +“he will take up arms again.” + +“And suppose our reply had been in the negative?” asked another voice. + +“So much the worse for you,” replied the peasant; “in any case the +insurrection is fixed for October 20.” + +“Well,” said the president, “thanks to us, the general will have the +wherewithal for his first month’s pay. Where is your receipt?” + +“Here,” said the peasant, drawing a paper from his pocket on which were +written these words: + + Received from our brothers of the Midi and the East, to be + employed for the good of the cause, the sum of.... + + GEORGES CADOUDAL, + General commanding the Royalist army of Brittany. + +The sum was left blank. + +“Do you know how to write?” asked the president. + +“Enough to fill in the three or four missing words.” + +“Very well. Then write, ‘one hundred thousand francs.’” + +The Breton wrote; then extending the paper to the president, he said: +“Here is your receipt; where is the money?” + +“Stoop and pick up the bag at your feet; it contains sixty thousand +francs.” Then addressing one of the monks, he asked: “Montbard, where +are the remaining forty thousand?” + +The monk thus interpellated opened a closet and brought forth a +bag somewhat smaller than the one Morgan had brought, but which, +nevertheless, contained the good round sum of forty thousand francs. + +“Here is the full amount,” said the monk. + +“Now, my friend,” said the president, “get something to eat and some +rest; to-morrow you will start.” + +“They are waiting for me yonder,” said the Breton. “I will eat and sleep +on horseback. Farewell, gentlemen. Heaven keep you!” And he went toward +the door by which he had entered. + +“Wait,” said Morgan. + +The messenger paused. + +“News for news,” said Morgan; “tell General Cadoudal that General +Bonaparte has left the army in Egypt, that he landed at Fréjus, day +before yesterday, and will be in Paris in three days. My news is fully +worth yours, don’t you think so? What do you think of it?” + +“Impossible!” exclaimed all the monks with one accord. + +“Nevertheless nothing is more true, gentlemen. I have it from our friend +the Priest (Leprêtre), [Footnote: The name Leprêtre is a contraction +of the two words “le prêtre,” meaning the priest; hence the name under +which this man died.] who saw him relay at Lyons one hour before me, and +recognized him.” + +“What has he come to France for?” demanded several voices. + +“Faith,” said Morgan, “we shall know some day. It is probable that he +has not returned to Paris to remain there incognito.” + +“Don’t lose an instant in carrying this news to our brothers in the +West,” said the president to the peasant. “A moment ago I wished to +detain you; now I say to you: ‘Go!’” + +The peasant bowed and withdrew. The president waited until the door was +closed. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “the news which our brother Morgan has just +imparted to us is so grave that I wish to propose a special measure.” + +“What is it?” asked the Companions of Jehu with one voice. + +“It is that one of us, chosen by lot, shall go to Paris and keep the +rest informed, with the cipher agreed upon, of all that happens there.” + +“Agreed!” they replied. + +“In that case,” resumed the president, “let us write our thirteen names, +each on a slip of paper. We put them in a hat. He whose name is first +drawn shall start immediately.” + +The young men, one and all, approached the table, and wrote their +names on squares of paper which they rolled and dropped into a hat. The +youngest was told to draw the lots. He drew one of the little rolls of +paper and handed it to the president, who unfolded it. + +“Morgan!” said he. + +“What are my instructions?” asked the young man. + +“Remember,” replied the president, with a solemnity to which the +cloistral arches lent a supreme grandeur, “that you bear the name and +title of Baron de Sainte-Hermine, that your father was guillotined on +the Place de la Révolution and that your brother was killed in Condé’s +army. Noblesse oblige! Those are your instructions.” + +“And what else?” asked the young man. + +“As to the rest,” said the president, “we rely on your royalist +principles and your loyalty.” + +“Then, my friends, permit me to bid you farewell at once. I would like +to be on the road to Paris before dawn, and I must pay a visit before my +departure.” + +“Go!” said the president, opening his arms to Morgan. “I embrace you +in the name of the Brotherhood. To another I should say, ‘Be brave, +persevering and active’; to you I say, ‘Be prudent.’” + +The young man received the fraternal embrace, smiled to his other +friends, shook hands with two or three of them, wrapped himself in his +mantle, pulled his hat over his eyes and departed. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. ROMEO AND JULIET + +Under the possibility of immediate departure, Morgan’s horse, after +being washed, rubbed down and dried, had been fed a double ration of +oats and been resaddled and bridled. The young man had only to ask for +it and spring upon its back. He was no sooner in the saddle than the +gate opened as if by magic; the horse neighed and darted out swiftly, +having forgotten its first trip, and ready for another. + +At the gate of the Chartreuse, Morgan paused an instant, undecided +whether to turn to the right or left. He finally turned to the right, +followed the road which leads from Bourg to Seillon for a few moments, +wheeled rapidly a second time to the right, cut across country, plunged +into an angle of the forest which was on his way, reappeared before long +on the other side, reached the main road to Pont-d’Ain, followed it for +about a mile and a half, and halted near a group of houses now called +the Maison des Gardes. One of these houses bore for sign a cluster of +holly, which indicated one of those wayside halting places where the +pedestrians quench their thirst, and rest for an instant to recover +strength before continuing the long fatiguing voyage of life. Morgan +stopped at the door, drew a pistol from its holster and rapped with the +butt end as he had done at the Chartreuse. Only as, in all probability, +the good folks at the humble tavern were far from being conspirators, +the traveller was kept waiting longer than he had been at the monastery. +At last he heard the echo of the stable boy’s clumsy sabots. The gate +creaked, but the worthy man who opened it no sooner perceived the +horseman with his drawn pistol than he instinctively tried to, close it +again. + +“It is I, Patout,” said the young man; “don’t be afraid.” + +“Ah! sure enough,” said the peasant, “it is really you, Monsieur +Charles. I’m not afraid now; but you know, as the curé used to tell +us, in the days when there was a good God, ‘Caution is the mother of +safety.’” + +“Yes, Patout, yes,” said the young man, slipping a piece of silver into +the stable boy’s hand, “but be easy; the good God will return, and M. le +Curé also.” + +“Oh, as for that,” said the good man, “it is easy to see that there is +no one left on high by the way things go. Will this last much longer, M. +Charles?” + +“Patout, I promise, in my honor, to do my best to be rid of all that +annoys you. I am no less impatient than you; so I’ll ask you not to go +to bed, my good Patout.” + +“Ah! You know well, monsieur, that when you come I don’t often go to +bed. As for the horse--Goodness! You change them every day? The time +before last it was a chestnut, the last time a dapple-gray, now a black +one.” + +“Yes, I’m somewhat capricious by nature. As to the horse, as you say, +my dear Patout, he wants nothing. You need only remove his bridle; leave +him saddled. Oh, wait; put this pistol back in the holsters and take +care of these other two for me.” And the young man removed the two from +his belt and handed them to the hostler. + +“Well,” exclaimed the latter, laughing, “any more barkers?” + +“You know, Patout, they say the roads are unsafe.” + +“Ah! I should think they weren’t safe! We’re up to our necks in regular +highway robberies, M. Charles. Why, no later than last week they stopped +and robbed the diligence between Geneva and Bourg!” + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Morgan; “and whom do they accuse of the robbery?” + +“Oh, it’s such a farce! Just fancy; they say it was the Companions of +Jesus. I don’t believe a word of it, of course. Who are the Companions +of Jesus if not the twelve apostles?” + +“Of course,” said Morgan, with his eternally joyous smile, “I don’t know +of any others.” + +“Well!” continued Patout, “to accuse the twelve apostles of robbing a +diligence, that’s the limit. Oh! I tell you, M. Charles, we’re living in +times when nobody respects anything.” + +And shaking his head like a misanthrope, disgusted, if not with life, at +least with men, Patout led the horse to the stable. + +As for Morgan, he watched Patout till he saw him disappear down the +courtyard and enter the dark stable; then, skirting the hedge which +bordered the garden, he went toward a large clump of trees whose lofty +tops were silhouetted against the darkness of the night, with the +majesty of things immovable, the while their shadows fell upon a +charming little country house known in the neighborhood as the Château +des Noires-Fontaines. As Morgan reached the château wall, the hour +chimed from the belfry of the village of Montagnac. The young man +counted the strokes vibrating in the calm silent atmosphere of the +autumn night. It was eleven o’clock. Many things, as we have seen, had +happened during the last two hours. + +Morgan advanced a few steps farther, examined the wall, apparently in +search of a familiar spot, then, having found it, inserted the tip of +his boot in a cleft between two stones. He sprang up like a man mounting +a horse, seized the top of the wall with the left hand, and with a +second spring seated himself astride the wall, from which, with the +rapidity of lightning, he lowered himself on the other side. All this +was done with such rapidity, such dexterity and agility, that any one +chancing to pass at that instant would have thought himself the puppet +of a vision. Morgan stopped, as on the other side of the wall, to +listen, while his eyes tried to pierce the darkness made deeper by the +foliage of poplars and aspens, and the heavy shadows of the little +wood. All was silent and solitary. Morgan ventured on his path. We +say ventured, because the young man, since nearing the Château des +Noires-Fontaines, revealed in all his movement a timidity and hesitation +so foreign to his character that it was evident that if he feared it was +not for himself alone. + +He gained the edge of the wood, still moving cautiously. Coming to a +lawn, at the end of which was the little château, he paused. Then he +examined the front of the house. Only one of the twelve windows which +dotted the three floors was lighted. This was on the second floor at the +corner of the house. A little balcony, covered with virgin vines which +climbed the walls, twining themselves around the iron railing and +falling thence in festoons from the window, overhung the garden. On both +sides of the windows, close to the balcony, large-leafed trees met and +formed above the cornice a bower of verdure. A Venetian blind, which was +raised and lowered by cords, separated the balcony from the window, a +separation which disappeared at will. It was through the interstices of +this blind that Morgan had seen the light. + +The young man’s first impulse was to cross the lawn in a straight line; +but again, the fears of which we spoke restrained him. A path shaded +by lindens skirted the wall and led to the house. He turned aside and +entered its dark leafy covert. When he had reached the end of the path, +he crossed, like a frightened doe, the open space which led to the house +wall, and stood for a moment in the deep shadow of the house. Then, when +he had reached the spot he had calculated upon, he clapped his hands +three times. + +At this call a shadow darted from the end of the apartment and clung, +lithe, graceful, almost transparent, to the window. + +Morgan repeated the signal. The window was opened immediately, the blind +was raised, and a ravishing young girl, in a night dress, her fair hair +rippling over her shoulders, appeared in the frame of verdure. + +The young man stretched out his arms to her, whose arms were stretched +out to him, and two names, or rather two cries from the heart, crossed +from one to the other. + +“Charles!” + +“Amélie!” + +Then the young man sprang against the wall, caught at the vine shoots, +the jagged edges of the rock, the jutting cornice, and in an instant was +on the balcony. + +What these two beautiful young beings said to each other was only a +murmur of love lost in an endless kiss. Then, by gentle effort, the +young man drew the girl with one hand to her chamber, while with the +other he loosened the cords of the blind, which fell noisily +behind them. The window closed behind the blind. Then the lamp was +extinguished, and the front of the Château des Noires-Fontaines was +again in darkness. + +This darkness had lasted for about a quarter of an hour, when the +rolling of a carriage was heard along the road leading from the highway +of Pont-d’Ain to the entrance of the château. There the sound ceased; it +was evident that the carriage had stopped before the gates. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY OF ROLAND + +The carriage which had stopped before the gate was that which brought +Roland back to his family, accompanied by Sir John. + +The family was so far from expecting him that, as we have said, all the +lights in the house were extinguished, all the windows in darkness, even +Amélie’s. The postilion had cracked his whip smartly for the last five +hundred yards, but the noise was insufficient to rouse these country +people from their first sleep. When the carriage had stopped, Roland +opened the door, sprang out without touching the steps, and tugged at +the bell-handle. Five minutes elapsed, and, after each peal, Roland +turned to the carriage, saying: “Don’t be impatient, Sir John.” + +At last a window opened and a childish but firm voice cried out: “Who is +ringing that way?” + +“Ah, is that you, little Edouard?” said Roland. “Make haste and let us +in.” + +The child leaped back with a shout of delight and disappeared. But at +the same time his voice was heard in the corridors, crying: “Mother! +wake up; it is Roland! Sister! wake up; it is the big brother!” + +Then, clad only in his night robe and his little slippers, he ran down +the steps, crying: “Don’t be impatient, Roland; here I am.” + +An instant later the key grated in the lock, and the bolts slipped +back in their sockets. A white figure appeared in the portico, and flew +rather than ran to the gate, which an instant later turned on its hinges +and swung open. The child sprang upon Roland’s neck and hung there. + +“Ah, brother! Brother!” he exclaimed, embracing the young man, laughing +and crying at the same time. “Ah, big brother Roland! How happy mother +will be; and Amélie, too! Every body is well. I am the sickest--ah! +except Michel, the gardener, you know, who has sprained his leg. But why +aren’t you in uniform? Oh! how ugly you are in citizen’s clothes! Have +you just come from Egypt? Did you bring me the silver-mounted pistols +and the beautiful curved sword? No? Then you are not nice, and I won’t +kiss you any more. Oh, no, no! Don’t be afraid! I love you just the +same!” + +And the boy smothered the big brother with kisses while he showered +questions upon him. The Englishman, still seated in the carriage, looked +smilingly through the window at the scene. + +In the midst of these fraternal embraces came the voice of a woman; the +voice of the mother. + +“Where is he, my Roland, my darling son?” asked Madame de Montrevel, +in a voice fraught with such violent, joyous emotion that it was almost +painful. “Where is he? Can it be true that he has returned; really true +that he is not a prisoner, not dead? Is he really living?” + +The child, at her voice, slipped from his brother’s arms like an eel, +dropped upon his feet on the grass, and, as if moved by a spring, +bounded toward his mother. + +“This way, mother; this way!” said he, dragging his mother, half dressed +as she was, toward Roland. When he saw his mother Roland could no longer +contain himself. He felt the sort of icicle that had petrified his +breast melt, and his heart beat like that of his fellowmen. + +“Ah!” he exclaimed, “I was indeed ungrateful to God when life still +holds such joys for me.” + +And he fell sobbing upon Madame de Montrevel’s neck without thinking of +Sir John, who felt his English phlegm disperse as he silently wiped away +the tears that flowed down his cheeks and moistened his lips. The +child, the mother, and Roland formed an adorable group of tenderness and +emotion. + +Suddenly little Edouard, like a leaf tossed about by the wind, flew from +the group, exclaiming: “Sister Amélie! Why, where is she?” and he rushed +toward the house, repeating: “Sister Amélie, wake up! Get up! Hurry up!” + +And then the child could be heard kicking and rapping against a door. +Silence followed. Then little Edouard shouted: “Help, mother! Help, +brother Roland! Sister Amélie is ill!” + +Madame de Montrevel and her son flew toward the house. Sir John, +consummate tourist that he was, always carried a lancet and a smelling +bottle in his pocket. He jumped from the carriage and, obeying his first +impulse, hurried up the portico. There he paused, reflecting that he had +not been introduced, an all-important formality for an Englishman. + +However, the fainting girl whom he sought came toward him at that +moment. The noise her brother had made at the door brought Amélie to the +landing; but, without doubt, the excitement which Roland’s return had +occasioned was too much for her, for after descending a few steps in an +almost automatic manner, controlling herself by a violent effort, she +gave a sigh, and, like a flower that bends, a branch that droops, like +a scarf that floats, she fell, or rather lay, upon the stairs. It was at +that moment that the child cried out. + +But at his exclamation Amélie recovered, if not her strength, at least +her will. She rose, and, stammering, “Be quiet, Edouard! Be quite, in +Heaven’s name! I’m all right,” she clung to the balustrade with one +hand, and leaning with the other on the child, she had continued to +descend. On the last step she met her mother and her brother. Then +with a violent, almost despairing movement, she threw both arms around +Roland’s neck, exclaiming: “My brother! My brother!” + +Roland, feeling the young girl’s weight press heavily upon his shoulder, +exclaimed: “Air! Air! She is fainting!” and carried her out upon the +portico. It was this new group, so different from the first, which met +Sir John’s eyes. + +As soon as she felt the fresh air, Amélie revived and raised her head. +Just then the moon, in all her splendor, shook off a cloud which had +veiled her, and lighted Amélie’s face, as pale as her own. Sir John gave +a cry of admiration. Never had he seen a marble statue so perfect as +this living marble before his eyes. + +We must say that Amélie, seen thus, was marvelously beautiful. Clad in +a long cambric robe, which defined the outlines of her body, molded on +that of the Polyhymnia of antiquity, her pale face gently inclined upon +her brother’s shoulder, her long golden hair floating around her snowy +shoulders, her arm thrown around her mother’s neck, its rose-tinted +alabaster hand drooping upon the red shawl in which Madame de Montrevel +had wrapped herself; such was Roland’s sister as she appeared to Sir +John. + +At the Englishman’s cry of admiration, Roland remembered that he was +there, and Madame de Montrevel perceived his presence. As for the child, +surprised to see this stranger in his mother’s home, he ran hastily down +the steps of the portico, stopping on the third one, not that he +feared to go further, but in order to be on a level with the person he +proceeded to question. + +“Who are you, sir!” he asked Sir John; “and what are you doing here?” + +“My little Edouard,” said Sir John, “I am your brother’s friend, and I +have brought you the silver-mounted pistols and the Damascus blade which +he promised you.” + +“Where are they?” asked the child. + +“Ah!” said Sir John, “they are in England, and it will take some time to +send for them. But your big brother will answer for me that I am a man +of my word.” + +“Yes, Edouard, yes,” said Roland. “If Sir John promises them to you, +you will get them.” Then turning to Madame de Montrevel and his sister, +“Excuse me, my mother; excuse me, Amélie; or rather, excuse yourselves +as best you can to Sir John, for you have made me abominably +ungrateful.” Then grasping Sir John’s hand, he continued: “Mother, Sir +John took occasion the first time he saw me to render me an inestimable +service. I know that you never forget such things. I trust, therefore, +that you will always remember that Sir John is one of our best friends; +and he will give you the proof of it by saying with me that he has +consented to be bored for a couple of weeks with us.” + +“Madame,” said Sir John, “permit me, on the contrary, not to repeat my +friend Roland’s words. I could wish to spend, not a fortnight, nor three +weeks, but a whole lifetime with you.” + +Madame de Montrevel came down the steps of the portico and offered her +hand to Sir John, who kissed it with a gallantry altogether French. + +“My lord,” said she, “this house is yours. The day you entered it has +been one of joy, the day you leave will be one of regret and sadness.” + +Sir John turned toward Amélie, who, confused by the disorder of her +dress before this stranger, was gathering the folds of her wrapper about +her neck. + +“I speak to you in my name and in my daughter’s, who is still too much +overcome by her brother’s unexpected return to greet you herself as she +will do in a moment,” continued Madame de Montrevel, coming to Amélie’s +relief. + +“My sister,” said Roland, “will permit my friend Sir John to kiss her +hand, and he will, I am sure, accept that form of welcome.” + +Amélie stammered a few words, slowly lifted her arm, and held out her +hand to Sir John with a smile that was almost painful. + +The Englishman took it, but, feeling how icy and trembling it was, +instead of carrying it to his lips he said: “Roland, your sister is +seriously indisposed. Let us think only of her health this evening. I am +something of a doctor, and if she will deign to permit me the favor of +feeling her pulse I shall be grateful.” + +But Amélie, as if she feared that the cause of her weakness might be +surmised, withdrew her hand hastily, exclaiming: “Oh, no! Sir John is +mistaken. Joy never causes illness. It is only joy at seeing my brother +again which caused this slight indisposition, and it has already passed +over.” Then turning to Madame de Montrevel, she added with almost +feverish haste: “Mother, we are forgetting that these gentlemen have +made a long voyage, and have probably eaten nothing since Lyons. If +Roland has his usual good appetite he will not object to my leaving you +to do the honors of the house, while I attend to the unpoetical but much +appreciated details of the housekeeping.” + +Leaving her mother, as she said, to do the honors of the house, Amélie +went to waken the maids and the manservant, leaving on the mind of Sir +John that sort of fairy-like impression which the tourist on the Rhine +brings with him of the Lorelei on her rock, a lyre in her hand, the +liquid gold of her hair floating in the evening breezes. + +In the meantime, Morgan had remounted his horse, returning at full +gallop to the Chartreuse. He drew rein before the portal, pulled out a +note-book, and pencilling a few lines on one of the leaves, rolled it up +and slipped it through the keyhole without taking time to dismount. + +Then pressing in both his spurs, and bending low over the mane of the +noble animal, he disappeared in the forest, rapid and mysterious as +Faust on his way to the mountain of the witches’ sabbath. The three +lines he had written were as follows: + + “Louis de Montrevel, General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp, arrived + this evening at the Château des Noires-Fontaines. Be careful, + Companions of Jehu!” + +But, while warning his comrades to be cautious about Louis de Montrevel, +Morgan had drawn a cross above his name, which signified that no matter +what happened the body of the young officer must be considered as sacred +by them. + +The Companions of Jehu had the right to protect a friend in that way +without being obliged to explain the motives which actuated them. Morgan +used that privilege to protect the brother of his love. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. CHÂTEAU DES NOIRES-FONTAINES + +The Château of Noires-Fontaines, whither we have just conducted two of +the principal characters of our story, stood in one of the most charming +spots of the valley, where the city of Bourg is built. The park, of five +or six acres, covered with venerable oaks, was inclosed on three sides +by freestone walls, one of which opened in front through a handsome gate +of wrought-iron, fashioned in the style of Louis XV.; the fourth side +was bounded by the little river called the Reissouse, a pretty stream +that takes its rise at Journaud, among the foothills of the Jura, and +flowing gently from south to north, joins the Saône at the bridge of +Fleurville, opposite Pont-de-Vaux, the birthplace of Joubert, who, a +month before the period of which we are writing, was killed at the fatal +battle of Novi. + +Beyond the Reissouse, and along its banks, lay, to the right and left +of the Château des Noires-Fontaines, the village of Montagnac and +Saint-Just, dominated further on by that of Ceyzeriat. Behind this +latter hamlet stretched the graceful outlines of the hills of the Jura, +above the summits of which could be distinguished the blue crests of the +mountains of Bugey, which seemed to be standing on tiptoe in order to +peer curiously over their younger sisters’ shoulder at what was passing +in the valley of the Ain. + +It was in full view of this ravishing landscape that Sir John awoke. For +the first time in his life, perhaps, the morose and taciturn Englishman +smiled at nature. He fancied himself in one of those beautiful valleys +of Thessaly celebrated by Virgil, beside the sweet slopes of Lignon sung +by Urfé, whose birthplace, in spite of what the biographers say, +was falling into ruins not three miles from the Château des +Noires-Fontaines. He was roused by three light raps at his door. It was +Roland who came to see how he had passed the night. He found him radiant +as the sun playing among the already yellow leaves of the chestnuts and +the lindens. + +“Oh! oh! Sir John,” cried Roland, “permit me to congratulate you. I +expected to find you as gloomy as the poor monks of the Chartreuse, with +their long white robes, who used to frighten me so much in my childhood; +though, to tell the truth, I was never easily frightened. Instead of +that I find you in the midst of this dreary October, as smiling as a +morn of May.” + +“My dear Roland,” replied Sir John, “I am an orphan; I lost my mother +at my birth and my father when I was twelve years old. At an age when +children are usually sent to school, I was master of a fortune producing +a million a year; but I was alone in the world, with no one whom I loved +or who loved me. The tender joys of family life are completely unknown +to me. From twelve to eighteen I went to Cambridge, but my taciturn and +perhaps haughty character isolated me from my fellows. At eighteen I +began to travel. You who scour the world under the shadow of your flag; +that is to say, the shadow of your country, and are stirred by the +thrill of battle, and the pride of glory, cannot imagine what a +lamentable thing it is to roam through cities, provinces, nations, and +kingdoms simply to visit a church here, a castle there; to rise at four +in the morning at the summons of a pitiless guide, to see the sun rise +from Rigi or Etna; to pass like a phantom, already dead, through the +world of living shades called men; to know not where to rest; to know no +land in which to take root, no arm on which to lean, no heart in which +to pour your own! Well, last night, my dear Roland, suddenly, in an +instant, in a second, this void in my life was filled. I lived in you; +the joys I seek were yours. The family which I never had, I saw smiling +around you. As I looked at your mother I said to myself: ‘My mother was +like that, I am sure.’ Looking at your sister, I said: ‘Had I a sister +I could not have wished her otherwise.’ When I embraced your brother, I +thought that I, too, might have had a child of that age, and thus leave +something behind me in the world, whereas with the nature I know I +possess, I shall die as I have lived, sad, surly with others, a burden +to myself. Ah! you are happy, Roland! you have a family, you have fame, +you have youth, you have that which spoils nothing in a man--you have +beauty. You want no joys. You are not deprived of a single delight. I +repeat it, Roland, you are a happy man, most happy!” + +“Good!” said Roland. “You forget my aneurism, my lord.” + +Sir John looked at Roland incredulously. Roland seemed to enjoy the most +perfect health. + +“Your aneurism against my million, Roland,” said Lord Tanlay, with a +feeling of profound sadness, “providing that with this aneurism you give +me this mother who weeps for joy on seeing you again; this sister who +faints with delight at your return; this child who clings upon your neck +like some fresh young fruit to a sturdy young tree; this château with +its dewy shade, its river with its verdant flowering banks, these blue +vistas dotted with pretty villages and white-capped belfries graceful +as swans. I would welcome your aneurism, Roland, and with death in +two years, in one, in six months; but six months of stirring, tender, +eventful and glorious life!” + +Roland laughed in his usual nervous manner. + +“Ah!” said he, “so this is the tourist, the superficial traveller, +the Wandering Jew of civilization, who pauses nowhere, gauges nothing, +judges everything by the sensation it produces in him. The tourist who, +without opening the doors of these abodes where dwell the fools we call +men, says: ‘Behind these walls is happiness!’ Well, my dear friend, +you see this charming river, don’t you? These flowering meadows, these +pretty villages? It is the picture of peace, innocence and fraternity; +the cycle of Saturn, the golden age returned; it is Eden, Paradise! +Well, all that is peopled by beings who have flown at each other’s +throats. The jungles of Calcutta, the sedges of Bengal are inhabited +by tigers and panthers not one whit more ferocious or cruel than the +denizens of these pretty villages, these dewy lawns, and these charming +shores. After lauding in funeral celebrations the good, the great, the +immortal Marat, whose body, thank God! they cast into the common sewer +like carrion that he was, and always had been; after performing these +funeral rites, to which each man brought an urn into which he shed +his tears, behold! our good Bressans, our gentle Bressans, these +poultry-fatteners, suddenly decided that the Republicans were all +murderers. So they murdered them by the tumbrelful to correct them of +that vile defect common to savage and civilized man--the killing his +kind. You doubt it? My dear fellow, on the road to Lons-le-Saulnier they +will show you, if you are curious, the spot where not six months ago +they organized a slaughter fit to turn the stomach of our most ferocious +troopers on the battlefield. Picture to yourself a tumbrel of prisoners +on their way to Lons-le-Saulnier. It was a staff-sided cart, one of +those immense wagons in which they take cattle to market. There were +some thirty men in this tumbrel, whose sole crime was foolish exaltation +of thought and threatening language. They were bound and gagged; heads +hanging, jolted by the bumping of the cart; their throats parched with +thirst, despair and terror; unfortunate beings who did not even have, +as in the times of Nero and Commodus, the fight in the arena, the +hand-to-hand struggle with death. Powerless, motionless, the lust of +massacre surprised them in their fetters, and battered them not only in +life but in death; their bodies, when their hearts had ceased to beat, +still resounded beneath the bludgeons which mangled their flesh and +crushed their bones; while women looked on in calm delight, lifting high +the children, who clapped their hands for joy. Old men who ought to have +been preparing for a Christian death helped, by their goading cries, to +render the death of these wretched beings more wretched still. And in +the midst of these old men, a little septuagenarian, dainty, powdered, +flicking his lace shirt frill if a speck of dust settled there, pinching +his Spanish tobacco from a golden snuff-box, with a diamond monogram, +eating his “amber sugarplums” from a Sevres bonbonnière, given him +by Madame du Barry, and adorned with the donor’s portrait--this +septuagenarian--conceive the picture, my dear Sir John--dancing with his +pumps upon that mattress of human flesh, wearying his arm, enfeebled +by age, in striking repeatedly with his gold-headed cane those of the +bodies who seemed not dead enough to him, not properly mangled in that +cursed mortar! Faugh! My friend, I have seen Montebello, I have seen +Arcole, I have seen Rivoli, I have seen the Pyramids, and I believe I +could see nothing more terrible. Well, my mother’s mere recital, last +night, after you had retired, of what has happened here, made my hair +stand on end. Faith! that explains my poor sister’s spasms just as my +aneurism explains mine.” + +Sir John watched Roland, and listened with that strange wonderment +which his young friend’s misanthropical outbursts always aroused. Roland +seemed to lurk in the niches of a conversation in order to fall upon +mankind whenever he found an opportunity. Perceiving the impression he +had made on Sir John’s mind, he changed his tone, substituting bitter +raillery for his philanthropic wrath. + +“It is true,” said he, “that, apart from this excellent aristocrat who +finished what the butchers had begun, and dyed in blood the red heels +of his pumps, the people who performed these massacres belonged to the +lower classes, bourgeois and clowns, as our ancestors called those who +supported them. The nobles manage things much more daintily. For the +rest, you saw yourself what happened at Avignon. If you had been told +that, you would never have believed it, would you? Those gentlemen +pillagers of stage coaches pique themselves on their great delicacy. +They have two faces, not counting their mask. Sometimes they are +Cartouche and Mandrin, sometimes Amadis and Galahad. They tell fabulous +tales of these heroes of the highways. My mother told me yesterday of +one called Laurent. You understand, my dear fellow, that Laurent is a +fictitious name meant to hide the real name, just as a mask hides the +face. This Laurent combined all the qualities of a hero of romance, all +the accomplishments, as you English say, who, under pretext that you +were once Normans, allow yourselves occasionally to enrich your language +with a picturesque expression, or some word which has long, poor beggar! +asked and been refused admittance of our own scholars. This Laurent was +ideally handsome. He was one of seventy-two Companions of Jehu who have +lately been tried at Yssen-geaux. Seventy were acquitted; he and one +other were the only ones condemned to death. The innocent men were +released at once, but Laurent and his companion were put in prison to +await the guillotine. But, pooh! Master Laurent had too pretty a head +to fall under the executioner’s ignoble knife. The judges who condemned +him, the curious who expected to witness him executed, had forgotten +what Montaigne calls the corporeal recommendation of beauty. There was +a woman belonging to the jailer of Yssen-geaux, his daughter, sister +or niece; history--for it is history and not romance that I am telling +you--history does not say which. At all events the woman, whoever she +was, fell in love with the handsome prisoner, so much in love that +two hours before the execution, just as Master Laurent, expecting the +executioner, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, as usually happens +in such cases, his guardian angel came to him. I don’t know how they +managed; for the two lovers, for the best of reasons, never told the +details; but the truth is--now remember; Sir John, that this is truth +and not fiction--that Laurent was free, but, to his great regret, unable +to save his comrade in the adjoining dungeon. Gensonné, under like +circumstances, refused to escape, preferring to die with the other +Girondins; but Gensonné did not have the head of Antinous on the body of +Apollo. The handsomer the head, you understand, the more one holds on to +it. So Laurent accepted the freedom offered him and escaped; a horse +was waiting for him at the next village. The young girl, who might have +retarded or hindered his flight, was to rejoin him the next day. Dawn +came, but not the guardian angel. It seems that our hero cared more for +his mistress than he did for his companion; he left his comrade, but +he would not go without her. It was six o’clock, the very hour for his +execution. His impatience mastered him. Three times had he turned his +horse’s head toward the town, and each time drew nearer and nearer. At +the third time a thought flashed through his brain. Could his mistress +have been taken, and would she pay the penalty for saving him? He was +then in the suburbs. Spurring his horse, he entered the town with face +uncovered, dashed through people who called him by name, astonished to +see him free and on horseback, when they expected to see him bound and +in a tumbrel on his way to be executed. Catching sight of his guardian +angel pushing through the crowd, not to see him executed, but to meet +him, he urged his horse past the executioner, who had just learned of +the disappearance of one of his patients, knocking over two or three +bumpkins with the breast of his Bayard. He bounded toward her, swung her +over the pommel of his saddle, and, with a cry of joy and a wave of his +hat, he disappeared like M. de Condé at the battle of Lens. The people +all applauded, and the women thought the action heroic, and all promptly +fell in love with the hero on the spot.” + +Roland, observing that Sir John was silent, paused and questioned him +by a look. “Go on,” replied the Englishman; “I am listening. And as I am +sure you are telling me all this in order to come to something you wish +to say, I await your point.” + +“Well,” resumed Roland, laughing, “you are right, my dear friend, and, +on my word, you know me as if we had been college chums. Well, what idea +do you suppose has been cavorting through my brain all night? It is that +of getting a glimpse of these gentlemen of Jehu near at hand.” + +“Ah, yes, I understand. As you failed to get yourself killed by M. de +Barjols, you want to try your chance of being killed by M. Morgan.” + +“Or any other, my dear Sir John,” replied the young officer calmly; “for +I assure you that I have nothing in particular against M. Morgan; quite +the contrary, though my first impulse when he came into the room and +made his little speech--don’t you call it a speech--?” + +Sir John nodded affirmatively. + +“Though my first thought,” resumed Roland, “was to spring at his throat +and strangle him with one hand, and to tear off his mask with the +other.” + +“Now that I know you, my dear Roland, I do indeed wonder how you +refrained from putting such a fine project into execution.” + +“It was not my fault, I swear! I was just on the point of it when my +companion stopped me.” + +“So there are people who can restrain you?” + +“Not many, but he can.” + +“And now you regret it?” + +“Honestly, no! This brave stage-robber did the business with such +swaggering bravado that I admired him. I love brave men instinctively. +Had I not killed M. de Barjols I should have liked to be his friend. It +is true I could not tell how brave he was until I had killed him. But +let us talk of something else; that duel is one of my painful thoughts. +But why did I come up? It was certainly not to talk of the Companions of +Jehu, nor of M. Laurent’s exploits--Ah! I came to ask how you would like +to spend your time. I’ll cut myself in quarters to amuse you, my dear +guest, but there are two disadvantages against me: this region, which is +not very amusing, and your nationality, which is not easily amused.” + +“I have already told you, Roland,” replied Lord Tanlay, offering his +hand to the young man, “that I consider the Château des Noires-Fontaines +a paradise.” + +“Agreed; but still in the fear that you may find your paradise +monotonous, I shall do my best to entertain you. Are you fond of +archeology--Westminster and Canterbury? We have a marvel here, the +church of Brou; a wonder of sculptured lace by Colonban. There is a +legend about it which I will tell you some evening when you cannot +sleep. You will see there the tombs of Marguerite de Bourbon, Philippe +le Bel, and Marguerite of Austria. I will puzzle you with the problem of +her motto: ‘Fortune, infortune, fort’une,’ which I claim to have solved +by a Latinized version: ‘Fortuna, in fortuna, forti una.’ Are you fond +of fishing, my dear friend? There’s the Reissouse at your feet, and +close at hand a collection of hooks and lines belonging to Edouard, and +nets belonging to Michel; as for the fish, they, you know, are the last +thing one thinks about. Are you fond of hunting? The forest of Seillon +is not a hundred yards off. Hunting to hounds you will have perforce to +renounce, but we have good shooting. In the days of my old bogies, the +Chartreuse monks, the woods swarmed with wild boars, hares and foxes. +No one hunts there now, because it belongs to the government; and the +government at present is nobody. In my capacity as General Bonaparte’s +aide-de-camp I’ll fill the vacancy, and we’ll see who dares meddle with +me, if, after chasing the Austrians on the Adige and the Mamelukes +on the Nile, I hunt the boars and deer and the hares and foxes on +the Reissouse. One day of archeology, one day of fishing, and one of +hunting, that’s three already. You see, my dear fellow, we have only +fifteen or sixteen left to worry about.” + +“My dear Roland,” said Sir John sadly, and without replying to the young +officer’s wordy sally, “won’t you ever tell me about this fever which +sears you, this sorrow which undermines you?” + +“Ah!” said Roland, with his harsh, doleful laugh. “I have never been +gayer than I am this morning; it’s your liver, my lord, that is out of +order and makes you see everything black.” + +“Some day I hope to be really your friend,” replied Sir John seriously; +“then you will confide in me, and I shall help you to bear your burden.” + +“And half my aneurism!--Are you hungry, my lord?” + +“Why do you ask?” + +“Because I hear Edouard on the stairs, coming up to tell us that +breakfast is ready.” + +As Roland spoke, the door opened and the boy burst out: “Big brother +Roland, mother and sister Amélie are waiting breakfast for Sir John and +you.” + +Then catching the Englishman’s right hand, he carefully examined the +first joint of the thumb and forefinger. + +“What are you looking at, my little friend?” asked Sir John. + +“I was looking to see if you had any ink on your fingers.” + +“And if I had ink on my fingers, what would it mean?” + +“That you had written to England, and sent for my pistols and sword.” + +“No, I have not yet written,” said Sir John; “but I will to-day.” + +“You hear, big brother Roland? I’m to have my sword and my pistols in a +fortnight!” + +And the boy, full of delight, offered his firm rosy cheek to Sir John, +who kissed it as tenderly as a father would have done. Then they went to +the dining-room where Madame de Montrevel and Amélie were awaiting them. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. PROVINCIAL PLEASURES + +That same day Roland put into execution part of his plans for his +guest’s amusement. He took Sir John to see the church of Brou. + +Those who have seen the charming little chapel of Brou know that it is +known as one of the hundred marvels of the Renaissance; those who have +not seen it must have often heard it said. Roland, who had counted on +doing the honors of this historic gem to Sir John, and who had not seen +it for the last seven or eight years, was much disappointed when, on +arriving in front of the building, he found the niches of the saints +empty and the carved figures of the portal decapitated. + +He asked for the sexton; people laughed in his face. There was no longer +a sexton. He inquired to whom he should go for the keys. They replied +that the captain of the gendarmerie had them. The captain was not far +off, for the cloister adjoining the church had been converted into a +barrack. + +Roland went up to the captain’s room and made himself known as +Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp. The captain, with the placid obedience of a +subaltern to his superior officer, gave him the keys and followed behind +him. Sir John was waiting before the porch, admiring, in spite of the +mutilation to which they had been subjected, the admirable details of +the frontal. + +Roland opened the door and started back in astonishment. The church was +literally stuffed with hay like a cannon charged to the muzzle. + +“What does this mean?” he asked the captain of the gendarmerie. + +“A precaution taken by the municipality.” + +“A precaution taken by the municipality?” + +“Yes.” + +“For what?” + +“To save the church. They were going to demolish it; but the mayor +issued a decree declaring that, in expiation of the false worship for +which it had served, it should be used to store fodder.” + +Roland burst out laughing, and, turning to Sir John, he said: “My +dear Sir John, the church was well worth seeing, but I think what this +gentleman has just told us is no less curious. You can always find--at +Strasburg, Cologne, or Milan--churches or cathedrals to equal the chapel +of Brou; but where will you find an administration idiotic enough to +destroy such a masterpiece, and a mayor clever enough to turn it into a +barn? A thousand thanks, captain. Here are your keys.” + +“As I was saying at Avignon, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing +you, my dear Roland,” replied Sir John, “the French are a most amusing +people.” + +“This time, my lord, you are too polite,” replied Roland. “Idiotic is +the word. Listen. I can understand the political cataclysms which have +convulsed society for the last thousand years; I can understand the +communes, the pastorals, the Jacquerie, the maillotins, the Saint +Bartholomew, the League, the Fronde, the dragonnades, the Revolution; I +can understand the 14th of July, the 5th and 6th of October, the 20th +of June, the 10th of August, the 2d and 3d of September, the 21st of +January, the 31st of May, the 30th of October, and the 9th Thermidor; I +can understand the egregious torch of civil wars, which inflames instead +of soothing the blood; I can understand the tidal wave of revolution, +sweeping on with its flux, that nothing can arrest, and its reflux, +which carries with it the ruins of the institution which it has itself +shattered. I can understand all that, but lance against lance, sword +against sword, men against men, a people against a people! I can +understand the deadly rage of the victors, the sanguinary reaction of +the vanquished, the political volcanoes which rumble in the bowels of +the globe, shake the earth, topple over thrones, upset monarchies, and +roll heads and crowns on the scaffold. But what I cannot understand is +this mutilation of the granite, this placing of monuments beyond the +pale of the law, the destruction of inanimate things, which belong +neither to those who destroy them nor to the epoch in which they are +destroyed; this pillage of the gigantic library where the antiquarian +can read the archeological history of a country. Oh! the vandals, the +barbarians! Worse than that, the idiots! who revenge the Borgia crimes +and the debauches of Louis XV. on stone. How well those Pharaohs, Menæs, +and Cheops knew man as the most perversive, destructive and evil of +animals! They who built their pyramids, not with carved traceries, nor +lacy spires, but with solid blocks of granite fifty feet square! How +they must have laughed in the depths of those sepulchres as they watched +Time dull its scythe and pashas wear out their nails in vain against +them. Let us build pyramids, my dear Sir John. They are not difficult as +architecture, nor beautiful as art, but they are solid; and that enables +a general to say four thousand years later: ‘Soldiers, from the apex of +these monuments forty centuries are watching you!’ On my honor, my lord, +I long to meet a windmill this moment that I might tilt against it.” + +And Roland, bursting into his accustomed laugh, dragged Sir John in the +direction of the château. But Sir John stopped him and asked: “Is there +nothing else to see in the city except the church?” + +“Formerly, my lord,” replied Roland, “before they made a hay-loft of +it, I should have asked you to come down with me into the vaults of +the Dukes of Savoy. We could have hunted for that subterranean passage, +nearly three miles long, which is said to exist there, and which, +according to these rumors, communicates with the grotto of Ceyzeriat. +Please observe, I should never offer such a pleasure trip except to an +Englishman; it would have been like a scene from your celebrated Anne +Radcliffe in the ‘Mysteries of Udolpho.’ But, as you see, that is +impossible, so we will have to be satisfied with our regrets. Come.” + +“Where are we going?” + +“Faith, I don’t know. Ten years ago I should have taken you to the farms +where they fatten pullets. The pullets of Bresse, you must know, have a +European reputation. Bourg was an annex to the great coop of Strasburg. +But during the Terror, as you can readily imagine, these fatteners of +poultry shut up shop. You earned the reputation of being an aristocrat +if you ate a pullet, and you know the fraternal refrain: ‘Ah, ça ira, ça +ira--the aristocrats to the lantern!’ After Robespierre’s downfall +they opened up again; but since the 18th of Fructidor, France has been +commanded to fast, from fowls and all. Never mind; come on, anyway. +In default of pullets, I can show you one thing, the square where +they executed those who ate them. But since I was last in the town the +streets have changed their names. I know the way, but I don’t know the +names.” + +“Look here!” demanded Sir John; “aren’t you a Republican?” + +“I not a Republican? Come, come! Quite to the contrary. I consider +myself an excellent Republican. I am quite capable of burning off my +hand, like Mucius Scævola, or jumping into the gulf like Curtius to save +the Republic; but I have, unluckily, a keen sense of the ridiculous. +In spite of myself, the absurdity of things catches me in the side and +tickles me till I nearly die of laughing. I am willing to accept the +Constitution of 1791; but when poor Hérault de Séchelles wrote to the +superintendent of the National Library to send him a copy of the laws +of Minos, so that he could model his constitution on that of the Isle +of Crete, I thought it was going rather far, and that we might very well +have been content with those of Lycurgus. I find January, February, and +March, mythological as they were, quite as good as Nivose, Pluviose, +and Ventose. I can’t understand why, when one was called Antoine or +Chrystomome in 1789, he should be called Brutus or Cassius in 1793. +Here, for example, my lord, is an honest street, which was called +the Rue des Halles (Market Street). There was nothing indecent or +aristocratic about that, was there? Well, now it is called--Just wait +(Roland read the inscription). Well, now it is called the Rue de la +Révolution. Here’s another, which used to be called Notre Dame; it is +now the Rue du Temple. Why Rue du Temple? Probably to perpetuate the +memory of that place where the infamous Simon tried to teach cobbling to +the heir of sixty-three kings. Don’t quarrel with me if I am mistaken by +one or two! Now here’s a third; it was named Crèvecoeur, a name famous +throughout Bresse, Burgundy and Flanders. It is now the Rue de la +Federation. Federation is a fine thing, but Crèvecoeur was a fine name. +And then you see to-day it leads straight to the Place de la Guillotine, +which is, in my opinion, all wrong. I don’t want any streets that lead +to such places. This one has its advantages; it is only about a hundred +feet from the prison, which economized and still economizes the tumbrel +and the horse of M. de Bourg. By the way, have you noticed that the +executioner remains noble and keeps his title? For the rest, the square +is excellently arranged for spectators, and my ancestor, Montrevel, +whose name it bears, doubtless, foreseeing its ultimate destiny, solved +the great problem, still unsolved by the theatres, of being able to see +well from every nook and corner. If ever they cut off my head, which, +considering the times in which we are living, would in no wise be +surprising, I shall have but one regret: that of being less well-placed +and seeing less than the others. Now let us go up these steps. Here we +are in the Place des Lices. Our Revolutionists left it its name, because +in all probability they don’t know what it means. I don’t know +much better than they, but I think I remember that a certain Sieur +d’Estavayer challenged some Flemish count--I don’t know who--and that +the combat took place in this square. Now, my dear fellow, here is the +prison, which ought to give you some idea of human vicissitudes. Gil +Blas didn’t change his condition more often than this monument its +purposes. Before Cæsar it was a Gaelic temple; Cæsar converted it into a +Roman fortress; an unknown architect transformed it into a military work +during the Middle Ages; the Knights of Baye, following Cæsar’s +example, re-made it into a fortress; the princes of Savoy used it for a +residence; the aunt of Charles V. lived here when she came to visit her +church at Brou, which she never had the satisfaction of seeing finished. +Finally, after the treaty of Lyons, when Bresse was returned to France, +it was utilized both as a prison and a court-house. Wait for me a +moment, my lord, if you dislike the squeaking of hinges and the grating +of bolts. I have a visit to pay to a certain cell.” + +“The grating of bolts and the squeaking of hinges is not a very +enlivening sound, but no matter. Since you were kind enough to undertake +my education, show me your dungeon.” + +“Very well, then. Come in quickly. I see a crowd of persons who look as +if they want to speak to me.” + +In fact, little by little, a sort of rumor seemed to spread throughout +the town. People emerged from the houses, forming groups in the streets, +and they all watched Roland with curiosity. He rang the bell of the +gate, situated then where it is now, but opening into the prison yard. A +jailer opened it for them. + +“Ah, ah! so you are still here, Father Courtois?” asked the young man. +Then, turning to Sir John, he added: “A fine name for a jailer, isn’t +it, my lord?” + +The jailer looked at the young man in amazement. + +“How is it,” he asked through the grating, “that you know my name, when +I don’t know yours?” + +“Good! I not only know your name, but also your opinions. You are an old +royalist, Père Courtois.” + +“Monsieur,” said the jailer, terrified, “don’t make bad jokes if you +please, and say what you want.” + +“Well, my good Father Courtois, I would like to visit the cell where +they put my mother and sister, Madame and Mademoiselle Montrevel.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed the gatekeeper, “so it’s you, M. Louis? You may well say +that I know you. What a fine, handsome young man you’ve grown to be!” + +“Do you think so, Father Courtois? Well, I can return the compliment. +Your daughter Charlotte is, on my word, a beautiful girl. Charlotte is +my sister’s maid, Sir John.” + +“And she is very happy over it. She is better off there than here, M. +Roland. Is it true that you are General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp?” + +“Alas! I have that honor, Courtois. You would prefer me to be Comte +d’Artois’s aide-de-camp, or that of M. le Duc of Angoulême?” + +“Oh, do be quiet, M. Louis!” Then putting his lips to the young man’s +ear, “Tell me, is it true?” + +“What, Father Courtois?” + +“That General Bonaparte passed through Lyons yesterday?” + +“There must be some truth in the rumor, for this is the second time +that I have heard it. Ah! I understand now. These good people who were +watching me so curiously apparently wanted to question me. They were +like you, Father Courtois: they want to know what to make of General +Bonaparte’s arrival.” + +“Do you know what they say, M. Louis?” + +“Still another rumor, Father Courtois?” + +“I should think so, but they only whisper it.” + +“What is it?” + +“They say that he has come to demand the throne of his Majesty Louis +XVIII. from the Directory and the king’s return to it; and that if +Citizen Gohier as president doesn’t give it up of his own accord he will +take it by force.” + +“Pooh!” exclaimed the young officer with an incredulous air bordering on +irony. But Father Courtois insisted on his news with an affirmative nod. + +“Possibly,” said the young man; “but as for that, it’s news for me. And +now that you know me, will you open the gate?” + +“Of course I will. I should think so. What the devil am I about?” + and the jailer opened the gate with an eagerness equalling his former +reluctance. The young man entered, and Sir John followed him. The jailer +locked the gate carefully, then he turned, followed by Roland and the +Englishman in turn. The latter was beginning to get accustomed to +his young friend’s erratic character. The spleen he saw in Roland was +misanthropy, without the sulkiness of Timon or the wit of Alceste. + +The jailer crossed the yard, which was separated from the law courts +by a wall fifteen feet high, with an opening let into the middle of +the receding wall, closed by a massive oaken door, to admit prisoners +without taking them round by the street. The jailer, we say, crossed the +yard to a winding stairway in the left angle of the courtyard which led +to the interior of the prison. + +If we insist upon these details, it is because we shall be obliged to +return to this spot later, and we do not wish it to be wholly unfamiliar +to our readers when that time comes. + +These steps led first to the ante-chamber of the prison, that is to say +to the porter’s hall of the lower court-room. From that hall ten steps +led down into an inner court, separated from a third, which was that of +the prisoners, by a wall similar to the one we have described, only this +one had three doors. At the further end of the courtyard a passage led +to the jailer’s own room, which gave into a second passage, on which +were the cells which were picturesquely styled cages. The jailer paused +before the first of these cages and said, striking the door: + +“This is where I put madame, your mother, and your sister, so that if +the dear ladies wanted either Charlotte or myself, they need but knock.” + +“Is there any one in the cell?” + +“No one” + +“Then please open the door. My friend, Lord Tanlay, is a philanthropic +Englishman who is travelling about to see if the French prisons are more +comfortable than the English ones. Enter, Sir John.” + +Père Courtois having opened the door, Roland pushed Sir John into a +perfectly square cell measuring ten or twelve feet each way. + +“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “this is lugubrious.” + +“Do you think so? Well, my dear friend, this is where my mother, the +noblest woman in the world, and my sister, whom you know, spent six +weeks with a prospect of leaving it only to make the trip to the Place +de Bastion. Just think, that was five years ago, so my sister was +scarcely twelve.” + +“But what crime had they committed?” + +“Oh! a monstrous crime. At the anniversary festival with which the town +of Bourg considered proper to commemorate the death of the ‘Friend of +the People,’ my mother refused to permit my sister to represent one of +the virgins who bore the tears of France in vases. What will you! Poor +woman, she thought she had done enough for her country in giving it +the blood of her son and her husband, which was flowing in Italy and +Germany. She was mistaken. Her country, as it seems, claimed further the +tears of her daughter. She thought that too much, especially as those +tears were to flow for the citizen Marat. The result was that on the +very evening of the celebration, during the enthusiastic exaltation, +my mother was declared accused. Fortunately Bourg had not attained the +celerity of Paris. A friend of ours, an official in the record-office, +kept the affair dragging, until one fine day the fall and death of +Robespierre were made known. That interrupted a good many things, among +others the guillotinades. Our friend convinced the authorities that the +wind blowing from Paris had veered toward clemency; they waited fifteen +days, and on the sixteenth they told my mother and sister that they were +free. So you understand, my friend--and this involves the most profound +philosophical reflection--so that if Mademoiselle Teresa Cabarrus had +not come from Spain, if she had not married M. Fontenay, parliamentary +counsellor; had she not been arrested and brought before the pro-consul +Tallien, son of the Marquis de Bercy’s butler, ex-notary’s clerk, +ex-foreman of a printing-shop, ex-porter, ex-secretary to the Commune +of Paris temporarily at Bordeaux; and had the ex-pro-consul not become +enamored of her, and had she not been imprisoned, and if on the ninth +of Thermidor she had not found means to send a dagger with these words: +‘Unless the tyrant dies to-day, I die to-morrow’; had not Saint-Just +been arrested in the midst of his discourse; had not Robespierre, on +that day, had a frog in his throat; had not Garnier de l’Aube exclaimed: +‘It is the blood of Danton choking you!’ had not Louchet shouted for his +arrest; had he not been arrested, released by the Commune, recaptured +in spite of this, had his jaw broken by a pistol shot, and been executed +next day--my mother would, in all probability, have had her head cut off +for refusing to allow her daughter to weep for citizen Marat in one of +the twelve lachrymal urns which Bourg was desirous of filling with its +tears. Good-by, Courtois. You are a worthy man. You gave my mother and +sister a little water to put with their wine, a little meat to eat with +their bread, a little hope to fill their hearts; you lent them your +daughter that they might not have to sweep their cell themselves. That +deserves a fortune. Unfortunately I am not rich; but here are fifty +louis I happen to have with me. Come, my lord.” + +And the young man carried off Sir John before the jailer, recovered from +his surprise and found time either to thank Roland or refuse the fifty +louis; which, it must be said, would have been a remarkable proof of +disinterestedness in a jailer, especially when that jailer’s opinions +were opposed to those of the government he served. + +Leaving the prison, Roland and Sir John found the Place des Lices +crowded with people who had heard of General Bonaparte’s return +to France, and were shouting “Vive Bonaparte!” at the top of their +lungs--some because they really admired the victor of Arcola, Rivoli, +and the Pyramids, others because they had been told, like Père Courtois, +that this same victor had vanquished only that Louis XVIII. might profit +by his victories. + +Roland and Sir John, having now visited all that the town of Bourg +offered of interest, returned to the Château des Noires-Fontaines, which +they reached before long. Madame de Montrevel and Amélie had gone out. +Roland installed Sir John in an easy chair, asking him to wait a few +minutes for him. At the end of five minutes he returned with a sort of +pamphlet of gray paper, very badly printed, in his hand. + +“My dear fellow,” said he, “you seemed to have some doubts about the +authenticity of that festival which I just mentioned, and which nearly +cost my mother and sister their lives, so I bring you the programme. +Read it, and while you are doing so I will go and see what they have +been doing with my dogs; for I presume that you would rather hold me +quit of our fishing expedition in favor of a hunt.” + +He went out, leaving in Sir John’s hands a copy of the decree of the +municipality of the town of Bourg, instituting the funeral rites in +honor of Marat, on the anniversary of his death. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. THE WILD-BOAR + +Sir John was just finishing that interesting bit of history when Madame +de Montrevel and her daughter returned. Amélie, who did not know how +much had been said about her between Roland and Sir John, was astounded +by the expression with which that gentleman scrutinized her. + +To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily understand +that mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling that this +charming creature should profane her youth and beauty by serving as a +mourner in a celebration of which Marat was the deity. He recalled that +cold damp cell which he had lately visited, and shuddered at the thought +that this delicate white ermine before his eyes had been imprisoned +there, without sun or air, for six weeks. He looked at the throat, +too long perhaps, but swan-like in its suppleness and graceful in its +exaggeration, and he remembered that melancholy remark of the poor +Princesse de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: “It will not give +the executioner much trouble!” + +The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John’s mind gave to his +face an expression so different from its customary aspect, that Madame +de Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled him. He then +told her of his visit to the prison, and Roland’s pious pilgrimage to +the dungeon where his mother and sister had been incarcerated. Just +as Sir John had concluded his tale, a view-halloo sounded without, and +Roland entered, his hunting-horn in his hands. + +“My dear friend,” he cried, “thanks to my mother, we shall have a +splendid hunt to-morrow.” + +“Thanks to me?” queried Madame de Montrevel. + +“How so?” added Sir John. + +“I left you to see about my dogs, didn’t I?” + +“You said so, at any rate.” + +“I had two excellent beasts, Barbichon and Ravaude, male and female.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “are they dead?” + +“Well, yes; but just guess what this excellent mother of mine has done?” + and, tilting Madame de Montrevel’s head, he kissed her on both cheeks. +“She wouldn’t let them drown a single puppy because they were the dogs +of my dogs; so the result is, that to-day the pups, grand-pups, and +great-grand-pups of Barbichon and Ravaude are as numerous as the +descendant of Ishmael. Instead of a pair of dogs, I have a whole pack, +twenty-five beasts, all as black as moles with white paws, fire in their +eyes and hearts, and a regiment of cornet-tails that would do you good +to see.” + +And Roland sounded another halloo that brought his young brother to the +scene. + +“Oh!” shouted the boy as he entered, “you are going hunting to-morrow, +brother Roland. I’m going, too, I’m going, too!” + +“Good!” said Roland, “but do you know what we are going to hunt?” + +“No. All I know is that I’m going, too.” + +“We’re going to hunt a boar.” + +“Oh, joy!” cried the boy, clapping his little hands. + +“Are you crazy?” asked Madame de Montrevel, turning pale. + +“Why so, madame mother, if you please?” + +“Because boar hunts are very dangerous.” + +“Not so dangerous as hunting men. My brother got back safe from that, +and so will I from the other.” + +“Roland,” cried Madame de Montrevel, while Amélie, lost in thought, took +no part in the discussion, “Roland, make Edouard listen to reason. Tell +him that he hasn’t got common-sense.” + +But Roland, who recognized himself again in his young brother, instead +of blaming him, smiled at his boyish ardor. “I’d take you willingly,” + said he, “only to go hunting one must at least know how to handle a +gun.” + +“Oh, Master Roland,” cried Edouard, “just come into the garden a bit. +Put up your hat at a hundred yards, and I’ll show you how to handle a +gun.” + +“Naughty child,” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, trembling, “where did +you learn?” + +“Why, from the gunsmith at Montagnac, who keeps papa’s and Roland’s +guns. You ask me sometimes what I do with my money, don’t you? Well, I +buy powder and balls with it, and I am learning to kill Austrians and +Arabs like my brother Roland.” + +Madame de Montrevel raised her hands to heaven. + +“What can you expect, mother?” asked Roland. “Blood will tell. No +Montrevel could be afraid of powder. You shall come with us to-morrow, +Edouard.” + +The boy sprang upon his brother’s neck. + +“And I,” said Sir John, “will equip you to-day like a regular huntsman, +just as they used to arm the knights of old. I have a charming little +rifle that I will give you. It will keep you contented until your sabre +and pistols come.” + +“Well,” asked Roland, “are you satisfied now, Edouard?” + +“Yes; but when will he give it to me? If you have to write to England +for it, I warn you I shan’t believe in it.” + +“No, my little friend, we have only to go up to my room and open my +gun-case. That’s soon done.” + +“Then, let’s go at once.” + +“Come on,” said Sir John; and he went out, followed by Edouard. + +A moment later, Amélie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left the +room. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her departure, so +interested were they in a serious discussion. Madame de Montrevel +tried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother with him on the +morrow’s hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard was to become a +soldier like his father and brother, the sooner he learned to handle a +gun and become familiar with powder and ball the better. The discussion +was not yet ended when Edouard returned with his gun slung over his +shoulder. + +“Look, brother,” said he, turning to Roland; “just see what a fine +present Sir John has given me.” And he looked gratefully at Sir John, +who stood in the doorway vainly seeking Amélie with his eyes. + +It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with that +plainness of ornament and simplicity of form peculiar to English +weapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols, of which Roland +had had opportunity to test the accuracy, the rifle was made by the +celebrated Manton, and carried a twenty-four calibre bullet. That it had +been originally intended for a woman was easily seen by the shortness +of the stock and the velvet pad on the trigger. This original purpose of +the weapon made it peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve. + +Roland took the rifle from his brother’s shoulder, looked at it +knowingly, tried its action, sighted it, tossed it from one hand to the +other, and then, giving it back to Edouard, said: “Thank Sir John again. +You have a rifle fit for a king’s son. Let’s go and try it.” + +All three went out to try Sir John’s rifle, leaving Madame de Montrevel +as sad as Thetis when she saw Achilles in his woman’s garb draw the +sword of Ulysses from its scabbard. + +A quarter of an hour later, Edouard returned triumphantly. He brought +his mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference of a hat, in which +he had put ten bullets out of twelve. The two men had remained behind in +the park conversing. + +Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard’s slightly boastful account of +his prowess. Then she looked at him with that deep and holy sorrow of +mothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood it sheds. Oh! +ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that look bent upon him +and does not eternally remember it. Then, after a few seconds of this +painful contemplation, she pressed her second son to her breast, and +murmured sobbing: “You, too! you, too, will desert your mother some +day.” + +“Yes, mother,” replied the boy, “to become a general like my father, or +an aide-de-camp like Roland.” + +“And to be killed as your father was, as your brother perhaps will be.” + +For the strange transformation in Roland’s character had not escaped +Madame de Montrevel. It was but an added dread to her other anxieties, +among which Amélie’s pallor and abstraction must be numbered. + +Amélie was just seventeen; her childhood had been that of a happy +laughing girl, joyous and healthy. The death of her father had cast a +black veil over her youth and gayety. But these tempests of spring pass +rapidly. Her smile, the sunshine of life’s dawn, returned like that of +Nature, sparkling through that dew of the heart we call tears. + +Then, one day about six months before this story opens, Amélie’s face +had saddened, her cheeks had grown pale, and, like the birds who migrate +at the approach of wintry weather, the childlike laughter that escaped +her parted lips and white teeth had fled never to return. + +Madame de Montrevel had questioned her, but Amélie asserted that she was +still the same. She endeavored to smile, but as a stone thrown into +a lake rings upon the surface, so the smiles roused by this maternal +solicitude faded, little by little, from Amélie’s face. With keen +maternal instinct Madame de Montrevel had thought of love. But +whom could Amélie love? There were no visitors at the Château des +Noires-Fontaines, the political troubles had put an end to all society, +and Amélie went nowhere alone. Madame de Montrevel could get no further +than conjecture. Roland’s return had given her a moment’s hope; but +this hope fled as soon as she perceived the effect which this event had +produced upon Amélie. + +It was not a sister, but a spectre, it will be recalled, who had come +to meet him. Since her son’s arrival, Madame de Montrevel had not +lost sight of Amélie, and she perceived, with dolorous amazement, that +Roland’s presence awakened a feeling akin to terror in his sister’s +breast. She, whose eyes had formerly rested so lovingly upon him, now +seemed to view him with alarm. Only a few moments since, Amélie had +profited by the first opportunity to return to her room, the one spot in +the château where she seemed at ease, and where for the last six months +she had spent most of her time. The dinner-bell alone possessed the +power to bring her from it, and even then she waited for the second call +before entering the dining-room. + +Roland and Sir John, as we have said, had divided their time between +their visit to Bourg and their preparations for the morrow’s hunt. From +morn until noon they were to beat the woods; from noon till evening they +were to hunt the boar. Michel, that devoted poacher, confined to his +chair for the present with a sprain, felt better as soon as the question +of the hunt was mooted, and had himself hoisted on a little horse that +was used for the errands of the house. Then he sallied forth to collect +the beaters from Saint-Just and Montagnac. He, being unable to beat +or run, was to remain with the pack, and watch Sir John’s and Roland’s +horse, and Edouard’s pony, in the middle of the forest, where it was +intersected by one good road and two practicable paths. The beaters, +who could not follow the hunt, were to return to the château with the +game-bags. + +The beaters were at the door at six the following morning. Michel was +not to leave with the horses and dogs until eleven. The Château des +Noires-Fontaines was just at the edge of the forest of Seillon, so the +hunt could begin at its very gates. + +As the battue promised chiefly deer and hares, the guns were loaded with +balls. Roland gave Edouard a simple little gun which he himself had used +as a child. He had not enough confidence as yet in the boy’s prudence +to trust him with a double-barrelled gun. As for the rifle that Sir John +had given him the day before, it could only carry cartridges. It was +given into Michel’s safe keeping, to be returned to him in case they +started a boar for the second part of the hunt. For this Roland and +Sir John were also to change their guns for rifles and hunting knives, +pointed as daggers and sharp as razors, which formed part of Sir John’s +arsenal, and could be suspended from the belt or screwed on the point of +the gun like bayonets. + +From the beginning of the battue it was easy to see that the hunt would +be a good one. A roebuck and two hares were killed at once. At noon two +does, seven roebucks and two foxes had been bagged. They had also seen +two boars, but these latter had only shaken their bristles in answer to +the heavy balls and made off. + +Edouard was in the seventh heaven; he had killed a roebuck. The beaters, +well rewarded for their labor, were sent to the château with the game, +as had been arranged. A sort of bugle was sounded to ascertain Michel’s +whereabout, to which he answered. In less than ten minutes the three +hunters had rejoined the gardener with his hounds and horses. + +Michel had seen a boar which he had sent his son to head off, and it was +now in the woods not a hundred paces distant. Jacques, Michel’s eldest +son, beat up the woods with Barbichon and Ravaude, the heads of the +pack, and in about five minutes the boar was found in his lair. They +could have killed him at once, or at least shot at him, but that would +have ended the hunt too quickly. The huntsmen launched the whole pack +at the animal, which, seeing this troop of pygmies swoop down upon +him, started off at a slow trot. He crossed the road, Roland giving the +view-halloo, and headed in the direction of the Chartreuse of Seillon, +the three riders following the path which led through the woods. The +boar led them a chase which lasted until five in the afternoon, turning +upon his tracks, evidently unwilling to leave the forest with its thick +undergrowth. + +At last the violent barking of the dogs warned them that the animal had +been brought to bay. The spot was not a hundred paces distant from +the pavilion belonging to the Chartreuse, in one of the most tangled +thickets of the forest. It was impossible to force the horses through +it, and the riders dismounted. The barking of the dogs guided them +straight along the path, from which they deviated only where the +obstacles they encountered rendered it necessary. + +From time to time yelps of pain indicated that members of the attacking +party had ventured too close to the animal, and had paid the price of +their temerity. About twenty feet from the scene of action the hunters +began to see the actors. The boar was backed against a rock to avoid +attack in the rear; then, bracing himself on his forepaws, he faced the +dogs with his ensanguined eyes and enormous tusks. They quivered around +him like a moving carpet; five or six, more or less badly wounded, were +staining the battlefield with their blood, though still attacking the +boar with a fury and courage that might have served as an example to the +bravest men. + +Each hunter faced the scene with the characteristic signs of his age, +nature and nation. Edouard, at one and the same time, the most imprudent +and the smallest, finding the path less difficult, owing to his small, +stature, arrived first. Roland, heedless of danger of any kind, seeking +rather than avoiding it, followed. Finally Sir John, slower, graver, +more reflective, brought up the rear. Once the boar perceived his +hunters he paid no further attention to the dogs. He fixed his gleaming, +sanguinary eyes upon them; but his only movement was a snapping of the +jaws, which he brought together with a threatening sound. Roland watched +the scene for an instant, evidently desirous of flinging himself into +the midst of the group, knife in hand, to slit the boar’s throat as a +butcher would that of a calf or a pig. This impulse was so apparent that +Sir John caught his arm, and little Edouard exclaimed: “Oh! brother, let +me shoot the boar!” + +Roland restrained himself, and stacking his gun against a tree, waited, +armed only with his hunting-knife, which he had drawn from its sheath. + +“Very well,” said he, “shoot him; but be careful about it.” + +“Oh! don’t worry,” retorted the child, between his set teeth. His +face was pale but resolute as he aimed the barrel of his rifle at the +animal’s head. + +“If he misses him, or only wounds him,” observed Sir John, “you know +that the brute will be upon us before we can see him through the smoke.” + +“I know it, my lord; but I am accustomed to these hunts,” replied +Roland, his nostrils quivering, his eyes sparkling, his lips parted: +“Fire, Edouard!” + +The shot followed the order upon the instant; but after the shot, with, +or even before it, the beast, swift as lightning, rushed upon the child. +A second shot followed the first, but the animal’s scarlet eyes still +gleamed through the smoke. But, as it rushed, it met Roland with his +knee on the ground, the knife in his hand. A moment later a tangled, +formless group, man and boar, boar and man, was rolling on the ground. +Then a third shot rang out, followed by a laugh from Roland. + +“Ah! my lord,” cried the young man, “you’ve wasted powder and shot. +Can’t you see that I have ripped him up? Only get his body off of me. +The beast weighs at least four hundred pounds, and he is smothering me.” + +But before Sir John could stoop, Roland, with a vigorous push of the +shoulder, rolled the animal’s body aside, and rose to his feet covered +with blood, but without a single scratch. Little Edouard, either from +lack of time or from native courage, had not recoiled an inch. True, he +was completely protected by his brother’s body, which was between him +and the boar. Sir John had sprung aside to take the animal in the flank. +He watched Roland, as he emerged from this second duel, with the same +amazement that he had experienced after the first. + +The dogs--those that were left, some twenty in all--had followed the +boar, and were now leaping upon his body in the vain effort to tear the +bristles, which were almost as impenetrable as iron. + +“You will see,” said Roland, wiping the blood from his face and hands +with a fine cambric handkerchief, “how they will eat him, and your knife +too, my lord.” + +“True,” said Sir John; “where is the knife?” + +“In its sheath,” replied Roland. + +“Ah!” exclaimed the boy, “only the handle shows.” + +He sprang toward the animal and pulled out the poniard, which, as he +said, was buried up to the hilt. The sharp point, guided by a calm eye +and a firm hand, had pierced the animal’s heart. + +There were other wounds on the boar’s body. The first, caused by the +boy’s shot, showed a bloody furrow just over the eye; the blow had been +too weak to crush the frontal bone. The second came from Sir John’s +first shot; it had caught the animal diagonally and grazed his breast. +The third, fired at close quarters, went through the body; but, as +Roland had said, not until after the animal was dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. AN UNPLEASANT COMMISSION + +The hunt was over, darkness was falling, and it was now a question of +returning to the château. The horses were nearby; they could hear them +neighing impatiently. They seemed to be asking if their courage was so +doubted that they were not allowed to share in the exciting drama. + +Edouard was bent upon dragging the boar after them, fastening it to the +saddle-bow, and so carrying it back to the château; but Roland pointed +out that it was simpler to send a couple of men for it with a barrow. +Sir John being of the same opinion, Edouard--who never ceased pointing +to the wound in the head, and saying, “That’s my shot; that’s where I +aimed”--Edouard, we say, was forced to yield to the majority. The three +hunters soon reached the spot where their horses were tethered, mounted, +and in less than ten minutes were at the Château des Noires-Fontaines. + +Madame de Montrevel was watching for them on the portico. The poor +mother had waited there nearly an hour, trembling lest an accident had +befallen one or the other of her sons. The moment Edouard espied her he +put his pony to a gallop, shouting from the gate: “Mother, mother! We +killed a boar as big as a donkey. I shot him in the head; you’ll see the +hole my ball, made; Roland stuck his hunting knife into the boar’s belly +up to the hilt, and Sir John fired at him twice. Quick, quick! Send the +men for the carcass. Don’t be frightened when you see Roland. He’s all +covered with blood--but it’s from the boar, and he hasn’t a scratch.” + +This was delivered with Edouard’s accustomed volubility while Madame de +Montrevel was crossing the clearing between the portico and the road to +open the gate. She intended to take Edouard in her arms, but he jumped +from his saddle and flung himself upon her neck. Roland and Sir John +came up just then, and Amélie appeared on the portico at the same +instant. + +Edouard left his mother to worry over Roland, who, covered as he was +with blood, looked very terrifying, and rushed to his sister with the +tale he had rattled off to his mother. Amélie listened in an abstracted +manner that probably hurt Edouard’s vanity, for he dashed off to the +kitchen to describe the affair to Michel, who was certain to listen to +him. + +Michel was indeed interested; but when, after telling him where the +carcass lay, Edouard gave him Roland’s order to send a couple of men +after the beast, he shook his head. + +“What!” demanded Edouard, “are you going to refuse to obey my brother?” + +“Heaven forbid! Master Edouard. Jacques shall start this instant for +Montagnac.” + +“Are you afraid he won’t find any body?” + +“Goodness, no; he could get a dozen. But the trouble is the time of +night. You say the boar lies close to the pavilion of the Chartreuse?” + +“Not twenty yards from it.” + +“I’d rather it was three miles,” replied Michel scratching his head; +“but never mind. I’ll send for them anyway without telling them what +they’re wanted for. Once here, it’s for your brother to make them go.” + +“Good! Good! Only get them here and I’ll see to that myself.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Michel, “if I hadn’t this beastly sprain I’d go myself. +But to-day’s doings have made it worse. Jacques! Jacques!” + +Jacques came, and Edouard not only waited to hear the order given, but +until he had started. Then he ran upstairs to do what Roland and Sir +John were already doing, that is, dress for dinner. + +The whole talk at table, as may be easily imagined, centred upon the +day’s prowess. Edouard asked nothing better than to talk about it, and +Sir John, astounded by Roland’s skill, courage, and good luck, improved +upon the child’s narrative. Madame de Montrevel shuddered at each +detail, and yet she made them repeat it twenty times. That which seemed +most clear to her in all this was that Roland had saved Edouard’s life. + +“Did you thank him for it?” she asked the boy. “Thank whom?” + +“Your brother.” + +“Why should I thank him?” retorted Edouard. “I should have done the same +thing.” + +“Ah, madame, what can you expect!” said Sir John; “you are a gazelle who +has unwittingly given birth to a race of lions.” + +Amélie had also paid the closest attention to the account, especially +when the hunters spoke of their proximity to the Chartreuse. From that +time on she listened with anxious eyes, and seemed scarcely to breathe, +until they told of leaving the woods after the killing. + +After dinner, word was brought that Jacques had returned with two +peasants from Montagnac. They wanted exact directions as to where the +hunters had left the animal. Roland rose, intending to go to them, but +Madame de Montrevel, who could never see enough of her son, turned +to the messenger and said: “Bring these worthy men in here. It is not +necessary to disturb M. Roland for that.” + +Five minutes later the two peasants entered, twirling their hats in +their hands. + +“My sons,” said Roland, “I want you to fetch the boar we killed in the +forest of Seillon.” + +“That can be done,” said one of the peasants, consulting his companion +with a look. + +“Yes, it can be done,” answered the other. + +“Don’t be alarmed,” said Roland. “You shall lose nothing by your +trouble.” + +“Oh! we’re not,” interrupted one of the peasants. “We know you, Monsieur +de Montrevel.” + +“Yes,” answered the other, “we know that, like your father, you’re +not in the habit of making people work for nothing. Oh! if all the +aristocrats had been like you, Monsieur Louis, there wouldn’t have been +any revolution.” + +“Of course not,” said the other, who seemed to have come solely to echo +affirmatively what his companion said. + +“It remains to be seen now where the animal is,” said the first peasant. + +“Yes,” repeated the second, “remains to be seen where it is.” + +“Oh! it won’t be hard to find.” + +“So much the better,” interjected the peasant. + +“Do you know the pavilion in the forest?” + +“Which one?” + +“Yes, which one?” + +“The one that belongs to the Chartreuse of Seillon.” + +The peasants looked at each other. + +“Well, you’ll find it some twenty feet distant from the front on the way +to Genoud.” + +The peasants looked at each other once more. + +“Hum!” grunted the first one. + +“Hum!” repeated the other, faithful echo of his companion. + +“Well, what does this ‘hum’ mean?” demanded Roland. + +“Confound it.” + +“Come, explain yourselves. What’s the matter?” + +“The matter is that we’d rather that it was the other end of the +forest.” + +“But why the other end?” retorted Roland, impatiently; “it’s nine miles +from here to the other end, and barely three from here to where we left +the boar.” + +“Yes,” said the first peasant, “but just where the boar lies--” And he +paused and scratched his head. + +“Exactly; that’s what,” added the other. + +“Just what?” + +“It’s a little too near the Chartreuse.” + +“Not the Chartreuse; I said the pavilion.” + +“It’s all the same. You know, Monsieur Louis, that there is an +underground passage leading from the pavilion to the Chartreuse.” + +“Oh, yes, there is one, that’s sure,” added the other. + +“But,” exclaimed Roland, “what has this underground passage got to do +with our boar?” + +“This much, that the beast’s in a bad place, that’s all.” + +“Oh, yes! a bad place,” repeated the other peasant. + +“Come, now, explain yourselves, you rascals,” said Roland, who was +growing angry, while his mother seemed uneasy, and Amélie visibly turned +pale. + +“Beg pardon, Monsieur Louis,” answered the peasant; “we are not rascals; +we’re God-fearing men, that’s all.” + +“By thunder,” cried Roland, “I’m a God-fearing man myself. What of +that?” + +“Well, we don’t care to have any dealings with the devil.” + +“No, no, no,” asserted the second peasant. + +“A man can match a man if he’s of his own kind,” continued the first +peasant. + +“Sometimes two,” said the second, who was built like a Hercules. + +“But with ghostly beings phantoms, spectres--no thank you,” continued +the first peasant. + +“No, thank you,” repeated the other. + +“Oh, mother, sister,” queried Roland, addressing the two women, “in +Heaven’s name, do you understand anything of what these two fools are +saying?” + +“Fools,” repeated the first peasant; “well, possibly. But it’s not the +less true that Pierre Marey had his neck twisted just for looking over +the wall. True, it was of a Saturday--the devil’s sabbath.” + +“And they couldn’t straighten it out,” affirmed the second peasant, “so +they had to bury him with his face turned round looking the other way. + +“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “this is growing interesting. I’m very fond of +ghost stories.” + +“That’s more than sister Amélie is it seems,” cried Edouard. + +“What do you mean?” + +“Just see how pale she’s grown, brother Roland.” + +“Yes, indeed,” said Sir John; “mademoiselle looks as if she were going +to faint.” + +“I? Not at all,” exclaimed Amélie, wiping the perspiration from her +forehead; “only don’t you think it seems a little warm here, mother?” + +“No,” answered Madame de Montrevel. + +“Still,” insisted Amélie, “if it would not annoy you, I should like to +open the window.” + +“Do so, my child.” + +Amélie rose hastily to profit by this permission, and went with +tottering steps to a window opening upon the garden. After it was +opened, she stood leaning against the sill, half-hidden by the curtains. + +“Ah!” she said, “I can breathe here.” + +Sir John rose to offer her his smelling-salts, but Amélie declined +hastily: “No, no, my lord. Thank you, but I am better now.” + +“Come, come,” said Roland, “don’t bother about that; it’s our boar.” + +“Well, Monsieur Louis, we will fetch your boar tomorrow.” + +“That’s it,” said the second peasant, “to-morrow morning, when it’s +light.” + +“But to go there at night--” + +“Oh! to go there at night--” + +The peasant looked at his comrade and both shook their heads. + +“It can’t be done at night.” + +“Cowards.” + +“Monsieur Louis, a man’s not a coward because he’s afraid.” + +“No, indeed; that’s not being a coward,” replied the other. + +“Ah!” said Roland, “I wish some stronger minded men than you would face +me with that argument; that a man is not a coward because he’s afraid!” + +“Well, it’s according to what he’s afraid of, Monsieur Louis. Give me a +good sickle and a good cudgel, and I’m not afraid of a wolf; give me a +good gun and I’m not afraid of any man, even if I knew he’s waiting to +murder me.” + +“Yes,” said Edouard, “but you’re afraid of a ghost, even when it’s only +the ghost of a monk.” + +“Little Master Edouard,” said the peasant, “leave your brother to do the +talking; you’re not old enough to jest about such things--” + +“No,” added the other peasant, “wait till your beard is grown, my little +gentleman.” + +“I haven’t any beard,” retorted Edouard, starting up, “but just the same +if I was strong enough to carry the boar, I’d go fetch it myself either +by day or night.” + +“Much good may it do you, my young gentleman. But neither my comrade nor +myself would go, even for a whole louis.” + +“Nor for two?” said Roland, wishing to corner them. + +“Nor for two, nor four, nor ten, Monsieur de Montrevel. Ten louis are +good, but what could I do with them if my neck was broken?” + +“Yes, twisted like Pierre Marey’s,” said the other peasant. + +“Ten louis wouldn’t feed my wife and children for the rest of my life, +would they?” + +“And besides, when you say ten louis,” interrupted the second peasant, +“you mean really five, because I’d get five, too.” + +“So the pavilion is haunted by ghosts, is it?” asked Roland. + +“I didn’t say the pavilion--I’m not sure about the pavilion--but in the +Chartreuse--” + +“In the Chartreuse, are you sure?” + +“Oh! there, certainly.” + +“Have you seen them?” + +“I haven’t; but some folks have.” + +“Has your comrade?” asked the young officer, turning to the second +peasant. + +“I haven’t seen them; but I did see flames, and Claude Philippon heard +chains.” + +“Ah! so they have flames and chains?” said Roland. + +“Yes,” replied the first peasant, “for I have seen the flames myself.” + +“And Claude Philippon on heard the chains,” repeated the other. + +“Very good, my friends, very good,” replied Roland, sneering; “so you +won’t go there to-night at any price?” + +“Not at any price.” + +“Not for all the gold in the world.” + +“And you’ll go to-morrow when it’s light?” + +“Oh! Monsieur Louis, before you’re up the boar will be here.” + +“Before you’re up,” said Echo. + +“All right,” said Roland. “Come back to me the day after tomorrow.” + +“Willingly, Monsieur Louis. What do you want us to do?” + +“Never mind; just come.” + +“Oh! we’ll come.” + +“That means that the moment you say, ‘Come,’ you can count upon us, +Monsieur Louis.” + +“Well, then I’ll have some information for you.” + +“What about?” + +“The ghosts.” + +Amélie gave a stifled cry; Madame de Montrevel alone heard it. Louis +dismissed the two peasants, and they jostled each other at the door in +their efforts to go through together. + +Nothing more was said that evening about the Chartreuse or the pavilion, +nor of its supernatural tenants, spectres or phantoms who haunted them. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE STRONG-MINDED MAN + +At ten o’clock everyone was in bed at the Château des Noires-Fontaines, +or, at any rate, all had retired to their rooms. + +Three or four times in the course of the evening Amélie had approached +Roland as if she had something to say to him; but each time the words +died upon her lips. When the family left the salon, she had taken +his arm, and, although his room was on the floor above hers, she had +accompanied him to his very door. Roland had kissed her, bade her +good-night, and closed his door, declaring himself very tired. + +Nevertheless, in spite of this assertion, Roland, once alone, did not +proceed to undress. He went to his collection of arms, selected a pair +of magnificent pistols, manufactured at Versailles, and presented to +his father by the Convention. He snapped the triggers, and blew into +the barrels to see that there were no old charges in them. They were in +excellent condition. After which he laid them side by side on the table; +then going to the door, looking out upon the stairs, he opened it softly +to see if any one were watching. Finding the corridor and stairs empty, +he went to Sir John’s door and knocked. + +“Come in,” said the Englishman. Sir John, like himself, was not prepared +for bed. + +“I guessed from the sign you made me that you had something to say to +me,” said Sir John, “so I waited for you, as you see.” + +“Indeed, I have something to say to you,” returned Roland, seating +himself gayly in an armchair. + +“My kind host,” replied the Englishman, “I am beginning to understand +you. When I see you as gay as you are now, I am like your peasants, I +feel afraid.” + +“Did you hear what they were saying?” + +“I heard them tell a splendid ghost story. I, myself, have a haunted +castle in England.” + +“Have you ever seen the ghosts, my lord?” + +“Yes, when I was little. Unfortunately, since I have grown up they have +disappeared.” + +“That’s always the way with ghosts,” said Roland gayly; “they come and +go. How lucky it is that I should return just as the ghosts have begun +to haunt the Chartreuse of Seillon.” + +“Yes,” replied Sir John, “very lucky. Only are you sure that there are +any there?” + +“No. But I’ll know by the day after to-morrow.” + +“How so?” + +“I intend to spend to-morrow night there.” + +“Oh!” said the Englishmen, “would you like to have me go with you?” + +“With pleasure, my lord. Only, unfortunately, that is impossible.” + +“Impossible, oh!” + +“As I have just told you, my dear fellow.” + +“But why impossible?” + +“Are you acquainted with the manners and customs of ghosts, Sir John?” + asked Roland gravely. + +“No.” + +“Well, I am. Ghosts only show themselves under certain conditions.” + +“Explain that.” + +“Well, for example, in Italy, my lord, and in Spain, the most +superstitious of countries, there are no ghosts, or if there are, +why, at the best, it’s only once in ten or twenty years, or maybe in a +century.” + +“And to what do you attribute their absence?” + +“To the absence of fogs.” + +“Ah! ah!” + +“Not a doubt of it. You understand the native atmosphere of ghosts is +fog. Scotland, Denmark and England, regions of fog, are overrun with +ghosts. There’s the spectre of Hamlet, then that of Banquo, the shadows +of Richard III. Italy has only one spectre, Cæsar, and then where did he +appear to Brutus? At Philippi, in Macedonia and in Thessaly, the Denmark +of Greece, the Scotland of the Orient; where the fog made Ovid so +melancholy he named the odes he wrote there Tristia. Why did Virgil make +the ghost of Anchises appear to Eneas? Because he came from Mantua. +Do you know Mantua? A marsh, a frog-pond, a regular manufactory +of rheumatism, an atmosphere of vapors, and consequently a nest of +phantoms.” + +“Go on, I’m listening to you.” + +“Have you seen the Rhine?” + +“Yes.” + +“Germany, isn’t it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Still another country of fairies, water sprites, sylphs, and +consequently phantoms [‘for whoso does the greater see, can see the +less’), and all that on account of the fog. But where the devil can +the ghosts hide in Italy and Spain? Not the least bit of mist. And, +therefore, were I in Spain or Italy I should never attempt to-morrow’s +adventure.” + +“But all that doesn’t explain why you refuse my company,” insisted Sir +John. + +“Wait a moment. I’ve just explained to you that ghosts don’t venture +into certain countries, because they do not offer certain atmospheric +conditions. Now, let me explain the precautions we must take if we wish +to see them.” + +“Explain! explain!” said Sir John, “I would rather hear you talk than +any other man, Roland.” + +And Sir John, stretching himself out in his easy-chair, prepared to +listen with delight to the improvisations of this fantastic mind, +which he had seen under so many aspects during the few days of their +acquaintance. + +Roland bowed his head by way of thanks. + +“Well, this is the way of it, and you will grasp it readily enough. I +have heard so much about ghosts in my life that I know the scamps as if +I had made them. Why do ghosts appear?” + +“Are you asking me that?” inquired Sir John. + +“Yes, I ask you.” + +“I own that, not having studied ghosts as you have, I am unable to give +you a definitive answer.” + +“You see! Ghosts show themselves, my dear fellow, in order to frighten +those who see them.” + +“That is undeniable.” + +“Of course! Now, if they don’t frighten those to whom they appear, they +are frightened by them; witness M. de Turenne, whose ghosts proved to be +counterfeiters. Do you know that story?” + +“No.” + +“I’ll tell it to you some day; don’t let’s get mixed up. That is just +why, when they decide to appear--which is seldom--ghosts select stormy +nights, when it thunders, lightens and blows; that’s their scenery.” + +“I am forced to admit that nothing could be more correct.” + +“Wait a moment! There are instances when the bravest man feels a shudder +run through his veins. Even before I was suffering with this aneurism it +has happened to me a dozen times, when I have seen the flash of sabres +and heard the thunder of cannon around me. It is true that since I have +been subject to this aneurism I rush where the lightning flashes and the +thunder growls. Still there is the chance that these ghosts don’t know +this and believe that I can be frightened.” + +“Whereas that is an impossibility, isn’t it?” asked Sir John. + +“What will you! When, right or wrong, one feels that, far from dreading +death, one has every reason to seek it, what should he fear? But I +repeat, these ghosts, who know so much, may not know that only ghosts +know this; they know that the sense of fear increases or diminishes +according to the seeing and hearing of exterior things. Thus, for +example, where do phantoms prefer to appear? In dark places, cemeteries, +old cloisters, ruins, subterranean passages, because the aspect of these +localities predisposes the soul to fear. What precedes their appearance? +The rattling of chains, groans, sighs, because there is nothing very +cheerful in all that? They are careful not to appear in the bright +light, or after a strain of dance music. No, fear is an abyss into which +you descend step by step, until you are overcome by vertigo; your feet +slip, and you plunge with closed eyes to the bottom of the precipice. +Now, if you read the accounts of all these apparitions, you’ll find they +all proceed like this: First the sky darkens, the thunder growls, the +wind howls, doors and windows rattle, the lamp--if there is a lamp +in the room of the person the ghosts are trying to frighten--the lamp +flares, flickers and goes out--utter darkness! Then, in the darkness, +groans, wails and the rattling of chains are heard; then, at last, the +door opens and the ghost appears. I must say that all the apparitions +that I have not seen but read about have presented themselves under +similar circumstances. Isn’t that so, Sir John?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“And did you ever hear of a ghost appearing to two persons at the same +time?” + +“I certainly never did hear of it.” + +“It’s quite simple, my dear fellow. Two together, you understand, have +no fear. Fear is something mysterious, strange, independent of the will, +requiring isolation, darkness and solitude. A ghost is no more dangerous +than a cannon ball. Well, a soldier never fears a cannon ball in the +daytime, when his elbows touch a comrade to the right and left. No, he +goes straight for the battery and is either killed or he kills. That’s +not what the phantoms want. That’s why they never appear to two persons +at the same time, and that is the reason I want to go to the Chartreuse +alone, my lord. Your presence would prevent the boldest ghost from +appearing. If I see nothing, or if I see something worth the trouble, +you can have your turn the next day. Does the bargain suit you?” + +“Perfectly! But why can’t I take the first night?” + +“Ah! first, because the idea didn’t occur to you, and it is only just +that I should benefit by my own cleverness. Besides, I belong to the +region; I was friendly with the good monks in their lifetime, and there +may be a chance of their appearing to me after death. Moreover, as I +know the localities, if it becomes necessary to run away or pursue I +can do it better than you. Don’t you see the justice of that, my dear +fellow?” + +“Yes, it couldn’t be fairer; but I am sure of going the next night.” + +“The next night, and the one after, and every day and night if you +wish; I only hold to the first. Now,” continued Roland rising, “this is +between ourselves, isn’t it? Not a word to any one. The ghosts might be +forewarned and act accordingly. It would never do to let those gay dogs +get the best of us; that would be too grotesque.” + +“Oh, be easy about that. You will go armed, won’t you?” + +“If I thought I was only dealing with ghosts, I’d go with my hands in +my pockets and nothing in my fobs. But, as I told you, M. de Turenne’s +ghosts were counterfeiters, so I shall take my pistols.” + +“Do you want mine?” + +“No, thanks. Though yours are good, I am about resolved never to use +them again.” Then, with a smile whose bitterness it would be impossible +to describe, he added: “They brought me ill-luck. Good-night! Sir John. +I must sleep soundly to-night, so as not to want to sleep to-morrow +night.” + +Then, shaking the Englishman’s hand vigorously a second time, he left +the room and returned to his own. There he was greatly surprised to find +the door, which he was sure he had left closed, open. But as soon as he +entered, the sight of his sister explained the matter to him. + +“Hello!” he exclaimed, partly astonished, partly uneasy; “is that you, +Amélie?” + +“Yes, it is I,” she said. Then, going close to her brother, and letting +him kiss her forehead, she added in a supplicating voice: “You won’t go, +will you, dear Roland?” + +“Go where?” asked Roland. + +“To the Chartreuse.” + +“Good! Who told you that?” + +“Oh! for one who knows, how difficult it is to guess!” + +“And why don’t you want me to go to the Chartreuse?” + +“I’m afraid something might happen to you.” + +“What! So you believe in ghosts, do you?” he asked, looking fixedly into +Amélie’s eyes. + +Amélie lowered her glance, and Roland felt his sister’s hand tremble in +his. + +“Come,” said Roland; “Amélie, at least the one I used to know, General +de Montrevel’s daughter and Roland’s sister, is too intelligent to yield +to these vulgar terrors. It’s impossible that you can believe these +tales of apparitions, chains, flames, spectres, and phantoms.” + +“If I did believe them, Roland, I should not be so alarmed. If ghosts do +exist, they must be souls without bodies, and consequently cannot bring +their material hatred from the grave. Besides, why should a ghost hate +you, Roland; you, who never harmed any one?” + +“Good! You forget all those I have killed in war or in duels.” + +Amélie shook her head. “I’m not afraid of them.” + +“Then what are you afraid of?” + +The young girl raised her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, to Roland, and +threw herself in his arms, saying: “I don’t know, Roland. But I can’t +help it, I am afraid.” + +The young man raised her head, which she was hiding in his breast, with +gentle force, and said, kissing her eyelids softly and tenderly: “You +don’t believe I shall have ghosts to fight with to-morrow, do you?” + +“Oh, brother, don’t go to the Chartreuse!” cried Amélie, eluding the +question. + +“Mother told you to say this to me, didn’t she?” + +“Oh, no, brother! Mother said nothing to me. It is I who guessed that +you intended to go.” + +“Well, if I want to go,” replied Roland firmly, “you ought to know, +Amélie, that I shall go.” + +“Even if I beseech you on my knees, brother?” cried Amélie in a tone of +anguish, slipping down to her brother’s feet; “even if I beseech you on +my knees?” + +“Oh! women! women!” murmured Roland, “inexplicable creatures, whose +words are all mystery, whose lips never tell the real secrets of their +hearts, who weep, and pray, and tremble--why? God knows, but man, never! +I shall go, Amélie, because I have resolved to go; and when once I have +taken a resolution no power on earth can make me change it. Now kiss me +and don’t be frightened, and I will tell you a secret.” + +Amélie raised her head, and gazed questioningly, despairingly, at +Roland. + +“I have known for more than a year,” replied the young man, “that I have +the misfortune not to be able to die. So reassure yourself, and don’t be +afraid.” + +Roland uttered these words so dolefully that Amélie, who had, until +then, kept her emotion under control, left the room sobbing. + +The young officer, after assuring himself that her door was closed, shut +his, murmuring: “We’ll see who will weary first, Fate or I.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. THE GHOST + +The next evening, at about the same hour, the young officer, after +convincing himself that every one in the Château des Noires-Fontaines +had gone to bed, opened his door softly, went downstairs holding his +breath, reached the vestibule, slid back the bolts of the outer door +noiselessly, and turned round to make sure that all was quiet. Reassured +by the darkened windows, he boldly opened the iron gate. The hinges +had probably been oiled that day, for they turned without grating, +and closed as noiselessly as they had opened behind Roland, who walked +rapidly in the direction of Pont d’Ain at Bourg. + +He had hardly gone a hundred yards before the clock at Saint-Just struck +once; that of Montagnac answered like a bronze echo. It was half-past +ten o’clock. At the pace the young man was walking he needed only twenty +minutes to reach the Chartreuse; especially if, instead of skirting the +woods, he took the path that led direct to the monastery. Roland was +too familiar from youth with every nook of the forest of Seillon +to needlessly lengthen his walk ten minutes. He therefore turned +unhesitatingly into the forest, coming out on the other side in about +five minutes. Once there, he had only to cross a bit of open ground to +reach the orchard wall of the convent. This took barely another five +minutes. + +At the foot of the wall he stopped, but only for a few seconds. He +unhooked his cloak, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it over the wall. +The cloak off, he stood in a velvet coat, white leather breeches, and +top-boots. The coat was fastened round the waist by a belt in which were +a pair of pistols. A broad-brimmed hat covered his head and shaded his +face. + +With the same rapidity with which he had removed his garment that might +have hindered his climbing the wall, he began to scale it. His foot +readily found a chink between the stones; he sprang up, seizing the +coping, and was on the other side without even touching the top of the +wall over which he bounded. He picked up his cloak, threw it over +his shoulder, hooked it, and crossed the orchard to a little door +communicating with the cloister. The clock struck eleven as he passed +through it. Roland stopped, counted the strokes, and slowly walked +around the cloister, looking and listening. + +He saw nothing and heard no noise. The monastery was the picture of +desolation and solitude; the doors were all open, those of the cells, +the chapel, and the refectory. In the refectory, a vast hall where the +tables still stood in their places, Roland noticed five or six bats +circling around; a frightened owl flew through a broken casement, and +perched upon a tree close by, hooting dismally. + +“Good!” said Roland, aloud; “I’ll make my headquarters here; bats and +owls are the vanguards of ghosts.” + +The sound of that human voice, lifted in the midst of this solitude, +darkness and desolation, had something so uncanny, so lugubrious about +it, that it would have caused even the speaker to shudder, had not +Roland, as he himself said, been inaccessible to fear. He looked about +for a place from which he could command the entire hall. An isolated +table, placed on a sort of stage at one end of the refectory, which had +no doubt been used by the superior of the convent to take his food apart +from the monks, to read from pious books during the repast, seemed to +Roland best adapted to his needs. Here, backed by the wall, he could +not be surprised from behind, and, once his eye grew accustomed to the +darkness, he could survey every part of the hall. He looked for a seat, +and found an overturned stool about three feet from the table, probably +the one occupied by the reader or the person dining there in solitude. + +Roland sat down at the table, loosened his cloak to insure greater +freedom of movement, took his pistols from his belt, laid one on the +table, and striking three blows with the butt-end of the other, he said, +in a loud voice: “The meeting is open; the ghosts can appear!” + +Those who have passed through churches and cemeteries at night have +often experienced, without analyzing it, the supreme necessity of +speaking low and reverently which attaches to certain localities. Only +such persons can understand the strange impression produced on any +one who heard it by that curt, mocking voice which now disturbed the +solitude and the shadows. It vibrated an instant in the darkness, which +seemed to quiver with it; then it slowly died away without an echo, +escaping by all the many openings made by the wings of time. + +As he had expected, Roland’s eyes had accustomed themselves to the +darkness, and now, by the pale light of the rising moon, whose long, +white rays penetrated the refectory through the broken windows, he could +see distinctly from one end to the other of the vast apartment. Although +Roland was as evidently without fear internally as externally, he was +not without distrust, and his ear caught the slightest sounds. + +He heard the half-hour strike. In spite of himself the sound startled +him, for it came from the bell of the convent. How was it that, in this +ruin where all was dead, a clock, the pulse of time, was living? + +“Oh! oh!” said Roland; “that proves that I shall see something.” + +The words were spoken almost in an aside. The majesty of the place and +the silence acted upon that heart of iron, firm as the iron that had +just tolled the call of time upon eternity. The minutes slowly passed, +one after the other. Perhaps a cloud was passing between earth and +moon, for Roland fancied that the shadows deepened. Then, as midnight +approached, he seemed to hear a thousand confused, imperceptible sounds, +coming no doubt from the nocturnal universe which wakes while the other +sleeps. Nature permits no suspension of life, even for repose. She +created her nocturnal world, even as she created her daily world, from +the gnat which buzzes about the sleeper’s pillow to the lion prowling +around the Arab’s bivouac. + +But Roland, the camp watcher, the sentinel of the desert, Roland, the +hunter, the soldier, knew all those sounds; they were powerless to +disturb him. + +Then, mingling with these sounds, the tones of the clock, chiming the +hour, vibrated above his head. This time it was midnight. Roland counted +the twelve strokes, one after the other. The last hung, quivering upon +the air, like a bird with iron wings, then slowly expired, sad and +mournful. Just then the young man, thought he heard a moan. He listened +in the direction whence it came. Again he heard it, this time nearer at +hand. + +He rose, his hands resting upon the table, the butt-end of a pistol +beneath each palm. A rustle like that of a sheet or a gown trailing +along the grass was audible on his right, not ten paces from him. He +straightened up as if moved by a spring. + +At the same moment a shade appeared on the threshold of the vast hall. +This shade resembled the ancient statues lying on the tombs. It was +wrapped in an immense winding-sheet which trailed behind it. + +For an instant Roland doubted his own eyes. Had the preoccupation of his +mind made him see a thing which was not? Was he the dupe of his senses, +the sport of those hallucinations which physicians assert, but cannot +explain? A moan, uttered by the phantom, put his doubts to flight. + +“My faith!” he cried in a burst of laughter, “now for a tussle, friend +ghost!” + +The spectre paused and extended a hand toward the young officer. +“Roland! Roland!” said the spectre in a muffled voice, “it would be a +pity not to follow to the grave those you have sent there.” + +And the spectre, without hastening its step, continued on its way. + +Roland, astounded for an instant, came down from the stage, and +resolutely followed the ghost. The path was difficult, encumbered with +stones, benches awry, and over-turned tables. And yet, through all +these obstacles, an invisible channel seemed open for the spectre, which +pursued its way unchecked. + +Each time it passed before a window, the light from with out, feeble +as it was, shone upon the winding-sheet and the ghost, outlining the +figure, which passed into the obscurity to reappear and vanish again at +each succeeding one, Roland, his eyes fixed upon the figure, fearing to +lose sight of it if he diverted his gaze from it, dared not look at the +path, apparently so easy to the spectre, yet bristling with obstacles +for him. He stumbled at every step. The ghost was gaining upon him. It +reached the door opposite to that by which it had entered. Roland saw +the entrance to a dark passage. Feeling that the ghost would escape him, +he cried: “Man or ghost, robber or monk, halt or I fire!” + +“A dead body cannot be killed twice, and death has no power over the +spirit,” replied the ghost in its muffled voice. + +“Who are you?” + +“The Shade of him you tore violently from the earth.” + +The young officer burst into that harsh, nervous laugh, made more +terrible by the darkness around him. + +“Faith!” said he, “if you have no further indications to give me, I +shall not trouble myself to discover you.” + +“Remember the fountain at Vaucluse,” said the Shade, in a voice so faint +the words seemed to escape his lips like a sigh rather than articulate +speech. + +For an instant Roland felt, not his heart failing him, but the sweat +pouring from his forehead. Making an effort over himself, he regained +his voice and cried, menacingly: “For a last time, apparition or +reality, I warn you that, if you do not stop, I shall fire!” + +The Shade did not heed him, but continued on its way. + +Roland paused an instant to take aim. The spectre was not ten paces from +him. Roland was a sure shot; he had himself loaded his pistols, and only +a moment before he had looked to the charge to see that it was intact. + +As the spectre passed, tall and white, beneath the gloomy vault of the +passage, Roland fired. The flash illumined the corridor like lightning, +down which the spectre passed with unfaltering, unhastening steps. Then +all was blacker than before. The ghost vanished in the darkness. Roland +dashed after him, changing his other pistol from the left hand to the +right. But short as his stop had been, the ghost had gained ground. +Roland saw him at the end of the passage, this time distinctly outlined +against the gray background of the night. He redoubled his pace, and as +he crossed the threshold of the passage, he fancied that the ghost was +plunging into the bowels of the earth. But the torso still remained +visible. + +“Devil or not,” cried Roland, “I follow you!” + +He fired a second shot, which filled the cavernous space, into which the +ghost had disappeared, with flame and smoke. + +When the smoke had cleared away, Roland looked vainly around. He was +alone. He sprang into the cistern howling with rage. He sounded the +walls with the butt-end of his pistol, he stamped on the ground; but +everywhere, earth and stone gave back the sound of solid objects. He +tried to pierce the darkness, but it was impossible. The faint moonlight +that filtered into the cistern died out at the first steps. + +“Oh!” cried Roland, “a torch! a torch!” + +No one answered. The only sound to be heard was the spring bubbling +close at hand. Realizing that further search would be useless, he +emerged from the cavern. Drawing a powder-horn and two balls from his +pocket, he loaded his pistols hastily. Then he took the path along which +he had just come, found the dark passage, then the vast refectory, and +again took his place at the end of the silent hall and waited. + +But the hours of the night sounded successively, until the first gleam +of dawn cast its pallid light upon the walls of the cloister. + +“Well,” muttered Roland, “it’s over for to-night. Perhaps I shall be +more fortunate the next time.” + +Twenty minutes later he re-entered the Château des Noires-Fontaines. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. INVESTIGATIONS + +Two persons were waiting for Roland’s return; one in anguish, the other +with impatience. These two persons were Amélie and Sir John. Neither of +them had slept for an instant. Amélie displayed her anguish only by +the sound of her door, which was furtively closed as Roland came up the +staircase. Roland heard the sound. He had not the courage to pass before +her door without reassuring her. + +“Be easy, Amélie, I am here,” he said. It did not occur to him that his +sister might be anxious for any one but him. + +Amélie darted from her room in her night-dress. It was easy to see from +her pallor and the dark circles which spread nearly to the middle of her +cheeks that she had not closed her eyes all night. + +“Has nothing happened to you, Roland?” she cried, clasping her brother +in her arms and feeling him over anxiously. + +“Nothing.” + +“Nor to any one else?” + +“No.” + +“And you saw nothing?” + +“I didn’t say that,” answered Roland. + +“Good God! What did you see?” + +“I’ll tell that to you later. Meantime, there is no one either killed or +wounded.” + +“Ah! I breathe again!” + +“Now, let me give you a bit of advice, little sister. Go to bed and +sleep, if you can, till breakfast. I am going to do the same thing, +and can assure you I won’t need any rocking. Good-night, or rather +good-morning.” + +Roland kissed his sister tenderly. Then affecting to whistle a +hunting-air carelessly, he ran up the next flight of steps. Sir John was +frankly waiting for him in the hall. He went straight to the young man. + +“Well?” he asked. + +“Well, I didn’t roll my stone entirely for nothing.” + +“Did you see any ghosts?” + +“At any rate I saw something that resembled one very closely.” + +“Come, tell me all about it.” + +“I see you won’t be able to sleep, or at best only fitfully, if I don’t. +Here’s what happened, in a nutshell.” + +And Roland gave him a minute account of the night’s adventure. + +“Excellent,” said Sir John, when Roland had finished. “I hope you have +left something for me to do.” + +“I am even afraid,” answered Roland, “that I have left you the hardest +part.” + +Then, as Sir John went over each detail, asking many questions about the +localities, he said: + +“Listen, Sir John. We will pay the Chartreuse a visit in broad daylight +after breakfast, which will not interfere in the least with your +night-watch. On the contrary, it will acquaint you with the localities. +Only you must tell no one.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “do I look like a gabbler?” + +“No, that’s true,” cried Roland laughing, “you are not a gabbler, but I +am a ninny.” So saying, he entered his bedchamber. + +After breakfast the two young men sauntered down the slopes of the +garden, as if to take a walk along the banks of the Reissouse. Then they +bore to the left, swung up the hill for about forty paces, struck into +the highroad, and crossed the woods, till they reached the convent wall +at the very place where Roland had climbed over it on the preceding +night. + +“My lord,” said Roland, “this is the way.” + +“Very well,” replied Sir John, “let us take it.” + +Slowly, with a wonderful strength of wrist, which betokened a man well +trained in gymnastics, the Englishman seized the coping of the wall, +swung himself to the top, and dropped down on the other side. Roland +followed with the rapidity of one who is not achieving a feat for the +first time. They were both on the other side, where the desertion and +desolation were more visible by night than by day. The grass was growing +knee high in the paths; the espaliers were tangled with vines so thick +that the grapes could not ripen in the shadow of the leaves. The wall +had given way in several places, and ivy, the parasite rather than the +friend of ruins, was spreading everywhere. + +As for the trees in the open space, plums, peaches and apricots, they +had grown with the freedom of the oaks and beeches in the forest, whose +breadth and thickness they seemed to envy. The sap, completely absorbed +by the branches which were many and vigorous, produced but little fruit, +and that imperfect. By the rustle of the tall grass, Sir John and Roland +divined that the lizards, those crawling offsprings of solitude, had +established their domicile there, from which they fled in amazement at +this disturbance. + +Roland led his friend straight to the door between the orchard and the +cloister, but before entering he glanced at the clock. That clock, which +went at night, was stopped in the day time. From the cloister he passed +into the refectory. There the daylight showed under their true aspect +the various objects which the darkness had clothed with such fantastic +forms the night before. Roland showed Sir John the overturned stools, +the table marked by the blow of the pistol, the door by which the +phantom had entered. Accompanied by the Englishman, he followed the +path he had taken in pursuit of the spectre. He recognized the obstacles +which had hindered him, and noted how easily one who knew the locality +might cross or avoid them. + +At the spot where he had fired, he found the wad, but he looked in vain +for the bullet. The arrangement of the passage, which ran slanting, made +it impossible for the bullet, if its marks were not on the walls, to +have missed the ghost. And yet if the ghost were hit, supposing it to +be a solid body, how came it to remain erect? How had it escaped being +wounded, and if wounded, why were there no bloodstains on the ground? +And there was no trace of either blood or ball. + +Sir John was almost ready to admit that his friend had had to do with a +veritable ghost. + +“Some one came after me,” said Roland, “and picked up the ball.” + +“But if you fired at a man, why didn’t the ball go into him?” + +“Oh! that’s easily explained. The man wore a coat of mail under his +shroud.” + +That was possible, but, nevertheless, Sir John shook his head dubiously. +He preferred to believe in a supernatural occurrence; it gave him less +trouble. + +Roland and he continued their investigations. They reached the end of +the passage which opened on the furthest extremity of the orchard. It +was there that Roland had seen his spectre for an instant as it glided +into the dark vault. He made for the cistern, and so little did he +hesitate that he might still have been following the ghost. There he +understood how the darkness of the night had seemed to deepen by the +absence of all exterior reflection. It was even difficult to see there +by day. + +Roland took two torches about a foot long from beneath his cloak, took +a flint, lighted the tinder, and a match from the tinder. Both torches +flared up. + +The problem was now to discover the way by which the ghost had +disappeared. Roland and Sir John lowered their torches and examined the +ground. The cistern was paved with large squares of limestone, +which seemed to fit perfectly. Roland looked for his second ball as +persistently as for the first. A stone lay loose at his feet, and, +pushing it aside, he disclosed an iron ring screwed into one of the +limestone blocks. + +Without a word Roland seized the ring, braced his feet and pulled. +The square turned on its pivot with an ease which proved that it +was frequently subjected to the same manipulation. As it turned, it +disclosed a subterranean passage. + +“Ah!” exclaimed Roland, “this is the way my spectre went.” + +He entered the yawning cavern, followed by Sir John. They traversed the +same path that Morgan took when he returned to give an account of +his expedition. At the end of the passage they came upon an iron gate +opening into the mortuary vaults. Roland shook the gate, which yielded +to his touch. They crossed this subterranean cemetery, and came to a +second gate; like the first, it was open. With Roland still in front, +they went up several steps, and found themselves in the choir of the +chapel, where the scene we have related between Morgan and the Company +of Jehu took place. Only now the stalls were empty, the choir was +deserted, and the altar, degraded by the abandonment of worship, was no +longer covered by the burning tapers or the sacred cloth. + +It was evident to Roland that this was the goal of the false ghost, +which Sir John persisted in believing a real one. But, real or false, +Sir John admitted that its flight had brought it to this particular +spot. He reflected a moment and then remarked: “As it is my turn to +watch tonight, I have the right to choose my ground; I shall watch +here.” + +And he pointed to a sort of table formed in the centre of the choir by +an oaken pedestal which had formerly supported the eagle lectern. + +“Indeed,” said Roland, with the same heedlessness he showed in his own +affairs, “you’ll do very well there, only as you may find the gates +locked and the stone fastened tonight, we had better look for some more +direct way to get here.” + +In less than five minutes they had found an outlet. The door of the old +sacristy opened into the choir, and from the sacristy a broken window +gave passage into the forest. The two men climbed through the window and +found themselves in the forest thicket some twenty feet from the spot +where they had killed the boar. + +“That’s what we want,” said Roland; “only, my dear Sir John, as you +would never find your way by night in a forest which, even by day, is so +impenetrable, I shall accompany you as far as this.” + +“Very well. But once I am inside, you are to leave me,” said the +Englishman. “I remember what you told me about the susceptibility of +ghosts. If they know you are near, they may hesitate to appear, and as +you have seen one, I insist on seeing at least one myself.” + +“I’ll leave you, don’t be afraid,” replied Roland, adding, with a laugh, +“Only I do fear one thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“That in your double capacity of an Englishman and a heretic they won’t +feel at ease with you.” + +“Oh,” replied Sir John, gravely, “what a pity I shall not have time to +abjure before this evening.” + +The two friends, having seen all there was to see, returned to the +chateau. No one, not even Amélie, had suspected that their walk was +other than an ordinary one. The day passed without questions and without +apparent anxiety; besides, it was already late when the two gentlemen +returned. + +At dinner, to Edouard’s great delight, another hunt was proposed, and +it furnished a topic for conversation during dinner and part of the +evening. By ten o’clock, as usual, all had retired to their rooms, +except Roland, who was in that of Sir John. + +The difference of character showed itself markedly in the preparations +of the two men. Roland had made them joyously, as if for a pleasure +trip; Sir John made his gravely, as if for a duel. He loaded his pistols +with the utmost care and put them into his belt English fashion. And, +instead of a cloak, which might have impeded his movements, he wore a +top-coat with a high collar put on over his other coat. + +At half-past ten the pair left the house with the same precautions that +Roland had observed when alone. It was five minutes before eleven when +they reached the broken window, where the fallen stones served as a +stepping-block. There, according to agreement, they were to part. Sir +John, reminded Roland of this agreement. + +“Yes,” said Roland, “an agreement is an agreement with me. Only, let me +give you a piece of advice.” + +“What is it?” + +“I could not find the bullets because some one had been here and carried +them off; and that was done beyond doubt to prevent me from seeing the +dents on them.” + +“What sort of dent do you mean?” + +“Those of the links of a coat of mail; my ghost was a man in armor.” + +“That’s too bad!” said Sir John; “I hoped for a ghost.” Then, after a +moment’s silence and a sigh expressive of his deep regret in resigning +the ghost, he asked: “What was your advice?” + +“Fire at his face!” + +Sir John nodded assent, pressed the young officer’s hand, clambered +through the window and disappeared in the sacristy. + +“Good-night!” called Roland after him. Then with the indifference to +danger which a soldier generally feels for himself and his companions, +Roland took his way back to the Château des Noires-Fontaines, as he had +promised Sir John. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRIAL + +The next day Roland, who had been unable to sleep till about two in the +morning, woke about seven. Collecting his scattered wits, he recalled +what had passed between Sir John and himself the night before, and was +astonished that the Englishman had not wakened him. He dressed hastily +and went to Sir John’s room at the risk of rousing him from his first +sleep. + +He knocked at the door. Sir John made no answer. Roland knocked again, +louder this time. The same silence. This time some uneasiness mingled +with Roland’s curiosity. The key was on the outside; the young officer +opened the door, and cast a rapid glance around the room. Sir John +was not there; he had not returned. The bed was undisturbed. What had +happened? + +There was not an instant to lose, and we may be sure that, with that +rapidity of decision we know in Roland, he lost not an instant. He +rushed to his room, finished dressing, put his hunting knife into his +belt, slung his rifle over his shoulder and went out. No one was yet +awake except the chambermaid. Roland met her on the stairs. + +“Tell Madame de Montrevel,” said he, “that I have gone into the forest +of Seillon with my gun. She must not worry if Sir John and I are not on +time for breakfast.” + +Then he darted rapidly away. Ten minutes later he reached the window +where he had left Sir John the night before. He listened, not a sound +came from within; the huntsman’s ear could detect the morning woodland +sounds, but no others. Roland climbed through the window with his +customary agility, and rushed through the choir into the sacristy. + +One look sufficed to show him that not only the choir but the entire +chapel was empty. Had the spectres led the Englishman along the reverse +of the way he had come himself? Possibly. Roland passed rapidly behind +the altar, into the vaults, where he found the gate open. He entered the +subterranean cemetery. Darkness hid its depths. He called Sir John three +times. No one answered. + +He reached the second gate; it was open like the first. He entered the +vaulted passage; only, as it would be impossible to use his gun in such +darkness, he slung it over his shoulder and drew out his hunting-knife. +Feeling his way, he continued to advance without meeting anybody, but +the further he went the deeper became the darkness, which indicated that +the stone in the cistern was closed. He reached the steps, and mounted +them until his head touched the revolving stone; then he made an effort, +and the block turned. Roland saw daylight and leaped into the cistern. +The door into the orchard stood open. Roland passed through it, crossed +that portion of the orchard which lay between the cistern and the +corridor at the other end of which he had fired upon the phantom. He +passed along the corridor and entered the refectory. The refectory was +empty. + +Again, as in the funereal passageway, Roland called three times. The +wondering echo, which seemed to have forgotten the tones of the human +voice, answered stammering. It was improbable that Sir John had come +this way; it was necessary to go back. Roland retraced his steps, and +found himself in the choir again. That was where Sir John had intended +to spend the night, and there some trace of him must be found. + +Roland advanced only a short distance, and then a cry escaped him. A +large spot of blood lay at his feet, staining the pavement. On the other +side of the choir, a dozen feet from the blood, was another stain, not +less large, nor less red, nor less recent. It seemed to make a pendant +for the first. + +One of these stains was to the right, the other to the left of that sort +of pedestal intended, as we have said, to support the eagle lectern--the +pedestal which Sir John had selected for his place of waiting. Roland +went up to it. It was drenched with blood! Evidently the drama had taken +place on that spot; a drama which, if all the signs were true, must have +been terrible. + +Roland, in his double capacity of huntsman and soldier, was keen at +a quest. He could calculate the amount of blood lost by a man who was +dead, or by one who was only wounded. That night three men had fallen, +either dead or wounded. What were the probabilities? + +The two stains in the choir to the right and left of the pedestal were +probably the blood of Sir John’s two antagonists. That on the pedestal +was probably his own. Attacked on both sides, right and left, he had +fired with both hands, killing or wounding a man with each shot. Hence +these two bloodstains which reddened the pavement. He himself must have +been struck down beside the pedestal, on which his blood had spurted. + +After a few seconds of examination, Roland was as sure of this as if he +had witnessed the struggle with his own eyes. Now, what had been done +with the bodies? He cared little enough about two of them; but he was +determined to know what had become of that of Sir John. + +A track of blood started from the pedestal and led straight to the door. +Sir John’s body had been carried outside. Roland shook the massive door. +It was only latched, and opened at the first pressure. Outside the +sill the tracks of blood still continued. Roland could see through +the underbrush the path by which the body had been carried. The broken +branches, the trampled grass, led Roland to the edge of the wood on the +road leading from Pont d’Ain to Bourg. There the body, living or dead, +seemed to have been laid on the bank of the ditch. Beyond that no traces +whatever. + +A man passed just then, coming from the direction of the Château des +Noires-Fontaines. Roland went up to him. + +“Have you seen anything on the road? Did you meet any one?” he inquired. + +“Yes,” replied the man, “I saw two peasants carrying a body on a +litter.” + +“Ah!” cried Roland, “was it that of a living man?” + +“The man was pale and motionless; he looked as if he were dead.” + +“Was the blood flowing?” + +“I saw some drops on the road.” + +“In that case, he is living.” + +Then taking a louis from his pocket he said: “There’s a louis for you. +Run for Dr. Milliet at Bourg; tell him to get a horse and come at full +speed to the Château des Noires-Fontaines. You can add that there is a +man there in danger of dying.” + +While the peasant, stimulated by the reward, made all haste to Bourg, +Roland, leaping along on his vigorous legs, was hurrying to the château. + +And now, as our readers are, in all probability, as curious as Roland +to know what had happened to Sir John, we shall give an account of the +events of the night. + + +A few minutes before eleven, Sir John, as we have seen, entered what was +usually known as La Correrie, or the pavilion of the Chartreuse, which +was nothing more than a chapel erected in the woods. From the sacristy +he entered the choir. It was empty and seemed solitary. A rather +brilliant moon, veiled from time to time by a cloud, sent its bluish +rays through the stained glass, cracked and broken, of the pointed +windows. Sir John advanced to the middle of the choir, where he paused +and remained standing beside the pedestal. + +The minutes slipped away. But this time it was not the convent clock +which marked the time, it was the church at Péronnaz; that is to say, +the nearest village to the chapel where Sir John was watching. + +Everything happened up to midnight just as it had to Roland. Sir John +heard only the vague rustling and passing noises of the night. + +Midnight sounded; it was the moment he awaited with impatience, for it +was then that something would happen, if anything was to happen. As the +last stroke died away he thought he heard footsteps underground, and saw +a light appear behind the iron gate leading to the mortuary vault. His +whole attention was fixed on that spot. + +A monk emerged from the passage, his hood brought low over his eyes, and +carrying a torch in his hand. He wore the dress of a Chartreux. A second +one followed, then a third. Sir John counted twelve. They separated +before the altar. There were twelve stalls in the choir; six to the +right of Sir John, six to his left. The twelve monks silently took their +places in the twelve stalls. Each one placed his torch in a hole made +for that purpose in the oaken desk, and waited. + +A thirteenth monk appeared and took his stand before the altar. + +None of the monks affected the fantastic behavior of ghosts or shades; +they all belonged undoubtedly to the earth, and were living men. + +Sir John, a pistol in each hand, stood leaning against the pedestal +in the middle of the choir, and watched with the utmost coolness this +manoeuvre which tended to surround him. The monks were standing, like +him, erect and silent. + +The monk at the altar broke the silence. + +“Brothers,” he asked, “why are the Avengers assembled?” + +“To judge a blasphemer!” replied the monks. + +“What crime has this blasphemer committed?” continued the interlocutor. + +“He has tried to discover the secrets of the Companions of Jehu.” + +“What penalty has he incurred?” + +“Death.” + +The monk at the altar waited, apparently, to give time for the sentence +which had just been pronounced to reach the heart of him whom it +concerned. Then turning to the Englishman, who continued as calm as if +he were at a comedy, he said: “Sir John Tanlay, you are a foreigner and +an Englishman--a double reason why you should leave the Companions of +Jehu to fight their own battles with the government, whose downfall they +have sworn. You failed in wisdom, you yielded to idle curiosity; instead +of keeping away, you have entered the lion’s den, and the lion will rend +you.” + +Then after an instant’s silence, during which he seemed to await the +Englishman’s reply, he resumed, seeing that he remained silent: “Sir +John Tanlay, you are condemned to death. Prepare to die!” + +“Ah! I see that I have fallen into the hands of a band of thieves. If +so, I can buy myself off with a ransom.” Then turning to the monk at the +altar he asked, “How much do you demand, captain?” + +A threatening murmur greeted these insolent words. The monk at the altar +stretched out his hand. + +“You are mistaken, Sir John. We are not a band of thieves,” said he in a +tone as calm and composed as Sir John’s, “and the proof is, that if you +have money or jewels upon you, you need only give me your instructions, +and they will be remitted either to your family or the person whom you +designate.” + +“And what guarantee shall I have that my last wishes will be carried +out?” + +“My word.” + +“The word of the leader of assassins! I don’t trust it.” + +“This time, as before, you are mistaken, Sir John. I am no more the +leader of assassins than I am a captain of thieves.” + +“Who are you, then?” + +“The elect of celestial vengeance. I am the envoy of Jehu, King of +Israel, who was anointed by the prophet Elisha to destroy the house of +Ahab.” + +“If you are what you say, why do you veil your faces? Why do you wear +armor under your robes? The elect strike openly; they risk death in +giving death. Throw back your hoods, show me your naked breasts, and I +will admit that you are what you pretend to be.” + +“Brothers, you have heard him,” said the monk at the altar. + +Then, stripping off his gown, he opened his coat, waistcoat and even +his shirt. Each monk did the same, and stood with face exposed and +bared breast. They were all handsome young men, of whom the eldest was +apparently not more than thirty-five. Their dress was elegant, but, +strange fact, none was armed. They were judges and nothing more. + +“Be satisfied, Sir John Tanlay,” said the monk at the altar. “You will +die, but in dying, you can, as you wished just now, recognize and kill +your judges. Sir John, you have five minutes to prepare your soul for +death!” + +Sir John, instead of profiting by this permission to think of his +eternal salvation, coolly cocked his pistols to see that the triggers +were all right, and passed a ramrod down the barrels to make sure that +the balls were there. Then, without waiting for the five minutes to +expire, he said: “Gentlemen, I am ready. Are you?” + +The young men looked at each other; then, on a sign from their chief, +they walked straight to Sir John, and surrounded him on all sides. The +monk at the altar stood immovable, commanding with his eye the scene +that was about to take place. + +Sir John had only two pistols, consequently he could only kill two men. +He selected his victims and fired. Two Companions of Jehu rolled upon +the pavement, which they reddened with their blood. The others, as if +nothing had happened, still advanced with outstretched hands upon +Sir John. Sir John seized his pistols by the muzzle, using them like +hammers. He was vigorous and the struggle was long. For ten minutes, +a confused group tussled in the centre of the choir; then this violent +commotion ceased, and the Companions of Jehu drew away to right and +left, and regained their stalls, leaving Sir John bound with their +girdles and lying upon the pedestal in the choir. + +“Have you commended your soul to God?” asked the monk at the altar. + +“Yes, assassin,” answered Sir John; “you may strike.” + +The monk took a dagger from the altar, advanced with uplifted arm, and, +standing over Sir John, levelled the dagger at his breast: “Sir John +Tanlay,” he said, “you are a brave man, and doubtless a man of honor. +Swear that you will never breathe a syllable of what you have seen; +swear that under no circumstances, whatever they may be, you will +recognize us, and we will spare your life.” + +“As soon as I leave here,” replied Sir John, “I shall denounce you. The +moment I am free I will trail you down.” + +“Swear,” repeated the monk a second time. + +“No,” said Sir John. + +“Swear,” said the monk for the third time. + +“Never,” replied Sir John. + +“Then die, since you will it!” + +And he drove his dagger up to the hilt in Sir John’s breast; who, +whether by force of will, or because the blow killed him at once, +did not even sigh. Then the monk in a loud sonorous voice, like a man +conscious of having done his duty, exclaimed: “Justice is done!” + +Then he returned to the altar, leaving the dagger in the wound and said: +“Brothers, you are invited to the ball of the Victims, which takes place +in Paris on the 21st of January next, at No. 35 Rue du Bac, in memory of +the death of King Louis XVI.” + +So saying, he re-entered the subterranean passage, followed by the +remaining ten monks, each bearing his torch in his hand. Two torches +remained to light the three bodies. + +A moment later four serving brothers entered, and raised first the +bodies of the two monks, which they carried into the vault. Then they +returned, lifted that of Sir John, placed it on a stretcher, and carried +it out of the chapel by the entrance door, which they closed after them. +Two of the monks walked in front of the stretcher, carrying the two +torches left in the chapel. + +And now, if our readers ask why there was this difference between the +treatment received by Roland and that administered to Sir John, why +this mansuetude toward one and this rigor toward the other, we reply: +Remember that Morgan enjoined on his brethren the safety of Amélie’s +brother, and thus safeguarded, under no circumstances could Roland die +by the hand of a Companion of Jehu. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE RUE DE LA VICTOIRE + +While they are bearing Sir John Tanlay’s body to the Château des +Noires-Fontaines; while Roland is hurrying in the same direction; while +the peasant, despatched by him, is hastening to Bourg to notify Dr. +Milliet of the catastrophe which necessitated his immediate presence +at Madame de Montrevel’s home, let us jump over the distance which +separates Bourg from Paris, and the time which elapsed between the 16th +of October and the 7th of November; that is to say, between the 24th of +Vendemiaire and the 16th Brumaire, and repair to that little house in +the Rue de la Victoire rendered historically famous by the conspiracy of +the 18th Brumaire, which issued from it fully armed. + +It is the same house which stands there to-day on the right of the +street at No. 60, apparently astonished to present to the eye, after +so many successive changes of government, the consular fasces which may +still be seen on the panels of its double oaken doors. + +Let us follow the long, narrow alley of lindens that leads from the gate +on the street to the door of the house; let us enter the antechamber, +take the hall to the right, ascend the twenty steps that lead to a study +hung with green paper, and furnished with curtains, easy chairs and +couches of the same color. The walls are covered with geographical +charts and plans of cities. Bookcases of maple are ranged on either +side of the fireplace, which they inclose. The chairs, sofas, tables and +desks are piled with books; there is scarcely any room on the chairs to +sit down, or on the desks and tables to write. + +In the midst of this encumbering mass of reports, letters, pamphlets and +books, a man had cleared a space for himself where he was now seated, +clutching his hair impatiently from time to time, as he endeavored to +decipher a page of notes, compared to which the hieroglyphics on the +obelisk of Luxor, would have been transparently intelligible. Just as +the secretary’s impatience was approaching desperation, the door opened +and a young officer wearing an aide’s uniform entered. + +The secretary raised his head, and a lively expression of satisfaction +crossed his face. + +“Oh! my dear Roland,” said he; “you here at last! I am delighted to see +you, for three reasons. First, because I am wearying for you; second, +because the general is impatient for your return, and keeps up a +hullaballoo about it; and third, because you can help me to read this, +with which I have been struggling for the last ten minutes. But first of +all, kiss me.” + +And the secretary and the aide-de-camp embraced each other. + +“Well,” said the latter, “let us see this word that is troubling you so, +my dear Bourrienne!” + +“Ah! my dear fellow, what writing! I get a white hair for every page I +decipher, and this is my third to-day! Here, read it if you can.” + +Roland took the sheet from the secretary, and fixing his eyes on the +spot indicated, read quite fluently: “Paragraph XI. The Nile, from +Assouan to a distance of twelve miles north of Cairo, flows in a single +stream”--“Well,” said he, interrupting himself, “that’s all plain +sailing. What did you mean? The general, on the contrary, took pains +when he wrote that.” + +“Go on, go on,” said Bourrienne. + +The young man resumed: “‘From that point, which is called’--ah! Ah!” + +“There you are! Now what do you say to that?” + +Roland repeated: “‘Which is called’--The devil! ‘Which is called--’” + +“Yes, ‘Which is called’--after that?” + +“What will you give me, Bourrienne,” cried Roland, “if I guess it?” + +“The first colonel’s commission I find signed in blank.” + +“By my faith, no! I don’t want to leave the general; I’d rather have a +good father than five hundred naughty children. I’ll give you the three +words for nothing.” + +“What! are there three words there?” + +“They don’t look as if they were quite three, I admit. Now listen, and +make obeisance to me: ‘From the point called Ventre della Vacca.’” + +“Ha! Ventre de la Vache! Confound it! He’s illegible enough in French, +but if he takes it into his head to go off in Italian, and that Corsican +patois to boot! I thought I only ran the risk of going crazy, but then +I should become stupid, too. Well, you’ve got it,” and he read the whole +sentence consecutively: “‘The Nile, from Assouan to a distance of twelve +miles north of Cairo, flows in a single stream; from that point, which +is called Ventre de la Vache, it forms the branches of the Rosetta and +the Damietta.’ Thank you, Roland,” and he began to write the end of the +paragraph, of which the first lines were already committed to paper. + +“Tell me,” said Roland; “is he still got his hobby, the dear general, of +colonizing Egypt?” + +“Yes; and then, as a sort of offset, a little governing in France; we +will colonize from a distance.” + +“Well, my dear Bourrienne, suppose you post me a little on matters in +this country, so that I won’t seem to have just arrived from Timbuctoo.” + +“In the first place, did you come back of your own accord, or were you +recalled?” + +“Recalled? I should think so!” + +“By whom?” + +“The general himself.” + +“Special despatch?” + +“Written by himself; see!” + +The young man drew a paper from his pocket containing two lines, not +signed, in the same handwriting as that which Bourrienne had before him. +These two lines said: “‘Start. Be in Paris 16th Brumaire. I need you.” + +“Yes,” said Bourrienne, “I think it will be on the eighteenth.” + +“What will be on the eighteenth?” + +“On my word, Roland, you ask more than I know. That man, as you are +aware, is not communicative. What will take place on the 18th Brumaire? +I don’t know as yet; but I’ll answer for it that something will happen.” + +“Oh! you must have a suspicion!” + +“I think he means to make himself Director in place of Sièyes, or +perhaps president in Gohier’s stead.” + +“Good! How about the Constitution of the year III.?” + +“The Constitution of the year III. What about that?” + +“Why, yes, a man must be forty years old to be a Director; and the +general lacks just ten of them.” + +“The deuce! so much the worse for the Constitution. They must violate +it.” + +“It is rather young yet, Bourrienne; they don’t, as a rule, violate +children of seven.” + +“My dear fellow, in Barras’ hands everything grows old rapidly. The +little girl of seven is already an old prostitute.” + +Roland shook his head. + +“Well, what is it?” asked Bourrienne. + +“Why, I don’t believe the general will make himself a simple Director +with four colleagues. Just imagine it--five kings of France! It wouldn’t +be a Directory any longer, but a four-in-hand.” + +“Anyway, up to the present, that is all he has allowed any one to +perceive; but you know, my dear friend, if we want to know the general’s +secrets we must guess them.” + +“Faith! I’m too lazy to take the trouble, Bourrienne. Besides, I’m a +regular Janissary--what is to be, will be. Why the devil should I bother +to form an opinion and battle for it. It’s quite wearisome enough to +have to live.” And the young man enforced his favorite aphorism with a +long yawn; then he added: “Do you think there will be any sword play?” + +“Probably.” + +“Then there will be a chance of getting killed; that’s all I want. Where +is the general?” + +“With Madame Bonaparte. He went to her about fifteen minutes ago. Have +you let him know you are here?” + +“No, I wanted to see you first. But I hear his step now.” + +Just then the door was opened abruptly, and the same historical +personage whom we saw playing a silent part incognito at Avignon +appeared on the threshold, in the picturesque uniform of the +general-in-chief of the army of Egypt, except that, being in his own +house, he was bare-headed. Roland thought his eyes were more hollow and +his skin more leaden than usual. But the moment he saw the young man, +Bonaparte’s gloomy, or rather meditative, eye emitted a flash of joy. + +“Ah, here you are, Roland!” he said. “True as steel! Called, you come. +Welcome, my dear fellow.” And he offered Roland his hand. Then he asked, +with an imperceptible smile, “What were you doing with Bourrienne?” + +“Waiting for you, general.” + +“And in the meantime gossiping like two old women.” + +“I admit it, general. I was showing him my order to be here on the 16th +Brumaire.” + +“Did I write the 16th or the 17th?” + +“Oh! the 16th, general. The 17th would have been too late.” + +“Why too late?” + +“Why, hang it, Bourrienne says there are to be great doings here on the +18th.” + +“Capital,” muttered Bourrienne; “the scatter-brain will earn me a +wigging.” + +“Ah! So he told you I had planned great doings for the 18th?” + Then, approaching Bourrienne, Bonaparte pinched his ear, and said, +“Tell-tale!” Then to Roland he added: “Well, it is so, my dear fellow, +we have made great plans for the 18th. My wife and I dine with President +Gohier; an excellent man, who was very polite to Josephine during my +absence. You are to dine with us, Roland.” + +Roland looked at Bonaparte. “Was it for that you brought me here, +general?” he asked, laughing. + +“For that, and something else, too, perhaps. Bourrienne, write--” + +Bourrienne hastily seized his pen. + +“Are you ready?” + +“Yes, general.” + +“‘My dear President, I write to let you know that my wife and I, with +one of my aides-de-camp, will dine with you the day after to-morrow. +This is merely to say that we shall be quite satisfied with a family +dinner.’” + +“What next?” + +“How do you mean?” + +“Shall I put, ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity’?” + +“Or death,” added Roland. + +“No,” said Bonaparte; “give me the pen.” + +He took the pen from Bourrienne’s hands and wrote, “Ever yours, +Bonaparte.” Then, pushing away the paper, he added: “Address it, +Bourrienne, and send an orderly with it.” + +Bourrienne wrote the address, sealed it, and rang the bell. An officer +on duty entered. + +“Send an orderly with that,” said Bourrienne. + +“There is an answer,” added Bonaparte. + +The officer closed the door. + +“Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte, pointing to Roland, “look at your friend.” + +“Well, general, I am looking at him.” + +“Do you know what he did at Avignon?” + +“I hope he didn’t make a pope.” + +“No, he threw a plate at a man’s head.” + +“Oh, that was hasty!” + +“That’s not all.” + +“That I can well imagine.” + +“He fought a duel with that man.” + +“And, most naturally, he killed him.” + +“Exactly. Do you know why he did it?” + +“No.” + +The general shrugged his shoulders, and said: “Because the man said that +I was a thief.” Then looking at Roland with an indefinable expression of +raillery and affection, he added: “Ninny!” Then suddenly he burst out: +“Oh! by the way, and the Englishman?” + +“Exactly, the Englishman, general. I was just going to speak to you +about him.” + +“Is he still in France?” + +“Yes, and for awhile even I thought he would remain here till the last +trumpet blew its blast through the valley of Jehosaphat.” + +“Did you miss killing him?” + +“Oh! no, not I. We are the best friends in the world. General, he is a +capital fellow, and so original to boot that I’m going to ask a bit of a +favor for him.” + +“The devil! For an Englishman?” said Bonaparte, shaking his head. “I +don’t like the English.” + +“Good! As a people, but individually--” + +“Well, what happened to your friend?” + +“He was tried, condemned, and executed.” + +“What the devil are you telling us?” + +“God’s truth, general.” + +“What do you mean when you say, ‘He was tried, condemned, and +guillotined’?” + +“Oh! not exactly that. Tried and condemned, but not guillotined. If he +had been guillotined he would be more dangerously ill than he is now.” + +“Now, what are you gabbling about? What court tried and condemned him?” + +“That of the Companions of Jehu!” + +“And who are the Companions of Jehu?” + +“Goodness! Have you forgotten our friend Morgan already, the masked man +who brought back the wine-merchant’s two hundred louis?” + +“No,” replied Bonaparte, “I have not forgotten him. I told you about the +scamp’s audacity, didn’t I, Bourrienne?” + +“Yes, general,” said Bourrienne, “and I answered that, had I been in +your place, I should have tried to find out who he was.” + +“And the general would know, had he left me alone. I was just going to +spring at his throat and tear off his mask, when the general said, in +that tone you know so well: ‘Friend Roland!’” + +“Come back to your Englishman, chatterbox!” cried the general. “Did +Morgan murder him?” + +“No, not he himself, but his Companions.” + +“But you were speaking of a court and a trial just now.” + +“General, you are always the same,” said Roland, with their old school +familiarity; “you want to know, and you don’t give me time to tell you.” + +“Get elected to the Five Hundred, and you can talk as much as you like.” + +“Good! In the Five Hundred I should have four hundred and ninety-nine +colleagues who would want to talk as much as I, and who would take +the words out of my mouth. I’d rather be interrupted by you than by a +lawyer.” + +“Will you go on?” + +“I ask nothing better. Now imagine, general, there is a Chartreuse near +Bourg--” + +“The Chartreuse of Seillon; I know it.” + +“What! You know the Chartreuse of Seillon?” demanded Roland. + +“Doesn’t the general know everything?” cried Bourrienne. + +“Well, about the Chartreuse; are there any monks there now?” + +“No; only ghosts--” + +“Are you, perchance, going to tell me a ghost-story?” + +“And a famous one at that!” + +“The devil! Bourrienne knows I love them. Go on.” + +“Well, we were told at home that the Chartreuse was haunted by ghosts. +Of course, you understand that Sir John and I, or rather I and Sir John, +wanted to clear our minds about it. So we each spent a night there.” + +“Where?” + +“Why, at the Chartreuse.” + +Bonaparte made an imperceptible sign of the cross with his thumb, a +Corsican habit which he never lost. + +“Ah!” he exclaimed, “did you see any ghosts?” + +“One.” + +“And what did you do to it?” + +“Shot at it.” + +“And then?” + +“It walked away.” + +“And you allowed yourself to be baffled?” + +“Good! How well you know me! I followed it, and fired again. But as he +knew his way among the ruins better than I, he escaped me.” + +“The devil!” + +“The next day it was Sir John’s turn; I mean our Englishman.” + +“Did he see your ghost?” + +“He saw something better. He saw twelve monks enter the church, who +tried him for trying to find out their secrets, condemned him to death, +and who, on my word of honor, stabbed him.” + +“Didn’t he defend himself?” + +“Like a lion. He killed two.” + +“Is he dead?” + +“Almost, but I hope he will recover. Just imagine, general; he was found +by the road, and brought home with a dagger in his breast, like a prop +in a vineyard.” + +“Why, it’s like a scene of the Sainte-Vehme, neither more nor less.” + +“And on the blade of the dagger, that there might be no doubt as to who +did the deed, were graven the words: ‘Companions of Jehu.’” + +“Why, it isn’t possible that such things can happen in France, in the +last year of the eighteenth century. It might do for Germany in the +Middle Ages, in the days of the Henrys and the Ottos.” + +“Not possible, general? But here is the dagger. What do you say to that? +Attractive, isn’t it?” + +And the young man drew from under his coat a dagger made entirely of +steel, blade and handle. The handle was shaped like a cross, and on the +blade, sure enough, were engraved the words, “Companions of Jehu.” + +Bonaparte examined the weapon carefully. + +“And you say they planted that plaything in your Englishman’s breast?” + +“Up to the hilt.” + +“And he’s not dead?” + +“Not yet, at any rate.” + +“Have you been listening, Bourrienne?” + +“With the greatest interest.” + +“You must remind me of this, Roland.” + +“When, general?” + +“When?--when I am master. Come and say good-day to Josephine. Come, +Bourrienne, you will dine with us, and be careful what you say, you +two, for Moreau is coming to dinner. Ah! I will keep the dagger as a +curiosity.” + +He went out first, followed by Roland, who was, soon after, followed by +Bourrienne. On the stairs they met the orderly who had taken the note to +Gohier. + +“Well?” asked the general. + +“Here is the President’s answer.” + +“Give it to me.” + +Bonaparte broke the seal, and read: + + The President Gohier is enchanted the good fortune promised him + by General Bonaparte. He will expect him to dinner the day after + to-morrow, the 18th Brumaire, with his charming wife, and the + aide-de-camp, whoever he may be. Dinner will be served at five + o’clock. + + If the hour does not suit General Bonaparte, will he kindly make + known the one he would prefer. + + The President, GOHIER. + 16th Brumaire, year VII. + +With an indescribable smile, Bonaparte put the letter in his pocket. +Then turning to Roland, he asked: “Do you know President Gohier?” + +“No, general.” + +“Ah! you’ll see; he’s an excellent man.” + +These words were pronounced in a tone no less indescribable than the +smile. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. THE GUESTS OF GENERAL BONAPARTE + +Josephine, in spite of her thirty-four years, or possibly because of +them (that enchanting age when woman hovers between her passing youth +and her corning age), Josephine, always beautiful, more graceful than +ever, was still the charming woman we all know. An imprudent remark +of Junot’s, at the time of her husband’s return, had produced a slight +coolness between them. But three days had sufficed to restore to the +enchantress her full power over the victor of Rivoli and the Pyramids. + +She was doing the honors of her salon, when Roland entered the room. +Always incapable, like the true Creole she was, of controlling her +emotions, she gave a cry of joy, and held out her hand to him. She knew +that Roland was devoted to her husband; she knew his reckless bravery, +knew that if the young man had twenty lives he would willingly have +given them all for Bonaparte. Roland eagerly took the hand she offered +him, and kissed it respectfully. Josephine had known Roland’s mother in +Martinique; and she never failed, whenever she saw Roland, to speak +to him of his maternal grandfather, M. de la Clémencière, in whose +magnificent garden as a child she was wont to gather those wonderful +fruits which are unknown in our colder climates. + +A subject of conversation was therefore ready at hand. She inquired +tenderly after Madame de Montrevel’s health, and that of her daughter +and little Edouard. Then, the information given, she said: “My dear +Roland, I must now pay attention to my other guests; but try to remain +after the other guests, or else let me see you alone to-morrow. I want +to talk to you about _him_” (she glanced at Bonaparte) “and have a +thousand things to tell you.” Then, pressing the young man’s hand with a +sigh, she added, “No matter what happens, you will never leave him, will +you?” + +“What do you mean?” asked Roland, amazed. + +“I know what I mean,” said Josephine, “and when you have talked ten +minutes with Bonaparte you will, I am sure, understand me. In the +meantime watch, and listen, and keep silence.” + +Roland bowed and drew aside, resolved, as Josephine had advised, to play +the part of observer. + +But what was there to observe? Three principal groups occupied the +salon. The first, gathered around Madame Bonaparte, the only woman +present, was more a flux and reflux than a group. The second, +surrounding Talma, was composed of Arnault, Parseval-Grandmaison, Monge, +Berthollet, and two or three other members of the Institute. The third, +which Bonaparte had just joined, counted in its circle Talleyrand, +Barras, Lucien, Admiral Bruix, [Footnote: AUTHOR’S NOTE.--Not to be +confounded with Rear-Admiral de Brueys, who was killed at Aboukir, +August 1, 1798. Admiral Bruix, the negotiator with Talleyrand of +the 18th Brumaire, did not die until 1805.] Roederer, Regnaud de +Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Fouché, Réal, and two or three generals, among whom +was Lefebvre. + +In the first group they talked of fashions, music, the theatre; in the +second, literature, science, dramatic art; in the third, they talked +of everything except that which was uppermost in their minds. Doubtless +this reserve was not in keeping with Bonaparte’s own feeling at the +moment; for after sharing in this commonplace conversation for a short +time, he took the former bishop of Autun by the arm and led him into the +embrasure of the window. + +“Well?” he asked. + +Talleyrand looked at Bonaparte with that air which belonged to no one +but him. + +“What did I tell you of Sièyes, general?” + +“You told me to secure the support of those who regarded the friends of +the Republic as Jacobins, and to rely, upon it that Sièyes was at their +head.” + +“I was not mistaken.” + +“Then he will yield?” + +“Better, he has yielded.” + +“The man who wanted to shoot me at Fréjus for having landed without +being quarantined!” + +“Oh, no; not for that.” + +“But what then?” + +“For not having looked at him or spoken to him at Gohier’s dinner.” + +“I must confess that I did it on purpose. I cannot endure that unfrocked +monk.” + +Bonaparte perceived, too late, that the speech he had just made was +like the sword of the archangel, double-edged; if Sièyes was unfrocked, +Talleyrand was unmitred. He cast a rapid glance at his companion’s face; +the ex-bishop of Autun was smiling his sweetest smile. + +“Then I can count upon him?” + +“I will answer for him.” + +“And Cambacérès and Lebrun, have you seen them?” + +“I took Sièyes in hand as the most recalcitrant. Bruix saw the other +two.” + +The admiral, from the midst of the group, had never taken his eyes off +of the general and the diplomatist. He suspected that their conversation +had a special importance. Bonaparte made him a sign to join them. A less +able man would have done so at once, but Bruix avoided such a mistake. +He walked about the room with affected indifference, and then, as if he +had just perceived Talleyrand and Bonaparte talking together, he went up +to them. + +“Bruix is a very able man!” said Bonaparte, who judged men as much by +little as by great things. + +“And above all very cautious, general!” said Talleyrand. + +“Yes. We will need a corkscrew to pull anything out of him.” + +“Oh, no; on the contrary, now that he has joined us, he, will broach the +question frankly.” + +And, indeed, no sooner had Bruix joined them than he began in words as +clear as they were concise: “I have seen them; they waver!” + +“They waver! Cambacérès and Lebrun waver? Lebrun I can understand--a +sort of man of letters, a moderate, a Puritan; but Cambacérès--” + +“But it is so.” + +“But didn’t you tell them that I intended to make them each a consul?” + +“I didn’t get as far as that,” replied Bruix, laughing. + +“And why not?” inquired Bonaparte. + +“Because this is the first word you have told me about your intentions, +Citizen General.” + +“True,” said Bonaparte, biting his lips. + +“Am I to repair the omission?” asked Bruix. + +“No, no,” exclaimed Bonaparte hastily; “they might think I needed them. +I won’t have any quibbling. They must decide to-day without any other +conditions than those you have offered them; to-morrow it will be too +late. I feel strong enough to stand alone; and I now have Sièyes and +Barras.” + +“Barras?” repeated the two negotiators astonished. + +“Yes, Barras, who treated me like a little corporal, and wouldn’t send +me back to Italy, because, he said, I had made my fortune there, and it +was useless to return. Well, Barras--” + +“Barras?” + +“Nothing.” Then, changing his mind, “Faith! I may as well tell you. Do +you know what Barras said at dinner yesterday before me? That it was +impossible to go on any longer with the Constitution of the year III. He +admitted the necessity of a dictatorship; said he had decided to abandon +the reins of government, and retire; adding that he himself was looked +upon as worn-out, and that the Republic needed new men. Now, guess to +whom he thinks of transferring his power. I give it you, as Madame +de Sévigné says, in a hundred, thousand, ten thousand. No other than +General Hedouville, a worthy man, but I have only to look him in the +face to make him lower his eyes. My glance must have been blasting! +As the result, Barras came to my bedside at eight o’clock, to excuse +himself as best he could for the nonsense he talked the night before, +and admitted that I alone could save the Republic, and placed himself +at my disposal, to do what I wished, assume any rôle I might assign him, +begging me to promise that if I had any plan in my head I would count on +him--yes, on him; and he would be true to the crack of doom.” + +“And yet,” said Talleyrand, unable to resist a play upon words, “doom is +not a word with which to conjure liberty.” + +Bonaparte glanced at the ex-bishop. + +“Yes, I know that Barras is your friend, the friend of Fouché and Réal; +but he is not mine, and I shall prove it to him. Go back to Lebrun and +Cambacérès, Bruix, and let them make their own bargain.” Then, looking +at his watch and frowning, he added: “It seems to me that Moreau keeps +us waiting.” + +So saying, he turned to the group which surrounded Talma. The two +diplomatists watched him. Then Admiral Bruix asked in a low voice: +“What do you say, my dear Maurice, to such sentiments toward the man who +picked him out, a mere lieutenant, at the siege of Toulon, who trusted +him to defend the Convention on the 13th Vendémiaire, and who named him, +when only twenty-six, General-in-Chief of the Army in Italy?” + +“I say, my dear admiral,” replied M. de Talleyrand, with his pallid +mocking smile, “that some services are so great that ingratitude alone +can repay them.” + +At that moment the door opened and General Moreau was announced. At this +announcement, which was more than a piece of news--it was a surprise +to most of those present--every eye was turned toward the door. Moreau +appeared. + +At this period three men were in the eyes of France. Moreau was one of +these three men. The two others were Bonaparte and Pichegru. Each had +become a sort of symbol. Since the 18th Fructidor, Pichegru had become +the symbol of monarchy; Moreau, since he had been christened Fabius, +was the symbol of the Republic; Bonaparte, symbol of war, dominated them +both by the adventurous aspect of his genius. + +Moreau was at that time in the full strength of his age; we would +say the full strength of his genius, if decision were not one of the +characteristics of genius. But no one was ever more undecided than the +famous cunctator. He was thirty-six years old, tall, with a sweet, calm, +firm countenance, and must have resembled Xenophon. + +Bonaparte had never seen him, nor had he, on his side, ever seen +Bonaparte. While the one was battling on the Adige and the Mincio, the +other fought beside the Danube and the Rhine. Bonaparte came forward to +greet him, saying: “You are welcome, general!” + +“General,” replied Moreau, smiling courteously, while all present made a +circle around them to see how this new Cæsar would meet the new Pompey, +“you come from Egypt, victorious, while I come, defeated, from Italy.” + +“A defeat which was not yours, and for which you are not responsible, +general. It was Joubert’s fault. If he had rejoined the Army of Italy +as soon as he had been made commander-in-chief, it is more than probable +that the Russians and Austrians, with the troops they then had, could +not have resisted him. But he remained in Paris for his honeymoon! Poor +Joubert paid with his life for that fatal month which gave the enemy +time to gather its reinforcements. The surrender of Mantua gave them +fifteen thousand men on the eve of the battle. It was impossible that +our poor army should not have been overwhelmed by such united forces.” + +“Alas! yes,” said Moreau; “it is always the greater number which defeats +the smaller.” + +“A great truth, general,” exclaimed Bonaparte; “an indisputable truth.” + +“And yet,” said Arnault, joining in the conversation, “you yourself, +general, have defeated large armies with little ones.” + +“If you were Marius, instead of the author of ‘Marius,’ you would +not say that, my dear poet. Even when I beat great armies with little +ones--listen to this, you young men who obey to-day, and will command +to-morrow--it was always the larger number which defeated the lesser.” + +“I don’t understand,” said Arnault and Lefebvre together. + +But Moreau made a sign with his head to show that he understood. +Bonaparte continued: “Follow my theory, for it contains the whole art +of war. When with lesser forces I faced a large army, I gathered mine +together, with great rapidity, fell like a thunderbolt on a wing of the +great army, and overthrew it; then I profited by the disorder into which +this manoeuvre never failed to throw the enemy to attack again, always +with my whole army, on the other side. I beat them, in this way, in +detail; and the victory which resulted was always, as you see, the +triumph of the many over the few.” + +As the able general concluded his definition of his own genius, the door +opened and the servant announced that dinner was served. + +“General,” said Bonaparte, leading Moreau to Josephine, “take in my +wife. Gentlemen, follow them.” + +On this invitation all present moved from the salon to the dining-room. + +After dinner, on pretence of showing him a magnificent sabre he had +brought from Egypt, Bonaparte took Moreau into his study. There the two +rivals remained closeted more than an hour. What passed between them? +What compact was signed? What promises were made? No one has ever known. +Only, when Bonaparte returned to the salon alone, and Lucien asked him: +“Well, what of Moreau?” he answered: “Just as I foresaw; he prefers +military power to political power. I have promised him the command of +an army.” Bonaparte smiled as he pronounced these words; then added, “In +the meantime--” + +“In the meantime?” questioned Lucien. + +“He will have that of the Luxembourg. I am not sorry to make him +the jailer of the Directors, before I make him the conqueror of the +Austrians.” + +The next day the following appeared in the “Moniteur”: + + PARIS, 17th Brumaire. Bonaparte has presented Moreau with a + magnificent Damascus sword set with precious stones which he + brought from Egypt, the value of which is estimated at twelve + thousand francs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. THE SCHEDULE OF THE DIRECTORY + +We have said that Moreau, furnished no doubt with instructions, left the +little house in the Rue de la Victoire, while Bonaparte returned alone +to the salon. Everything furnished an object of comment in such a +company as was there assembled; the absence of Moreau, the return of +Bonaparte unaccompanied, and the visible good humor which animated his +countenance, were all remarked upon. + +The eyes which fastened upon him most ardently were those of Josephine +and Roland. Moreau for Bonaparte added twenty chances to the success of +the plot; Moreau against Bonaparte robbed him of fifty. Josephine’s +eyes were so supplicating that, on leaving Lucien, Bonaparte pushed his +brother toward his wife. Lucien understood, and approached Josephine, +saying: “All is well.” + +“Moreau?” + +“With us.” + +“I thought he was a Republican.” + +“He has been made to see that we are acting for the good of the +Republic.” + +“I should have thought him ambitious,” said Roland. + +Lucien started and looked at the young man. + +“You are right,” said he. + +“Then,” remarked Josephine, “if he is ambitious he will not let +Bonaparte seize the power.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because he will want it himself.” + +“Yes; but he will wait till it comes to him ready-made, inasmuch as he +doesn’t know how to create it, and is afraid to seize it.” + +During this time Bonaparte had joined the group which had formed around +Talma after dinner, as well as before. Remarkable men are always the +centre of attraction. + +“What are you saying, Talma?” demanded Bonaparte. “It seems to me they +are listening to you very attentively.” + +“Yes, but my reign is over,” replied the artist. + +“Why so?” + +“I do as citizen Barras has done; I abdicate?” + +“So citizen Barras has abdicated?” + +“So rumor says.” + +“Is it known who will take his place?” + +“It is surmised.” + +“Is it one of your friends, Talma?” + +“Time was,” said Talma, bowing, “when he did me the honor to say I was +his.” + +“Well, in that case, Talma, I shall ask for your influence.” + +“Granted,” said Talma, laughing; “it only remains to ask how it can +serve you.” + +“Get me sent back to Italy; Barras would not let me go.” + +“The deuce!” said Talma; “don’t you know the song, general, ‘We won’t go +back to the woods when the laurels are clipped’?” + +“Oh! Roscius, Roscius!” said Bonaparte, smiling, “have you grown a +flatterer during my absence?” + +“Roscius was the friend of Cæsar, general, and when the conqueror +returned from Gaul he probably said to him about the same thing I have +said to you.” + +Bonaparte laid his band on Talma’s shoulder. + +“Would he have said the same words after crossing the Rubicon?” + +Talma looked Bonaparte straight in the face. + +“No,” he replied; “he would have said, like the augur, ‘Cæsar, beware of +the Ides of March!’” + +Bonaparte slipped his hand into his breast as if in search of +something; finding the dagger of the Companions of Jehu, he grasped +it convulsively. Had he a presentiment of the conspiracies of Arena, +Saint-Regent, and Cadoudal? + +Just then the door opened and a servant announced: “General Bernadotte!” + +“Bernadotte,” muttered Bonaparte, involuntarily. “What does he want +here?” + +Since Bonaparte’s return, Bernadotte had held aloof from him, refusing +all the advances which the general-in-chief and his friends had made +him. The fact is, Bernadotte had long since discerned the politician +beneath the soldier’s greatcoat, the dictator beneath the general, and +Bernadotte, for all that he became king in later years, was at that time +a very different Republican from Moreau. Moreover, Bernadotte believed +he had reason to complain of Bonaparte. His military career had not +been less brilliant than that of the young general; his fortunes were +destined to run parallel with his to the end, only, more fortunate than +that other--Bernadotte was to die on his throne. It is true, he did not +conquer that throne; he was called to it. + +Son of a lawyer at Pau, Bernadotte, born in 1764--that is to say, five +years before Bonaparte--was in the ranks as a private soldier when only +eighteen. In 1789 he was only a sergeant-major. But those were the days +of rapid promotion. In 1794, Kléber created him brigadier-general on the +field of battle, where he had decided the fortunes of the day. Becoming +a general of division, he played a brilliant part at Fleurus and +Juliers, forced Maestricht to capitulate, took Altdorf, and protected, +against an army twice as numerous as his own, the retreat of Joubert. +In 1797 the Directory ordered him to take seventeen thousand men to +Bonaparte. These seventeen thousand men were his old soldiers, veterans +of Kléber, Marceau and Hoche, soldiers of the Sambre-et-Meuse; and yet +Bernadotte forgot all rivalry and seconded Bonaparte with all his might, +taking part in the passage of the Tagliamento, capturing Gradiska, +Trieste, Laybach, Idria, bringing back to the Directory, after +the campaign, the flags of the enemy, and accepting, possibly with +reluctance, an embassy to Vienna, while Bonaparte secured the command of +the army of Egypt. + +At Vienna, a riot, excited by the tri-color flag hoisted above the +French embassy, for which the ambassador was unable to obtain redress, +forced him to demand his passports. On his return to Paris, the +Directory appointed him Minister of War. An underhand proceeding of +Sièyes, who was offended by Bernadotte’s republicanism, induced the +latter to send in his resignation. It was accepted, and when Bonaparte +landed at Fréjus the late minister had been three months out of office. +Since Bonaparte’s return, some of Bernadotte’s friends had sought to +bring about his reinstatement; but Bonaparte had opposed it. The result +was a hostility between the two generals, none the less real because not +openly avowed. + +Bernadotte’s appearance in Bonaparte’s salon was therefore an event +almost as extraordinary as the presence of Moreau. And the entrance of +the conqueror of Maestricht caused as many heads to turn as had that of +the conqueror of Rastadt. Only, instead of going forward to meet him, as +he had Moreau, Bonaparte merely turned round and awaited him. + +Bernadotte, from the threshold of the door, cast a rapid glance around +the salon. He divided and analyzed the groups, and although he must have +perceived Bonaparte in the midst of the principal one, he went up to +Josephine, who was reclining on a couch at the corner of the fireplace, +like the statue of Agrippina in the Pitti, and, addressing her with +chivalric courtesy, inquired for her health; then only did he raise his +head as if to look for Bonaparte. At such a time everything was of too +much importance for those present not to remark this affectation of +courtesy on Bernadotte’s part. + +Bonaparte, with his rapid, comprehensive intellect, was not the last +to notice this; he was seized with impatience, and, instead of awaiting +Bernadotte in the midst of the group where he happened to be, he +turned abruptly to the embrasure of a window, as if to challenge the +ex-minister of war to follow him. Bernadotte bowed graciously to right +and left, and controlling his usually mobile face to an expression +of perfect calmness, he walked toward Bonaparte, who awaited him as +a wrestler awaits his antagonist, the right foot forward and his lips +compressed. The two men bowed, but Bonaparte made no movement to extend +his hand to Bernadotte, nor did the latter offer to take it. + +“Is it you?” asked Bonaparte. “I am glad to see you.” + +“Thank you, general,” replied Bernadotte. “I have come because I wish to +give you a few explanations.” + +“I did not recognize you at first.” + +“Yet I think, general, that my name was announced by your servant in a +voice loud enough to prevent any doubt as to my identity.” + +“Yes, but he announced General Bernadotte.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I saw a man in civilian’s dress, and though I recognized you, I +doubted if it were really you.” + +For some time past Bernadotte had affected to wear civilian’s dress in +preference to his uniform. + +“You know,” said he, laughing, “that I am only half a soldier now. I was +retired by citizen Sièyes.” + +“It seems that it was lucky for me that you were no longer minister of +war when I landed at Fréjus.” + +“How so?” + +“You said, so I was told, that had you received the order to arrest me +for violating quarantine you would have done so.” + +“I said it, and I repeat it, general. As a soldier I was always a +faithful observer of discipline. As a minister I was a slave to law.” + +Bonaparte bit his lips. “And will you say, after that, that you have not +a personal enmity to me?” + +“A personal enmity to you, general?” replied Bernadotte. “Why should +I have? We have always gone together, almost in the same stride; I was +even made general before you. While my campaigns on the Rhine were less +brilliant than yours on the Adige, they were not less profitable for the +Republic; and when I had the honor to serve under you, you found in +me, I hope, a subordinate devoted, if not to the man, at least to the +country which he served. It is true that since your departure, general, +I have been more fortunate than you in not having the responsibility of +a great army, which, if one may believe Kléber’s despatches, you have +left in a disastrous position.” + +“What do you mean? Kléber’s last despatches? Has Kléber written?” + +“Are you ignorant of that, general? Has the Directory not informed you +of the complaints of your successor? That would be a great weakness on +their part, and I congratulate myself to have come here, not only to +correct in your mind what has been said of me, but to tell you what is +being said of you.” + +Bonaparte fixed an eye, darkling as an eagle’s, on Bernadotte. “And what +are they saying of me?” he asked. + +“They say that, as you must come back, you should have brought the army +with you.” + +“Had I a fleet? Are you unaware that De Brueys allowed his to be +burned?” + +“They also say, general, that, being unable to bring back the army, it +would have been better for your renown had you remained with it.” + +“That is what I should have done, monsieur, if events had not recalled +me to France.” + +“What events, general?” + +“Your defeats.” + +“Pardon me, general; you mean to say Schérer’s defeats. + +“Yours as well.” + +“I was not answerable for the generals commanding our armies on the +Rhine and in Italy until I was minister of war. If you will enumerate +the victories and defeats since that time you will see on which side the +scale turns.” + +“You certainly do not intend to tell me that matters are in a good +condition?” + +“No, but I do say that they are not in so desperate state as you affect +to believe.” + +“As I affect!--Truly, general, to hear you one would think I had some +interest in lowering France in the eyes of foreigners. + +“I don’t say that; I say that I wish to settle the balance of our +victories and defeats for the last three months; and as I came for that, +and am now in your house, and in the position of an accused person--” + +“Or an accuser.” + +“As the accused, in the first instance--I begin.” + +“And I listen,” said Bonaparte, visibly on thorns. + +“My ministry dates from the 30th Prairial, the 8th of June if you +prefer; we will not quarrel over words.” + +“Which means that we shall quarrel about things.” + +Bernadotte continued without replying. + +“I became minister, as I said, the 8th of June; that is, a short time +after the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Acre was raised.” + +Bonaparte bit his lips. “I did not raise the siege until after I had +ruined the fortifications,” he replied. + +“That is not what Kléber wrote; but that does not concern me.” Then he +added, smiling: “It happened while Clark was minister.” + +There was a moment’s silence, during which Bonaparte endeavored to make +Bernadotte lower his eyes. Not succeeding, he said: “Go on.” + +Bernadotte bowed and continued: “Perhaps no minister of war--and the +archives of the ministry are there for reference--ever received the +portfolio under more critical circumstances: civil war within, a foreign +enemy at our doors, discouragement rife among our veteran armies, +absolute destitution of means to equip new ones. That was what I had +to face on the 8th of June, when I entered upon my duties. An active +correspondence, dating from the 8th of June, between the civil and +military authorities, revived their courage and their hopes. My +addresses to the armies--this may have been a mistake--were those, not +of a minister to his soldiers, but of a comrade among comrades, just +as my addresses to the administrators were those of a citizen to his +fellow-citizens. I appealed to the courage of the army, and the heart of +the French people; I obtained all that I had asked. The National Guard +reorganized with renewed zeal; legions were formed upon the Rhine, on +the Moselle. Battalions of veterans took the place of old regiments +to reinforce the troops that were guarding our frontiers; to-day our +cavalry is recruited by a remount of forty thousand horses, and one +hundred thousand conscripts, armed and equipped, have received with +cries of ‘Vive la Republique!’ the flags under which they will fight and +conquer--” + +“But,” interrupted Bonaparte bitterly, “this is an apology you are +making for yourself.” + +“Be it so. I will divide my discourse into two parts. The first will +be a contestable apology; the second an array of incontestable facts. +I will set aside the apology and proceed to facts. June 17 and 18, the +battle of the Trebbia. Macdonald wished to fight without Moreau; he +crossed the Trebbia, attacked the enemy, was defeated and retreated +to Modena. June 20, battle of Tortona; Moreau defeated the Austrian +Bellegarde. July 22, surrender of the citadel of Alexandria to the +Austro-Russians. So far the scale turns to defeat. July 30, surrender of +Mantua, another check. August 15, battle of Novi; this time it was more +than a check, it was a defeat. Take note of it, general, for it is +the last. At the very moment we were fighting at Novi, Masséna was +maintaining his position at Zug and Lucerne, and strengthening himself +on the Aar and on the Rhine; while Lecourbe, on August 14 and 15, took +the Saint-Gothard. August 19, battle of Bergen; Brune defeated the +Anglo-Russian army, forty thousand strong, and captured the Russian +general, Hermann. On the 25th, 26th and 27th of the same month, the +battles of Zurich, where Masséna defeated the Austro-Russians under +Korsakoff. Hotze and three other generals are taken prisoners. The enemy +lost twelve thousand men, a hundred cannon, and all its baggage; the +Austrians, separated from the Russians, could not rejoin them until +after they were driven beyond Lake Constance. That series of victories +stopped the progress the enemy had been making since the beginning of +the campaign; from the time Zurich was retaken, France was secure from +invasion. August 30, Molitor defeated the Austrian generals, Jellachich +and Luiken, and drove them back into the Grisons. September 1, Molitor +attacked and defeated General Rosenberg in the Mutterthal. On the 2d, +Molitor forced Souvaroff to evacuate Glarus, to abandon his wounded, +his cannon, and sixteen hundred prisoners. The 6th, General Brune again +defeated the Anglo-Russians, under the command of the Duke of York. +On the 7th, General Gazan took possession of Constance. On the 8th you +landed at Fréjus.--Well, general,” continued Bernadotte, “as France will +probably pass into your hands, it is well that you should know the state +in which you find her, and in place of receipt, our possessions bear +witness to what we are giving you. What we are now doing, general, +is history, and it is important that those who may some day have an +interest in falsifying history shall find in their path the denial of +Bernadotte.” + +“Is that said for my benefit, general?” + +“I say that for flatterers. You have pretended, it is said, that you +returned to France because our armies were destroyed, because France was +threatened, the Republic at bay. You may have left Egypt with that fear; +but once in France, all such fears must have given way to a totally +different belief.” + +“I ask no better than to believe as you do,” replied Bonaparte, with +sovereign dignity; “and the more grand and powerful you prove France to +be, the more grateful am I to those who have secured her grandeur and +her power.” + +“Oh, the result is plain, general! Three armies defeated; the Russians +exterminated, the Austrians defeated and forced to fly, twenty thousand +prisoners, a hundred pieces of cannon, fifteen flags, all the baggage of +the enemy in our possession, nine generals taken or killed, Switzerland +free, our frontiers safe, the Rhine our limit--so much for Masséna’s +contingent and the situation of Helvetia. The Anglo-Russian army twice +defeated, utterly discouraged, abandoning its artillery, baggage, +munitions of war and commissariat, even to the women and children who +came with the British; eight thousand French prisoners; effective men, +returned to France; Holland completely evacuated--so much for Brune’s +contingent and the situation in Holland. The rearguard of General Klénau +forced to lay down its arms at Villanova; a thousand prisoners and three +pieces of cannon fallen into our hands, and the Austrians driven back +beyond Bormida; in all, counting the combats at la Stura and Pignerol, +four thousand prisoners, sixteen cannon, Mondovi, and the occupation of +the whole region between la Stura and Tanaro--so much for Championnet’s +contingent and the situation in Italy. Two hundred thousand men under +arms, forty thousand mounted cavalry; that is my contingent, mine, and +the situation in France.” + +“But,” asked Bonaparte satirically, “if you have, as you say, two +hundred thousand soldiers under arms, why do you want me to bring back +the fifteen or twenty thousand men I have in Egypt, who are useful there +as colonizers?” + +“If I ask you for them, general, it is not for any need we may have of +them, but in the fear of some disaster over taking them.” + +“What disaster do you expect to befall them, commanded by Kléber?” + +“Kléber may be killed, general; and who is there behind Kléber? Menou. +Kléber and your twenty thousand men are doomed, general!” + +“How doomed?” + +“Yes, the Sultan will send troops; he controls by land. The English will +send their fleet; they control by sea. We, who have neither land nor +sea, will be compelled to take part from here in the evacuation of Egypt +and the capitulation of our army. + +“You take a gloomy view of things, general!” + +“The future will show which of us two have seen things as they are.” + +“What would you have done in my place?” + +“I don’t know. But, even had I been forced to bring them back by way +of Constantinople, I should never have abandoned those whom France had +intrusted to me. Xenophon, on the banks of the Tigris, was in a much +more desperate situation than you on the banks of the Nile. He brought +his ten thousand back to Ionia, and they were not the children of +Athens, not his fellow citizens; they were mercenaries!” + +From the instant Bernadotte uttered the word Constantinople, Bonaparte +listened no longer; the name seemed to rouse a new train of ideas in his +mind, which he followed in solitary thought. He laid his hand on the arm +of the astonished Bernadotte, and, with eyes fixed on space, like a man +who pursues through space the phantom of a vanished project, he said: +“Yes, yes! I thought of it. That is why I persisted in taking that +hovel, Saint-Jean-d’Acre. Here you only thought it obstinacy, a useless +waste of men sacrificed to the self-love of a mediocre general who +feared that he might be blamed for a defeat. What should I have cared +for the raising of the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Acre, if Saint-Jean-d’Acre +had not been the barrier in the way of the grandest project ever +conceived. Cities! Why, good God! I could take as many as ever did +Alexander or Cæsar, but it was Saint-Jean-d’Acre that had to be taken! +If I had taken Saint-Jean-d’Acre, do you know what I should have done?” + +And he fixed his burning eyes upon Bernadotte, who, this time, lowered +his under the flame of this genius. + +“What I should have done,” repeated Bonaparte, and, like Ajax, he +seemed to threaten Heaven with his clinched fist; “if I had taken +Saint-Jean-d’Acre, I should have found the treasures of the pasha in the +city and three thousand stands of arms. With that I should have raised +and armed all Syria, so maddened by the ferocity of Djezzar that each +time I attacked him the population prayed to God for his overthrow. I +should have marched upon Damascus and Aleppo; I should have swelled my +army with the malcontents. Advancing into the country, I should, step by +step, have proclaimed the abolition of slavery, and the annihilation of +the tyrannical government of the pashas. I should have overthrown the +Turkish empire, and founded a great empire at Constantinople, which +would have fixed my place in history higher than Constantine and +Mohammed II. Perhaps I should have returned to Paris by way of +Adrianople and Vienna, after annihilating the house of Austria. Well, +my dear general, that is the project which that little hovel of a +Saint-Jean-d’Acre rendered abortive!” + +And he so far forgot to whom he was speaking, as he followed the shadows +of his vanished dream, that he called Bernadotte “my dear general.” The +latter, almost appalled by the magnitude of the project which Bonaparte +had unfolded to him, made a step backward. + +“Yes,” said Bernadotte, “I perceive what you want, for you have just +betrayed yourself. Orient or Occident, a throne! A throne? So be it; why +not? Count upon me to help you conquer it, but elsewhere than in France. +I am a Republican, and I will die a Republican.” + +Bonaparte shook his head as if to disperse the thoughts which held him +in the clouds. + +“I, too, am a Republican,” said he, “but see what has come of your +Republic!” + +“What matter!” cried Bernadotte. “It is not to a word or a form that I +am faithful, but to the principle. Let the Directors but yield me the +power, and I would know how to defend the Republic against her internal +enemies, even as I defended her from her foreign enemies.” + +As he said these words, Bernadotte raised his eyes, and his glance +encountered that of Bonaparte. Two naked blades clashing together never +sent forth lightning more vivid, more terrible. + +Josephine had watched the two men for some time past with anxious +attention. She saw the dual glance teeming with reciprocal menace. She +rose hastily and went to Bernadotte. + +“General,” said she. + +Bernadotte bowed. + +“You are intimate with Gohier, are you not?” she continued. + +“He is one of my best friends, madame,” said Bernadotte. + +“Well, we dine with him the day after to-morrow, the 18th Brumaire; dine +there yourself and bring Madame Bernadotte. I should be so glad to know +her better.” + +“Madame,” said Bernadotte, “in the days of the Greeks you would have +been one of the three graces; in the Middle Ages you would have been a +fairy; to-day you are the most adorable woman I know.” + +And making three steps backward, and bowing, he contrived to retire +politely without including Bonaparte in his bow. Josephine followed him +with her eyes until he had left the room. Then, turning to her husband, +she said: “Well, it seems that it was not as successful with Bernadotte +as with Moreau, was it?” + +“Bold, adventurous, disinterested, sincere republican, inaccessible +to seduction, he is a human obstacle. We must make our way around him, +since we cannot overthrow him.” + +And leaving the salon without taking leave of any one, he went to his +study, whither Roland and Bourrienne followed. They had hardly been +there a quarter of an hour when the handle of the lock turned softly, +the door opened, and Lucien appeared. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. THE OUTLINE OF A DECREE + +Lucien was evidently expected. Bonaparte had not mentioned his name once +since entering the study; but in spite of this silence he had turned his +head three or four times with increasing impatience toward the door, and +when the young man appeared an exclamation of contentment escaped his +lips. + +Lucien, the general’s youngest brother, was born in 1775, making him +now barely twenty-five years old. Since 1797, that is, at the age of +twenty-two and a half, he had been a member of the Five Hundred, who, to +honor Bonaparte, had made him their president. With the projects he had +conceived nothing could have been more fortunate for Bonaparte. + +Frank and loyal, republican to the core, Lucien believed that, in +seconding his brother’s plans, he was serving the Republic better than +the future First Consul. In his eyes, no one was better fitted to save +it a second time than he who had saved it the first. It was with these +sentiments in his heart that he now came to confer with his brother. + +“Here you are,” said Bonaparte. “I have been waiting for you +impatiently.” + +“So I suspected. But I was obliged to wait until I could leave without +being noticed.” + +“Did you manage it?” + +“Yes; Talma was relating a story about Marat and Dumouriez. Interesting +as it was, I deprived myself of the pleasure, and here I am.” + +“I have just heard a carriage driving away; the person who got in it +couldn’t have seen you coming up my private stairs, could he?” + +“The person who drove off was myself, the carriage was mine. If that is +not seen every one will think I have left.” + +Bonaparte breathed freer. + +“Well,” said he, “let us hear how you have spent your day.” + +“Oh! I haven’t wasted my time, you may be sure.” + +“Are we to have a decree or the Council?” + +“We drew it up to-day, and I have brought it to you--the rough draft at +least--so that you can see if you want anything added or changed.” + +“Let me see it,” cried Bonaparte. Taking the paper hastily from Lucien’s +hand, he read: + + Art. I. The legislative body is transferred to the commune of + Saint-Cloud; the two branches of the Council will hold their + sessions in the two wings of the palace. + +“That’s the important article,” said Lucien. “I had it placed first, so +that it might strike the people at once.” + +“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Bonaparte, and he continued: + + Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 20th Brumaire-- + +“No, no,” said Bonaparte, “to-morrow the 19th. Change the date, +Bourrienne;” and he handed the paper to his secretary. + +“You expect to be ready for the 18th?” + +“I shall be. Fouché said day before yesterday, ‘Make haste, or I won’t +answer for the result.’” + +“The 19th Brumaire,” said Bourrienne, returning the paper to the +general. + +Bonaparte resumed: + + Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 19th Brumaire, + at noon. All deliberations are forbidden elsewhere and before + the above date. + +Bonaparte read the article a second time. + +“Good,” said he; “there is no double meaning there.” And he continued: + + Art. III. General Bonaparte is charged with the enforcement of + this decree; he will take all necessary measures for the safety + of the National Legislature. + +A satirical smile flickered on the stony lips of the reader, but he +continued almost immediately. + + The general commanding the 17th military division, the guard of + the Legislature, the stationary national guard the troops of the + line within the boundaries of the Commune of Paris, and those in + the constitutional arrondissement, and throughout the limits of + the said 17th division, are placed directly under his orders, and + are directed to regard him as their commanding officer. + +“Bourrienne, add: ‘All citizens will lend him assistance when called +upon.’ The bourgeois love to meddle in political matters, and when +they really can help us in our projects we ought to grant them this +satisfaction.” + +Bourrienne obeyed; then he returned the paper to the general, who went +on: + + Art. IV. General Bonaparte is summoned before the Council to + receive a copy of the present decree, and to make oath thereto. + He will consult with the inspecting commissioners of both + branches of the Council. + + Art. V. The present decree shall be transmitted immediate, by + messenger, to all the members of the Council of Five Hundred + and to the Executive Directory. It shall be printed and posted, + and promulgated throughout the communes of the Republic by + special messengers. + + Done at Paris this.... + +“The date is left blank,” said Lucien. + +“Put ‘the 18th Brumaire,’ Bourrienne; the decree must take everybody by +surprise. It must be issued at seven o’clock in the morning, and at the +same hour or even earlier it must be posted on all the walls of Paris.” + +“But suppose the Ancients won’t consent to issue it?” said Lucien. + +“All the more reason to have it posted, ninny,” said Bonaparte. “We must +act as if it had been issued.” + +“Am I to correct this grammatical error in the last paragraph?” asked +Bourrienne, laughing. + +“Where?” demanded Lucien, in the tone of an aggrieved author. + +“The word ‘immediate,’” replied Bourrienne. “You can’t say ‘transmitted +immediate’; it ought to be ‘immediately.’” + +“It’s not worth while,” said Bonaparte. “I shall act, you may be sure, +as if it were ‘immediately.’” Then, after an instant’s reflection, he +added: “As to what you said just now about their not being willing to +pass it, there’s a very simple way to get it passed.” + +“What is that.” + +“To convoke the members of whom we are sure at six o’clock in the +morning, and those of whom we are not sure at eight. Having only our own +men, it will be devilishly hard to lose the majority.” + +“But six o’clock for some, and eight for the others--” objected Lucien. + +“Employ two secretaries; one of them can make a mistake.” Then turning +to Lucien, he said: “Write this.” + +And walking up and down, he dictated without hesitating, like a man who +has long thought over and carefully prepared what he dictates; stopping +occasionally beside Bourrienne to see if the secretary’s pen were +following his every word: + + CITIZENS--The Council of the Ancients, the trustee of the nation’s + wisdom, has issued the subjoined decree: it is authorized by + articles 102 and 103 of the Constitution. + + This decree enjoins me to take measures for the safety of the + National Legislature, and its necessary and momentary removal. + +Bourrienne looked at Bonaparte; _instantaneous_ was the word the +latter had intended to use, but as the general did not correct himself, +Bourrienne left _momentary_. + +Bonaparte continued to dictate: + + The Legislature will find means to avoid the imminent danger into + which the disorganization of all parts of the administration has + brought us. + + But it needs, at this crisis, the united support and confidence of + patriots. Rally around it; it offers the only means of establishing + the Republic on the bases of civil liberty, internal prosperity, + victory and peace. + +Bonaparte perused this proclamation, and nodded his head in sign of +approval. Then he looked at his watch. + +“Eleven o’clock,” he said; “there is still time.” + +Then, seating himself in Bourrienne’s chair, he wrote a few words in +the form of a note, sealed it, and wrote the address: “To the Citizen +Barras.” + +“Roland,” said he, when he had finished, “take a horse out of the +stable, or a carriage in the street, and go to Barras’ house. I have +asked him for an interview tomorrow at midnight. I want an answer.” + +Roland left the room. A moment later the gallop of a horse resounded +through the courtyard, disappearing in the direction of the Rue du +Mont-Blanc. + +“Now, Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte, after listening to the sound, +“to-morrow at midnight, whether I am in the house or not, you will take +my carriage and go in my stead to Barras.” + +“In your stead, general?” + +“Yes. He will do nothing all day, expecting me to accept him on my side +at night. At midnight you will go to him, and say that I have such a bad +headache I have had to go to bed, but that I will be with him at seven +o’clock in the morning without fail. He will believe you, or he won’t +believe you; but at any rate it will be too late for him to act against +us. By seven in the morning I shall have ten thousand men under my +command.” + +“Very good, general. Have you any other orders for me?” + +“No, not this evening,” replied Bonaparte. “Be here early to-morrow.” + +“And I?” asked Lucien. + +“See Sièyes; he has the Ancients in the hollow of his hand. Make all +your arrangements with him. I don’t wish him to be seen here, nor to +be seen myself at his house. If by any chance we fail, he is a man to +repudiate. After tomorrow I wish to be master of my own actions, and to +have no ties with any one.” + +“Do you think you will need me to-morrow?” + +“Come back at night and report what happens.” + +“Are you going back to the salon?” + +“No. I shall wait for Josephine in her own room. Bourrienne, tell her, +as you pass through, to get rid of the people as soon as possible.” + +Then, saluting Bourrienne and his brother with a wave of the hand, he +left his study by a private corridor, and went to Josephine’s room. +There, lighted by a single alabaster lamp, which made the conspirator’s +brow seem paler than ever, Bonaparte listened to the noise of the +carriages, as one after the other they rolled away. At last the sounds +ceased, and five minutes later the door opened to admit Josephine. + +She was alone, and held a double-branched candlestick in her hand. Her +face, lighted by the double flame, expressed the keenest anxiety. + +“Well,” Bonaparte inquired, “what ails you?” + +“I am afraid!” said Josephine. + +“Of what? Those fools of the Directory, or the lawyers of the two +Councils? Come, come! I have Sièyes with me in the Ancients, and Lucien +in the Five Hundred.” + +“Then all goes well?” + +“Wonderfully so!” + +“You sent me word that you were waiting for me here, and I feared you +had some bad news to tell me.” + +“Pooh! If I had bad news, do you think I would tell you?” + +“How reassuring that is!” + +“Well, don’t be uneasy, for I have nothing but good news. Only, I have +given you a part in the conspiracy.” + +“What is it?” + +“Sit down and write to Gohier.” + +“That we won’t dine with him?” + +“On the contrary, ask him to come and breakfast with us. Between those +who like each other as we do there can’t be too much intercourse.” + +Josephine sat down at a little rosewood writing desk “Dictate,” said +she; “I will write.” + +“Goodness! for them to recognize my style! Nonsense; you know better +than I how to write one of those charming notes there is no resisting.” + +Josephine smiled at the compliment, turned her forehead to Bonaparte, +who kissed it lovingly, and wrote the following note, which we have +copied from the original: + + To the Citizen Gohier, President of the Executive Directory of the + French Republic-- + +“Is that right?” she asked. + +“Perfectly! As he won’t wear this title of President much longer, we +won’t cavil at it.” + +“Don’t you mean to make him something?” + +“I’ll make him anything he pleases, if he does exactly what I want. Now +go on, my dear.” + +Josephine picked up her pen again and wrote: + + Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with us + to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very + interesting things to tell you. + + Adieu, my dear Gohier! With the sincerest friendship, + Yours, LA PAGERIE-BONAPARTE. + +“I wrote to-morrow,” exclaimed Josephine. “Shall I date it the 17th +Brumaire?” + +“You won’t be wrong,” said Bonaparte; “there’s midnight striking.” + +In fact, another day had fallen into the gulf of time; the clock chimed +twelve. Bonaparte listened gravely and dreamily. Twenty-four hours only +separated him from the solemn day for which he had been scheming for a +month, and of which he had dreamed for years. + +Let us do now what he would so gladly have done, and spring over those +twenty-four hours intervening to the day which history has not yet +judged, and see what happened in various parts of Paris, where the +events we are about to relate produced an overwhelming sensation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. ALEA JACTA EST + +At seven in the morning, Fouché, minister of police, entered the bedroom +of Gohier, president of the Directory. + +“Oh, ho!” said Gohier, when he saw him. “What has happened now, monsieur +le ministre, to give me the pleasure of seeing you so early?” + +“Don’t you know about the decree?” asked Fouché. + +“What decree?” asked honest Gohier. + +“The decree of the Council of the Ancients.” + +“When was it issued?” + +“Last night.” + +“So the Council of the Ancients assembles at night now?” + +“When matters are urgent, yes.” + +“And what does the decree say.” + +“It transfers the legislative sessions to Saint-Cloud.” + +Gohier felt the blow. He realized the advantage which Bonaparte’s daring +genius might obtain by this isolation. + +“And since when,” he asked Fouché, “is the minister of police +transformed into a messenger of the Council of the Ancients?” + +“That’s where you are mistaken, citizen president,” replied the +ex-Conventional. “I am more than ever minister of police this morning, +for I have come to inform you of an act which may have the most serious +consequences.” + +Not being as yet sure of how the conspiracy of the Rue de la Victoire +would turn out, Fouché was not averse to keeping open a door for retreat +at the Luxembourg. But Gohier, honest as he was, knew the man too well +to be his dupe. + +“You should have informed me of this decree yesterday, and not this +morning; for in making the communication now you are scarcely in +advance of the official communication I shall probably receive in a few +moments.” + +As he spoke, an usher opened the door and informed the president that a +messenger from the Inspectors of the Council of the Ancients was there, +and asked to make him a communication. + +“Let him come in,” said Gohier. + +The messenger entered and handed the president a letter. He broke the +seal hastily and read: + + CITIZEN PRESIDENT--The Inspecting Commission hasten to inform + you of a decree removing the residence of the legislative body + to Saint-Cloud. + + The decree will be forwarded to you; but measures for public + safety are at present occupying our attention. + + We invite you to meet the Commission of the Ancients. You will + find Sièyes and Ducos already there. + + Fraternal greetings + BARILLON, + FARGUES, + CORNET, + +“Very good,” said Gohier, dismissing the messenger with a wave of his +hand. + +The messenger went out. Gohier turned to Fouché. + +“Ah!” said he, “the plot is well laid; they inform me of the decree, but +they do not send it to me. Happily you are here to tell me the terms of +it.” + +“But,” said Fouché, “I don’t know them.” + +“What! do you the minister of police, mean to tell me that you know +nothing about this extraordinary session of the Council of the Ancients, +when it has been put on record by a decree?” + +“Of course I knew it took place, but I was unable to be present.” + +“And you had no secretary, no amanuensis to send, who could give you an +account, word for word, of this session, when in all probability this +session will dispose of the fate of France! Ah, citizen Fouché, you are +either a very deep, or a very shallow minister of police!” + +“Have you any orders to give me, citizen president?” asked Fouché. + +“None, citizen minister,” replied the president. “If the Directory +judges it advisable to issue any orders, it will be to men whom it +esteems worthy of its confidence. You may return to those who sent you,” + he added, turning his back upon the minister. + +Fouché went, and Gohier immediately rang his bell. An usher entered. + +“Go to Barras, Sièyes, Ducos, and Moulins, and request them to come to +me at once. Ah! And at the same time ask Madame Gohier to come into my +study, and to bring with her Madame Bonaparte’s letter inviting us to +breakfast with her.” + +Five minutes later Madame Gohier entered, fully dressed, with the note +in her hand. The invitation was for eight o’clock. It was then half-past +seven, and it would take at least twenty minutes to drive from the +Luxembourg to the Rue de la Victoire. + +“Here it is, my dear,” said Madame Gohier, handing the letter to her +husband. “It says eight o’clock.” + +“Yes,” replied Gohier, “I was not in doubt about the hour, but about the +day.” + +Taking the note from his wife’s hand, he read it over: + + Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with me + to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very + interesting things to tell you. + +“Ah,” said Gohier, “there can be no mistake.” + +“Well, my dear, are we going?” asked Madame Gohier. + +“You are, but not I. An event has just happened about which the citizen +Bonaparte is probably well-informed, which will detain my colleagues and +myself at the Luxembourg.” + +“A serious event?” + +“Possibly.” + +“Then I shall stay with you.” + +“No, indeed; you would not be of any service here. Go to Madame +Bonaparte’s. I may be mistaken, but, should anything extraordinary +happen, which appears to you alarming, send me word some way or other. +Anything will do; I shall understand half a word.” + +“Very good, my dear; I will go. The hope of being useful to you is +sufficient.” + +“Do go!” + +Just then the usher entered, and said: + +“General Moulins is at my heels; citizen Barras is in his bath, and will +soon be here; citizens Sièyes and Ducos went out at five o’clock this +morning, and have not yet returned.” + +“They are the two traitors!” said Gohier; “Barras is only their dupe.” + Then kissing his wife, he added: “Now, go.” + +As she turned round, Madame Gohier came face to face with General +Moulins. He, for his character was naturally impetuous, seemed furious. + +“Pardon me, citizeness,” he said. Then, rushing into Gohier’s study, he +cried: “Do you know what has happened, president?” + +“No, but I have my suspicions.” + +“The legislative body has been transferred to Saint-Cloud; the execution +of the decree has been intrusted to General Bonaparte, and the troops +are placed under his orders.” + +“Ha! The cat’s out of the bag!” exclaimed Gohier. + +“Well, we must combine, and fight them.” + +“Have you heard that Sièyes and Ducos are not in the palace?” + +“By Heavens! they are at the Tuileries! But Barras is in his bath; let +us go to Barras. The Directory can issue decrees if there is a majority. +We are three, and, I repeat it, we must make a struggle!” + +“Then let us send word to Barras to come to us as soon as he is out of +his bath.” + +“No; let us go to him before he leaves it.” + +The two Directors left the room, and hurried toward Barras’ apartment. +They found him actually in his bath, but they insisted on entering. + +“Well?” asked Barras as soon as he saw them. + +“Have you heard?” + +“Absolutely nothing.” + +They told him what they themselves knew. + +“Ah!” cried Barras, “that explains everything.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Yes, that is why he didn’t come last night.” + +“Who?” + +“Why, Bonaparte.” + +“Did you expect him last evening?” + +“He sent me word by one of his aides-de-camp that he would call on me at +eleven o’clock last evening.” + +“And he didn’t come?” + +“No. He sent Bourrienne in his carriage to tell me that a violent +headache had obliged him to go to bed; but that he would be here early +this morning.” + +The Directors looked at each other. + +“The whole thing is plain,” said they. + +“I have sent Bollot, my secretary, a very intelligent fellow, to find +out what he can,” continued Barras. + +He rang and a servant entered. + +“As soon as citizen Bollot returns,” said Barras, “ask him to come +here.” + +“He is just getting out of his carriage.” + +“Send him up! Send him up!” + +But Bollot was already at the door. + +“Well?” cried the three Directors. + +“Well, General Bonaparte, in full uniform, accompanied by Generals +Beurnonville, Macdonald and Moreau, are on their way to the Tuileries, +where ten thousand troops are awaiting them.” + +“Moreau! Moreau with him!” exclaimed Gohier. + +“On his right!” + +“I always told you that Moreau was a sneak, and nothing else!” cried +Moulins, with military roughness. + +“Are you still determined to resist, Barras?” asked Gohier. + +“Yes,” replied Barras. + +“Then dress yourself and join us in the council-room.” + +“Go,” said Barras, “I follow you.” + +The two Directors hastened to the council-room. After waiting ten +minutes Moulins said: “We should have waited for Barras; if Moreau is a +sneak, Barras is a knave.” + +Two hours later they were still waiting for Barras. + +Talleyrand and Bruix had been admitted to Barras’ bathroom just after +Gohier and Moulins had left it, and in talking with them Barras forgot +his appointment. + + +We will now see what was happening in the Rue de la Victoire. + +At seven o’clock, contrary to his usual custom, Bonaparte was up and +waiting in full uniform in his bedroom. Roland entered. Bonaparte was +perfectly calm; they were on the eve of a battle. + +“Has no one come yet, Roland?” he asked. + +“No, general,” replied the young man, “but I heard the roll of a +carriage just now.” + +“So did I,” replied Bonaparte. + +At that minute a servant announced: “The citizen Joseph Bonaparte, and +the citizen General Bernadotte.” + +Roland questioned Bonaparte with a glance; was he to go or stay? He +was to stay. Roland took his stand at the corner of a bookcase like a +sentinel at his post. + +“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Bonaparte, seeing that Bernadotte was still attired +in civilian’s clothes, “you seem to have a positive horror of the +uniform, general!” + +“Why the devil should I be in uniform at seven in the morning,” asked +Bernadotte, “when I am not in active service?” + +“You will be soon.” + +“But I am retired.” + +“Yes, but I recall you to active service.” + +“You?” + +“Yes, I.” + +“In the name of the Directory?” + +“Is there still a Directory?” + +“Still a Directory? What do you mean?” + +“Didn’t you see the troops drawn up in the streets leading to the +Tuileries as you came here?” + +“I saw them, and I was surprised.” + +“Those soldiers are mine.” + +“Excuse me,” said Bernadotte; “I thought they belonged to France.” + +“Oh, to France or to me; is it not all one?” + +“I was not aware of that,” replied Bernadotte, coldly. + +“Though you doubt it now, you will be certain of it tonight. Come, +Bernadotte, this is the vital moment; decide!” + +“General,” replied Bernadotte, “I am fortunate enough to be at this +moment a simple citizen; let me remain a simple citizen.” + +“Bernadotte, take care! He that is not for me is against me.” + +“General, pay attention to your words! You said just now, ‘Take care.’ +If that is a threat, you know very well that I do not fear them.” + +Bonaparte came up to him, and took him by both hands. + +“Oh, yes, I know that; that is why I must have you with me. I not only +esteem you, Bernadotte, but I love you. I leave you with Joseph; he is +your brother-in-law. Between brothers, devil take it, there should be no +quarrelling.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“In your character of Spartan you are a rigid observer of the laws, are +you not? Well, here is a decree issued by the Council of Five Hundred +last night, which confers upon me the immediate command of the troops in +Paris. So I was right,” he added, “when I told you that the soldiers you +met were mine, inasmuch as they are under my orders.” + +And he placed in Bernadotte’s hands the copy of the decree which had +been sent to him at six o’clock that morning. Bernadotte read it through +from the first line to the last. + +“To this,” said he, “I have nothing to object. Secure the safety of the +National Legislature, and all good citizens will be with you.” + +“Then be with me now.” + +“Permit me, general, to wait twenty-four hours to see how you fulfil +that mandate.” + +“Devil of a man!” cried Bonaparte. “Have your own way.” Then, taking him +by the arm, he dragged him a few steps apart from Joseph, and continued, +“Bernadotte, I want to play above-board with you.” + +“Why so,” retorted the latter, “since I am not on your side?” + +“Never mind. You are watching the game, and I want the lookers-on to see +that I am not cheating.” + +“Do you bind me to secrecy?” + +“No.” + +“That is well, for in that case I should have refused to listen to your +confidences.” + +“Oh! my confidences are not long! Your Directory is detested, your +Constitution is worn-out; you must make a clean sweep of both, and turn +the government in another direction. You don’t answer me.” + +“I am waiting to hear what you have to say.” + +“All I have to say is, Go put on your uniform. I can’t wait any longer +for you. Join me at the Tuileries among our comrades.” + +Bernadotte shook his head. + +“You think you can count on Moreau, Beurnonville, and Lefebvre,” resumed +Bonaparte. “Just look out of that window. Who do you see there, and +there? Moreau and Beurnonville. As for Lefebvre, I do not see him, but +I am certain I shall not go a hundred steps before meeting him. Now will +you decide?” + +“General,” replied Bernadotte, “I am not a man to be swayed by example, +least of all when that example is bad. Moreau, Beurnonville, and +Lefebvre may do as they wish. I shall do as I ought!” + +“So you definitively refuse to accompany me to the Tuileries?” + +“I do not wish to take part in a rebellion.” + +“A rebellion! A rebellion! Against whom? Against a parcel of imbeciles +who are pettifogging from morning till night in their hovels.” + +“These imbeciles, general, are for the moment the representatives of the +law. The Constitution protects them; they are sacred to me.” + +“At least promise me one thing, iron rod that you are.” + +“What is it?” + +“To keep quiet.” + +“I will keep quiet as a citizen, but--” + +“But what? Come, I made a clean breast of it to you; do you do +likewise.” + +“But if the Directory orders me to act, I shall march against the +agitators, whoever they may be.” + +“Ah! So you think I am ambitious?” asked Bonaparte. + +“I suspect as much,” retorted Bernadotte, smiling. + +“Faith,” said Bonaparte, “you don’t know me. I have had enough of +politics, and what I want is peace. Ah, my dear fellow! Malmaison and +fifty thousand a year, and I’d willingly resign all the rest. You don’t +believe me. Well, I invite you to come and see me there, three months +hence, and if you like pastorals, we’ll do one together. Now, au revoir! +I leave you with Joseph, and, in spite of your refusal, I shall expect +you at the Tuileries. Hark! Our friends are becoming impatient.” + +They were shouting: “Vive Bonaparte!” + +Bernadotte paled slightly. Bonaparte noticed this pallor. + +“Ah, ha,” he muttered. “Jealous! I was mistaken; he is not a Spartan, he +is an Athenian!” + +As Bonaparte had said, his friends were growing impatient. During the +hour that had elapsed since the decree had been posted, the salon, +the anterooms, and the courtyard had been crowded. The first person +Bonaparte met at the head of the staircase was his compatriot, Colonel +Sebastiani, then commanding the 9th Dragoons. + +“Ah! is that you, Sebastiani?” said Bonaparte. “Where are your men?” + +“In line along the Rue de la Victoire, general.” + +“Well disposed?” + +“Enthusiastic! I distributed among them ten thousand cartridges which I +had in store.” + +“Yes; but you had no right to draw those cartridges out without an order +from the commandant of Paris. Do you know that you have burned your +vessels, Sebastiani?” + +“Then take me into yours, general. I have faith in your fortunes.” + +“You mistake me for Cæsar, Sebastiani!” + +“Faith! I might make worse mistakes. Besides, down below in the +courtyard there are forty officers or more, of all classes, without pay, +whom the Directory has left in the most complete destitution for the +last year. You are their only hope, general; they are ready to die for +you.” + +“That’s right. Go to your regiment, and take leave of it.” + +“Take leave of it? What do you mean, general?” + +“I exchange it for a brigade. Go, go!” + +Sebastiani did not wait to be told twice. Bonaparte continued his way. +At the foot of the stairs he met Lefebvre. + +“Here I am, general!” said Lefebvre. + +“You? And where is the 17th military division?” + +“I am waiting for my appointment to bring it into action.” + +“Haven’t you received your appointment?” + +“From the Directory, yes. But as I am not a traitor, I have just sent in +my resignation, so that they may know I am not to be counted on.” + +“And you have come for me to appoint you, so that I may count on you, is +that it?” + +“Exactly.” + +“Quick, Roland, a blank commission; fill in the general’s name, so that +I shall only have to put my name to it. I’ll sign it on the pommel of my +saddle.” + +“That’s the true sort,” said Lefebvre. + +“Roland.” + +The young man, who had already started obediently, came back to the +general. + +“Fetch me that pair of double-barrelled pistols on my mantel-piece at +the same time,” said Bonaparte, in a low tone. “One never knows what may +happen.” + +“Yes, general,” said Roland; “besides, I shan’t leave you.” + +“Unless I send you to be killed elsewhere.” + +“True,” replied the young man, hastening away to fulfil his double +errand. + +Bonaparte was continuing on his way when he noticed a shadow in the +corridor. He recognized Josephine, and ran to her. + +“Good God!” cried she, “is there so much danger?” + +“What makes you think that?” + +“I overheard the order you gave Roland.” + +“Serves you right for listening at doors. How about Gohier?” + +“He hasn’t come.” + +“Nor his wife?” + +“She is here.” + +Bonaparte pushed Josephine aside with his hand and entered the salon. He +found Madame Gohier alone and very pale. + +“What!” said he, without any preamble, “isn’t the President coming?” + +“He was unable to do so, general,” replied Madame Gohier. + +Bonaparte repressed a movement of impatience. “He absolutely must come,” + said he. “Write him that I await him, and I will have the note sent.” + +“Thank you, general,” replied Madame Gohier; “my servants are here, and +they can attend to that.” + +“Write, my dear friend, write,” said Josephine, offering her paper and +pen and ink. + +Bonaparte stood so that he could see over her shoulder what she wrote. +Madame Gohier looked fixedly at him, and he drew back with a bow. She +wrote the note, folded it, and looked about her for the sealing-wax; +but, whether by accident or intention, there was none. Sealing the note +with a wafer, she rang the bell. A servant came. + +“Give this note to Comtois,” said Madame Gohier, “and bid him take it to +the Luxembourg at once.” + +Bonaparte followed the servant, or rather the letter, with his eyes +until the door closed. Then, turning to Madame Gohier, he said: “I +regret that I am unable to breakfast with you. But if the President has +business to attend to, so have I. You must breakfast with my wife. Good +appetite to you both.” + +And he went out. At the door he met Roland. + +“Here is the commission, general,” said the young man, “and a pen.” + +Bonaparte took the pen, and using the back of his aide-de-camp’s hat, he +signed the commission. Roland gave him the pistols. + +“Did you look; to them?” asked Bonaparte. + +Roland smiled. “Don’t be uneasy,” said he; “I’ll answer for them.” + +Bonaparte slipped the pistols in his belt, murmuring as he did so: “I +wish I knew what she wrote her husband.” + +“I can tell you, word for word, what she wrote, general,” said a voice +close by. + +“You, Bourrienne?” + +“Yes. She wrote: ‘You did right not to come, my dear; all that is +happening here convinces me that the invitation was only a snare. I will +rejoin you shortly.’” + +“You unsealed the letter?” + +“General, Sextus Pompey gave a dinner on his galley to Antony and +Lepidus. His freedman said to him: ‘Shall I make you emperor of the +world?’ ‘How can you do it?’ ‘Easily. I will cut the cable of your +galley, and Antony and Lepidus are prisoners.’ ‘You should have done so +without telling me,’ replied Sextus. ‘Now I charge you on your life not +to do it.’ I remembered those words, general: ‘_You should have done so +without telling me_.’” + +Bonaparte thought an instant; then he said: “You are mistaken; it was +Octavius and not Antony who was on Sextus’ galley with Lepidus.” And he +went on his way to the courtyard, confining his blame to the historical +blunder. + +Hardly had the general appeared on the portico than cries of “Vive +Bonaparte!” echoed through the courtyard into the street, where they +were taken up by the dragoons drawn up in line before the gate. + +“That’s a good omen, general,” said Roland. + +“Yes. Give Lefebvre his commission at once; and if he has no horse, +let him take one of mine. Tell him to meet me in the court of the +Tuileries.” + +“His division is already there.” + +“All the more reason.” + +Glancing about him, Bonaparte saw Moreau and Beurnonville, who were +waiting for him, their horses held by orderlies. He saluted them with +a wave of his hand, already that of a master rather than that of a +comrade. Then, perceiving General Debel out of uniform, he went down the +steps and approached him. + +“Why are you in civilian’s dress?” he asked. + +“General, I was not notified. I chanced to be passing along the street, +and, seeing the crowd before your house, I came in, fearing you might be +in danger.” + +“Go and put on your uniform quickly.” + +“But I live the other side of Paris; it would take too long.” But, +nevertheless, he made as if to retire. + +“What are you going to do?” + +“Don’t be alarmed, general.” + +Debel had noticed an artilleryman on horseback who was about his size. + +“Friend,” said he, “I am General Debel. By order of General Bonaparte +lend me your uniform and your horse, and I’ll give you furlough for +the day. Here’s a louis to drink the health of the commander-in-chief. +To-morrow, come to my house for your horse and uniform. I live in the +Rue Cherche-Midi, No. 11.” + +“Will nothing be done to me?” + +“Yes, you shall be made a corporal.” + +“Good!” said the artilleryman; and he quickly handed over his uniform +and horse to General Debel. + +In the meantime, Bonaparte heard talking above him. He raised his head +and saw Joseph and Bernadotte at a window. + +“Once more, general,” he said to Bernadotte, “will you come with me?” + +“No,” said the latter, firmly. Then, lowering his tone, he continued: +“You told me just now to take care.” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I say to you, take care.” + +“Of what?” + +“You are going to the Tuileries?” + +“Of course.” + +“The Tuileries are very near the Place de la Révolution.” + +“Pooh!” retorted Bonaparte, “the guillotine has been moved to the +Barrière du Trône.” + +“Never mind. The brewer Santerre still controls the Faubourg +Saint-Antoine, and Santerre is Moulins’ friend.” + +“Santerre has been warned that at the first inimical movement he +attempts I will have him shot. Will you come?” + +“No.” + +“As you please. You are separating your fortunes from mine; I do not +separate mine from yours.” Then, calling to his orderly, he said: “My +horse!” + +They brought his horse. Seeing an artillery private near him, he said: +“What are you doing among the epaulets?” + +The artilleryman began to laugh. + +“Don’t you recognize me, general?” he asked. + +“Faith, it’s Debel! Where did you get that horse and the uniform?” + +“From that artilleryman you see standing there in his shirt. It will +cost you a corporal’s commission.” + +“You are wrong, Debel,” said Bonaparte; “it will cost me two +commissions, one for the corporal, and one for the general of division. +Forward, march, gentlemen! We are going to the Tuileries.” + +And, bending forward on his horse, as he usually did, his left hand +holding a slack rein, his right resting on his hip, with bent head +and dreamy eyes, he made his first steps along that incline, at once +glorious and fatal, which was to lead him to a throne--and to St. +Helena. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE + +On entering the Rue de la Victoire, Bonaparte found Sebastiani’s +dragoons drawn up in line of battle. He wished to address them, but they +interrupted him at the first words, shouting: “We want no explanations. +We know that you seek only the good of the Republic. Vive Bonaparte!” + +The cortège followed the streets which led from the Rue de la Victoire +to the Tuileries, amid the cries of “Vive Bonaparte!” + +General Lefebvre, according to promise, was waiting at the palace gates. +Bonaparte, on his arrival at the Tuileries, was hailed with the same +cheers that had accompanied him. Once there, he raised his head and +shook it. Perhaps this cry of “Vive Bonaparte!” did not satisfy him. Was +he already dreaming of “Vive Napoleon?” + +He advanced in front of the troop, surrounded by his staff, and read +the decree of the Five Hundred, which transferred the sessions of the +Legislature to Saint-Cloud and gave him the command of the armed forces. + +Then, either from memory, or offhand--Bonaparte never admitted any +one to such secrets--instead of the proclamation he had dictated to +Bourrienne two days earlier, he pronounced these words: + +“Soldiers--The Council of Ancients has given me the command of the city +and the army. + +“I have accepted it, to second the measures to be adopted for the good +of the people. + +“The Republic has been ill governed for two years. You have hoped for my +return to put an end to many evils. You celebrated it with a unanimity +which imposes obligations that I now fulfil. Fulfil yours, and second +your general with the vigor, firmness and strength I have always found +in you. + +“Liberty, victory, and peace will restore the French Republic to the +rank it occupied in Europe, which ineptitude and treason alone caused +her to lose!” + +The soldiers applauded frantically. It was a declaration of war against +the Directory, and soldiers will always applaud a declaration of war. + +The general dismounted, amid shouts and bravos, and entered the +Tuileries. It was the second time he had crossed the threshold of this +palace of the Valois, whose arches had so ill-sheltered the crown +and head of the last Bourbon who had reigned there. Beside him walked +citizen Roederer. Bonaparte started as he recognized him, and said: + +“Ah! citizen Roederer, you were here on the morning of August 10.” + +“Yes, general,” replied the future Count of the Empire. + +“It was you who advised Louis XVI. to go before the National Assembly.” + +“Yes.” + +“Bad advice, citizen Roederer! I should not have followed it.” + +“We advise men according to what we know of them. I would not give +General Bonaparte the same advice I gave King Louis XVI. When a king has +the fact of his flight to Varennes and the 20th of June behind him, it +is difficult to save him.” + +As Roederer said these words, they reached a window opening on the +garden of the Tuileries. Bonaparte stopped, and, seizing Roederer by +the arm, he said: “On the 20th of June I was there,” pointing with his +finger to the terrace by the water, “behind the third linden. Through +the open window I could see the poor king, with the red cap on his head. +It was a piteous sight; I pitied him.” + +“What did you do?” + +“Nothing, I could do nothing; I was only a lieutenant of artillery. +But I longed to go in like the others, and whisper: ‘Sire, give me four +cannon, and I’ll sweep the whole rabble out.’” + +What would have happened if Lieutenant Bonaparte had followed his +impulse, obtained what he wanted from Louis XVI., and _swept the rabble +out_, that is to say the people of Paris? Had his cannon made a +clean sweep on June 20th, would he have had to make another the 13th +Vendemiaire for the benefit of the Convention? + +While the ex-Syndic; who had grown grave, was outlining in his mind +the opening pages of his future “History of the Consulate,” Bonaparte +presented himself at the bar of the Council of the Ancients, followed +by his staff, and by all those who chose to do likewise. When the tumult +caused by this influx of people had subsided, the president read over +the decree which invested Bonaparte with the military power. Then, after +requesting him to take the oath, the president added: + +“He who has never promised his country a victory which he did not +win, cannot fail to keep religiously his new promise to serve her +faithfully.” + +Bonaparte stretched forth his hand and said solemnly: + +“I swear it!” + +All the generals repeated after him, each for himself: + +“I swear it!” + +The last one had scarcely finished, when Bonaparte recognized Barras’ +secretary, that same Bollot of whom Barras had spoken that morning +to his two colleagues. He had come there solely to give his patron an +account of all that was happening there, but Bonaparte fancied he was +sent on some secret mission by Barras. He resolved to spare him the +first advance, and went straight to him, saying: + +“Have you come on behalf of the Directors?” Then, without giving him +time to answer, he continued: “What have they done with that France I +left so brilliant? I left peace; I find war. I left victories; I find +reverses. I left the millions of Italy, and I find spoliation and +penury. What have become of the hundred thousand Frenchmen whom I knew +by name? They are dead!” + +It was not precisely to Barras’ secretary that these words should have +been said; but Bonaparte wished to say them, needed to say them, and +little he cared to whom he said them. Perhaps even, from his point of +view, it was better to say them to some one who could not answer him. At +that moment Sièyes rose. + +“Citizens,” said he, “the Directors Moulins and Gohier ask to be +admitted.” + +“They are no longer Directors,” said Bonaparte, “for there is no longer +a Directory.” + +“But,” objected Sièyes, “they have not yet sent in their resignation.” + +“Then admit them and let them give it,” retorted Bonaparte. + +Moulins and Gohier entered. They were pale but calm. They knew they came +to force a struggle, but behind their resistance may have loomed the +Sinnamary. The exiles they sent there the 18th of Fructidor pointed the +way. + +“I see with satisfaction,” Bonaparte hastened to say, “that you have +yielded to our wishes and those of your two colleagues.” + +Gohier made a step forward and said firmly: “We yield neither to your +wishes, nor to those of our two colleagues, who are no longer our +colleagues, since they have resigned, but to the Law. It requires that +the decree transferring the legislative body to Saint-Cloud shall be +proclaimed without delay. We have come here to fulfil the duty which the +law imposes on us, fully determined to defend it against all factious +persons, whoever they may be, who attempt to attack it.” + +“Your zeal does not astonish us,” replied Bonaparte; “and because you +are a man who loves his country you will unite with us.” + +“Unite with you! And why?” + +“To save the Republic.” + +“To save the Republic! There was a time, general, when you had the honor +to be its prop. But to-day the glory of saving it is reserved for us.” + +“You save it!” retorted Bonaparte. “How will you do that? With the means +your Constitution gives you? Why, that Constitution is crumbling on all +sides, and even if I did not topple it over, it could not last eight +days.” + +“Ah!” cried Moulins, “at last you avow your hostile intentions.” + +“My intentions are not hostile!” shouted Bonaparte, striking the floor +with the heel of his boot. “The Republic is in peril; it must be saved, +and I shall do it.” + +“You do it?” cried Gohier. “It seems to me it is for the Directory, not +you, to say, ‘I shall do it!’” + +“There is no longer a Directory.” + +“I did indeed hear that you said so just a moment before we came in.” + +“There is no longer a Directory, now that Sièyes and Ducos have +resigned.” + +“You are mistaken. So long as there are three Directors, the Directory +still exists. Neither Moulins, Barras nor myself, have handed in our +resignations.” + +At that moment a paper was slipped in Bonaparte’s hand, and a voice said +in his ear: “Read it.” He did so; then said aloud: “You, yourself, are +mistaken. Barras has resigned, for here is his resignation. The law +requires three Directors to make a Directory. You are but two, and, as +you said just now, whoever resists the law is a rebel.” Then handing +the paper to the president, he continued: “Add the citizen Barras’ +resignation to that of citizens Sièyes and Ducos, and proclaim the fall +of the Directory. I will announce it to my soldiers.” + +Moulins and Gohier were confounded. Barras’ resignation sapped the +foundations of all their plans. Bonaparte had nothing further to do at +the Council of Ancients, but there still remained much to be done in +the court of the Tuileries. He went down, followed by those who had +accompanied him up. His soldiers no sooner caught sight, of him than +they burst into shouts of “Vive Bonaparte!” more noisily and more +eagerly than ever. He sprang into his saddle and made them a sign that +he wished to speak to them. Ten thousand voices that had burst into +cries were hushed in a moment. Silence fell as if by enchantment. + +“Soldiers,” said Bonaparte, in a voice so loud that all could hear it, +“your comrades in arms on the frontiers are denuded of the necessaries +of life. The people are miserable. The authors of these evils are the +factious men against whom I have assembled you to-day. I hope before +long to lead you to victory; but first we must deprive those who would +stand in the way of public order and general prosperity of their power +to do harm.” + +Whether it was weariness of the government of the Directory, or the +fascination exercised by the magic being who called them to victory--so +long forgotten in his absence--shouts of enthusiasm arose, and like a +train of burning powder spread from the Tuileries to the Carrousel, +from the Carrousel to the adjacent streets. Bonaparte profited by this +movement. Turning to Moreau, he said: + +“General, I will give you proof of the immense confidence I have in you. +Bernadotte, whom I left at my house, and who refused to follow us, had +the audacity to tell me that if he received orders from the Directory he +should execute them against whosoever the agitators might be. General, +I confide to you the guardianship of the Luxembourg. The tranquillity of +Paris and the welfare of the Republic are in your hands.” + +And without waiting for a reply he put his horse to a gallop, and rode +off to the opposite end of the line. + +Moreau, led by military ambition, had consented to play a part in this +great drama; he was now forced to accept that which the author assigned +him. On returning to the Louvre, Gohier and Moulins found nothing +changed apparently. All the sentries were at their posts. They retired +to one of the salons of the presidency to consult together. But they had +scarcely begun their conference, when General Jubé, the commandant of +the Luxembourg, received orders to join Bonaparte at the Tuileries with +the guard of the Directory. Their places were filled by Moreau and +a portion of the soldiers who had been electrified by Bonaparte. +Nevertheless the two Directors drew up a message for the Council of the +Five Hundred, in which they protested energetically against what had +been done. When this was finished Gohier handed it to his secretary, and +Moulins, half dead with exhaustion, returned to his apartments to take +some food. + +It was then about four o’clock in the afternoon. An instant later +Gohier’s secretary returned in great perturbation. + +“Well,” said Gohier, “why have you not gone?” + +“Citizen president,” replied the young man, “we are prisoners in the +palace.” + +“Prisoners? What do you mean?” + +“The guard has been changed, and General Jubé is no longer in command.” + +“Who has replaced him?” + +“I think some one said General Moreau.” + +“Moreau? Impossible! And that coward, Barras, where is he?” + +“He has started for his country-place at Grosbois.” + +“Ah! I must see Moulins!” cried Gohier, rushing to the door. But at the +entrance he found a sentry who barred the door. Gohier insisted. + +“No one can pass,” said the sentry. + +“What! not pass?” + +“No.” + +“But I am President Gohier!” + +“No one can pass,” said the sentry; “that is the order.” + +Gohier saw it would be useless to say more; force would be impossible. +He returned to his own rooms. + +In the meantime, General Moreau had gone to see Moulins; he wished to +justify himself. Without listening to a word the ex-Director turned his +back on him, and, as Moreau insisted, he said: “General, go into the +ante-chamber. That is the place for jailers.” + +Moreau bowed his head, and understood for the first time into what a +fatal trap his honor had fallen. + +At five o’clock, Bonaparte started to return to the Rue de la Victoire; +all the generals and superior officers in Paris accompanied him. The +blindest, those who had not understood the 13th Vendemiaire, those who +had not yet understood the return from Egypt, now saw, blazing over +the Tuileries, the star of his future, and as everybody could not be a +planet, each sought to become a satellite. + +The shouts of “Vive Bonaparte!” which came from the lower part of the +Rue du Mont Blanc, and swept like a sonorous wave toward the Rue de la +Victoire, told Josephine of her husband’s return. The impressionable +Creole had awaited him anxiously. She sprang to meet him in such +agitation that she was unable to utter a single word. + +“Come, come!” said Bonaparte, becoming the kindly man he was in his own +home, “calm yourself. We have done to-day all that could be done.” + +“Is it all over?” + +“Oh, no!” replied Bonaparte. + +“Must it be done all over again to-morrow?” + +“Yes, but to-morrow it will be merely a formality.” + +That formality was rather rough; but every one knows of the events at +Saint-Cloud. We will, therefore, dispense with relating them, and turn +at once to the result, impatient as we are to get back to the real +subject of our drama, from which the grand historical figure we have +introduced diverted us for an instant. + +One word more. The 20th Brumaire, at one o’clock in the morning, +Bonaparte was appointed First Consul for ten years. He himself selected +Cambacérès and Lebrun as his associates under the title of Second +Consuls, being firmly resolved this time to concentrate in his own +person, not only all the functions of the two consuls, but those of the +ministers. + +The 20th Brumaire he slept at the Luxembourg in president Gohier’s bed, +the latter having been liberated with his colleague Moulins. + +Roland was made governor of the Luxembourg. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. AN IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION + +Some time after this military revolution, which created a great stir in +Europe, convulsing the Continent for a time, as a tempest convulses +the ocean--some time after, we say, on the morning of the 30th Nivoise, +better and more clearly known to our readers as the 20th of January, +1800, Roland, in looking over the voluminous correspondence which his +new office entailed upon him, found, among fifty other letters asking +for an audience, the following: + + MONSIEUR THE GOVERNOR-I know your loyalty to your word, and you + will see that I rely on it. I wish to speak to you for five + minutes, during which I must remain masked. + + I have a request to make to you. This request you will grant or + deny. In either case, as I shall have entered the Palace of the + Luxembourg in the interest o£ the First Consul, Bonaparte, and + the royalist party to which I belong, I shall ask for your word + of honor that I be allowed to leave it as freely as you allow + me to enter. + + If to-morrow, at seven in the evening, I see a solitary light + in the window over the clock, I shall know that Colonel Roland + de Montrevel has pledged me his word of honor, and I shall boldly + present myself at the little door of the left wing of the palace, + opening on the garden. I shall strike three blows at intervals, + after the manner of the free-masons. + + In order that you may know to whom you engage or refuse your word, + I sign a name which is known to you, that name having been, under + circumstances you have probably not forgotten, pronounced before + you. + + MORGAN, + Chief of the Companions of Jehu. + +Roland read the letter twice, thought it over for a few moments, then +rose suddenly, and, entering the First Consul’s study, handed it to him +silently. The latter read it without betraying the slightest emotion, +or even surprise; then, with a laconism that was wholly Lacedæmonian, he +said: “Place the light.” + +Then he gave the letter back to Roland. + +The next evening, at seven o’clock, the light shone in the window, +and at five minutes past the hour, Roland in person was waiting at the +little door of the garden. He had scarcely been there a moment when +three blows were struck on the door after the manner of the free-masons; +first two strokes and then one. + +The door was opened immediately. A man wrapped in a cloak was sharply +defined against the grayish atmosphere of the wintry night. As for +Roland, he was completely hidden in shadow. Seeing no one, the man in +the cloak remained motionless for a second. + +“Come in,” said Roland. + +“Ah! it is you, colonel!” + +“How do you know it is I?” asked Roland. + +“I recognize your voice.” + +“My voice! But during those few moments we were together in the +dining-room at Avignon I did not say a word.” + +“Then I must have heard it elsewhere.” + +Roland wondered where the Chief of the Companions of Jehu could have +heard his voice, but the other said gayly: “Is the fact that I know your +voice any reason why we should stand at the door?” + +“No, indeed,” replied Roland; “take the lapel of my coat and follow me. +I purposely forbade any lights being placed in the stairs and hall which +lead to my room.” + +“I am much obliged for the intention. But on your word I would cross the +palace from one end to the other, though it were lighted _à giorno_, as +the Italians say.” + +“You have my word,” replied Roland, “so follow me without fear.” + +Morgan needed no encouragement; he followed his guide fearlessly. At +the head of the stairs Roland turned down a corridor equally dark, went +twenty steps, opened a door, and entered his own room. Morgan followed +him. The room was lighted by two wax candles only. Once there, Morgan +took off his cloak and laid his pistols on the table. + +“What are you doing?” asked Roland. + +“Faith! with your permission,” replied Morgan, gayly, “I am making +myself comfortable.” + +“But those pistols you have just laid aside--” + +“Ah! did you think I brought them for you?” + +“For whom then?” + +“Why, that damned police! You can readily imagine that I am not disposed +to let citizen Fouché lay hold of me, without burning the mustache of +the first of his minions who lays hands on me.” + +“But once here you feel you have nothing to fear?” + +“The deuce!” exclaimed the young man; “I have your word.” + +“Then why don’t you unmask?” + +“Because my face only half belongs to me; the other half belongs to my +companions. Who knows if one of us being recognized might not drag the +others to the guillotine? For of course you know, colonel, we don’t hide +from ourselves that that is the price of our game!” + +“Then why risk it?” + +“Ah! what a question. Why do you venture on the field of battle, where a +bullet may plow through your breast or a cannon-ball lop off your head?” + +“Permit me to say that that is different. On the battlefield I risk an +honorable death.” + +“Ah! do you suppose that on the day I get my head cut off by the +revolutionary triangle I shall think myself dishonored? Not the least in +the world. I am a soldier like you, only we can’t all serve our cause in +the same way. Every religion has its heroes and its martyrs; happy the +heroes in this world, and happy the martyrs in the next.” + +The young man uttered these words with a conviction which moved, or +rather astonished, Roland. + +“But,” continued Morgan, abandoning his enthusiasm to revert to the +gayety which seemed the distinctive trait of his character, “I did not +come here to talk political philosophy. I came to ask you to let me +speak to the First Consul.” + +“What! speak to the First Consul?” exclaimed Roland. + +“Of course. Read my letter over; did I not tell you that I had a request +to make?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, that request is to let me speak to General Bonaparte.” + +“But permit me to say that as I did not expect that request--” + +“It surprises you; makes you uneasy even. My dear colonel, if you don’t +believe my word, you can search me from head to foot, and you will find +that those pistols are my only weapons. And I haven’t even got them, +since there they are on your table. Better still, take one in each hand, +post yourself between the First Consul and me, and blowout my brains at +the first suspicious move I make. Will that suit you?” + +“But will you assure me, if I disturb the First Consul and ask him to +see you, that your communication is worth the trouble?” + +“Oh! I’ll answer for that,” said Morgan. Then, in his joyous tones, +he added: “I am for the moment the ambassador of a crowned, or rather +discrowned, head, which makes it no less reverenced by noble hearts. +Moreover, Monsieur Roland, I shall take up very little of your general’s +time; the moment the conversation seems too long, he can dismiss me. And +I assure you he will not have to say the word twice.” + +Roland was silent and thoughtful for a moment. + +“And it is to the First Consul only that you can make this +communication?” + +“To the First Consul only, as he alone can answer me.” + +“Very well. Wait until I take his orders.” + +Roland made a step toward the general’s room; then he paused and cast an +uneasy look at a mass of papers piled on his table. Morgan intercepted +this look. + +“What!” he said, “you are afraid I shall read those papers in your +absence? If you only knew how I detest reading! If my death-warrant lay +on that table, I wouldn’t take the trouble to read it. I should consider +that the clerk’s business. And every one to his own task. Monsieur +Roland, my feet are cold, and I will sit here in your easy-chair and +warm them. I shall not stir till you return.” + +“Very good, monsieur,” said Roland, and he went to the First Consul. + +Bonaparte was talking with General Hedouville, commanding the troops of +the Vendée. Hearing the door open, he turned impatiently. + +“I told Bourrienne I would not see any one.” + +“So he told me as I came in, but I told him that I was not any one.” + +“True. What do you want? Be quick.” + +“He is in my room.” + +“Who?” + +“The man of Avignon.” + +“Ah, ha! And what does he want?” + +“To see you.” + +“To see me?” + +“Yes, you, general. Does that surprise you?” + +“No. But what can he want to say to me?” + +“He refused obstinately to tell me. But I dare answer for it that he is +neither importunate nor a fool.” + +“No, but he may be an assassin.” + +Roland shook his head. + +“Of course, since you introduce him--” + +“Moreover, he is willing that I should be present at the conference and +stand between you and him.” + +Bonaparte reflected an instant. + +“Bring him in,” he said. + +“You know, general, that except me--” + +“Yes, General Hedouville will be so kind as to wait a second. Our +conversation is of a nature that is not exhausted in one interview. Go, +Roland.” + +Roland left the room, crossed Bourrienne’s office, reentered his own +room, and found Morgan, as he had said, warming his feet. + +“Come, the First Consul is waiting for you,” said the young man. + +Morgan rose and followed Roland. When they entered Bonaparte’s study the +latter was alone. He cast a rapid glance on the chief of the Companions +of Jehu, and felt no doubt that he was the same man he had seen at +Avignon. + +Morgan had paused a few steps from the door, and was looking curiously +at Bonaparte, convincing himself that he was the man he had seen at the +table d’hôte the day he attempted the perilous restoration of the two +hundred louis stolen by an oversight from Jean Picot. + +“Come nearer,” said the First Consul. + +Morgan bowed and made three steps forward. Bonaparte partly returned the +bow with a slight motion of the head. + +“You told my aide-de-camp, Colonel Roland, that you had a communication +to make me.” + +“Yes, citizen First Consul.” + +“Does that communication require a private interview?” + +“No, citizen First Consul, although it is of such importance--” + +“You would prefer to be alone.” + +“Beyond doubt. But prudence--” + +“The most prudent thing in France, citizen Morgan, is courage.” + +“My presence here, general, proves that I agree with you perfectly.” + +Bonaparte turned to the young colonel. + +“Leave us alone, Roland,” said he. + +“But, general--” objected Roland. + +Bonaparte went up to him and said in a low voice: “I see what it is. You +are curious to know what this mysterious cavalier of the highroad has to +say to me. Don’t worry; you shall know.” + +“That’s not it. But suppose, as you said just now, he is an assassin.” + +“Didn’t you declare he was not. Come, don’t be a baby; leave us.” + +Roland went out. + +“Now that we are alone, sir,” said the First Consul, “speak!” + +Morgan, without answering, drew a letter from his pocket and gave it +to the general. Bonaparte examined it. It was addressed to him, and the +seal bore the three fleurs-de-lis of France. + +“Oh!” he said, “what is this, sir?” + +“Read it, citizen First Consul.” + +Bonaparte opened the letter and looked at the signature: “Louis,” he +said. + +“Louis,” repeated Morgan. + +“What Louis?” + +“Louis de Bourbon, I presume.” + +“Monsieur le Comte de Provençe, brother of Louis XVI.” + +“Consequently Louis XVIII., since his nephew, the Dauphin, is dead.” + +Bonaparte looked at the stranger again. It was evident that Morgan was a +pseudonym, assumed to hide his real name. Then, turning his eyes on the +letter, he read: + + January 3, 1800. + + Whatever may be their apparent conduct, monsieur, men like you + never inspire distrust. You have accepted an exalted post, and + I thank you for so doing. You know, better than others, that + force and power are needed to make the happiness of a great + nation. Save France from her own madness, and you will fulfil + the desire of my heart; restore her king, and future generations + will bless your memory. If you doubt my gratitude, choose your + own place, determine the future of your friends. As for my + principles, I am a Frenchman, clement by nature, still more so + by judgment. No! the conqueror of Lodi, Castiglione and Arcola, + the conqueror of Italy and Egypt, cannot prefer an empty + celebrity to fame. Lose no more precious time. We can secure + the glory of France. I say we, because I have need of Bonaparte + for that which he cannot achieve without me. General, the eyes + of Europe are upon you, glory awaits you, and I am eager to + restore my people to happiness. + + LOUIS. + +Bonaparte turned to the young man, who stood erect, motionless and +silent as a statue. + +“Do you know the contents of this letter?” he asked. + +The young man bowed. “Yes, citizen First Consul.” + +“It was sealed, however.” + +“It was sent unsealed under cover to the person who intrusted it to +me. And before doing so he made me read it, that I might know its full +importance.” + +“Can I know the name of the person who intrusted it to you?” + +“Georges Cadoudal.” + +Bonaparte started slightly. + +“Do you know Georges Cadoudal?” he asked. + +“He is my friend.” + +“Why did he intrust it to you rather than to another?” + +“Because he knew that in telling me to deliver the letter to you with my +own hand it would be done.” + +“You have certainly kept your promise, sir.” + +“Not altogether yet, citizen First Consul.” + +“How do you mean? Haven’t you delivered it to me?” + +“Yes, but I promised to bring back an answer.” + +“But if I tell you I will not give one.” + +“You will have answered; not precisely as I could have wished, but it +will be an answer.” + +Bonaparte reflected for a few moments. Then shaking his shoulders to rid +himself of his thoughts, he said: “They are fools.” + +“Who, citizen?” asked Morgan. + +“Those who write me such letters--fools, arch fools. Do they take me for +a man who patterns his conduct by the past? Play Monk! What good would +it do? Bring back another Charles II.? No, faith, it is not worth while. +When a man has Toulon, the 13th Vendemiaire, Lodi, Castiglione, Arcola, +Rivoli and the Pyramids behind him, he’s no Monk. He has the right to +aspire to more than a duchy of Albemarle, and the command by land and +sea of the forces of his Majesty King Louis XVIII.” + +“For that reason you are asked to make your own conditions, citizen +First Consul.” + +Bonaparte started at the sound of that voice as if he had forgotten that +any one was present. + +“Not counting,” he went on, “that it is a ruined family, a dead branch +of a rotten trunk. The Bourbons have so intermarried with one another +that the race is depraved; Louis XIV. exhausted all its sap, all its +vigor.--You know history, sir?” asked Bonaparte, turning to the young +man. + +“Yes, general,” he replied; “at least as well as a _ci-devant_ can know +it.” + +“Well, you must have observed in history, especially in that of France, +that each race has its point of departure, its culmination, and its +decadence. Look at the direct line of the Capets; starting from Hugues +Capet, they attained their highest grandeur in Philippe Auguste and +Louis XI., and fell with Philippe V. and Charles IV. Take the Valois; +starting with Philippe VI., they culminated in François I. and fell with +Charles IX. and Henry III. See the Bourbons; starting with Henry IV., +they have their culminating point in Louis XIV. and fall with Louis +XV. and Louis XVI.--only they fall lower than the others; lower in +debauchery with Louis XV., lower in misfortune with Louis XVI. You talk +to me of the Stuarts, and show me the example of Monk. Will you tell me +who succeeded Charles II.? James II. And who to James II.? William of +Orange, a usurper. Would it not have been better, I ask you, if Monk +had put the crown on his own head? Well, if I was fool enough to restore +Louis XVIII. to the throne, like Charles II. he would have no children, +and, like James II., his brother Charles X. would succeed him, and like +him would be driven out by some William of Orange. No, no! God has not +put the destiny of this great and glorious country we call France into +my hands that I should cast it back to those who have gambled with it +and lost it.” + +“Permit me, general, to remark that I did not ask you for all this.” + +“But I, I ask you--” + +“I think you are doing me the honor to take me for posterity.” + +Bonaparte started, turned round, saw to whom he was speaking, and was +silent. + +“I only want,” said Morgan, with a dignity which surprised the man whom +he addressed, “a yes or a no.” + +“And why do you want that?” + +“To know whether we must continue to war against you as an enemy, or +fall at your feet as a savior.” + +“War,” said Bonaparte, “war! Madmen, they who war with me! Do they not +see that I am the elect of God?” + +“Attila said the same thing.” + +“Yes; but he was the elect of destruction; I, of the new era. The grass +withered where he stepped; the harvest will ripen where I pass the plow. +War? Tell me what has become of those who have made it against me? They +lie upon the plains of Piedmont, of Lombardy and Cairo!” + +“You forget the Vendée; the Vendée is still afoot.” + +“Afoot, yes! but her leaders? Cathelineau, Lescure, La Rochejaquelin, +d’Elbée, Bonchamps, Stoffiet, Charette?” + +“You are speaking of men only; the men have been mown down, it is true; +but the principle is still afoot, and for it are fighting Autichamp, +Suzannet, Grignon, Frotté, Châtillon, Cadoudal. The younger may not be +worth the elder, but if they die as their elders died, what more can you +ask?” + +“Let them beware! If I determine upon a campaign against the Vendée I +shall send neither Santerre nor Rossignol!” + +“The Convention sent Kléber, and the Directory, Hoche!” + +“I shall not send; I shall go myself.” + +“Nothing worse can happen to them than to be killed like Lescure, or +shot like Charette.” + +“It may happen that I pardon them.” + +“Cato taught us how to escape the pardon of Cæsar.” + +“Take care; you are quoting a Republican!” + +“Cato was one of those men whose example can be followed, no matter to +what party they belong.” + +“And suppose I were to tell you that I hold the Vendée in the hollow of +my hand?” + +“You!” + +“And that within three months, she will lay down her arms if I choose?” + +The young man shook his head. + +“You don’t believe me?” + +“I hesitate to believe you.” + +“If I affirm to you that what I say is true; if I prove it by telling +you the means, or rather the men, by whom I shall bring this about?” + +“If a man like General Bonaparte affirms a thing, I shall believe it; +and if that thing is the pacification of the Vendée, I shall say in my +turn: ‘Beware! Better the Vendée fighting than the Vendée conspiring. +The Vendée fighting means the sword, the Vendée conspiring means the +dagger.’” + +“Oh! I know your dagger,” said Bonaparte. “Here it is.” + +And he drew from a drawer the dagger he had taken from Roland and laid +it on the table within reach of Morgan’s hand. + +“But,” he added, “there is some distance between Bonaparte’s breast and +an assassin’s dagger. Try.” + +And he advanced to the young man with a flaming eye. + +“I did not come here to assassinate you,” said the young man, coldly. +“Later, if I consider your death indispensable to the cause, I shall do +all in my power, and if I fail it will not be because you are Marius +and I the Cimbrian. Have you anything else to say to me, citizen First +Consul?” concluded the young man, bowing. + +“Yes. Tell Cadoudal that when he is ready to fight the enemy, instead +of Frenchmen, I have a colonel’s commission ready signed in my desk for +him.” + +“Cadoudal commands, not a regiment, but an army. You were unwilling to +retrograde from Bonaparte to Monk; why should you expect him to descend +from general to colonel? Have you nothing else to say to me, citizen +First Consul?” + +“Yes. Have you any way of transmitting my reply to the Comte de +Provençe?” + +“You mean King Louis XVIII.?” + +“Don’t let us quibble over words. To him who wrote to me.” + +“His envoy is now at the camp at Aubiers.” + +“Well, I have changed my mind; I shall send him an answer. These +Bourbons are so blind that this one would misinterpret my silence.” + +And Bonaparte, sitting down at his desk, wrote the following letter with +a care that showed he wished to make it legible: + + I have received your letter, monsieur. I thank you for the good + opinion you express in it of me. You must not wish for your return + to France; it could only be over a hundred thousand dead bodies. + Sacrifice your own interests to the repose and welfare of France. + History will applaud you. I am not insensible to the misfortunes of + your family, and I shall hear with pleasure that you are + surrounded with all that could contribute to the tranquillity of + your retreat. BONAPARTE. + +Then, folding and sealing the letter, he directed it to “Monsieur le +Comte de Provençe,” and handed it to Morgan. Then he called Roland, as +if he knew the latter were not far off. + +“General?” said the young officer, appearing instantly. + +“Conduct this gentleman to the street,” said Bonaparte. “Until then you +are responsible for him.” + +Roland bowed in sign of obedience, let the young man, who said not a +word, pass before him, and then followed. But before leaving, Morgan +cast a last glance at Bonaparte. + +The latter was still standing, motionless and silent, with folded arms, +his eyes fixed upon the dagger, which occupied his thoughts far more +than he was willing to admit even to himself. + +As they crossed Roland’s room, the Chief of the Companions of Jehu +gathered up his cloak and pistols. While he was putting them in his +belt, Roland remarked: “The citizen First Consul seems to have shown you +a dagger which I gave him.” + +“Yes, monsieur,” replied Morgan. + +“Did you recognize it?” + +“Not that one in particular; all our daggers are alike.” + +“Well,” said Roland, “I will tell you whence it came.” + +“Ah! where was that?” + +“From the breast of a friend of mine, where your Companions, possibly +you yourself, thrust it.” + +“Possibly,” replied the young man carelessly. “But your friend must have +exposed himself to punishment.” + +“My friend wished to see what was happening at night in the Chartreuse.” + +“He did wrong.” + +“But I did the same wrong the night before, and nothing happened to me.” + +“Probably because some talisman protects you.” + +“Monsieur, let me tell you something. I am a straight-forward man who +walks by daylight. I have a horror of all that is mysterious.” + +“Happy those who can walk the highroads by daylight, Monsieur de +Montrevel!” + +“That is why I am going to tell you the oath I made, Monsieur Morgan. +As I drew the dagger you saw from my friend’s breast, as carefully +as possible, that I might not draw his soul with it, I swore that +henceforward it should be war to the death between his assassins and +myself. It was largely to tell you that that I gave you a pledge of +safety.” + +“That is an oath I hope to see you forget, Monsieur de Montrevel.” + +“It is an oath I shall keep under all circumstances, Monsieur Morgan; +and you would be most kind if you would furnish me with an opportunity +as soon as possible.” + +“In what way, sir?” + +“Well, for example, by accepting a meeting with me, either in the Bois +de Boulogne or at Vincennes. We don’t need to say that we are fighting +because you or one of your friends stabbed Lord Tanlay. No; we can say +anything you please.” (Roland reflected a moment.) “We can say the duel +is on account of the eclipse that takes place on the 12th of next month. +Does the pretext suit you?” + +“The pretext would suit me,” replied Morgan, in a tone of sadness of +which he seemed incapable, “if the duel itself could take place. You +have taken an oath, and you mean to keep it, you say. Well, every +initiate who enters the Company of Jehu swears that he will not expose +in any personal quarrel a life that belongs to the cause and not to +himself.” + +“Oh! So that you assassinate, but will not fight.” + +“You are mistaken. We sometimes fight.” + +“Have the goodness to point out an occasion when I may study that +phenomenon.” + +“Easily enough. If you and five or six men, as resolute as yourself, +will take your places in some diligence carrying government money, and +will defend it against our attack, the occasion you seek will come. But, +believe me, do better than that; do not come in our way.” + +“Is that a threat, sir?” asked the young man, raising his head. + +“No,” replied Morgan, in a gentle, almost supplicating voice, “it is an +entreaty.” + +“Is it addressed to me in particular, or would you include others?” + +“I make it to you in particular;” and the chief of the Companions of +Jehu dwelt upon the last word. + +“Ah!” exclaimed the young man, “then I am so fortunate as to interest +you?” + +“As a brother,” replied Morgan, in the same soft, caressing tone. + +“Well, well,” said Roland, “this is decidedly a wager.” + +Bourrienne entered at that moment. + +“Roland,” he said, “the First Consul wants you.” + +“Give me time to conduct this gentleman to the street, and I’ll be with +him.” + +“Hurry up; you know he doesn’t like to wait.” + +“Will you follow me, sir?” Roland said to his mysterious companion. + +“I am at your orders, sir.” + +“Come, then,” And Roland, taking the same path by which he had brought +Morgan, took him back, not to the door opening on the garden (the garden +was closed), but to that on the street. Once there, he stopped and said: +“Sir, I gave you my word, and I have kept it faithfully, But that there +may be no misunderstanding between us, have the goodness to tell me that +you understand it to have been for this one time and for to-day only.” + +“That was how I understood it, sir.” + +“You give me back my word then?” + +“I should like to keep it, sir; but I recognize that you are free to +take it back.” + +“That is all I wish to know. Au revoir! Monsieur Morgan.” + +“Permit me not to offer you the same wish, Monsieur de Montrevel.” + +The two young men bowed with perfect courtesy, Roland re-entered the +Luxembourg, and Morgan, following the line of shadow projected by the +walls, took one of the little streets to the Place Saint-Sulpice. + +It is he whom we are now to follow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. THE BALL OF THE VICTIMS + +After taking about a hundred steps Morgan removed his mask. He ran more +risk of being noticed in the streets of Paris as a masked man than with +uncovered face. + +When he reached the Rue Taranne he knocked at the door of a small +furnished lodging-house at the corner of that street and the Rue du +Dragon, took a candlestick from a table, a key numbered 12 from a +nail, and climbed the stairs without exciting other attention than a +well-known lodger would returning home. The clock was striking ten as he +closed the door of his room. He listened attentively to the strokes, the +light of his candle not reaching as far as the chimney-piece. He counted +ten. + +“Good!” he said to himself; “I shall not be too late.” + +In spite of this probability, Morgan seemed determined to lose no time. +He passed a bit of tinder-paper under the heater on the hearth, which +caught fire instantly. He lighted four wax-candles, all there were in +the room, placed two on the mantel-shelf and two on a bureau opposite, +and spread upon the bed a complete dress of the Incroyable of the very +latest fashion. It consisted of a short coat, cut square across the +front and long behind, of a soft shade between a pale-green and a +pearl-gray; a waistcoat of buff plush, with eighteen mother-of-pearl +buttons; an immense white cravat of the finest cambric; light trousers +of white cashmere, decorated with a knot of ribbon where they buttoned +above the calves, and pearl-gray silk stockings, striped transversely +with the same green as the coat, and delicate pumps with diamond +buckles. The inevitable eye-glass was not forgotten. As for the hat, it +was precisely the same in which Carle Vernet painted his dandy of the +Directory. + +When these things were ready, Morgan waited with seeming impatience. At +the end of five minutes he rang the bell. A waiter appeared. + +“Hasn’t the wig-maker come?” asked Morgan. + +In those days wig-makers were not yet called hair-dressers. + +“Yes, citizen,” replied the waiter, “he came, but you had not yet +returned, so he left word that he’d come back. Some one knocked just as +you rang; it’s probably--” + +“Here, here,” cried a voice on the stairs. + +“Ah! bravo,” exclaimed Morgan. “Come in, Master Cadenette; you must make +a sort of Adonis of me.” + +“That won’t be difficult, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the wig-maker. + +“Look here, look here; do you mean to compromise me, citizen Cadenette?” + +“Monsieur le Baron, I entreat you, call me Cadenette; you’ll honor me +by that proof of familiarity; but don’t call me citizen. Fie; that’s +a revolutionary denomination! Even in the worst of the Terror I always +called my wife Madame Cadenette. Now, excuse me for not waiting for you; +but there’s a great ball in the Rue du Bac this evening, the ball of the +Victims (the wig-maker emphasized this word). I should have thought that +M. le Baron would be there.” + +“Why,” cried Morgan, laughing; “so you are still a royalist, Cadenette?” + +The wig-maker laid his hand tragically on his heart. + +“Monsieur le Baron,” said he, “it is not only a matter of conscience, +but a matter of state.” + +“Conscience, I can understand that, Master Cadenette, but state! What +the devil has the honorable guild of wigmakers to do with politics?” + +“What, Monsieur le Baron?” said Cadenette, all the while getting ready +to dress his client’s hair; “you ask me that? You, an aristocrat!” + +“Hush, Cadenette!” + +“Monsieur le Baron, we _ci-devants_ can say that to each other.” + +“So you are a _ci-devant_?” + +“To the core! In what style shall I dress M. le Baron’s hair?” + +“Dog’s ears, and tied up behind.” + +“With a dash of powder?” + +“Two, if you like, Cadenette.” + +“Ah! monsieur, when one thinks that for five years I was the only man +who had an atom of powder ‘_à la maréchale_.’ Why, Monsieur le Baron, a +man was guillotined for owning a box of powder!” + +“I’ve known people who were guillotined for less than that, Cadenette. +But explain how you happen to be a _ci-devant_. I like to understand +everything.” + +“It’s very simple, Monsieur le Baron. You admit, don’t you, that among +the guilds there were some that were more or less aristocratic.” + +“Beyond doubt; accordingly as they were nearer to the higher classes of +society.” + +“That’s it, Monsieur le Baron. Well, we had the higher classes by the +hair of their head. I, such as you see me, I have dressed Madame de +Polignac’s hair; my father dressed Madame du Barry’s; my grandfather, +Madame de Pompadour’s. We had our privileges, Monsieur; we carried +swords. It is true, to avoid the accidents that were liable to crop up +among hotheads like ourselves, our swords were usually of wood; but +at any rate, if they were not the actual thing, they were very good +imitations. Yes, Monsieur le Baron,” continued Cadenette with a sigh, +“those days were the good days, not only for the wig-makers, but for +all France. We were in all the secrets, all the intrigues; nothing was +hidden from us. And there is no known instance, Monsieur le Baron, of a +wig-maker betraying a secret. Just look at our poor queen; to whom +did she trust her diamonds? To the great, the illustrious Leonard, the +prince of wig-makers. Well, Monsieur le Baron, two men alone overthrew +the scaffolding of a power that rested on the wigs of Louis XIV., the +puffs of the Regency, the frizettes of Louis-XV., and the cushions of +Marie Antoinette.” + +“And those two men, those levellers, those two revolutionaries, who were +they, Cadenette? that I may doom them, so far as it lies in my power, to +public execration.” + +“M. Rousseau and citizen Talma: Monsieur Rousseau who said that +absurdity, ‘We must return to Nature,’ and citizen Talma, who invented +the Titus head-dress.” + +“That’s true, Cadenette; that’s true.” + +“When the Directory came in there was a moment’s hope. M. Barras never +gave up powder, and citizen Moulins stuck to his queue. But, you see, +the 18th Brumaire has knocked it all down; how could any one friz +Bonaparte’s hair! Ah! there,” continued Cadenette, puffing out the dog’s +ears of his client--“there’s aristocratic hair for you, soft and fine as +silk, and takes the tongs so well one would think you wore a wig. See, +Monsieur le Baron, you wanted to be as handsome as Adonis! Ah! if Venus +had seen you, it’s not of Adonis that Mars would have been jealous!” + +And Cadenette, now at the end of his labors and satisfied with the +result, presented a hand-mirror to Morgan, who examined himself +complacently. + +“Come, come!” he said to the wig-maker, “you are certainly an artist, +my dear fellow! Remember this style, for if ever they cut off my head +I shall choose to have it dressed like that, for there will probably be +women at my execution.” + +“And M. le Baron wants them to regret him,” said the wig-maker gravely. + +“Yes, and in the meantime, my dear Cadenette, here is a crown to reward +your labors. Have the goodness to tell them below to call a carriage for +me.” + +Cadenette sighed. + +“Monsieur le Baron,” said he, “time was when I should have answered: +‘Show yourself at court with your hair dressed like that, and I shall be +paid.’ But there is no court now, Monsieur le Baron, and one must live. +You shall have your carriage.” + +With which Cadenette sighed again, slipped Morgan’s crown in his pocket, +made the reverential bow of wig-makers and dancing-masters, and left the +young man to complete his toilet. + +The head being now dressed, the rest was soon done; the cravat alone +took time, owing to the many failures that occurred; but Morgan +concluded the difficult task with an experienced hand, and as eleven +o’clock was striking he was ready to start. Cadenette had not forgotten +his errand; a hackney-coach was at the door. Morgan jumped into it, +calling out: “Rue du Bac, No. 60.” + +The coach turned into the Rue de Grenelle, went up the Rue du Bac, and +stopped at No. 60. + +“Here’s a double fare, friend,” said Morgan, “on condition that you +don’t stand before the door.” + +The driver took the three francs and disappeared around the corner of +the Rue de Varennes. Morgan glanced up the front of the house; it seemed +as though he must be mistaken, so dark and silent was it. But he did not +hesitate; he rapped in a peculiar fashion. + +The door opened. At the further end of the courtyard was a building, +brilliantly lighted. The young man went toward it, and, as he +approached, the sound of instruments met his ear. He ascended a flight +of stairs and entered the dressing-room. There he gave his cloak to the +usher whose business it was to attend to the wraps. + +“Here is your number,” said the usher. “As for your weapons, you are to +place them in the gallery where you can find them easily.” + +Morgan put the number in his trousers pocket, and entered the great +gallery transformed into an arsenal. It contained a complete collection +of arms of all kinds, pistols, muskets, carbines, swords, and daggers. +As the ball might at any moment be invaded by the police, it was +necessary that every dancer be prepared to turn defender at an instant’s +notice. Laying his weapons aside, Morgan entered the ballroom. + +We doubt if any pen could give the reader an adequate idea of the scene +of that ball. Generally, as the name “Ball of the Victims” indicated, no +one was admitted except by the strange right of having relatives who +had either been sent to the scaffold by the Convention or the Commune of +Paris, blown to pieces by Collot d’Herbois, or drowned by Carrier. As, +however, the victims guillotined during the three years of the Terror +far outnumbered the others, the dresses of the majority of those who +were present were the clothes of the victims of the scaffold. Thus, most +of the young girls, whose mothers and older sisters had fallen by +the hands of the executioner, wore the same costume their mothers and +sisters had worn for that last lugubrious ceremony; that is to say, a +white gown and red shawl, with their hair cut short at the nape of the +neck. Some added to this costume, already so characteristic, a detail +that was even more significant; they knotted around their necks a thread +of scarlet silk, fine as the blade of a razor, which, as in Faust’s +Marguerite, at the Witches’ Sabbath, indicated the cut of the knife +between the throat and the collar bone. + +As for the men who were in the same case, they wore the collars of their +coats turned down behind, those of their shirt wide open, their necks +bare, and their hair, cut short. + +But many had other rights of entrance to this ball besides that of +having Victims in their families; some had made victims themselves. +These latter were increasing. There were present men of forty or +forty-five years of age, who had been trained in the boudoirs of the +beautiful courtesans of the seventeenth century--who had known Madame du +Barry in the attics of Versailles, Sophie Arnoult with M. de Lauraguais, +La Duthé with the Comte d’Artois--who had borrowed from the courtesies +of vice the polish with which they covered their ferocity. They were +still young and handsome; they entered a salon, tossing their perfumed +locks and their scented handkerchiefs; nor was it a useless precaution, +for if the odor of musk or verbena had not masked it they would have +smelled of blood. + +There were men there twenty-five or thirty years old, dressed with +extreme elegance, members of the association of Avengers, who seemed +possessed with the mania of assassination, the lust of slaughter, the +frenzy of blood, which no blood could quench--men who, when the order +came to kill, killed all, friends or enemies; men who carried their +business methods into the business of murder, giving their bloody checks +for the heads of such or such Jacobins, and paying on sight. + +There were younger men, eighteen and twenty, almost children, but +children fed, like Achilles, on the marrow of wild beasts, like Pyrrhus, +on the flesh of bears; here were the pupil-bandits of Schiller, the +apprentice-judges of the Sainte-Vehme--that strange generation that +follows great political convulsions, like the Titans after chaos, the +hydras after the Deluge; as the vultures and crows follow the carnage. + +Here was the spectre of iron impassible, implacable, inflexible, which +men call Retaliation; and this spectre mingled with the guests. It +entered the gilded salons; it signalled with a look, a gesture, a nod, +and men followed where it led. It was, as says the author from whom we +have borrowed these hitherto unknown but authentic details, “a merry +lust for extermination.” + +The Terror had affected great cynicism in clothes, a Spartan austerity +in its food, the profound contempt of a barbarous people for arts and +enjoyments. The Thermidorian reaction was, on the contrary, elegant, +opulent, adorned; it exhausted all luxuries, all voluptuous pleasures, +as in the days of Louis XV.; with one addition, the luxury of vengeance, +the lust of blood. + +Fréron’s name was given to the youth of the day, which was called the +jeunesse Fréron, or the _jéunesse dorée_ (gilded youth). Why Fréron? Why +should he rather than others receive that strange and fatal honor? + +I cannot tell you--my researches (those who know me will do me the +justice to admit that when I have an end in view, I do not count +them)--my researches have not discovered an answer. It was a whim of +Fashion, and Fashion is the one goddess more capricious than Fortune. + +Our readers will hardly know to-day who Fréron was. The Fréron who was +Voltaire’s assailant was better known than he who was the patron of +these elegant assassins; one was the son of the other. Louis Stanislas +was son of Elie-Catherine. The father died of rage when Miromesnil, +Keeper of the Seals, suppressed his journal. The other, irritated by +the injustices of which his father had been the victim, had at first +ardently embraced the revolutionary doctrines. Instead of the “Année +Littéraire,” strangled to death in 1775, he created the “Orateur du +Peuple,” in 1789. He was sent to the Midi on a special mission, and +Marseilles and Toulon retain to this day the memory of his cruelty. +But all was forgotten when, on the 9th Thermidor, he proclaimed himself +against Robespierre, and assisted in casting from the altar the Supreme +Being, the colossus who, being an apostle, had made himself a god. +Fréron, repudiated by the Mountain, which abandoned him to the heavy +jaws of Moise Bayle; Fréron, disdainfully repulsed by the Girondins, +who delivered him over to the imprecations of Isnard; Fréron, as the +terrible and picturesque orator of the Var said, “Fréron naked and +covered with the leprosy of crime,” was accepted, caressed and petted by +the Thermidorians. From them he passed into the camp of the royalists, +and without any reason whatever for obtaining that fatal honor, found +himself suddenly at the head of a powerful party of youth, energy and +vengeance, standing between the passions of the day, which led to all, +and the impotence of the law, which permitted all. + +It was to the midst of this _jeunesse_ Fréron, mouthing its words, +slurring its r’s, giving its “word of honor” about everything, that +Morgan now made his way. + +It must be admitted that this _jeunesse_, in spite of the clothes it +wore, in spite of the memories these clothes evoked, was wildly gay. +This seems incomprehensible, but it is true. Explain if you can that +Dance of Death at the beginning of the fifteenth century, which, with +all the fury of a modern galop, led by Musard, whirled its chain through +the very Cemetery of the Innocents, and left amid its tombs fifty +thousand of its votaries. + +Morgan was evidently seeking some one. + +A young dandy, who was dipping into the silver-gilt comfit-box of +a charming victim, with an ensanguined finger, the only part of his +delicate hand that had escaped the almond paste, tried to stop him, to +relate the particulars of the expedition from which he had brought back +this bloody trophy. But Morgan smiled, pressed his other hand which +was gloved, and contented himself with replying: “I am looking for some +one.” + +“Important?” + +“Company of Jehu.” + +The young man with the bloody finger let him pass. An adorable Fury, as +Corneille would have called her, whose hair was held up by a dagger with +a blade as sharp as a needle, barred his way, saying: “Morgan, you are +the handsomest, the bravest, the most deserving of love of all the men +present. What have you to say to the woman who tells you that?” + +“I answer that I love,” replied Morgan, “and that my heart is too narrow +to hold one hatred and two loves.” And he continued on his search. + +Two young men who were arguing, one saying, “He was English,” the other, +“He was German,” stopped him. + +“The deuce,” cried one; “here is the man who can settle it for us.” + +“No,” replied Morgan, trying to push past them; “I’m in a hurry.” + +“There’s only a word to say,” said the other. “We have made a bet, +Saint-Amand and I, that the man who was tried and executed at the +Chartreuse du Seillon, was, according to him, a German, and, according +to me, an Englishman.” + +“I don’t know,” replied Morgan; “I wasn’t there. Ask Hector; he presided +that night.” + +“Tell us where Hector is?” + +“Tell me rather where Tiffauges is; I am looking for him.” + +“Over there, at the end of the room,” said the young man, pointing to a +part of the room where the dance was more than usually gay and animated. +“You will recognize him by his waistcoat; and his trousers are not to be +despised. I shall have a pair like them made with the skin of the very +first hound I meet.” + +Morgan did not take time to ask in what way Tiffauges’ waistcoat was +remarkable, or by what queer cut or precious material his trousers had +won the approbation of a man as expert in such matters as he who had +spoken to him. He went straight to the point indicated by the young +man, saw the person he was seeking dancing an été, which seemed, by the +intricacy of its weaving, if I may be pardoned for this technical term, +to have issued from the salons of Vestris himself. + +Morgan made a sign to the dancer. Tiffauges stopped instantly, bowed +to his partner, led her to her seat, excused himself on the plea of +the urgency of the matter which called him away, and returned to take +Morgan’s arm. + +“Did you see him,” Tiffauges asked Morgan. + +“I have just left him,” replied the latter. + +“Did you deliver the King’s letter?” + +“To himself.” + +“Did he read it?” + +“At once.” + +“Has he sent an answer?” + +“Two; one verbal, one written; the second dispenses with the first.” + +“You have it?” + +“Here it is.” + +“Do you know the contents?” + +“A refusal.” + +“Positive?” + +“Nothing could be more positive.” + +“Does he know that from the moment he takes all hope away from us we +shall treat him as an enemy?” + +“I told him so.” + +“What did he answer?” + +“He didn’t answer; he shrugged his shoulders.” + +“What do you think his intentions are?” + +“It’s not difficult to guess.” + +“Does he mean to keep the power himself?” + +“It looks like it.” + +“The power, but not the throne?” + +“Why not the throne?” + +“He would never dare to make himself king.” + +“Oh! I can’t say he means to be absolutely king, but I’ll answer for it +that he means to be something.” + +“But he is nothing but a soldier of fortune!” + +“My dear fellow, better in these days to be the son of his deeds, than +the grandson of a king.” + +The young man thought a moment. + +“I shall report it all to Cadoudal,” he said. + +“And add that the First Consul said these very words: ‘I hold the Vendée +in the hollow of my hand, and if I choose in three months not another +shot will be fired.’” + +“It’s a good thing to know.” + +“You know it; let Cadoudal know it, and take measures.” + +Just then the music ceased; the hum of the dancers died away; complete +silence prevailed; and, in the midst of this silence, four names were +pronounced in a sonorous and emphatic voice. + +These four names were Morgan, Montbar, Adler and d’Assas. + +“Pardon me,” Morgan said to Tiffauges, “they are probably arranging some +expedition in which I am to take part. I am forced, therefore, to my +great regret, to bid you farewell. Only before I leave you let me look +closer at your waistcoat and trousers, of which I have heard--curiosity +of an amateur; I trust you will excuse it.” + +“Surely!” exclaimed the young Vendéan, “most willingly.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. THE BEAR’S SKIN + +With a rapidity and good nature that did honor to his courtesy, he went +close to the candelabra, which were burning on the chimney-piece. The +waistcoat and trousers seemed to be of the same stuff; but what was that +stuff? The most experienced connoisseur would have been puzzled. + +The trousers were tight-fitting as usual, of a light tint between buff +and flesh color; the only remarkable thing about them was the absence +of the seam, and the closeness with which they clung to the leg. +The waistcoat, on the other hand, had two characteristic signs which +attracted attention; it had been pierced by three balls, which had the +holes gaping, and these were stained a carmine, so like blood, that it +might easily have been mistaken for it. On the left side was painted a +bloody heart, the distinguishing sign of the Vendéans. Morgan examined +the two articles with the closest attention, but without result. + +“If I were not in such a hurry,” said he, “I should like to look into +the matter for myself. But you heard for yourself; in all probability, +some news has reached the committee; government money probably. You +can announce it to Cadoudal; only we shall have to take it first. +Ordinarily, I command these expeditions; if I delay, some one may take +my place. So tell me what your waistcoat and trousers are made of.” + +“My dear Morgan,” replied the Vendéan, “perhaps you have heard that my +brother was captured near Bressure, and shot by the Blues?” + +“Yes, I know that.” + +“The Blues were retreating; they left the body at the corner of the +hedge. We were pursuing them so closely that we arrived just after them. +I found the body of my brother still warm. In one of his wounds a sprig +was stuck with these words: ‘Shot as a brigand by me, Claude Flageolet, +corporal of the Third Battalion of Paris.’ I took my brother’s body, and +had the skin removed from his breast. I vowed that this skin, pierced +with three holes, should eternally cry vengeance before my eyes. I made +it my battle waistcoat.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Morgan, with a certain astonishment, in which, for +the first time, was mingled something akin to terror--“Ah! then that +waistcoat is made of your brother’s skin? And the trousers?” + +“Oh!” replied the Vendéan, “the trousers, that’s another matter. +They are made of the skin of Claude Flageolet, corporal of the Third +Battalion of Paris.” + +At that moment the voice again called out, in the same order, the names +of Morgan, Montbar, Adler and d’Assas. + +Morgan rushed out of the study, crossed the dancing-hall from end +to end, and made his way to a little salon on the other side of the +dressing-room. His three companions, Montbar, Adler and d’Assas, were +there already. With them was a young man in the government livery of +a bearer of despatches, namely a green and gold coat. His boots were +dusty, and he wore a visored cap and carried the despatch-box, the +essential accoutrements of a cabinet courier. + +One of Cassini’s maps, on which could be followed the whole lay of the +land, was spread on the table. + +Before saying why this courier was there, and with what object the map +was unfolded, let us cast a glance at the three new personages whose +names had echoed through the ballroom, and who are destined to play an +important part in the rest of this history. + +The reader already knows Morgan, the Achilles and the Paris of this +strange association; Morgan, with his blue eyes, his black hair, his +tall, well-built figure, graceful, easy, active bearing; his eye, which +was never without animation; his mouth, with its fresh lips and white +teeth, that was never without a smile; his remarkable countenance, +composed of mingling elements that seemed so foreign to each +other--strength and tenderness, gentleness and energy; and, through it +all, that bewildering expression of gayety that was at times alarming +when one remembered that this man was perpetually rubbing shoulders with +death, and the most terrifying of all deaths--that of the scaffold. + +As for d’Assas, he was a man from thirty-five to thirty-eight years of +age, with bushy hair that was turning gray, and mustaches as black as +ebony. His eyes were of that wonderful shade of Indian eyes, verging +on maroon. He was formerly a captain of dragoons, admirably built for +struggle, whether physical or moral, his muscles indicating strength, +and his face, obstinacy. For the rest, a noble bearing, great elegance +of manners, scented like a dandy, carrying, either from caprice or +luxury, a bottle of English smelling-salts, or a silver-gilt vinaigrette +containing the most subtle perfumes. + +Montbar and Adler, whose real names were unknown, like those of d’Assas +and Morgan, were commonly called by the Company “the inseparables.” + Imagine Damon and Pythias, Euryalus and Nisus, Orestes and Pylades at +twenty-two--one joyous, loquacious, noisy, the other melancholy, +silent, dreamy; sharing all things, dangers, money, mistresses; one the +complement of the other; each rushing to all extremes, but forgetting +self when in peril to watch over the other, like the Spartan youths on +the sacred legions--and you will form an idea of Montbar and Adler. + +It is needless to say that all three were Companions of Jehu. They had +been convoked, as Morgan suspected, on business of the Company. + +On entering the room, Morgan went straight to the pretended bearer of +despatches and shook hands with him. + +“Ah! the dear friend,” said the latter, with a stiff movement, showing +that the best rider cannot do a hundred and fifty miles on post-hacks +with impunity. “You are taking it easy, you Parisians. Hannibal at +Capua slept on rushes and thorns compared to you. I only glanced at +the ballroom in passing, as becomes a poor cabinet courier bearing +despatches from General Masséna to the citizen First Consul; but it +seemed to me you were a fine lot of victims! Only, my poor friends, you +will have to bid farewell to all that for the present; disagreeable, +unlucky, exasperating, no doubt, but the House of Jehu before all.” + +“My dear Hastier--” began Morgan. + +“Stop!” cried Hastier. “No proper names, if you please, gentlemen. The +Hastiers are an honest family in Lyons, doing business, it is said, on +the Place des Terreaux, from father to son, and would be much humiliated +to learn that their heir had become a cabinet courier, and rode the +highways with the national pack on his back. Lecoq as much as you +please, but not Hastier. I don’t know Hastier; and you, gentlemen,” + continued the young man, addressing Montbar, Adler and d’Assas, “do you +know him?” + +“No,” replied the three young men, “and we ask pardon for Morgan, who +did wrong.” + +“My dear Lecoq,” exclaimed Morgan. + +“That’s right,” interrupted Hastier. “I answer to that name! Well, what +did you want to tell me?” + +“I wanted to say that if you are not the antipodes of the god +Harpocrates, whom the Egyptians represent with a finger on his lips, +you will, instead of indulging in a lot of declamations, more or less +flowery, tell us why this costume, and why that map?” + +“The deuce!” retorted the young man. “If you don’t know already, it’s +your fault and not mine. If I hadn’t been obliged to call you twice, +caught as you doubtless were in the toils of some beautiful Eumenides +imploring vengeance of a fine young man for the death of her old +parents, you’d know as much as these gentlemen, and I wouldn’t have +to sing an encore. Well, here’s what it is: simply of the remaining +treasure of the Berne bears, which General Lecourbe is sending to the +citizen First Consul by order of General Masséna. A trifle, only a +hundred thousand francs, that they don’t dare send over the Jura on +account of M. Teysonnet’s partisans, who, they pretend, are likely to +seize it; so it will be sent by Geneva, Bourg, Mâcon, Dijon, and Troyes; +a much safer way, as they will find when they try it.” + +“Very good!” + +“We were informed of this by Renard, who started from Gex at full speed, +and transmitted the news to l’Hirondelle, who is at present stationed at +Châlon-sur-Saône. He transmitted it to me, Lecoq, at Auxerre, and I have +done a hundred and fifty miles to transmit it in turn to you. As for the +secondary details, here they are. The treasure left Berne last octodi, +28th Nivôse, year VIII. of the Republic triple and indivisible. It +should reach Genoa to-day, duodi, and leave to-morrow, tridi, by the +diligence from Geneva to Bourg; so that, by leaving this very night, by +the day after to-morrow, quintide, you can, my dear sons of Israel, +meet the treasure of messires the bears between Dijon and Troyes, near +Bar-sur-Seine or Châtillon. What say you?” + +“By heavens!” cried Morgan, “we say that there seems to be no room for +argument left; we say we should never have permitted ourselves to touch +the money of their Highnesses the bears of Berne so long as it remained +in their coffers; but as it has changed hands once, I see no objection +to its doing so a second time. Only how are we to start?” + +“Haven’t you a post-chaise?” + +“Yes, it’s here in the coach-house.” + +“Haven’t you horses to get you to the next stage?” + +“They are in the stable.” + +“Haven’t you each your passports.” + +“We have each four.” + +“Well, then?” + +“Well, we can’t stop the diligence in a post-chaise. We don’t put +ourselves to too much inconvenience, but we don’t take our ease in that +way.” + +“Well, and why not?” asked Montbar; “it would be original. I can’t see +why, if sailors board from one vessel to another, we couldn’t board a +diligence from a post-chaise. We want novelty; shall we try it, Adler?” + +“I ask nothing better,” replied the latter, “but what will we do with +the postilion?” + +“That’s true,” replied Montbar. + +“The difficulty is foreseen, my children,” said the courier; “a +messenger has been sent to Troyes. You will leave your post-chaise at +Delbauce; there you will find four horses all saddled and stuffed with +oats. You will then calculate your time, and the day after to-morrow, +or rather to-morrow, for it is past midnight, between seven and eight in +the morning, the money of Messires Bruin will pass an anxious quarter of +an hour.” + +“Shall we change our clothes?” inquired d’Assas. + +“What for?” replied Morgan. “I think we are very presentable as we are. +No diligence could be relieved of unnecessary weight by better dressed +fellows. Let us take a last glance at the map, transfer a pâté, a cold +chicken, and a dozen of champagne from the supper-room to the pockets +of the coach, arm to the teeth in the arsenal, wrap ourselves in warm +cloaks, and--clack! postilion!” + +“Yes!” cried Montbar, “that’s the idea.” + +“I should think so,” added Morgan. “We’ll kill the horses if necessary, +and be back at seven in the evening, in time to show ourselves at the +opera.” + +“That will establish an alibi,” observed d’Assas. + +“Precisely,” said Morgan, with his imperturbable gayety. “How could men +who applaud Mademoiselle Clotilde and M. Vestris at eight o’clock in the +evening have been at Bar and Chatillon in the morning settling accounts +with the conductor of a diligence? Come, my sons, a last look at the map +to choose our spot.” + +The four young men bent over Cassini’s map. + +“If I may give you a bit of topographical advice,” said the courier, “it +would be to put yourselves in ambush just beyond Massu; there’s a ford +opposite to the Riceys--see, there!” + +And the young man pointed out the exact spot on the map. + +“I should return to Chacource, there; from Chacource you have a +department road, straight as an arrow, which will take you to Troyes; at +Troyes you take carriage again, and follow the road to Sens instead of +that to Coulommiers. The donkeys--there are plenty in the provinces--who +saw you in the morning won’t wonder at seeing you again in the evening; +you’ll get to the opera at ten instead of eight--a more fashionable +hour--neither seen nor recognized, I’ll warrant you.” + +“Adopted, so far as I am concerned,” said Morgan. + +“Adopted!” cried the other three in chorus. + +Morgan pulled out one of the two watches whose chains were dangling from +his belt; it was a masterpiece of Petitot’s enamel, and on the outer +case which protected the painting was a diamond monogram. The pedigree +of this beautiful trinket was as well established as that of an Arab +horse; it had been made for Marie-Antoinette, who had given it to the +Duchesse de Polastron, who had given it to Morgan’s mother. + +“One o’clock,” said Morgan; “come, gentlemen, we must relay at Lagny at +three.” + +From that moment the expedition had begun, and Morgan became its leader; +he no longer consulted, he commanded. + +D’Assas, who in Morgan’s absence commanded, was the first to obey on his +return. + +Half an hour later a closed carriage containing four young men wrapped +in their cloaks was stopped at the Fontainebleau barrier by the +post-guard, who demanded their passports. + +“Oh, what a joke!” exclaimed one of them, putting his head out of the +window and affecting the pronunciation of the day. “Passpawts to dwive +to Gwobois to call on citizen _Ba-as_? ‘Word of fluted honor!’ you’re +cwazy, fwend! Go on, dwiver!” + +The coachman whipped up his horses and the carriage passed without +further opposition. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. FAMILY MATTERS + +Let us leave our four _hunters_ on their way to Lagny--where, thanks to +the passports they owed to the obligingness of certain clerks in citizen +Fouché’s employ, they exchanged their own horses for post-horses and +their coachman for a postilion--and see why the First Consul had sent +for Roland. + +After leaving Morgan, Roland had hastened to obey the general’s orders. +He found the latter standing in deep thought before the fireplace. At +the sound of his entrance General Bonaparte raised his head. + +“What were you two saying to each other?” asked Bonaparte, without +preamble, trusting to Roland’s habit of answering his thought. + +“Why,” said Roland, “we paid each other all sorts of compliments, and +parted the best friends in the world.” + +“How does he impress you?” + +“As a perfectly well-bred man.” + +“How old do you take him to be?” + +“About my age, at the outside.” + +“So I think; his voice is youthful. What now, Roland, can I be mistaken? +Is there a new royalist generation growing up?” + +“No, general,” replied Roland, shrugging his shoulders; “it’s the +remains of the old one.” + +“Well, Roland, we must build up another, devoted to my son--if ever I +have one.” + +Roland made a gesture which might be translated into the words, “I don’t +object.” Bonaparte understood the gesture perfectly. + +“You must do more than not object,” said he; “you must contribute to +it.” + +A nervous shudder passed over Roland’s body. + +“In what way, general?” he asked. + +“By marrying.” + +Roland burst out laughing. + +“Good! With my aneurism?” he asked. + +Bonaparte looked at him, and said: “My dear Roland, your aneurism looks +to me very much like a pretext for remaining single.” + +“Do you think so?” + +“Yes; and as I am a moral man I insist upon marriage.” + +“Does that mean that I am immoral,” retorted Roland, “or that I cause +any scandal with my mistresses?” + +“Augustus,” answered Bonaparte, “created laws against celibates, +depriving them of their rights as Roman citizens.” + +“Augustus--” + +“Well?” + +“I’ll wait until you are Augustus; as yet, you are only Cæsar.” + +Bonaparte came closer to the young man, and, laying his hands on his +shoulders, said: “Roland, there are some names I do not wish to see +extinct, and among them is that of Montrevel.” + +“Well, general, in my default, supposing that through caprice or +obstinacy I refuse to perpetuate it, there is my little brother.” + +“What! Your brother? Then you have a brother?” + +“Why, yes; I have a brother! Why shouldn’t I have brother?” + +“How old is he?” + +“Eleven or twelve.” + +“Why did you never tell me about him?” + +“Because I thought the sayings and doings of a youngster of that age +could not interest you.” + +“You are mistaken, Roland; I am interested in all that concerns my +friends. You ought to have asked me for something for your brother.” + +“Asked what, general?” + +“His admission into some college in Paris.” + +“Pooh! You have enough beggars around you without my swelling their +number.” + +“You hear; he is to come to Paris and enter college. When he is old +enough, I will send him to the Ecole Militare, or some other school +which I shall have founded before then.” + +“Faith, general,” said Roland, “just as if I had guessed your good +intentions, he is this very day on the point of, starting for Paris.” + +“What for?” + +“I wrote to my mother three days ago to bring the boy to Paris. I +intended to put him in college without mentioning it, and when he was +old enough to tell you about him--always supposing that my aneurism had +not carried me off in the meantime. But in that case--” + +“In that case?” + +“Oh! in that case I have left a bit of a will addressed to you, and +recommending to your kindness my mother, and the boy and the girl--in +short, the whole raft.” + +“The girl! Who is she?” + +“My sister.” + +“So you have a sister also?” + +“Yes.” + +“How old is she?” + +“Seventeen.” + +“Pretty?” + +“Charming.” + +“I’ll take charge of her establishment.” + +Roland began to laugh. + +“What’s the matter?” demanded the First Consul. + +“General, I’m going to put a placard over the grand entrance to the +Luxembourg.” + +“What will you put on the placard?” + +“‘Marriages made here.’” + +“Why not? Is it any reason because you don’t wish to marry for your +sister to remain an old maid? I don’t like old maids any better than I +do old bachelors.” + +“I did not say, general, that my sister should remain an old maid; it’s +quite enough for one member of the Montrevel family to have incurred +your displeasure.” + +“Then what do you mean?” + +“Only that, as the matter concerns my sister, she must, if you will +allow it, be consulted.” + +“Ah, ha! Some provincial love-affair, is there?” + +“I can’t say. I left poor Amélie gay and happy, and I find her pale and +sad. I shall get the truth out of her; and if you wish me to speak to +you again about the matter, I will do so.” + +“Yes, do so--when you get back from the Vendée.” + +“Ah! So I am going to the Vendée?” + +“Why, is that, like marriage, repugnant, to you?” + +“Not in the least.” + +“Then you are going to the Vendée.” + +“When?” + +“Oh, you need not hurry, providing you start to-morrow.” + +“Excellent; sooner if you wish. Tell me what I am to do there.” + +“Something of the utmost importance, Roland.” + +“The devil! It isn’t a diplomatic mission, I presume?” + +“Yes; it is a diplomatic mission for which I need a man who is not a +diplomatist.” + +“Then I’m your man, general! Only, you understand, the less a +diplomatist I am, the more precise my instructions must be.” + +“I am going to give them to you. Do you see that map?” + +And he showed the young man a large map of Piedmont stretched out on the +floor, under a lamp suspended from the ceiling. + +“Yes, I see it,” replied Roland, accustomed to follow the general along +the unexpected dashes of his genius; “but it is a map of Piedmont.” + +“Yes, it’s a map of Piedmont.” + +“So there is still a question of Italy?” + +“There is always a question of Italy.” + +“I thought you spoke of the Vendée?” + +“Secondarily.” + +“Why, general, you are not going to send me to the Vendée and go +yourself to Italy, are you?” + +“No; don’t be alarmed.” + +“All right; but I warn you, if you did, I should desert and join you.” + +“I give you permission to do so; but now let us go back to Mélas.” + +“Excuse me, general; this is the first time you have mentioned him.” + +“Yes; but I have been thinking of him for a long time. Do you know where +I shall defeat him?” + +“The deuce! I do.” + +“Where?” + +“Wherever you meet him.” + +Bonaparte laughed. + +“Ninny!” he said, with loving familiarity. Then, stooping over the map, +he said to Roland, “Come here.” + +Roland stooped beside him. “There,” resumed Bonaparte; “that is where I +shall fight him.” + +“Near Alessandria?” + +“Within eight or nine miles of it. He has all his supplies, hospitals, +artillery and reserves in Alessandria; and he will not leave the +neighborhood. I shall have to strike a great blow; that’s the only +condition on which I can get peace. I shall cross the Alps”--he pointed +to the great Saint-Bernard--“I shall fall upon Mélas when he least +expects me, and rout him utterly.” + +“Oh! trust you for that!” + +“Yes; but you understand, Roland, that in order to quit France with an +easy mind, I can’t leave it with an inflammation of the bowels--I can’t +leave war in the Vendée.” + +“Ah! now I see what you are after. No Vendée! And you are sending me to +the Vendée to suppress it.” + +“That young man told me some serious things about the Vendée. They +are brave soldiers, those Vendéans, led by a man of brains, Georges +Cadoudal. I have sent him the offer of a regiment, but he won’t accept.” + +“Jove! He’s particular.” + +“But there’s one thing he little knows.” + +“Who, Cadoudal?” + +“Yes, Cadoudal. That is that the Abbé Bernier has made me overtures.” + +“The Abbé Bernier?” + +“Yes.” + +“Who is the Abbé Bernier?” + +“The son of a peasant from Anjou, who may be now about thirty-three or +four years of age. Before the insurrection he was curate of Saint-Laud +at Angers. He refused to take the oath and sought refuge among the +Vendéans. Two or three times the Vendée was pacificated; twice she +was thought dead. A mistake! the Vendée was pacificated, but the Abbé +Bernier had not signed the peace; the Vendée was dead, but the Abbé +Bernier was still alive. One day the Vendée was ungrateful to him. +He wished to be appointed general agent to the royalist armies of the +interior; Stofflet influenced the decision and got his old master, +Comte Colbert de Maulevrier, appointed in Bernier’s stead. When, at +two o’clock in the morning, the council broke up, the Abbé Bernier had +disappeared. What he did that night, God and he alone can tell; but +at four o’clock in the morning a Republican detachment surrounded the +farmhouse where Stofflet was sleeping, disarmed and defenceless. At +half-past four Stofflet was captured; eight days later he was executed +at Angers. The next day Autichamp took command, and, to avoid making the +same blunder as Stofflet, he appointed the Abbé Bernier general agent. +Now, do you understand?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Well, the Abbé Bernier, general agent of the belligerent forces, and +furnished with plenary powers by the Comte d’Artois--the Abbé Bernier +has made overtures to me.” + +“To you, to Bonaparte, to the First Consul he deigns to--? Why, that’s +very kind of the Abbé Bernier? Have you accepted them?” + +“Yes, Roland; if the Vendée will give me peace, I will open her churches +and give her back her priests.” + +“And suppose they chant the _Domine, salvum fac regem?_” + +“That would be better than not singing at all. God is omnipotent, and he +will decide. Does the mission suit you, now that I have explained it?” + +“Yes, thoroughly.” + +“Then, here is a letter for General Hédouville. He is to treat with the +Abbé Bernier as the general-in-chief of the Army of the West. But you +are to be present at all these conferences; he is only my mouthpiece, +you are to be my thought. Now, start as soon as possible; the sooner you +get back, the sooner Mélas will be defeated.” + +“General, give me time to write to my mother, that’s all.” + +“Where will she stop?” + +“At the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.” + +“When do you think she will arrive?” + +“This is the night of the 21st of January; she will be here the evening +of the 23d, or the morning of the 24th.” + +“And she stops at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs?” + +“Yes, general.” + +“I take it all on myself.” + +“Take it all on yourself, general?” + +“Certainly; your mother can’t stay at a hotel.” + +“Where should she stay?” + +“With a friend.” + +“She knows no one in Paris.” + +“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Roland; she knows citizen Bonaparte, First +Consul, and his wife.” + +“You are not going to lodge my mother at the Luxembourg. I warn you that +that would embarrass her very much.” + +“No; but I shall lodge her in the Rue de la Victoire.” + +“Oh, general!” + +“Come, come; that’s settled. Go, now, and get back as soon as possible.” + +Roland took the First Consul’s hand, meaning to kiss it; but Bonaparte +drew him quickly to him. + +“Embrace me, my dear Roland,” he said, “and good luck to you.” + +Two hours later Roland was rolling along in a post-chaise on the road to +Orleans. The next day, at nine in the morning, he entered Nantes, after +a journey of thirty-three hours. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. THE GENEVA DILIGENCE + +About the hour when Roland was entering Nantes, a diligence, heavily +loaded, stopped at the inn of the Croix-d’Or, in the middle of the main +street of Châtillon-sur-Seine. + +In those days the diligences had but two compartments, the coupé and the +interior; the rotunda is an adjunct of modern times. + +The diligence had hardly stopped before the postilion jumped down and +opened the doors. The travellers dismounted. There were seven in all, +of both sexes. In the interior, three men, two women, and a child at the +breast; in the coupé, a mother and her son. + +The three men in the interior were, one a doctor from Troyes, the second +a watchmaker from Geneva, the third an architect from Bourg. The two +women were a lady’s maid travelling to Paris to rejoin her mistress, and +the other a wet-nurse; the child was the latter’s nursling, which she +was taking back to its parents. + +The mother and son in the coupé were people of position; the former, +about forty years of age, still preserving traces of great beauty, the +latter a boy between eleven and twelve. The third place in the coupe was +occupied by the conductor. + +Breakfast was waiting, as usual, in the dining-room; one of those +breakfasts which conductors, no doubt in collusion with the landlords, +never give travellers the time to eat. The woman and the nurse got out +of the coach and went to a baker’s shop nearby, where each bought a hot +roll and a sausage, with which they went back to the coach, settling +themselves quietly to breakfast, thus saving the cost, probably too +great for their means, of a meal at the hotel. + +The doctor, the watchmaker, the architect and the mother and son +entered the inn, and, after warming themselves hastily at the large +kitchen-fire, entered the dining-room and took seats at the table. + +The mother contented herself with a cup of coffee with cream, and some +fruit. The boy, delighted to prove himself a man by his appetite at +least, boldly attacked the viands. The first few moments were, as usual, +employed in satisfying hunger. The watchmaker from Geneva was the first +to speak. + +“Faith, citizen,” said he (the word citizen was still used in public +places), “I tell you frankly I was not at all sorry to see daylight this +morning.” + +“Cannot monsieur sleep in a coach?” asked the doctor. + +“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the compatriot of Jean-Jacques; “on the +contrary, I usually sleep straight through the night. But anxiety was +stronger than fatigue this time.” + +“Were you afraid of upsetting?” asked the architect. + +“No. I’m very lucky in that respect; it seems enough for me to be in a +coach to make it unupsettable. No, that wasn’t it.” + +“What was it, then?” questioned the doctor. + +“They say in Geneva that the roads in France are not safe.” + +“That’s according to circumstances,” said the architect. + +“Ah! how’s that?” inquired the watchmaker. + +“Oh!” replied the architect; “if, for example, we were carrying +government money, we would surely be stopped, or rather we would have +been already.” + +“Do you think so?” queried the watchmaker. + +“That has never failed. I don’t know how those devils of Companions of +Jehu manage to keep so well posted; but they never miss an opportunity.” + +The doctor nodded affirmatively. + +“Ah!” exclaimed the watchmaker, addressing the doctor; “do you think so, +too?” + +“I do.” + +“And if you knew there was government money in the coach, would you be +so imprudent as to take passage in it?” + +“I must admit,” replied the doctor, “that I should think twice about +it.” + +“And you, sir?” said the questioner to the architect. + +“Oh, I,” replied the latter--“as I am on important business, I should +have started anyway.” + +“I am tempted,” said the watchmaker “to take off my valise and my oases, +and wait for to-morrow’s diligence, because my boxes are filled with +watches worth something like twenty thousand francs. We’ve been lucky so +far, but there’s no use tempting Providence.” + +“Did you not hear these gentlemen say,” remarked the lady, joining in +the conversation for the first time, “that we run the risk of being +stopped only when the coach carries government money?” + +“That’s exactly it,” replied the watchmaker, looking anxiously around. +“We are carrying it.” + +The mother blanched visibly and looked at her son. Before fearing for +herself every mother fears for her child. + +“What! we are carrying it?” asked the doctor and the architect in +varying tones of excitement. “Are you sure of what you are saying?” + +“Perfectly sure, gentlemen.” + +“Then you should either have told us before, or have told us in a +whisper now.” + +“But perhaps,” said the doctor, “the gentleman is not quite sure of what +he says.” + +“Or perhaps he is joking,” added the architect. + +“Heaven forbid!” + +“The Genevese are very fond of a laugh,” persisted the doctor. + +“Sir,” replied the Genevese, much hurt that any one should think he +liked to laugh, “I saw it put on the coach myself.” + +“What?” + +“The money.” + +“Was there much?” + +“A good many bags.” + +“But where does the money come from?” + +“The treasury of the bears of Berne. You know, of course, that the bears +of Berne received an income of fifty or even sixty thousand francs.” + +The doctor burst out laughing. + +“Decidedly, sir, you are trying to frighten us,” said he. + +“Gentlemen,” said the watchmaker, “I give you my word of honor--” + +“Take your places gentlemen,” shouted the conductor, opening the door. +“Take your places! We are three-quarters of an hour late.” + +“One moment, conductor, one moment,” Said the architect; “we are +consulting.” + +“About what?” + +“Close the door, conductor, and come over here.” + +“Drink a glass of wine with us, conductor.” + +“With pleasure, gentlemen; a glass of wine is never to be refused.” + +The conductor held out his glass, and the three travellers touched it; +but just as he was lifting it to his lips the doctor stopped his arm. + +“Come, conductor, frankly, is it true?” + +“What?” + +“What this gentleman says?” And he pointed to the Genevese. + +“Monsieur Féraud?” + +“I don’t know if that is his name.” + +“Yes, sir, that is my name--Féraud & Company, No. 6 Rue du Rempart, +Geneva, at your service,” replied the watchmaker, bowing. + +“Gentlemen,” repeated the conductor, “take your places!” + +“But you haven’t answered.” + +“What the devil shall I answer? You haven’t asked me anything.” + +“Yes, we asked you if it is true that you are carrying a large sum of +money belonging to the French Government?” + +“Blabber!” said the conductor to watchmaker, “did you tell that?” + +“Confound it, my worthy fellow--” + +“Come, gentlemen, your places.” + +“But before getting in we want to know--” + +“What? Whether I have government money? Yes I have. Now, if we are +stopped, say nothing and all will be well.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“Leave me to arrange matters with these gentry.” + +“What will you do if we are stopped?” the doctor asked the architect. + +“Faith! I shall follow the conductor’s advice.” + +“That’s the best thing to do,” observed the latter. + +“Well, I shall keep quiet,” repeated the architect. + +“And so shall I,” added the watchmaker. + +“Come, gentlemen, take your seats, and let us make haste.” + +The boy had listened to this conversation with frowning brow and +clinched teeth. + +“Well,” he said to his mother, “if we are stopped, I know what I’ll do.” + +“What will you do?” she asked. + +“You’ll see.” + +“What does this little boy say?” asked the watchmaker. + +“I say you are all cowards,” replied the child unhesitatingly. + +“Edouard!” exclaimed his mother, “what do you mean?” + +“I wish they’d stop the diligence, that I do!” cried the boy, his eye +sparkling with determination. + +“Come, come, gentlemen, in Heaven’s name, take your places,” called the +conductor once more. + +“Conductor,” said the doctor, “I presume you have no weapons!” + +“Yes, I have my pistols.” + +“Unfortunate!” + +The conductor stooped to the doctor’s ear and whispered: “Don’t be +alarmed, doctor; they’re only loaded with powder.” + +“Good!” + +“Forward, postilion, forward!” shouted the conductor, closing the door +of the interior. Then, while the postilion snapped his whip and started +the heavy vehicle, he also closed that of the coupé. + +“Are you not coming with us, conductor?” asked the lady. + +“Thank you, no, Madame de Montrevel,” replied the conductor; “I have +something to do on the imperial.” Then, looking into the window, he +added: “Take care the Monsieur Edouard does not touch the pistols in the +pocket of the carriage; he might hurt himself.” + +“Pooh!” retorted the boy, “as if I didn’t know how to handle a pistol. I +have handsomer ones than yours, that my friend Sir John had sent me from +England; haven’t I, mamma?” + +“Never mind, Edouard,” replied Madame de Montrevel, “I entreat you not +to touch them.” + +“Don’t worry, little mother.” Then he added softly, “All the same, if +the Companions of Jehu stop us, I know what I shall do.” + +The diligence was again rolling heavily on its way to Paris. + +It was one of those fine winter days which makes those who think that +nature is dead at that season admit that nature never dies but only +sleeps. The man who lives to be seventy or eighty years of age has his +nights of ten or twelve hours, and often complains that the length +of his nights adds to the shortness of his days. Nature, which has an +everlasting existence; trees, which live a thousand years; have sleeping +periods of four or five months, which are winters for us but only nights +for them. The poets, in their envious verse, sing the immortality of +nature, which dies each autumn and revives each spring. The poets are +mistaken; nature does not die each autumn, she only falls asleep; she +is not resuscitated, she awakens. The day when our globe really dies, +it will be dead indeed. Then it will roll into space or fall into the +abysses of chaos, inert, mute, solitary, without trees, without flowers, +without verdure, without poets. + +But on this beautiful day of the 23d of February, 1800, sleeping nature +dreamed of spring; a brilliant, almost joyous sun made the grass in the +ditches on either side of the road sparkle with those deceptive pearls +of the hoarfrost which vanish at a touch, and rejoice the heart of a +tiller of the earth when he sees them glittering at the points of his +wheat as it pushes bravely up through the soil. All the windows of the +diligence were lowered, to give entrance to this earliest smile of the +Divine, as though all hearts were saying: “Welcome back, traveller +long lost in the clouds of the West, or beneath the heaving billows of +Ocean!” + +Suddenly, about an hour after leaving Châtillon, the diligence stopped +at a bend of the river without any apparent cause. Four horsemen quietly +approached, walking their horses, and one of them, a little in advance +of the others, made a sign with his hand to the postilion, ordering him +to draw up. The postilion obeyed. + +“Oh, mamma!” cried Edouard, standing up and leaning out of the window +in spite of Madame de Montrevel’s protestations; “oh, mamma, what fine +horses! But why do these gentlemen wear masks? This isn’t carnival.” + +Madame de Montrevel was dreaming. A woman always dreams a little; young, +of the future; old, of the past. She started from her revery, put her +head out of the window, and gave a little cry. + +Edouard turned around hastily. + +“What ails you, mother?” he asked. + +Madame de Montrevel turned pale and took him in her arms without a word. +Cries of terror were heard in the interior. + +“But what is the matter?” demanded little Edouard, struggling to escape +from his mother’s encircling arms. + +“Nothing, my little man,” said one of the masked men in a gentle voice, +putting his head through the window of the coupé; “nothing but an +account we have to settle with the conductor, which does not in the +least concern you travellers. Tell your mother to accept our respectful +homage, and to pay no more heed to us than if we were not here.” Then +passing to the door of the interior, he added: “Gentlemen, your servant. +Fear nothing for your money or jewels, and reassure that nurse--we have +not come here to turn her milk.” Then to the conductor: “Now, then, Père +Jérôme, we have a hundred thousand francs on the imperial and in the +boxes, haven’t we?” + +“Gentlemen, I assure you--” + +“That the money belongs to the government. It did belong to the bears of +Berne; seventy thousand francs in gold, the rest in silver. The silver +is on the top of the coach, the gold in the bottom of the coupé. Isn’t +that so? You see how well informed we are.” + +At the words “bottom of the coupe” Madame de Montrevel gave another cry +of terror; she was about to come in contact with men who, in spite of +their politeness, inspired her with the most profound terror. + +“But what is the matter, mother, what is the matter?” demanded the boy +impatiently. + +“Be quiet, Edouard; be quiet!” + +“Why must I be quiet?” + +“Don’t you understand?” + +“No.” + +“The coach has been stopped.” + +“Why? Tell me why? Ah, mother, I understand.” + +“No, no,” said Madame de Montrevel, “you don’t understand.” + +“Those gentlemen are robbers.” + +“Take care you don’t say so.” + +“What, you mean they are not robbers? Why, see they are taking the +conductor’s money.” + +Sure enough, one of the four was fastening to the saddle of his horse +the bags of silver which the conductor threw down from the imperial. + +“No,” repeated Madame de Montrevel, “no, they are not robbers.” Then +lowering her voice, she added: “They are Companions of Jehu.” + +“Ah!” cried the boy, “they are the ones who assassinated my friend, Sir +John.” + +And the child turned very pale, and his breath came hissing through his +clinched teeth. + +At that moment one of the masked men opened the door of the coupé, and +said with exquisite politeness: “Madame la Comtesse, to our great regret +we are obliged to disturb you; but we want, or rather the conductor +wants, a package from the bottom of the coupé. Will you be so kind as +to get out for a moment? Jérôme will get what he wants as quickly as +possible.” Then, with that note of gayety which was never entirely +absent from that laughing voice, he added, “Won’t you, Jérôme?” + +Jérôme replied from the top of the diligence, confirming these words. + +With an instinctive movement to put herself between the danger and her +son, Madame de Montrevel, while complying with that request, pushed +Edouard behind her. That instant sufficed for the boy to seize the +conductor’s pistols. + +The young man with the laughing voice assisted Madame de Montrevel from +the coach with the greatest care, then signed to one of his companions +to give her an arm, and returned to the coach. + +But at that instant a double report was heard. Edouard had fired a +pistol with each hand at the Companion of Jehu, who disappeared in the +smoke. + +Madame de Montrevel screamed, and fainted away. Various cries, +expressive of diverse sentiments, echoed that of the mother. + +From the interior came one of terror; they had all agreed to offer no +resistance, and now some one had resisted. From the three young men came +a cry of surprise--it was the first time such a thing had happened. + +They rushed to their companion, expecting to find him reduced to +pulp; but they found him safe and sound, laughing heartily, while the +conductor, with clasped hands, was exclaiming: “Monsieur, I swear there +were no balls; monsieur, I protest, they were only charged with powder.” + +“The deuce,” said the young man, “don’t I see that? But the intention +was good, wasn’t it, my little Edouard?” Then, turning to his +companions, he added: “Confess, gentlemen, that he is a fine boy--a true +son of his father, and brother of his brother. Bravo, Edouard! you’ll +make a man some day!” + +Taking the boy in his arms, he kissed him, in spite of his struggles, on +both cheeks. + +Edouard fought like a demon, thinking no doubt that it was very +humiliating to be embraced by a man at whom he had just fired two +pistols. + +In the meantime one of the Companions had carried Edouard’s mother to +the bank by the roadside a little distance from the diligence. The man +who had kissed Edouard with so much affection and persistence now looked +around for her. + +“Ah!” cried he, on perceiving her, “Madame de Montrevel still +unconscious? We can’t leave a woman in that condition, gentlemen. +Conductor, take Master Edouard.” Placing the boy in Jérôme’s arms, he +turned to one of his companions: “Man of precautions,” said he, “haven’t +you smelling salts or a bottle of essence with you?” + +“Here!” said the young man he had addressed, pulling a flask of toilet +vinegar from his pocket. + +“Good,” said the other, who seemed to be the leader of the band. “Do you +finish up the matter with Master Jérôme; I’ll take charge of Madame de +Montrevel.” + +It was indeed time. The fainting fit was giving place to a violent +nervous attack; spasmodic movements shook her whole body and strangled +cries came from her throat. The young man leaned over her and made her +inhale the salts. + +Madame de Montrevel presently opened her frightened eyes, and called +out: “Edouard! Edouard!” With an involuntary movement she knocked aside +the mask of the man who was supporting her, exposing his face. + +The courteous, laughing young man--our readers have already recognized +him--was Morgan. + +Madame de Montrevel paused in amazement at sight of those beautiful blue +eyes, the lofty brow, and the gracious lips smiling at her. She realized +that she ran no danger from such a man, and that no harm could have +befallen Edouard. Treating Morgan as a gentleman who had succored her, +and not as a bandit who had caused her fainting-fit, she exclaimed: “Ah, +sir! how kind you are.” + +In the words, in the tones in which she uttered them, there lay a world +of thanks, not only for herself, but for her child. + +With singular delicacy, entirely in keeping with his chivalric nature, +Morgan, instead of picking up his fallen mask and covering his face +immediately, so that Madame de Montrevel could only have retained a +fleeting and confused impression of it--Morgan replied to her compliment +by a low bow, leaving his features uncovered long enough to produce +their impression; then, placing d’Assas’ flask in Madame de Montrevel’s +hand--and then only--he replaced his mask. Madame de Montrevel +understood the young man’s delicacy. + +“Ah! sir,” said she, “be sure that, in whatever place or situation I see +you again, I shall not recognize you.” + +“Then, madame,” replied Morgan, “it is for me to thank you and repeat, +‘How kind you are.’” + +“Come, gentlemen, take your seats!” said the conductor, in his customary +tone, as if nothing unusual had happened. + +“Are you quite restored, madame, or should you like a few minutes more +to rest?” asked Morgan. “The diligence shall wait.” + +“No, that is quite unnecessary; I feel quite well, and am much indebted +to you.” + +Morgan offered Madame de Montrevel his arm, and she leaned upon it to +reach the diligence. The conductor had already placed little Edouard +inside. When Madame de Montrevel had resumed her seat, Morgan, who had +already made his peace with the mother, wished to do so with the son. + +“Without a grudge, my young hero,” he said, offering his hand. + +But the boy drew back. + +“I don’t give my hand to a highway robber,” he replied. Madame de +Montrevel gave a start of terror. + +“You have a charming boy, madame,” said Morgan; “only he has his +prejudices.” Then, bowing with the utmost courtesy, he added, “A +prosperous voyage, madame,” and closed the door. + +“Forward!” cried the conductor. + +The carriage gave a lurch. + +“Oh! pardon me, sir!” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel; “your flask!” + +“Keep it, madame,” said Morgan; “although I trust you are sufficiently +recovered not to need it.” + +But Edouard, snatching the flask from his mother’s hands, flung it out +of the window, crying: “Mamma doesn’t receive presents from robbers.” + +“The devil!” murmured Morgan, with the first sigh his Companions had +ever heard him give. “I think I am right not to ask for my poor +Amélie in marriage.” Then, turning to his Companions, he said: “Well, +gentlemen, is it finished?” + +“Yes,” they answered with one voice. + +“Then let us mount and be off. Don’t forget we have to be at the Opera +at nine o’clock this evening.” + +Springing into his saddle, he was the first to jump the ditch, reach +the river, and there unhesitatingly took the ford which the pretended +courier had pointed out on Cassini’s map. + +When he reached the opposite bank, followed by the other young men, +d’Assas said to him: “Say, didn’t your mask falloff?” + +“Yes; but no one saw my face but Madame de Montrevel.” + +“Hum!” muttered d’Assas. “Better no one had seen it.” + +Putting their horses to a gallop, all four disappeared across the fields +in the direction of Chacource. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. CITIZEN FOUCHÉ’S REPORT + +On arriving the next day, toward eleven in the morning, at the Hôtel +des Ambassadeurs, Madame de Montrevel was astonished to find, instead of +Roland, a stranger awaiting her. The stranger approached her. + +“Are you the widow of General de Montrevel, madame?” he asked. + +“Yes, monsieur,” replied Madame de Montrevel, not a little astonished. + +“And you are looking for your son?” + +“Yes; and I do not understand, after the letter he wrote me--” + +“Man proposes, the First Consul disposes,” replied the stranger, +laughing. “The First Consul has disposed of your son for a few days, and +has sent me to receive you in his stead.” + +Madame de Montrevel bowed. + +“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” she asked. + +“To citizen Fauvelet de Bourrienne, his first secretary,” replied the +stranger. + +“Will you thank the First Consul for me,” replied Madame de Montrevel, +“and have the kindness to express to him the profound regret I feel at +not being able to do so myself?” + +“But nothing can be more easy, madame.” + +“How so?” + +“The First Consul has ordered me to bring you to the Luxembourg.” + +“Me?” + +“You and your son.” + +“Oh! I am going to see General Bonaparte; I am going to see General +Bonaparte!” cried the child, jumping for joy and clapping his hands. +“What happiness!” + +“Edouard, Edouard!” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel. Then, turning to +Bourrienne, “You must excuse him, sir; he is a little savage from the +Jura Mountains.” + +Bourrienne held out his hand to the boy. + +“I am a friend of your brother’s,” said he. “Will you kiss me?” + +“Oh! willingly, sir,” replied Edouard. “You are not a thief, I know.” + +“Why, no; I trust not,” replied the secretary, laughing. + +“You must excuse him once again, sir. Our diligence was stopped on the +way.” + +“Stopped?” + +“Yes.” + +“By robbers?” + +“Not exactly.” + +“Monsieur,” asked Edouard, “when people take other people’s money, are +they not thieves?” + +“That is what they are generally called, my dear child.” + +“There, you see, mamma.” + +“Come, Edouard, be quiet, I beg of you.” + +Bourrienne glanced at Madame de Montrevel, and saw clearly from the +expression of her face that the subject was disagreeable to her; he +therefore dropped it. + +“Madame,” said he, “may I remind you that I have I orders to take you to +the Luxembourg, and to add that Madame Bonaparte is expecting you?” + +“Pray give me time to change my gown and to dress Edouard, sir.” + +“How long will that take, madame?” + +“Is half an hour too much to ask?” + +“No, indeed; if half an hour really suffices I shall think you most +reasonable.” + +“Be easy, sir; it will be sufficient.” + +“Well, madame,” said the secretary, bowing, “I will attend to an errand, +and return in half an hour to place myself at your orders.” + +“Thank you, sir.” + +“Don’t be annoyed if I should be punctual.” + +“I shall not keep you waiting.” + +Bourrienne left. Madame de Montrevel dressed Edouard first, then +herself, and was ready five minutes before Bourrienne reappeared. + +“Take care, madame,” said Bourrienne laughing, “lest I tell the First +Consul of your extreme punctuality.” + +“What should I have to fear if you did?” + +“He would keep you near him to give lessons in punctuality to Madame +Bonaparte.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, “you must forgive unpunctuality in +a Creole.” + +“But I believe you are a Creole also, madame.” + +“Madame Bonaparte sees her husband every day,” said Madame de Montrevel, +laughing, “whereas I am to see the First Consul for the first time.” + +“Come, mother, let us go!” said Edouard. + +The secretary drew aside to allow Madame de Montrevel to pass out. +Fifteen minutes later they had reached the Luxembourg. + +Bonaparte occupied the suite of rooms on the ground floor to the right. +Josephine’s chamber and boudoir were on the first floor; a stairway led +from the First Consul’s study to her room. + +She was expecting Madame de Montrevel, for as soon as she saw her +she opened her arms as to a friend. Madame de Montrevel had stopped +respectfully at the door. + +“Oh! come in, come in, madame!” said Josephine. “To-day is not the +first that I know you; I have long known you through your excellent son, +Roland. Shall I tell you what comforts me when Bonaparte leaves me? It +is that Roland goes with him; for I fancy that, so long as Roland is +with him, no harm will befall him. Well, won’t you kiss me?” + +Madame de Montrevel was confused by so much kindness. + +“We are compatriots, you know,” continued Josephine. “Oh! how well +I remember M. de la Clémencière, and his beautiful gardens with the +splendid fruit. I remember having seen a young girl who seemed its +queen. You must have married very young, madame?” + +“At fourteen.” + +“Yes, you could not have been older to have a son of Roland’s age. But +pray sit down.” + +She led the way, making a sign to Madame de Montrevel to sit beside her. + +“And that charming boy,” she said, pointing to Edouard, “is he also your +son?” And she gave a sigh. “God has been prodigal to you, madame, and as +He has given you all you can desire, will you not implore Him to send me +a son.” + +She pressed her lips enviously to Edouard’s forehead. + +“My husband will be delighted to see you, he is so fond of your son, +madame! You would not have been brought to me in the first instance, if +he were not engaged with the minister of police. For that matter,” + she added, laughing, “you have arrived at an unfortunate moment; he is +furious!” + +“Oh!” cried Madame de Montrevel, frightened; “if that is so, I would +rather wait.” + +“No, no! On the contrary, the sight of you will calm him. I don’t know +just what is the matter; but it seems a diligence was stopped on the +outskirts of the Black Forest in broad daylight. Fouché will find his +credit in danger if the thing goes on.” + +Madame de Montrevel was about to answer when the door opened and an +usher appeared. + +“The First Consul awaits Madame de Montrevel,” he said. + +“Go,” said Josephine; “Bonaparte’s time is so precious that he is almost +as impatient as Louis XV., who had nothing to do. He does not like to +wait.” + +Madame de Montrevel rose hastily and turned to take Edouard with her. + +“No,” said Josephine; “leave this beautiful boy with me. You will stay +and dine with us, and Bonaparte can see him then. Besides, if my husband +takes a fancy to see him, he can send for him. For the time, I am his +second mamma. Come, what shall we do to amuse ourselves?” + +“The First Consul must have a fine lot of weapons, madame,” replied the +boy. + +“Yes, very fine ones. Well, I will show you the First Consul’s arms.” + +Josephine, leading the child, went out of one door, and Madame de +Montrevel followed the usher through the other. + +On the way the countess met a fair man, with a pale face and haggard +eye, who looked at her with an uneasiness that seemed habitual to him. +She drew hastily aside to let him pass. The usher noticed her movement. + +“That is the minister of police,” he said in a low voice. Madame de +Montrevel watched him as he disappeared, with a certain curiosity. +Fouché was already at that time fatally celebrated. Just then the door +of Bonaparte’s study opened and his head was seen through the aperture. +He caught sight of Madame de Montrevel. + +“Come in, madame,” he said; “come in.” + +Madame de Montrevel hastened her steps and entered the study. + +“Come in,” said Bonaparte, closing the door himself. “I have kept you +waiting much against my will; but I had to give Fouché a scolding. You +know I am very well satisfied with Roland, and that I intend to make a +general of him at the first opportunity. When did you arrive?” + +“This very moment, general.” + +“Where from? Roland told me, but I have forgotten.” + +“From Bourg.” + +“What road?” + +“Through Champagne.” + +“Champagne! Then when did you reach Châtillon?” + +“Yesterday morning at nine o’clock.” + +“In that case, you must have heard of the stoppage of the diligence.” + +“General--” + +“Yes, a diligence was stopped at ten in the morning, between Châtillon +and Bar-sur-Seine.” + +“General, it was ours.” + +“Yours?” + +“Yes.” + +“You were in the diligence that was stopped?” + +“I was.” + +“Ah! now I shall get the exact details! Excuse me, but you understand my +desire for correct information, don’t you? In a civilized country which +has General Bonaparte for its chief magistrate, diligences can’t be +stopped in broad daylight on the highroads with impunity, or--” + +“General, I can tell you nothing, except that those who stopped it were +on horseback and masked.” + +“How many were there?” + +“Four.” + +“How many men were there in the diligence?” + +“Four, including the conductor.” + +“And they didn’t defend themselves?” + +“No, general.” + +“The police report says, however, that two shots were fired.” + +“Yes, general, but those two shots--” + +“Well?” + +“Were fired by my son.” + +“Your son? Why, he is in Vendée!” + +“Roland, yes; but Edouard was with me.” + +“Edouard! Who is Edouard?” + +“Roland’s brother.” + +“True, he spoke of him; but he is only a child.” + +“He is not yet twelve, general.” + +“And it was he who fired the two shots?” + +“Yes, general.” + +“Why didn’t you bring him with you?” + +“I did.” + +“Where is he?” + +“I left him with Madame Bonaparte.” + +Bonaparte rang, and an usher appeared. + +“Tell Josephine to bring the boy to me.” Then, walking up and down his +study, he muttered, “Four men! And a child taught them courage! Were any +of the robbers wounded?” + +“There were no balls in the pistols.” + +“What! no balls?” + +“No; they belonged to the conductor, and he had taken the precaution to +load them with powder only.” + +“Very good; his name shall be known.” + +Just then the door opened, and Madame Bonaparte entered, leading the boy +by the hand. + +“Come here,” Bonaparte said to him. + +Edouard went up to him without hesitation and made a military salute. + +“So you fired at the robbers twice, did you?” + +“There, you see, mamma, they were robbers!” interrupted the child. + +“Of course they were robbers; I should like to hear any one declare they +were not! Was it you who fired at them, when the men were afraid?” + +“Yes, it was I, general. But unfortunately that coward of a conductor +had loaded his pistols only with powder; otherwise I should have killed +their leader.” + +“Then you were not afraid?” + +“I?” replied the boy. “No, I am never afraid.” + +“You ought to be named Cornelia, madame,” exclaimed Bonaparte, turning +to Madame de Montrevel, who was leaning on Josephine’s arm. Then he said +to the child, kissing him: “Very good; we will take care of you. What +would you like to be?” + +“Soldier first.” + +“What do you mean by first?” + +“Why, first a soldier, then later a colonel like my brother, and then a +general like my father.” + +“It won’t be my fault if you are not,” answered the First Consul. + +“Nor mine,” retorted the boy. + +“Edouard!” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, timidly. + +“Now don’t scold him for answering properly;” and Bonaparte, lifting the +child to the level of his face, kissed him. + +“You must dine with us,” said he, “and to-night Bourrienne, who met you +at the hotel, will install you in the Rue de la Victoire. You must stay +there till Roland gets back; he will then find you suitable lodgings. +Edouard shall go to the Prytanée, and I will marry off your daughter.” + +“General!” + +“That’s all settled with Roland.” Then, turning to Josephine, he +said: “Take Madame de Montrevel with you, and try not to let her be +bored.--And, Madame de Montrevel, if _your friend_ (he emphasized the +words) wishes to go to a milliner, prevent it; she can’t want bonnets, +for she bought thirty-eight last month.” + +Then, giving Edouard a friendly tap, he dismissed the two women with a +wave of the hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. THE SON OF THE MILLER OF LEGUERNO + +We have said that at the very moment when Morgan and his three +companions stopped the Geneva diligence between Bar-sur-Seine and +Châtillon, Roland was entering Nantes. + +If we are to know the result of his mission we must not grope our way, +step by step, through the darkness in which the Abbé Bernier wrapped +his ambitious projects, but we must join him later at the village of +Muzillac, between Ambon and Guernic, six miles above the little bay into +which the Vilaine River falls. + +There we find ourselves in the heart of the Morbihan; that is to say, in +the region that gave birth to the Chouannerie. It was close to Laval, on +the little farm of the Poiriers, that the four Chouan brothers were +born to Pierre Cottereau and Jeanne Moyné. One of their ancestors, a +misanthropical woodcutter, a morose peasant, kept himself aloof from the +other peasants as the _chat-huant_ (screech-owl) keeps aloof from the +other birds; hence the name Chouan, a corruption of _chat-huant_. + +The name became that of a party. On the right bank of the Loire they +said Chouans when they meant Bretons, just as on the left bank they said +brigands when they meant Vendéans. + +It is not for us to relate the death and destruction of that heroic +family, nor follow to the scaffold the two sisters and a brother, nor +tell of battlefields where Jean and René, martyrs to their faith, lay +dying or dead. Many years have elapsed since the executions of Perrine, +René and Pierre, and the death of Jean; and the martyrdom of the +sisters, the exploits of the brothers have passed into legends. We have +now to do with their successors. + +It is true that these gars (lads) are faithful to their traditions. As +they fought beside la Rouërie, Bois-Hardy and Bernard de Villeneuve, so +did they fight beside Bourmont, Frotté, and Georges Cadoudal. Theirs +was always the same courage, the same devotion--that of the Christian +soldier, the faithful royalist. Their aspect is always the same, rough +and savage; their weapons, the same gun or cudgel, called in those +parts a “ferte.” Their garments are the same; a brown woollen cap, or a +broad-brimmed hat scarcely covering the long straight hair that fell in +tangles on their shoulders, the old _Aulerci Cenomani_, as in Cæsar’s +day, _promisso capillo_; they are the same Bretons with wide breeches of +whom Martial said: + + _Tam laxa est..._ + _Quam veteres braccoe Britonis pauperis._ + +To protect themselves from rain and cold they wore goatskin garments, +made with the long hair turned outside; on the breasts of which, as +countersign, some wore a scapulary and chaplet, others a heart, the +heart of Jesus; this latter was the distinctive sign of a fraternity +which withdrew apart each day for common prayer. + +Such were the men, who, at the time we are crossing the borderland +between the Loire-Inférieure and Morbihan, were scattered from La +Roche-Bernard to Vannes, and from Quertemberg to Billiers, surrounding +consequently the village of Muzillac. + +But it needed the eye of the eagle soaring in the clouds, or that of the +screech-owl piercing the darkness, to distinguish these men among the +gorse and heather and underbrush where they were crouching. + +Let us pass through this network of invisible sentinels, and after +fording two streams, the affluents of a nameless river which flows into +the sea near Billiers, between Arzal and Dangau, let us boldly enter the +village of Muzillac. + +All is still and sombre; a single light shines through the blinds of +a house, or rather a cottage, which nothing distinguishes from its +fellows. It is the fourth to the right on entering the village. + +Let us put our eye to one of these chinks and look in. + +We see a man dressed like the rich peasants of Morbihan, except that +gold lace about a finger wide stripes the collar and buttonholes of his +coat and also the edges of his hat. The rest of his dress consists of +leathern trousers and high-topped boots. His sword is thrown upon a +chair. A brace of pistols lies within reach of his hand. Within the +fireplace the barrels of two or three muskets reflect the light of a +blazing fire. + +The man is seated before a table; a lamp lights some papers which he is +reading with great attention, and illuminates his face at the same time. + +The face is that of a man of thirty. When the cares of a partisan +warfare do not darken it, its expression must surely be frank and +joyous. Beautiful blond hair frames it; great blue eyes enliven it; +the head, of a shape peculiarly Breton, seems to show, if we believe in +Gall’s system, an exaggerated development of the organs of self-will. +And the man has two names. That by which he is known to his soldiers, +his familiar name, is Round-head; and his real name, received from +brave and worthy parents, Georges Cadudal, or rather Cadoudal, tradition +having changed the orthography of a name that is now historic. + +Georges was the son of a farmer of the parish of Kerléano in the commune +of Brech. The story goes that this farmer was once a miller. Georges had +just received at the college of Vannes--distant only a few leagues from +Brech--a good and solid education when the first appeals for a royalist +insurrection were made in Vendée. Cadoudal listened to them, gathered +together a number of his companions, and offered his services to +Stofflet. But Stofflet insisted on seeing him at work before he accepted +him. Georges asked nothing better. Such occasions were not long to seek +in the Vendéan army. On the next day there was a battle; Georges went +into it with such determination and made so desperate a rush that M. de +Maulevrier’s former huntsman, on seeing him charge the Blues, could not +refrain from saying aloud to Bonchamp, who was near him: + +“If a cannon ball doesn’t take off that _Big Round Head_, it will roll +far, I warrant you.” + +The name clung to Cadoudal--a name by which, five centuries earlier, the +lords of Malestroit, Penhoël, Beaumanoir and Rochefort designated the +great Constable, whose ransom was spun by the women of Brittany. + +“There’s the Big Round Head,” said they; “now we’ll exchange some good +sword-play with the English.” + +Unfortunately, at this time it was not Breton sword-thrusts against +English, but Frenchmen against Frenchmen. + +Georges remained in Vendée until after the defeat of Savenay. The whole +Vendéan army was either left upon the battlefield or vanished in smoke. +For three years, Georges had performed prodigies of valor, strength and +dexterity; he now crossed the Loire and re-entered Morbihan with only +one man left of all who had followed him. + +That man became his aide-de-camp, or rather his brother-in-arms. +He never left him, and in memory of the hard campaign they had made +together he changed his name from Lemercier to Tiffauges. We have seen +him at the ball of the Victims charged with a message to Morgan. + +As soon as Cadoudal returned to his own part of the country, he fomented +insurrection on his own responsibility. Bullets respected that big +round head, and the big round head justified Stofflet’s prediction. He +succeeded La Rochejacquelin, d’Elbée, Bonchamp, Lescure, even Stofflet +himself, and became their rival for fame, their superior in power; for +it happened (and this will give an idea of his strength) that Cadoudal, +almost single-handed, had been able to resist the government of +Bonaparte, who had been First Consul for the last three months. The two +leaders who continued with him, faithful to the Bourbon dynasty, were +Frotté and Bourmont. + +At the time of which we are now speaking, that is to say, the 26th of +January, 1800, Cadoudal commanded three or four thousand men with whom +he was preparing to blockade General Hatry in Vannes. + +During the time that he awaited the First Consul’s answer to the letter +of Louis XVIII. he had suspended hostilities; but Tiffauges had arrived +a couple of days before with it. + +That letter was already on the way to England, whence it would be sent +to Mittau; and since the First Consul would not accept peace on the +terms dictated by Louis XVIII., Cadoudal, commander-in-chief of Louis +XVIII. in the West, renewed his warfare against Bonaparte, intending +to carry it on alone, if necessary, with his friend Tiffauges. For +the rest, the latter was at Pouancé, where conferences were being +held between Châtillon, d’Autichamp, the Abbé Bernier, and General +Hédouville. + +He was reflecting--this last survivor of the great warriors of the civil +war--and the news he had just received was indeed a matter for deep +reflection. + +General Brune, the conqueror of Alkmaar and Castricum, the savior of +Holland, had just been appointed to the command of the Republican forces +in the West. He had reached Nantes three days previous, intending, at +any cost, to annihilate Cadoudal and his Chouans. + +At any cost, therefore, Cadoudal and his Chouans must prove to the +commander-in-chief that they knew no fear, and had nothing to expect +from intimidation. + +Just then the gallop of a horse was heard; the rider no doubt had +the countersign, for he passed without difficulty the various patrols +stationed along the toad to La Roche-Bernard, and entered the village of +Muzillac, also without difficulty. + +He stopped before the door of the cottage in which Georges was sitting. +The latter raised his head, listened, and, by way of precaution, laid +his hands on his pistols, though it was probable that the new-comer was +a friend. + +The rider dismounted, strode up the path, and opened the door of the +room where Georges was waiting. + +“Ah! it’s you, Coeur-de-Roi,” said Cadoudal. “Where do you come from?” + +“From Pouancé, general.” + +“What news?” + +“A letter from Tiffauges.” + +“Give it to me.” + +Georges snatched the letter hastily from Coeur-de-Roi’s hand and read +it. + +“Ah!” he exclaimed. + +Then he read it a second time, + +“Have you seen the man whose coming he speaks of?” inquired Cadoudal. + +“Yes, general,” replied the courier. + +“What sort of a man is he?” + +“A handsome young fellow of twenty-six or seven.” + +“What manner?” + +“Determined.” + +“That’s it. When does he arrive?” + +“Probably to-night.” + +“Did you safe-guard him along the road?” + +“Yes; he’ll come safely.” + +“Do it again. Nothing must happen to him; he is protected by Morgan.” + +“That’s understood, general.” + +“Anything more to say?” + +“The advanced guard of the Republicans has reached La Roche-Bernard.” + +“How many men?” + +“About a thousand. They have a guillotine with them, and the +commissioner of the executive power, Millière.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“I met them on the road. The commissioner was riding near the colonel, +and I recognized him perfectly. He executed my brother, and I have sworn +he shall die by my own hand.” + +“And you’ll risk your life to keep your oath?” + +“At the first opportunity.” + +“Perhaps it won’t be long coming.” + +The gallop of a horse echoed through the street. + +“Ah!” said Coeur-de-Roi, “that is probably the man you expect.” + +“No,” replied Cadoudal, “this rider comes from the direction of Vannes.” + +The sound became more distinct, and it proved that Cadoudal was right. + +The second horseman, like the first, halted at the gate, dismounted, and +came into the room. The royalist leader recognized him at once, in spite +of the large cloak in which he was wrapped. + +“Is it you, Bénédicité?” he asked. + +“Yes, general.” + +“Where do you come from?” + +“From Vannes, where you sent me to watch the Blues. + +“Well, what are the Blues doing?” + +“Scaring themselves about dying of hunger if you blockade the town. +In order to procure provisions General Hatry intends to carry off the +supplies at Grandchamp. The general is to command the raid in person; +and, to act more quickly, only a hundred men are to go.” + +“Are you tired, Bénédicité?” + +“Never, general.” + +“And your horse?” + +“He came fast, but he can do twelve or fifteen miles more without +killing himself.” + +“Give him two hours’ rest, a double feed of oats, and make him do +thirty.” + +“On those conditions he can do them.” + +“Start in two hours. Be at Grandchamp by daybreak. Give the order in my +name to evacuate the village. I’ll take care of General Hatry and his +column. Is that all you have to say?” + +“No, I heard other news.” + +“What is it?” + +“That Vannes has a new bishop.” + +“Ha! so they are giving us back our bishops?” + +“So it seems; but if they are all like this one, they can keep them.” + +“Who is he?” + +“Audrein!” + +“The regicide?” + +“Audrein the renegade.” + +“When is he coming?” + +“To-night or to-morrow.” + +“I shall not go to meet him; but let him beware of falling into my men’s +hands.” + +Bénédicité and Coeur-de-Roi burst into a laugh which completed +Cadoudal’s thought. + +“Hush!” cried Cadoudal. + +The three men listened. + +“This time it is probably he,” observed Georges. + +The gallop of a horse could be heard coming from the direction of La +Roche-Bernard. + +“It is certainly he,” repeated Coeur-de-Roi. + +“Then, my friends, leave me alone. You, Bénédicité, get to Grandchamp as +soon as possible. You, Coeur-de-Roi, post thirty men in the courtyard; +I want messengers to send in different directions. By the way, tell some +one to bring the best that can be got for supper in the village.” + +“For how many, general?” + +“Oh! two.” + +“Are you going out?” + +“No, only to meet the man who is coming.” + +Two or three men had already taken the horses of the messengers into the +courtyard. The messengers themselves disappeared. + +Georges reached the gate on the street just as a horseman, pulling up +his horse, looked about him and seemed to hesitate. + +“He is here, sir,” said Georges. + +“Who is here?” + +“He whom you seek.” + +“How do you know whom I am seeking?” + +“I presume it is Georges Cadoudal, otherwise called Round-head.” + +“Exactly.” + +“Then I bid you welcome, Monsieur Roland de Montrevel, for I am the +person you seek.” + +“Ah, ah!” exclaimed the young man, amazed. + +Then, dismounting, he looked about as if for some one to take his mount. + +“Throw the bridle over your horse’s neck, and don’t be uneasy about him. +You will find him when you want him. Nothing is ever lost in Brittany; +you are in the land of honesty.” + +The young man made no remark, threw the bridle over his horse’s neck as +he had been told, and followed Cadoudal, who walked before him. + +“Only to show you the way, colonel,” said the leader of the Chouans. + +They both entered the cottage, where an invisible hand had just made up +the fire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. WHITE AND BLUE + +Roland entered, as we have said, behind Georges, and as he entered cast +a glance of careless curiosity around him. That glance sufficed to show +him that they were alone. + +“Are these your quarters, general?” asked Roland with a smile, turning +the soles of his boots to the blaze. + +“Yes, colonel.” + +“They are singularly guarded.” + +Georges smiled in turn. + +“Do you say that because you found the road open from La Roche-Bernard +here?” he asked. + +“I did not meet a soul.” + +“That does not prove that the road was not guarded.” + +“Unless by the owls, who seemed to fly from tree to tree, and +accompanied me all the way, general. In that case, I withdraw my +assertion.” + +“Exactly,” replied Cadoudal. “Those owls were my sentinels, sentinels +with good eyes, inasmuch as they have this advantage over the eyes of +men, they can see in the dark.” + +“It is not the less true that I was fortunate in having inquired my way +at La Roche-Bernard; for I didn’t meet even a cat who could have told me +where to find you.” + +“But if you had raised your voice at any spot on the road and asked: +‘Where shall I find Georges Cadoudal?’ a voice would have answered: ‘At +the village of Muzillac, fourth house to the right.’ You saw no one, +colonel; but at that very moment fifteen hundred men, or thereabout, +knew that Colonel Roland, the First Consul’s aide-de-camp, was on his +way to a conference with the son of the miller of Leguerno.” + +“But if they knew that I was a colonel in the Republican service and +aide-de-camp to the First Consul, how came they to let me pass?” + +“Because they were ordered to do so.” + +“Then you knew that I was coming?” + +“I not only knew that you were coming, but also why you have come.” + +Roland looked at him fixedly. + +“Then it is useless for me to tell you; and you will answer me even +though I say nothing?” + +“You are about right.” + +“The deuce! I should like to have a proof of this superiority of your +police over ours.” + +“I will supply it, colonel.” + +“I shall receive it with much satisfaction, especially before this +excellent fire, which also seems to have been expecting me.” + +“You say truer than you know, colonel; and it is not the fire only that +is striving to welcome you warmly.” + +“Yes, but it does not tell me, any more than you have done, the object +of my mission.” + +“Your mission, which you do me the honor to extend to me, was primarily +intended for the Abbé Bernier alone. Unhappily the Abbé Bernier, in +the letter he sent his friend Martin Duboys, presumed a little on his +strength. He offered his mediation to the First Consul.” + +“Pardon me,” interrupted Roland, “you tell me something I did not know; +namely that the Abbé Bernier had written to General Bonaparte.” + +“I said he wrote to his friend Martin Duboys, which is very different. +My men intercepted the letter and brought it to me. I had it copied, and +forwarded the original, which I am certain reached the right hands. Your +visit to General Hédouville proves it.” + +“You know that General Hédouville is no longer in command at Nantes. +General Brune has taken his place.” + +“You may even say that General Brune commands at La Roche-Bernard, for +a thousand Republican soldiers entered that town to-night about +six o’clock, bringing with them a guillotine and the citizen +commissioner-general Thomas Millière. Having the instrument, it was +necessary to have the executioner.” + +“Then you say, general, that I came to see the Abbé Bernier?” + +“Yes; the Abbé Bernier had offered his mediation. But he forgot that at +the present there are two Vendées--the Vendée of the left bank, and the +Vendée of the right bank--and that, after treating with d’Autichamp, +Châtillon, and Suzannet at Pouancé, it would still be necessary to +negotiate with Frotté, Bourmont and Cadoudal--and where? That no one +could tell--” + +“Except you, general.” + +“So, with the chivalry that is the basis of your nature, you +undertook to bring me the treaty signed on the 25th. The Abbé Bernier, +d’Autichamp, Châtillon, and Suzannet signed your pass, and here you +are.” + +“On my word, general, I must admit that you are perfectly well-informed. +The First Consul desires peace with all his heart. He knows that in you +he has a brave and honorable adversary, and being unable to meet you +himself, since you were not likely to come to Paris, he expedited me to +you in his behalf.” + +“That is to say, to the Abbé Bernier.” + +“That can hardly matter to you, general, if I bind myself to make the +First Consul ratify what may be agreed upon between you and me. What are +your conditions of peace?” + +“They are very simple, colonel: that the First Consul shall restore +his Majesty Louis XVIII. to the throne; that he himself be constable, +lieutenant-general, general-in-chief by land and sea, and I his first +subordinate.” + +“The First Consul has already replied to that demand.” + +“And that is why I have decided to reply myself to his response.” + +“When?” + +“This very night, if occasion offers.” + +“In what way?” + +“By resuming hostilities.” + +“But are you aware that Châtillon, d’Autichamp and Suzannet have laid +down their arms?” + +“They are the leaders of the Vendéans, and in the name of the Vendéans +they can do as they see fit. I am the leader of the Chouans, and in the +name of the Chouans I shall do what suits me.” + +“Then you condemn this unhappy land to a war of extermination, general!” + +“It is a martyrdom to which I summon all Christians and royalists.” + +“General Brune is at Nantes with the eight thousand prisoners just +returned to us by the English after their defeats at Alkmaar and +Castricum.” + +“That is the last time they will have the chance. The Blues have taught +us the bad habit of not making prisoners. As for the number of our +enemies, we don’t care for that; it is a mere detail.” + +“If General Brune with his eight thousand men, joined to the twenty +thousand he has received from General Hédouville, is not sufficient, the +First Consul has decided to march against you in person with one hundred +thousand men.” + +Cadoudal smiled. + +“We will try to prove to him,” he said, “that we are worthy to fight +against him.” + +“He will burn your towns.” + +“We shall retire to our huts.” + +“He will burn your huts.” + +“We will live in the woods.” + +“Reflect, general.” + +“Do me the honor to remain here forty-eight hours, colonel, and you will +see that my reflections are already made.” + +“I am tempted to accept.” + +“Only, colonel, don’t ask for more than I can give; a night’s sleep +beneath a thatched roof or wrapped in a cloak under an oak tree, a horse +to follow me, and a safe-guard when you leave me.” + +“I accept.” + +“Have I your word, colonel, that you will not interfere with any orders +I give, and will do nothing to defeat the surprises I may attempt?” + +“I am too curious to see for that. You have my word, general.” + +“Whatever takes place before your eyes?” + +“Whatever takes place before my eyes, I renounce the rôle of actor and +confine myself wholly to that of spectator. I wish to say to the First +Consul: ‘I have seen.’” + +Cadoudal smiled. + +“Well, you shall see,” said he. + +At that moment the door opened, and two peasants brought in a table all +laid, on which stood a smoking bowl of cabbage-soup and a piece of lard; +an enormous pot of cider, just drawn from the cask, was foaming over the +edges of the jug between two glasses. A few buckwheat cakes served as a +desert to this modest repast. The table was laid for two. + +“You see, Monsieur de Montrevel, that my lads hoped you would do me the +honor to sup with me.” + +“Faith! they were not far wrong. I should have asked for supper, had you +not invited me; and I might have been forced to seize some had you not +invited me.” + +“Then fall to!” + +The young colonel sat down gayly. + +“Excuse the repast I offer you,” said Cadoudal; “unlike your generals, I +don’t make prize money; my soldiers feed me. Have you anything else for +us, Brise-Bleu?” + +“A chicken fricassee, general.” + +“That’s your dinner, Monsieur de Montrevel.” + +“A feast! Now, I have but one fear, general.” + +“What is it?” + +“All will go well for the eating, but when it comes to drinking--” + +“Don’t you like cider? The devil! I’m sorry; cider or water, that’s my +cellar.” + +“Oh! that’s not it; but whose health are we going to drink?” + +“Is that all, sir?” said Cadoudal, with great dignity. “We will drink +to the health of our common mother, France. We are serving her with +different minds, but, I hope, the same hearts. To _France_, Monsieur,” + said Cadoudal, filling the two glasses. + +“To _France_, general!” replied Roland, clinking his glass against that +of Georges. + +And both gayly reseated themselves, their consciences at rest, and +attacked the soup with appetites that were not yet thirty years old. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LAW OF RETALIATION + +“Now, general,” said Roland, when supper was over and the two young men, +with their elbows on the table and their legs stretched out before the +blazing fire, began to feel that comfortable sensation that comes of a +meal which youth and appetite have seasoned. “Now for your promise to +show me things which I can report to the First Consul.” + +“You promised, remember, not to object to them.” + +“Yes, but I reserve the right, in case you wound my conscience too +severely, to withdraw.” + +“Only give time to throw a saddle on the back of your horse, or of mine, +if yours is too tired, colonel, and you are free.” + +“Very good.” + +“As it happens,” said Cadoudal, “events will serve you. I am here, not +only as general, but as judge, though it is long since I have had a case +to try. You told me, colonel, that General Brune was at Nantes; I knew +it. You told me his advanced guard was only twelve miles away, at La +Roche-Bernard; I knew that also. But a thing you may not know is that +this advanced guard is not commanded by a soldier like you and me, but +by citizen Thomas Millière, Commissioner of the Executive authorities. +Another thing of which you may perhaps be ignorant is that citizen +Thomas Millière does not fight like us with cannon, guns, bayonets, +pistols and swords, but with an instrument invented by your Republican +philanthropists, called the guillotine.” + +“It is impossible, sir,” cried Roland, “that under the First Consul any +one can make that kind of war.” + +“Ah! let us understand each other, colonel. I don’t say that the First +Consul makes it; I say it is made in his name.” + +“And who is the scoundrel that abuses the authority given him, to make +war with a staff of executioners?” + +“I have told you his name; he is called Thomas Millière. Question whom +you please, colonel, and throughout all Vendée and Brittany you’ll hear +but one voice on that man. From the day of the rising in Vendée and +Brittany, now six years ago, Millière has been, always and everywhere, +the most active agent of the Terror. For him the Terror did not end with +Robespierre. He denounced to his superiors, or caused to be denounced +to himself, the Breton and Vendéan soldiers, their parents, friends, +brothers, sisters, wives, even the wounded and dying; he shot or +guillotined them all without a trial. At Daumeray, for instance, he left +a trail of blood behind him which is not yet, can never be, effaced. +More than eighty of the inhabitants were slaughtered before his eyes. +Sons were killed in the arms of their mothers, who vainly stretched +those bloody arms to Heaven imploring vengeance. The successive +pacifications of Brittany and Vendée have never slaked the thirst for +murder which burns his entrails. He is the same in 1800 that he was in +1793. Well, this man--” + +Roland looked at the general. + +“This man,” continued the general, with the utmost calmness, “is to die. +Seeing that society did not condemn him, I have condemned him.” + +“What! Die at La Roche-Bernard, in the midst of the Republicans; in +spite of his bodyguard of assassins and executioners?” + +“His hour has struck; he is to die.” + +Cadoudal pronounced these words with such solemnity that no doubt +remained in Roland’s mind, not only as to the sentence, but also the +execution of it. He was thoughtful for an instant. + +“And you believe that you have, the right to judge and condemn that man, +guilty as he is?” + +“Yes; for that man has judged and condemned, not the guilty but the +innocent.” + +“If I said to you: ‘On my return to Paris I will demand the arrest and +trial of that man,’ would you not trust my word?” + +“I would trust your word; but I should say to you: ‘A maddened wild +beast escapes from its cage, a murderer from his prison; men are men, +subject to error. They have sometimes condemned the innocent, they might +spare the guilty.’ My justice is more certain than yours, colonel, for +it is the justice of God. The man will die.” + +“And by what right do you claim that your justice, the justice of a man +liable to error like other men, is the justice of God?” + +“Because I have made God a sharer in that justice. Oh! my condemnation +of that man is not of yesterday.” + +“How do you mean?” + +“In the midst of a storm when thunder roared without cessation, and the +lightning flashed from minute to minute, I raised my arms to heaven, and +I said to God: ‘O God! whose look is that lightning, whose voice is that +thunder, if this man ought to die, extinguish that lightning, still the +thunder for ten minutes. The silence of the skies, the darkness of the +heavens shall be thy answer!’ Watch in hand, I counted eleven minutes +without a flash or a sound. I saw at the point of a promontory a boat, +tossed by a terrible tempest, a boat with but one man in it, in danger +every minute of sinking; a wave lifted it as the breath of an infant +lifts a plume, and cast it on the rocks. The boat flew to pieces; the +man clung to the rock, and all the people cried out: ‘He is lost!’ His +father was there, his two brothers were there, but none dared to succor +him. I raised my arms to the Lord and said: ‘If Millière is condemned by +Thee as by me, O God, let me save that man; with no help but thine let +me save him!’ I stripped, I knotted a rope around my arm, and I swam to +the rock. The water seemed to subside before my breast. I reached the +man. His father and brothers held the rope. He gained the land. I could +have returned as he did, fastening the rope to the rocks. I flung it +away from me; I trusted to God and cast myself into the waves. They +floated me gently and surely to the shore, even as the waters of the +Nile bore Moses’ basket to Pharaoh’s daughter. The enemy’s outposts were +stationed around the village of Saint-Nolf; I was hidden in the woods of +Grandchamp with fifty men. Recommending my soul to God, I left the woods +alone. ‘Lord God,’ I said, ‘if it be Thy will that Millière die, let +that sentry fire upon me and miss me; then I will return to my men and +leave that sentry unharmed, for Thou wilt have been with him for an +instant.’ I walked to the Republican; at twenty paces he fired and +missed me. Here is the hole in my hat, an inch from my head; the hand +of God had aimed that weapon. That happened yesterday. I thought that +Millière was at Nantes. To-night they came and told me that Millière and +his guillotine were at La Roche-Bernard. Then I said: ‘God has brought +him to me; he shall die.’” + +Roland listened with a certain respect to the superstitious narrative +of the Breton leader. He was not surprised to find such beliefs and such +poetry in a man born in face of a savage sea, among the Druid monuments +of Karnac. He realized that Millière was indeed condemned, and that God, +who had thrice seemed to approve his judgment, alone could save him. But +one last question occurred to him. + +“How will you strike him?” he asked. + +“Oh!” said Georges, “I do not trouble myself about that; he will be +executed.” + +One of the two men who had brought in the supper table now entered the +room. + +“Brise-Bleu,” said Cadoudal, “tell Coeur-de-Roi that I wish to speak to +him.” + +Two minutes later the Breton presented himself. + +“Coeur-de-Roi,” said Cadoudal, “did you not tell me that the murderer +Thomas Millière was at Roche-Bernard?” + +“I saw him enter the town side by side with the Republican colonel, who +did not seem particularly flattered by such companionship.” + +“Did you not add that he was followed by his guillotine?” + +“I told you his guillotine followed between two cannon, and I believe if +the cannon could have got away the guillotine would have been left to go +its way alone.” + +“What precautions does Millière take in the towns he visits?” + +“He has a special guard about him, and the streets around his house are +barricaded. He carries pistols always at hand.” + +“In spite of that guard, in spite of that barricade and the pistols, +will you undertake to reach him?” + +“I will, general.” + +“Because of his crimes, I have condemned that man; he must die.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Coeur-de-Roi, “the day of justice has come at last!” + +“Will you undertake to execute my sentence, Coeur-de-Roi?” + +“I will, general.” + +“Go then, Coeur-de-Roi. Take the number of men you need; devise what +stratagem you please, but reach the man, and strike.” + +“If I die, general--” + +“Fear not; the curate of Leguerno shall say enough masses in your +behalf to keep your poor soul out of purgatory. But you will not die, +Coeur-de-Roi.” + +“That’s all right, general. Now that I am sure of the masses, I ask +nothing more. I have my plan.” + +“When will you start?” + +“To-night.” + +“When will he die?” + +“To-morrow.” + +“Go. See that three hundred men are ready to follow me in half an hour.” + +Coeur-de-Roi went out as simply as he had entered. + +“You see,” said Cadoudal, “the sort of men I command. Is your First +Consul as well served as I, Monsieur de Montrevel?” + +“By some, yes.” + +“Well, with me it is not some, but all.” + +Bénédicité entered and questioned Georges with a look. + +“Yes,” replied Georges, with voice and nod. + +Bénédicité went out. + +“Did you see any one on your way here?” asked Cadoudal. + +“Not one.” + +“I asked for three hundred men in half an hour, and they will be here +in that time. I might have asked for five hundred, a thousand, two +thousand, and they would have responded as promptly.” + +“But,” said Roland, “you have, in number at least, a limit you cannot +exceed.” + +“Do you want to know my effective? It is easily told, I won’t tell you +myself, for you wouldn’t believe me. Wait. I will have some one tell +you.” + +He opened the door and called out: “Branche-d’Or!” + +Two seconds later Branche-d’Or appeared. + +“This is my major-general,” said Cadoudal, laughing. “He fulfils the +same functions for me that General Berthier does for the First Consul. +Branche-d’Or--” + +“General.” + +“How many men are stationed along the road from here to La +Roche-Bernard, which the gentleman followed in coming to see me?” + +“Six hundred on the Arzal moor, six hundred among the Marzan gorse, +three hundred at Péaule, three hundred at Billiers.” + +“Total, eighteen hundred. How many between Noyal and Muzillac?” + +“Four hundred.” + +“Two thousand two hundred. How many between here and Vannes?” + +“Fifty at Theix, three hundred at the Trinité, six hundred between the +Trinité and Muzillac.” + +“Three thousand two hundred. And from Ambon to Leguerno?” + +“Twelve hundred.” + +“Four thousand four hundred. And in the village around me, in the +houses, the gardens, the cellars?” + +“Five to six hundred, general.” + +“Thank you, Bénédicité.” + +He made a sign with his head and Bénédicité went out. + +“You see,” said Cadoudal, simply, “about five thousand. Well, with those +five thousand men, all belonging to this country, who know every tree, +every stone, every bush, I can make war against the hundred thousand men +the First Consul threatens to send against me.” + +Roland smiled. + +“You think that is saying too much, don’t you?” + +“I think you are boasting a little, general; boasting of your men, +rather.” + +“No; for my auxiliaries are the whole population. None of your generals +can make a move unknown to me; send a despatch without my intercepting +it; find a retreat where I shall not pursue him. The very soil is +royalist and Christian! In default of the inhabitants, it speaks and +tells me: ‘The Blues passed here; the slaughterers are hidden there!’ +For the rest, you can judge for yourself.” + +“How?” + +“We are going on an expedition about twenty-four miles from here. What +time is it?” + +Both young men looked at their watches. + +“Quarter to twelve,” they said together. + +“Good!” said Georges, “our watches agree; that is a good sign. Perhaps +some day our hearts will do the same.” + +“You were saying, general?” + +“I was saying that it was a quarter to twelve, colonel; and that at six +o’clock, before day, we must be twenty miles from here. Do you want to +rest?” + +“I!” + +“Yes; you can sleep an hour.” + +“Thanks; it’s unnecessary.” + +“Then we will start whenever you are ready.” + +“But your men?” + +“Oh! my men are ready.” + +“Where?” + +“Everywhere.” + +“I should like to see them.” + +“You shall.” + +“When?” + +“Whenever agreeable to you. My men are very discreet, and never show +themselves till I make the signal.” + +“So that whenever I want to see them--” + +“You will tell me; I shall give the signal and they’ll appear.” + +“Let us start, general.” + +“Yes, let us start.” + +The two young men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and went out. At +the door Roland collided against a small group of five men. These five +men wore Republican uniforms; one of them had sergeant stripes on his +sleeve. + +“What is all this?” asked Roland. + +“Nothing,” replied Cadoudal, laughing. + +“But who are these men?” + +“Coeur-de-Roi and his party; they are starting on that expedition you +know of.” + +“Then they expect by means of this uniform--” + +“Oh! you shall know all, colonel; I have no secrets from you.” Then, +turning to the little group, Cadoudal called: “Coeur-de-Roi!” + +The man with the stripes on his sleeves left the group, and came to +Cadoudal. + +“Did you call me, general?” asked the pretended sergeant. + +“Yes, I want to know your plan.” + +“Oh! general, it is very simple.” + +“Let me judge of that.” + +“I put this paper in the muzzle of my gun.” Coeur-de-Roi showed a large +envelope with an official red seal, which had once, no doubt, contained +some Republican despatch intercepted by the Chouans. “I present myself +to the sentries, saying: ‘Despatch from the general of division.’ +I enter the first guardhouse and ask to be shown the house of the +citizen-commissioner; they show me, I thank them; always best to be +polite. I reach the house, meet a second sentry to whom I tell the same +tale as to the first; I go up or down to citizen Millière accordingly +as he lives in the cellar or the garret. I enter without difficulty, you +understand--‘Despatch from the general of division’. I find him in his +study or elsewhere, present my paper, and while he opens it, I kill him +with this dagger, here in my sleeve.” + +“Yes, but you and your men?” + +“Ah, faith! In God’s care; we are defending his cause, it is for him to +take care of us.” + +“Well, you see, colonel,” said Cadoudal, “how easy it all is. Let us +mount, colonel! Good luck, Coeur-de-Roi!” + +“Which of these two horses am I to take?” asked Roland. + +“Either; one is as good as the other; each has an excellent pair of +English pistols in its holsters.” + +“Loaded?” + +“And well-loaded, colonel; that’s a job I never trust to any one.” + +“Then we’ll mount.” + +The two young men were soon in their saddles, and on the road to Vannes; +Cadoudal guiding Roland, and Branche-d’Or, the major-general of the +army, as Georges called him, following about twenty paces in the rear. + +When they reached the end of the village, Roland darted his eyes along +the road, which stretches in a straight line from Muzillac to the +Trinité. The road, fully exposed to view, seemed absolutely solitary. + +They rode on for about a mile and a half, then Roland said: “But where +the devil are your men?” + +“To right and left, before and behind us.” + +“Ha, what a joke!” + +“It’s not a joke, colonel; do you think I should be so rash as to risk +myself thus without scouts?” + +“You told me, I think, that if I wished to see your men I had only to +say so.” + +“I did say so.” + +“Well, I wish to see them.” + +“Wholly, or in part?” + +“How many did you say were with you?” + +“Three hundred.” + +“Well, I want to see one hundred and fifty.” + +“Halt!” cried Cadoudal. + +Putting his hands to his mouth he gave the hoot of the screech-owl, +followed by the cry of an owl; but he threw the hoot to the right and +the cry to the left. + +Almost instantly, on both sides of the road, human forms could be seen +in motion, bounding over the ditch which separated the bushes from the +road, and then ranging themselves beside the horses. + +“Who commands on the right?” asked Cadoudal. + +“I, Moustache,” replied a peasant, coming near. + +“Who commands on the left?” repeated the general. + +“I, Chante-en-hiver,” replied another peasant, also approaching him. + +“How many men are with you, Moustache?” + +“One hundred.” + +“How many men are with you, Chante-en-hiver?” + +“Fifty.” + +“One hundred and fifty in all, then?” asked Georges. + +“Yes,” replied the two Breton leaders. + +“Is that your number, colonel?” asked Cadoudal laughing. + +“You are a magician, general.” + +“No; I am a poor peasant like them; only I command a troop in which +each brain knows what it does, each heart beats singly for the two great +principles of this world, religion and monarchy.” Then, turning to his +men, Cadoudal asked: “Who commands the advanced guard?” + +“Fend-l’air,” replied the two Chouans. + +“And the rear-guard?” + +“La Giberne.” + +The second reply was made with the same unanimity as the first. + +“Then we can safely continue our way?” + +“Yes, general; as if you were going to mass in your own village.” + +“Let us ride on then, colonel,” said Cadoudal to Roland. Then turning to +his men he cried: “Be lively, my lads.” + +Instantly every man jumped the ditch and disappeared. For a few seconds +the crackling of twigs on the bushes, and the sound of steps among the +underbrush, was heard. Then all was silent. + +“Well,” asked Cadoudal, “do you think that with such men I have anything +to fear from the Blues, brave as they may be?” + +Roland heaved a sigh; he was of Cadoudal’s opinion. + +They rode on. About three miles from Trinité they caught sight of a +black spot approaching along the road with great rapidity. As it became +more distinct this spot stopped suddenly. + +“What is that?” asked Roland. + +“As you see, a man,” replied Cadoudal. + +“Of course; but who is this man?” + +“You might have guessed from the rapidity of his coming; he is a +messenger.” + +“Why does he stop?” + +“Because he has seen us, and does not know whether to advance or +retreat.” + +“What will he do?” + +“Wait before deciding.” + +“For what?” + +“A signal.” + +“Will he answer the signal?” + +“He will not only answer but obey it. Will you have him advance or +retreat; or will you have him step aside.” + +“I wish him to advance; by that means we shall know the news he brings.” + +Cadoudal gave the call of the cuckoo with such perfection that Roland +looked about him for the bird. + +“It was I,” said Cadoudal, “you need not look for it.” + +“Is the messenger going to come?” + +“Not-going to, he is coming.” + +The messenger had already started, and was rapidly approaching; in a few +seconds he was beside his general. + +“Ah!” said the latter, “is that you, Monte-à-l’assaut?” + +The general stooped, and Monte-à-l’assaut said a few words in his ear. + +“Bénédicité has already warned me,” said Georges. Then turning to +Roland, he said, “Something of importance is to happen in the village of +the Trinité in a quarter of an hour, which you ought to see. Come, hurry +up.” + +And, setting the example, he put his horse to a gallop. Roland did the +same. + +When they reached the village they could see from a distance, by the +light of some pine torches, a tumultuous mob in the market square. The +cries and movements of this mob bespoke some grave occurrence. + +“Fast, fast!” cried Cadoudal. + +Roland asked no better; he dug his spurs in his horse’s belly. + +At the clatter of horses’ hoofs the peasants scattered. There were five +or six hundred of them at least, all armed. + +Cadoudal and Roland found themselves in a circle of light in the midst +of cries and agitation. + +The crowd was pressing more particularly toward the opening of a street +which led to the village of Tridon. A diligence was coming down that +street escorted by a dozen Chouans; two on either side of the postilion, +ten others guarding the doors. The carriage stopped in the middle of the +market-square. All were so intent upon the diligence that they paid but +scant attention to Cadoudal. + +“Hola,” shouted Georges. “What is all this?” + +At this well known voice, everyone turned round, and heads were +uncovered. + +“The Big Round Head!” they murmured. + +“Yes,” said Cadoudal. + +A man went up to Georges. + +“Didn’t Bénédicité and Monte-à-l’assaut notify you?” he inquired. + +“Yes. Is that the diligence from Ploermel to Vannes that you are +bringing back?” + +“Yes, general. It was stopped between Tréfléon and Saint-Nolf.” + +“Is he in it?” + +“We think so.” + +“Act according to your consciences; if it is a crime toward God, take +it on yourselves; I take only the responsibility toward men. I will +be present at what takes place; but I will not share in it--either to +hinder or help.” + +“Well,” demanded a hundred voices, “what does he say, Sabre-tout?” + +“He says we must act according to our consciences, and that he washes +his hands of it.” + +“Long live the Big Round Head!” cried all the people, rushing toward the +diligence. + +Cadoudal remained motionless in the midst of this crowd. Roland stood +near him, also motionless, but full of curiosity; for he was completely +ignorant of who, or what, was in question. + +The man who had just spoken to Cadoudal, and whom his companions called +Sabre-tout, opened the door. The travellers were huddled together and +trembling in the darkness within. + +“If you have nothing to reproach yourselves with against God or the +king,” said Sabre-tout in a full sonorous voice, “descend without fear. +We are not brigands, we are Christians and royalists.” + +This declaration no doubt reassured the travellers, for a man got +out, then two women, then a mother pressing her child in her arms, and +finally another man. The Chouans examined them attentively as they came +down the carriage steps; not finding the man they wanted, they said to +each traveller, “Pass on.” + +One man alone remained in the coach. A Chouan thrust a torch in the +vehicle, and by its light they could see he was a priest. + +“Minister of the Lord,” said Sabre-tout, “why did you not descend with +the others? Did you not hear me say we were Christians and royalists?” + +The priest did not move; but his teeth chattered. + +“Why this terror?” continued Sabre-tout. “Does not your cloth plead for +you? The man who wears a cassock can have done nothing against royalty +or religion.” + +The priest crouched back, murmuring: “Mercy! mercy!” + +“Why mercy?” demanded Sabre-tout, “do you feel that you are guilty, +wretch?” + +“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “is that how you royalists and Christians +speak to a man of God!” + +“That man,” said Cadoudal, “is not a man of God, but a man of the +devil.” + +“Who is he, then?” + +“Both an atheist and a regicide; he denied his God and voted for the +death of the king. That is the Conventional Audrein.” + +Roland shuddered. “What will they do?” he asked. + +“He gave death, he will receive death,” answered Cadoudal. + +During this time the Chouans had pulled Audrein out of the diligence. + +“Ha! is it you, bishop of Vannes?” cried Sabre-tout. + +“Mercy!” begged the bishop. + +“We were informed of your arrival, and were waiting for you.” + +“Mercy!” repeated the bishop for the third time. + +“Have you your pontifical robes with you?” + +“Yes, my friends, I have.” + +“Then dress yourself as a prelate; it is long since we have seen one.” + +A trunk marked with the prelate’s name was taken from the diligence +and opened. They took the bishop’s robes from it, and handed them to +Audrein, who put them on. Then, when every vestment was in its place, +the peasants ranged themselves in a circle, each with his musket in his +hand. The glare of the torches was reflected on the barrels, casting +evil gleams. + +Two men took the priest and led him into the circle, supporting him +beneath his arms. He was pale as death. There was a moment of lugubrious +silence. + +A voice broke it. It was that of Sabre-tout. + +“We are about to judge you,” said the Chouan. “Priest of God, you have +betrayed the Church; child of France, you have condemned your king to +death.” + +“Alas! alas!” stammered the priest. + +“Is it true?” + +“I do not deny it.” + +“Because it is impossible to deny. What have you to say in +justification?” + +“Citizens--” + +“We are not citizens,” cried Sabre-tout, in a voice thunder, “we are +royalists.” + +“Gentlemen--” + +“We are not gentlemen; we are Chouans.” + +“My friends--” + +“We are not your friends; we are your judges. You judges are questioning +you; answer.” + +“I repent of what I did, and I ask pardon of God and men.” + +“Men cannot pardon you,” replied the same implacable voice; “for, +pardoned to-day, you would sin to-morrow. You may change your skin, but +never your heart. You have nothing to expect from men but death; as for +God, implore his mercy.” + +The regicide bowed his head; the renegade bent his knee. But suddenly +drawing himself up, he cried: “I voted the king’s death, it is true, but +with a reservation--” + +“What reservation?” + +“The time of the execution.” + +“Sooner or later, it was still the king’s death which you voted, and the +king was innocent.” + +“True, true,” said the priest, “but I was afraid.” + +“Then you are not only a regicide, and an apostate, but also a coward. +We are not priests, but we are more just than you. You voted the death +of the innocent; we vote the death of the guilty. You have ten minutes +in which to prepare to meet your God.” + +The bishop gave a cry of terror and fell upon both knees; the church +bells rang, as if of their own impulse, and two of the men present, +accustomed to the offices of the church, intoned the prayers for the +dying. It was some time before the bishop found words with which to +respond. He turned affrighted glances in supplication to his judges one +after the other, but, not one face met his with even the consolation +of mere pity. The torches, flickering in the wind, lent them, on the +contrary, a savage and terrible expression. Then at last he mingled his +voice with the voices that were praying for him. + +The judges allowed him time to follow the funeral prayer to its close. +In the meantime others were preparing a pile of wood. + +“Oh!” cried the priest, beholding these preparations with growing +terror; “would you have the cruelty to kill me thus?” + +“No,” replied his inflexible accuser, “flames are the death of martyrs; +you are not worthy of such a death. Apostate, the hour has come!” + +“Oh, my God! my God!” cried the priest, raising his arms to heaven. + +“Stand up!” said the Chouan. + +The priest tried to obey, but his strength failed him, and he fell again +to his knees. + +“Will you let that murder be done before your eyes?” Roland asked +Cadoudal. + +“I said that I washed my hands of it,” replied the latter. + +“Pilate said that, and Pilate’s hands are to this day red with the blood +of Jesus Christ.” + +“Because Jesus Christ was a righteous man; this man is a Barabbas.” + +“Kiss your cross! kiss your cross!” cried Sabre-tout. + +The prelate looked at him with a terrified air, but without obeying. It +was evident that he no longer saw, no longer heard. + +“Oh!” cried Roland, making an effort to dismount, “it shall never be +said that I let a man be murdered before me, and did not try to, save +him.” + +A threatening murmur rose around him; his words had been overheard. That +was all that was needed to excite the young man. + +“Ah! is that the way of it?” he cried, carrying his hand to one of his +holsters. + +But with a movement rapid as thought, Cadoudal seized his hand, and, +while Roland struggled vainly to free himself from this grip of iron, he +shouted: “Fire!” + +Twenty shots resounded instantly, and the bishop fell, an inert mass. + +“Ah!” cried Roland. “What have you done?” + +“Forced you to keep your promise,” replied Cadoudal; “you swore to see +all and hear all without offering any opposition.” + +“So perish all enemies of God and the king,” said Sabre-tout, in a +solemn voice. + +“Amen!” responded the spectators with one voice of sinister unanimity. + +Then they stripped the body of its sacerdotal ornaments, which they +flung upon the pile of wood, invited the other travellers to take their +places in the diligence, replaced the postilion in his saddle, and, +opening their ranks to give passage to the coach, cried: “Go with God!” + +The diligence rolled rapidly away. + +“Come, let us go,” cried Cadoudal, “we have still twelve miles to do, +and we have lost an hour here.” Then, addressing the executioners, he +said: “That man was guilty; that man is punished. Human justice and +divine justice are satisfied. Let prayers for the dead be said over his +body, and give him Christian burial; do you hear?” And sure of being +obeyed, Cadoudal put his horse to a gallop. + +Roland seemed to hesitate for a moment whether to follow him or not; +then, as if resolving to accomplish a duty, he said: “I will go to the +end.” + +Spurring his horse in the direction taken by Cadoudal he reached the +Chouan leader in a few strides. Both disappeared in the darkness, which +grew thicker and thicker as the men left the place where the torches +were illuminating the dead priest’s face and the fire was consuming his +vestments. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DIPLOMACY OF GEORGES CADOUDAL + +The feeling that Roland experienced as he followed Georges Cadoudal +resembled that of a man half-awakened, who is still under the influence +of a dream, and returns gradually from the confines which separate night +from day. He strives to discover whether the ground he walks on is that +of fiction or reality, and the more he burrows in the dimness of his +brain the further he buries himself in doubt. + +A man existed for whom Roland felt a worship almost divine. Accustomed +to live in the atmosphere of glory which surrounded that man, to see +others obey his orders, and to obey them himself with a promptness +and abnegation that were almost Oriental, it seemed amazing to him to +encounter, at the opposite ends of France, two organized powers, enemies +of the power of that man, and prepared to struggle against it. Suppose +a Jew of Judas Maccabeus, a worshipper of Jehovah, having, from his +infancy, heard him called the King of kings, the God of strength, of +vengeance, of armies, the Eternal, coming suddenly face to face with +the mysterious Osiris of the Egyptians, or the thundering Jupiter of the +Greeks. + +His adventures at Avignon and Bourg with Morgan and the Company of Jehu, +his adventures in the villages of Muzillac and the Trinité with Cadoudal +and his Chouans, seemed to him some strange initiation in an unknown +religion; but like those courageous neophytes who risk death to learn +the secrets of initiation, he resolved to follow to the end. + +Besides he was not without a certain admiration for these exceptional +characters; nor did he measure without a certain amazement these +revolted Titans, challenging his god; he felt they were in no sense +common men--neither those who had stabbed Sir John in the Chartreuse of +Seillon, nor those who had shot the bishop of Vannes at the village of +the Trinité. + +And now, what was he to see? He was soon to know, for they had ridden +five hours and a half and the day was breaking. + +Beyond the village of Tridon they turned across country; leaving +Vannes to the left, they reached Tréfléon. At Tréfléon, Cadoudal, still +followed by his major-general, Branche-d’Or, had found Monte-à-l’assaut +and Chante-en-hiver. He gave them further orders, and continued on his +way, bearing to the left and skirting the edges of a little wood which +lies between Grandchamp and Larré. There Cadoudal halted, imitated, +three separate times in succession, the cry of an owl, and was presently +surrounded by his three hundred men. + +A grayish light was spreading through the sky beyond Tréfléon and +Saint-Nolf; it was not the rising of the sun, but the first rays of +dawn. A heavy mist rose from the earth and prevented the eye from seeing +more than fifty feet beyond it. + +Cadoudal seemed to be expecting news before risking himself further. + +Suddenly, about five hundred paces distant, the crowing of a cock was +heard. Cadoudal pricked up his ears; his men looked at each other and +laughed. + +The cock crowed again, but nearer. + +“It is he,” said Cadoudal; “answer him.” + +The howling of a dog came from within three feet of Roland, but so +perfectly imitated that the young man, although aware of what it was, +looked about him for the animal that was uttering such lugubrious +plaints. Almost at the same moment he saw a man coming rapidly through +the mist, his form growing more and more distinct as he approached. The +new-comer saw the two horsemen, and went toward them. + +Cadoudal rode forward a few paces, putting his finger to his lips, as +if to request the man to speak low. The latter, therefore, did not pause +until he was close beside his general. + +“Well, Fleur-d’épine,” asked Georges, “have we got them?” + +“Like a mouse in a trap; not one can re-enter Vannes, if you say the +word.” + +“I desire nothing better. How many are there?” + +“One hundred men, commanded by the general himself.” + +“How many wagons?” + +“Seventeen.” + +“When did they start?” + +“They must be about a mile and three-quarters from here.” + +“What road have they taken?” + +“Grandchamp to Vannes.” + +“So that, if I deploy from Meucon to Plescop--” + +“You’ll bar the way.” + +“That’s all.” + +Cadoudal called his four lieutenants, Chante-en-hiver, Monte-à-l’assaut, +Fend-l’air, and La Giberne, to him, gave each of them fifty men, and +each with his men disappeared like shadows in the heavy mist, giving the +well-known hoot, as they vanished. Cadoudal was left with a hundred men, +Branche-d’Or and Fleur-d’épine. He returned to Roland. + +“Well, general,” said the latter, “is everything satisfactory?” + +“Yes, colonel, fairly so,” replied the Chouan; “but you can judge for +yourself in half an hour.” + +“It will be difficult to judge of anything in that mist.” + +Cadoudal looked about him. + +“It will lift in half an hour,” said he. “Will you utilize the time by +eating a mouthful and drinking a glass?” + +“Faith!” said the young man, “I must admit that the ride has hollowed +me.” + +“I make a point,” said Georges, “of eating the best breakfast I can +before fighting.” + +“Then you are going to fight?” + +“I think so.” + +“Against whom?” + +“Why, the Republicans, and as we have to do with General Hatry, I doubt +if he surrenders without resistance.” + +“Do the Republicans know they are going to fight you?” + +“They haven’t the least idea.” + +“So it is to be a surprise?” + +“Not exactly, inasmuch as when the fog lifts they will see us as soon as +we see them.” Then, turning to the man who seemed to be in charge of +the provisions, Cadoudal added, “Brise-Bleu, is there anything for +breakfast?” + +Brise-Bleu nodded affirmatively, went into the wood, and came out +dragging after him a donkey loaded with two baskets. He spread a cloak +on a rise of the ground, and placed on it a roast chicken, a bit of +cold salt pork, some bread and buckwheat cakes. This time Brise-Bleu had +provided luxury in the shape of a bottle of wine and a glass. + +Cadoudal motioned Roland to the table and the improvised repast. The +young man sprang from his horse, throwing the bridle to a Chouan. +Cadoudal did likewise. + +“Now,” said the latter, turning to his men, “you have half an hour to +do as we do. Those who have not breakfasted in half an hour are notified +that they must fight on empty stomachs.” + +The invitation seemed equivalent to an order, so promptly and precisely +was it executed. Every man pulled from his bag or his pocket a bit of +bread or a buckwheat cake, and followed the example of his general, who +had already divided the chicken between Roland and himself. As there was +but one glass, both officers shared it. + +While they were thus breakfasting, side by side, like two friends on a +hunt, the sun rose, and, as Cadoudal had predicted, the mist became less +and less dense. Soon the nearest trees could be distinguished; then the +line of the woods, stretching to the right from Meucon to Grand-champ, +while to the left the plain of Plescop, threaded by a rivulet, sloped +gradually toward Vannes. This natural declivity of the ground became +more and more perceptible as it neared the ocean. + +On the road from Grandchamp to Plescop, a line of wagons were now +visible, the tail of which was still hidden in the woods. This line was +motionless; evidently some unforeseen obstacle had stopped it. + +In fact, about a quarter of a mile before the leading wagon +they perceived the two hundred Chouans, under Monte-à-l’assaut, +Chante-en-hiver, Fend-l’air, and Giberne, barring the way. + +The Republicans, inferior in number--we said that there were but a +hundred--had halted and were awaiting the complete dispersion of the +fog to determine the number and character of the men they were about to +meet. Men and wagons were now in a triangle, of which Cadoudal and his +hundred men formed one of the angles. + +At sight of this small number of men thus surrounded by triple forces, +and of the well-known uniform, of which the color had given its name +to the Republican forces, Roland sprang hastily to his feet. As for +Cadoudal, he remained where he was, nonchalantly finishing his meal. Of +the hundred men surrounding the general, not one seemed to perceive the +spectacle that was now before their eyes; it seemed almost as if they +were waiting for Cadoudal’s order to look at it. + +Roland had only to cast his eyes on the Republicans to see that they +were lost. Cadoudal watched the various emotions that succeeded each +other on the young man’s face. + +“Well,” asked the Chouan, after a moment’s silence, “do you think my +dispositions well taken?” + +“You might better say your precautions, general,” replied Roland, with a +sarcastic smile. + +“Isn’t it the First Consul’s way to make the most of his advantages when +he gets them?” asked Cadoudal. + +Roland bit his lips; then, instead of replying to the royalist leader’s +question, he said: “General, I have a favor to ask which I hope you will +not refuse.” + +“What is it?” + +“Permission to let me go and be killed with my comrades.” + +Cadoudal rose. “I expected that request,” he said. + +“Then you will grant it?” cried Roland, his eyes sparkling with joy. + +“Yes; but, first, I have a favor to ask of you,” said the royalist +leader, with supreme dignity. + +“Ask it, sir.” + +“To bear my flag of truce to General Hatry.” + +“For what purpose?” + +“I have several proposals to make to him before the fight begins.” + +“I presume that among those proposals which you deign to intrust to me +you do not include that of laying down his arms?” + +“On the contrary, colonel, you understand that that is the first of my +proposals.” + +“General Hatry will refuse it.” + +“That is probable.” + +“And then?” + +“Then I shall give him his choice between two others, either of which he +can, I think, accept without forfeiting his honor.” + +“What are they?” + +“I will tell you in due time. Begin with the first.” + +“State it.” + +“General Hatry and his hundred men are surrounded by a triple force. I +offer them their lives; but they must lay down their arms, and make oath +not to serve again in the Vendée for five years.” + +Roland shook his head. + +“Better that than to see his men annihilated.” + +“Maybe so; but he would prefer to have his men annihilated, and be +annihilated with them.” + +“Don’t you think,” asked Cadoudal, laughing, “that it might be as well, +in any case, to ask him?” + +“True,” said Roland. + +“Well, colonel, be so good as to mount your horse, make yourself known +to him, and deliver my proposal.” + +“Very well,” replied Roland. + +“The colonel’s horse,” said Cadoudal, motioning to the Chouan who +was watching it. The man led it up. The young man sprang upon it, and +rapidly covered the distance which separated him from the convoy. + +A group of men were gathered on its flank, evidently composed of General +Hatry and his officers. Roland rode toward them, scarcely three gunshots +distant from the Chouans. General Hatry’s astonishment was great when +he saw an officer in the Republican uniform approaching him. He left the +group and advanced three paces to meet the messenger. + +Roland made himself known, related how he came to be among the Whites, +and transmitted Cadoudal’s proposal to General Hatry. + +As he has foreseen, the latter refused it. Roland returned to Cadoudal +with a proud and joyful heart. “He refuses!” he cried, as soon as his +voice could be heard. + +Cadoudal gave a nod that showed he was not surprised by the refusal. + +“Then, in that case,” he answered, “go back with my second proposition. +I don’t wish to have anything to reproach myself with in answering to +such a judge of honor as you.” + +Roland bowed. “What is the second proposition?” + +“General Hatry shall meet me in the space that separates the two troops, +he shall carry the same arms as I--that is, his sabre and pistols--and +the matter shall be decided between us. If I kill him, his men are to +submit to the conditions already named, for we cannot take prisoners; +if he kills me his men shall pass free and be allowed to reach Vannes +safely. Come, I hope that’s a proposition you would accept, colonel?” + +“I would accept it myself,” replied Roland. + +“Yes,” exclaimed Cadoudal, “but you are not General Hatry. Content +yourself with being a negotiator this time, and if this proposition, +which, if I were he, I wouldn’t let escape me, does not please him, come +to me. I’m a good fellow, and I’ll make him a third.” + +Roland rode off a second time; his coming was awaited by the Republicans +with visible impatience. He transmitted the message to General Hatry. + +“Citizen,” replied the general, “I must render account of my conduct +to the First Consul. You are his aide-de-camp, and I charge you on your +return to Paris to bear testimony on my behalf to him. What would you do +in my place? Whatever you would do, that I shall do.” + +Roland started; his face assumed the grave expression of a man who is +arguing a point of honor in his own mind. Then, at the end of a few +seconds, he said: “General, I should refuse.” + +“Your reasons, citizen?” demanded the general. + +“The chances of a duel are problematic; you cannot subject the fate of +a hundred brave men to a doubtful chance. In an affair like this, where +all are concerned, every man had better defend his own skin as best he +can.” + +“Is that your opinion, colonel?” + +“On my honor.” + +“It is also mine; carry my reply to the royalist general.” + +Roland galloped back to Cadoudal, and delivered General Hatry’s reply. + +Cadoudal smiled. “I expected it,” he said. + +“You couldn’t have expected it, because it was I who advised him to make +it.” + +“You thought differently a few moments ago.” + +“Yes; but you yourself reminded me that I was not General Hatry. Come, +what is your third proposition?” said Roland impatiently; for he began +to perceive, or rather he had perceived from the beginning, that the +noble part in the affair belonged to the royalist general. + +“My third proposition,” said Cadoudal, “is not a proposition but an +order; an order for two hundred of my men to withdraw. General Hatry +has one hundred men; I will keep one hundred. My Breton forefathers +were accustomed to fight foot to foot, breast to breast, man to man, and +oftener one to three than three to one. If General Hatry is victorious, +he can walk over our bodies and tranquilly enter Vannes; if he is +defeated, he cannot say it is by numbers. Go, Monsieur de Montrevel, and +remain with your friends. I give them thus the advantage of numbers, for +you alone are worth ten men.” + +Roland raised his hat. + +“What are you doing, sir?” demanded Cadoudal. + +“I always bow to that which is grand, general; I bow to you.” + +“Come, colonel,” said Cadoudal, “a last glass of wine; let each of us +drink to what we love best, to that which we grieve to leave behind, to +that we hope to meet in heaven.” + +Taking the bottle and the one glass, he filled it half full, and offered +it to Roland. “We have but one glass, Monsieur de Montrevel; drink +first.” + +“Why first?” + +“Because, in the first place, you are my guest, and also because there +is a proverb that whoever drinks after another knows his thought.” + Then, he added, laughing: “I want to know your thought, Monsieur de +Montrevel.” + +Roland emptied the glass and returned it to Cadoudal. The latter filled +his glass half full, as he had done for Roland, and emptied it in turn. + +“Well,” asked Roland, “now do you know my thought, general?” + +“My thought,” said Roland, with his usual frankness, “is that you are a +brave man, general. I shall feel honored if, at this moment when we are +going to fight against each other, you will give me your hand.” + +The two young men clasped hands, more like friends parting for a long +absence than two enemies about to meet on the battlefield. There was a +simple grandeur, full of majesty, in this action. Each raised his hat. + +“Good luck!” said Roland to Cadoudal; “but allow me to doubt it. I must +even confess that it is from my lips, not my heart.” + +“God keep you, sir,” said Cadoudal, “and I hope that my wish will be +realized. It is the honest expression of my thoughts.” + +“What is to be the signal that you are ready?” inquired Roland. + +“A musket shot fired in the air, to which you will reply in the same +way.” + +“Very good, general,” replied Roland. And putting his horse to a gallop, +he crossed the space between the royalist general and the Republican +general for the third time. + +“Friends,” said Cadoudal, pointing to Roland, “do you see that young +man?” + +All eyes were bent upon Roland. “Yes,” came from every mouth. + +“He came with a safe-guard from our brothers in the Midi; his life is +sacred to you; he may be captured, but it must be living--not a hair of +his head must be touched.” + +“Very good, general,” replied the Chouans. + +“And now, my friends, remember that you are the sons of those thirty +Bretons who fought the thirty British between Ploermel and Josselin, ten +leagues from here, and conquered them.” Then, in a low voice, he added +with a sigh, “Unhappily we have not to do with the British this time.” + +The fog had now lifted completely, and, as usually happens, a few rays +of the wintry sun tinged the plain of Plescop with a yellow light. + +It was easy therefore to distinguish the movements of the two troops. +While Roland was returning to the Republicans, Branche-d’Or galloped +toward the two hundred men who were blocking the way. He had hardly +spoken to Cadoudal’s four lieutenants before a hundred men were seen to +wheel to the right and a hundred more to wheel to the left and march in +opposite directions, one toward Plumergat, the other toward Saint-Ave, +leaving the road open. Each body halted three-quarters of a mile down +the road, grounded arms and remained motionless. Branche-d’Or returned +to Cadoudal. + +“Have you any special orders to give me, general?” he asked. + +“Yes, one,” answered Cadoudal, “take eight men and follow me. When you +see the young Republican, with whom I breakfasted, fall under his horse, +fling yourself upon him, you and your eight men, before he has time to +free himself, and take him prisoner.” + +“Yes, general.” + +“You know that I must have him safe and sound.” + +“That’s understood, general” + +“Choose your eight men. Monsieur de Montrevel once captured, and his +parole given, you can do as you like.” + +“Suppose he won’t give his parole?” + +“Then you must surround him so that he can’t escape, and watch him till +the fight is over.” + +“Very well,” said Branche-d’Or, heaving a sigh; “but it’ll be a little +hard to stand by with folded arms while the others are having their +fun.” + +“Pooh! who knows?” said Cadoudal; “there’ll probably be enough for every +body.” + +Then, casting a glance over the plain and seeing his own men stationed +apart, and the Republicans massed for battle, he cried: “A musket!” + +They brought one. Cadoudal raised it above his head and fired in the +air. Almost at the same moment, a shot fired in the same manner from the +midst of the Republicans answered like an echo to that of Cadoudal. + +Two drums beating the advance and a bugle were heard. Cadoudal rose in +his stirrups. + +“Children,” he cried, “have you all said your morning prayers?” + +“Yes, yes!” answered almost every voice. “If any of you forgot them, or +did not have time, let them pray now.” + +Five or six peasants knelt down and prayed. + +The drums and bugle drew nearer. + +“General, general,” cried several voices impatiently, “they are coming.” + +The general motioned to the kneeling peasants. + +“True,” replied the impatient ones. + +Those who prayed rose one by one, according as their prayers had been +long or short. By the time they were all afoot, the Republicans had +crossed nearly one-third of the distance. They marched, bayonets fixed, +in three ranks, each rank three abreast. + +Roland rode at the head of the first rank, General Hatry between the +first and second. Both were easily recognized, being the only men on +horseback. Among the Chouans, Cadoudal was the only rider, Branche-d’Or +having dismounted to take command of the eight men who were to follow +Georges. + +“General,” said a voice, “the prayer is ended, and every one is +standing.” + +Cadoudal looked around him to make sure it was true; then he cried in a +loud voice: “Forward! Enjoy yourselves, my lads!” + +This permission, which to Vendéans and Chouans, was equivalent to +sounding a charge, was scarcely given before the Chouans spread over the +fields to cries of “Vive le roi!” waving their hats with one hand and +their guns with the other. + +Instead of keeping in rank like the Republicans, they scattered like +sharpshooters, forming an immense crescent, of which Georges and his +horse were the centre. + +A moment later the Republicans were flanked and the firing began. +Cadoudal’s men were nearly all poachers, that is to say, excellent +marksmen, armed with English carbines, able to carry twice the length of +the army musket. Though the first shots fired might have seemed wide of +range, these messengers of death nevertheless brought down several men +in the Republican ranks. + +“Forward!” cried the general. + +The soldiers marched on, bayonets fixed; but in a few moments there was +no enemy before them. Cadoudal’s hundred men had turned skirmishers; +they had separated, and fifty men were harassing both of the enemy’s +flanks. General Hatry ordered his men to wheel to the right and left. +Then came the order: “Fire!” + +Two volleys followed with the precision and unanimity of well +disciplined troops; but they were almost without result, for the +Republicans were firing upon scattered men. Not so with the Chouans, who +fired on a mass; with them every shot told. + +Roland saw the disadvantage of the position. He looked around and, amid +the smoke, distinguished Cadoudal, erect and motionless as an equestrian +statue. He understood that the royalist leader was waiting for him. + +With a cry he spurred his horse toward him. As if to save him part of +the way, Cadoudal put his horse to a gallop. But a hundred feet from +Cadoudal he drew rein. “Attention!” he said to Branche-d’Or and his +companions. + +“Don’t be alarmed, general; here we are,” said Branche-d’Or. + +Cadoudal drew a pistol from his holster and cocked it. Roland, sabre in +hand, was charging, crouched on his horse’s neck. When they were twenty +paces apart, Cadoudal slowly raised his hand in Roland’s direction. At +ten paces he fired. + +The horse Roland was riding had a white star on its forehead. The ball +struck the centre of that star, and the horse, mortally wounded, rolled +over with its rider at Cadoudal’s feet. + +Cadoudal put spurs to his own horse and jumped both horse and rider. + +Branche-d’Or and his men were ready. They sprang, like a pack of +jaguars, upon Roland, entangled under the body of his horse. The young +man dropped his sword and tried to seize his pistols, but before he +could lay hand upon the holsters two men had him by the arms, while the +four others dragged his horse from between his legs. The thing was +done with such unanimity that it was easy to see the manoeuvre had been +planned. + +Roland roared with rage. Branche-d’Or came up to him and put his hat in +his hand. + +“I do not surrender!” shouted Roland. + +“Useless to do so, Monsieur de Montrevel,” replied Branche-d’Or with the +utmost politeness. + +“What do you mean?” demanded Roland, exhausting his strength in a +struggle as desperate as it was useless. + +“Because you are captured, sir.” + +It was so true that there could be no answer. + +“Then kill me!” cried Roland. + +“We don’t want to kill you, sir,” replied Branche-d’Or. + +“Then what do you want?” + +“Give us your parole not to fight any more, and you are free.” + +“Never!” exclaimed Roland. + +“Excuse me, Monsieur de Montrevel,” said Branche-d’Or, “but that is not +loyal!” + +“What!” shrieked Roland, in a fury, “not loyal! You insult me, villain, +because you know I can’t defend myself or punish you.” + +“I am not a villain, and I didn’t insult you, Monsieur de Montrevel; but +I do say that by not giving your word, you deprive the general of nine +men, who might be useful to him and who are obliged to stay here to +guard you. That’s not the way the Big Round Head acted toward you. He +had two hundred men more than you, and he sent them away. Now we are +only eighty-nine against one hundred.” + +A flame crossed Roland’s face; then almost as suddenly he turned pale as +death. + +“You are right, Branche-d’Or,” he replied. “Succor or no succor, I +surrender. You and your men can go and fight with your comrades.” + +The Chouans gave a cry of joy, let go their hold of Roland, and +rushed toward the Republicans, brandishing their hats and muskets, and +shouting: “Vive le roi!” + +Roland, freed from their grip, but disarmed physically by his fall, +morally by his parole, went to the little eminence, still covered by +the cloak which had served as a tablecloth for their breakfast, and sat +down. From there he could see the whole combat; not a detail was lost +upon him. + +Cadoudal sat erect upon his horse amid fire and smoke, like the Demon of +War, invulnerable and implacable. + +Here and there the bodies of a dozen or more Chouans lay stretched upon +the sod. But it was evident that the Republicans, still massed together, +had lost double that number. Wounded men dragged themselves across the +open space, meeting, rearing their bodies like mangled snakes, to fight, +the Republicans with their bayonets, and the Chouans with their knives. +Those of the wounded Chouans who were too far off to fight their wounded +enemies hand to hand, reloaded their guns, and, struggling to their +knees, fired and fell again. + +On either side the struggle was pitiless, incessant, furious; civil +war--that is war without mercy or compassion--waved its torch above the +battlefield. + +Cadoudal rode his horse around these living breastworks, firing at +twenty paces, sometimes his pistols, sometimes a musket, which he +discharged, cast aside, and picked up again reloaded. At each discharge +a man fell. The third time he made this round General Hatry honored him +with a fusillade. He disappeared in the flame and smoke, and Roland +saw him go down, he and his horse, as if annihilated. Ten or a dozen +Republicans sprang from the ranks and met as many Chouans; the struggle +was terrible, hand to hand, body to body, but the Chouans, with their +knives, were sure of the advantage. + +Suddenly Cadoudal appeared, erect, a pistol in each hand; it was the +death of two men; two men fell. Then through the gap left by these ten +or twelve he flung himself forward with thirty men. He had picked up an +army musket, and, using it like a club, he brought down a man with each +blow. He broke his way through the battalion, and reappeared at the +other side. Then, like a boar which returns upon the huntsman he has +ripped up and trampled, he rushed back through the gaping wound and +widened it. From that moment all was over. + +General Hatry rallied a score of men, and, with bayonets down, they +fell upon the circle that enveloped them. He marched at the head of his +soldiers on foot; his horse had been killed. Ten men had fallen before +the circle was broken, but at last he was beyond it. The Chouans wanted +to pursue them, but Cadoudal, in a voice of thunder, called them back. + +“You should not have allowed him to pass,” he cried, “but having passed +he is free to retreat.” + +The Chouans obeyed with the religious faith they placed in the words of +their chief. + +“And now,” said Cadoudal, “cease firing; no more dead; make prisoners.” + +The Chouans drew together and surrounded the heaps of dead, and the few +living men, more or less wounded, who lay among the dead. + +Surrendering was still fighting in this fatal war, where on both sides +the prisoners were shot--on the one side, because Chouans and Vendéans +were considered brigands; on the other, because they knew not where to +put the captives. + +The Republicans threw their guns away, that they might not be forced to +surrender them. When their captors approached them every cartridge-box +was open; every man had fired his last shot. + +Cadoudal walked back to Roland. + +During the whole of this desperate struggle the young man had remained +on the mound. With his eyes fixed on the battle, his hair damp with +sweat, his breast heaving, he waited for the result. Then, when he saw +the day was lost, his head fell upon his hands, and he still sat on, his +forehead bowed to the earth. + +Cadoudal reached him before he seemed to hear the sound of footsteps. He +touched the young man’s shoulder. Roland raised his head slowly without +attempting to hide the two great tears that were rolling down his +cheeks. + +“General,” said Roland, “do with me what you will. I am your prisoner.” + +“I can’t make the First Consul’s ambassador a prisoner,” replied +Cadoudal, laughing, “but I can ask him to do me a service.” + +“Command me, general.” + +“I need a hospital for the wounded, and a prison for prisoners; will you +take the Republican soldiers, wounded and prisoners, back to Vannes.” + +“What do you mean, general?” exclaimed Roland. + +“I give them, or rather I confide them to you. I regret that your horse +was killed; so is mine. But there is still that of Brise-Bleu; accept +it.” + +The young man made a motion of rejection. + +“Until you can obtain another, of course,” added Cadoudal, bowing. + +Roland felt that he must put himself, at least in simplicity, on a level +with the man with whom he was dealing. + +“Shall I see you again, general?” he asked, rising. + +“I doubt it, sir. My operations call me to the coast near Port-Louis; +your duty recalls you to the Luxembourg.” + +“What shall I tell the First Consul, general?” + +“What you have seen, sir. He must judge between the Abbé Bernier’s +diplomacy and that of Georges Cadoudal.” + +“After what I have seen, sir, I doubt if you ever have need of me,” said +Roland; “but in any case remember that you have a friend near the First +Consul.” + +And he held out his hand to Cadoudal. The royalist took it with the same +frankness and freedom he had shown before the battle. + +“Farewell, Monsieur de Montrevel,” said he, “I need not ask you to +justify General Hatry. A defeat like that is fully as glorious as a +victory.” + +During this time Brise-Bleu’s horse had been led up for the Republican +colonel. + +He sprang into the saddle. + +“By the bye,” said Cadoudal, “as you go through La Roche-Bernard, just +inquire what has happened to citizen Thomas Millière.” + +“He is dead,” said a voice. + +Coeur-de-Roi and his four men, covered with mud and sweat, had just +arrived, but too late for the battle. + +Roland cast a last glance at the battlefield, sighed, and, waving a last +farewell to Cadoudal, started at a gallop across the fields to await, on +the road to Vannes, the wagon-load of wounded and the prisoners he was +asked to deliver to General Hatry. + +Cadoudal had given a crown of six sous to each man. + +Roland could not help reflecting that the gift was made with the money +of the Directory sent to the West by Morgan and the Companions of Jehu. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE + +Roland’s first visit on arriving in Paris was to the First Consul. He +brought him the twofold news of the pacification of the Vendée, and the +increasingly bitter insurrection in Brittany. + +Bonaparte knew Roland; consequently the triple narrative of Thomas +Millière’s murder, the execution of Bishop Audrein, and the fight at +Grandchamp, produced a deep impression upon him. There was, moreover, +in the young man’s manner a sombre despair in which he could not be +mistaken. + +Roland was miserable over this lost opportunity to get himself killed. +An unknown power seemed to watch over him, carrying him safe and sound +through dangers which resulted fatally to others. Sir John had found +twelve judges and a death-warrant, where he had seen but a phantom, +invulnerable, it is true, but inoffensive. + +He blamed himself bitterly for singling out Cadoudal in the fight, thus +exposing himself to a pre-arranged plan of capture, instead of flinging +himself into the fray and killing or being killed. + +The First Consul watched him anxiously as he talked; the longing for +death still lingered in his mind, a longing he hoped to cure by this +return to his native land and the endearments of his family. + +He praised and defended General Hatry, but, just and impartial as a +soldier should be, he gave full credit to Cadoudal for the courage and +generosity the royalist general had displayed. + +Bonaparte listened gravely, almost sadly; ardent as he was for foreign +war with its glorious halo, his soul revolted at the internecine strife +which drained the life-blood of the nation and rent its bowels. It was +a case in which, to his thinking, negotiation should be substituted for +war. But how negotiate with a man like Cadoudal? + +Bonaparte was not unaware of his own personal seductions when he chose +to exercise them. He resolved to see Cadoudal, and without saying +anything on the subject to Roland, he intended to make use of him for +the interview when the time came. In the meantime he wanted to see if +Brune, in whose talent he had great confidence, would be more successful +than his predecessors. + +He dismissed Roland, after telling him of his mother’s arrival and her +installation in the little house in the Rue de la Victoire. + +Roland sprang into a coach and was driven there at once. He found Madame +de Montrevel as happy and as proud as a woman and a mother could be. +Edouard had gone, the day before, to the Prytanée Français, and she +herself was preparing to return to Amélie, whose health continued to +give her much anxiety. + +As for Sir John, he was not only out of danger, but almost well again. +He was in Paris, had called upon Madame de Montrevel, and, finding that +she had gone with Edouard to the Prytanée, he had left his card. It bore +his address, Hôtel Mirabeau, Rue de Richelieu. + +It was eleven o’clock, Sir John’s breakfast hour, and Roland had every +chance of finding him at that hour. He got back into his carriage, and +ordered the coachman to stop at the Hôtel Mirabeau. + +He found Sir John sitting before an English breakfast, a thing rarely +seen in those days, drinking large cups of tea and eating bloody chops. + +As soon as the Englishman saw Roland he gave a cry of joy and ran +to meet him. Roland himself had acquired a deep affection for that +exceptional nature, where the noblest qualities of the heart seemed +striving to hide themselves beneath national eccentricities. + +Sir John was pale and thin, but in other respects he was well. His wound +had completely healed, and except for a slight oppression, which was +diminishing daily and would soon disappear altogether, he had almost +recovered his former health. He now welcomed Roland with a tenderness +scarcely to be expected from that reserved nature, declaring that the +joy he felt in seeing him again was all he wanted for his complete +recovery. + +He begged Roland to share the meal, telling him to order his own +breakfast, a la Française. Roland accepted. Like all soldiers who had +fought the hard wars of the Revolution, when bread was often lacking, +Roland cared little for what he ate; he had acquired the habit of eating +whatever was put before him as a precaution against the days when there +might be nothing at all. Sir John’s attention in asking him to make a +French breakfast was scarcely noticed by him at all. + +But what Roland did notice was Sir John’s preoccupation of mind. It was +evident that Sir John had something on his lips which he hesitated to +utter. Roland thought he had better help him. + +So, when breakfast was nearly over, Roland, with his usual frankness, +which almost bordered upon brutality at times, leaned his elbows on the +table, settled his chin in his hands, and said: “Well, my dear Sir John, +you have something to say to your friend Roland that you don’t dare put +into words.” + +Sir John started, and, from pale as he was, turned crimson. + +“Confound it!” continued Roland, “it must be hard to get out; but, Sir +John, if you have many things to ask me, I know but few that I have the +right to refuse you. So, go on; I am listening.” + +And Roland closed his eyes as if to concentrate all his attention on +what Sir John was about to say. But the matter was evidently, from Sir +John’s point of view, so extremely difficult to make known, that at the +end of a dozen seconds, finding that Sir John was still silent, Roland +opened his eyes. + +The Englishman was pale again; but this time he was paler than before. +Roland held out his hand to him. + +“Why,” he said, “I see you want to make some compliment about the way +you were treated at the Château des Noires-Fontaines.” + +“Precisely, my friend; for the happiness or misery of my life will date +from my sojourn at the château.” + +Roland looked fixedly at Sir John. “The deuce!” he exclaimed, “can I be +so fortunate--” Then he stopped, remembering that what he was about to +say was most unconventional from the social point of view. + +“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “my dear Roland, finish what you were saying.” + +“You wish it?” + +“I implore you.” + +“But if I am mistaken; if I should say something nonsensical.” + +“My friend, my friend, go on.” + +“Well, as I was saying, my lord, can I be so fortunate as to find your +lordship in love with my sister?” + +Sir John gave a cry of joy, and with a rapid movement, of which so +phlegmatic a man might have been thought incapable, he threw himself in +Roland’s arms. + +“Your sister is an angel, my dear Roland,” he exclaimed, “and I love her +with all my heart.” + +“Are you entirely free to do so, my lord?” + +“Entirely. For the last twelve years, as I told you, I have had my +fortune under my own control; it amounts to twenty-five thousand pounds +sterling a year.” + +“Too much, my dear fellow, for a woman who can only bring you fifty +thousand francs.” + +“Oh!” said the Englishman, with that national accent that returned to +him occasionally in moments of strong excitement, “if I must get rid of +a part of it, I can do so.” + +“No,” replied Roland, laughing, “that’s not necessary. You’re rich; it’s +unfortunate, but what’s to be done?--No, that’s not the question. Do you +love my sister?” + +“I adore her.” + +“And she,” resumed Roland, “does she love you?” + +“Of course you understand,” returned Sir John, “that I have not asked +her. I was bound, my dear Roland, to speak to you first, and if the +matter were agreeable, to beg you to plead my cause with your mother. +After I have obtained the consent of both, I shall make my offer. Or +rather, you will make it for me, for I should never dare.” + +“Then I am the first to receive your confidence?” + +“You are my best friend, and it ought to be so.” + +“Well, my dear friend, as far as I am concerned, your suit is +won--naturally.” + +“Your mother and sister remain.” + +“They will be one. You understand that my mother will leave Amélie free +to make her own choice; and I need not tell you that if it falls +upon you she will be delighted. But there is a person whom you have +forgotten.” + +“Who is that?” said Sir John, in the tone of a man who, having weighed +all chances for and against, believes he knows them all, and is met by +an obstacle he has never thought of. + +“The First Consul,” said Roland. + +“God--” ejaculated the Englishman, swallowing the last words of the +national oath. + +“He spoke to me just before I left for the Vendée of my sister’s +marriage,” continued Roland; “saying that it no longer concerned my +mother and myself, for he would take charge of it.” + +“Then,” said Sir John, “I am lost.” + +“Why so?” + +“The First Consul does not like the English.” + +“Say rather that the English do not like the First Consul.” + +“But who will present my wishes to the First Consul?” + +“I will.” + +“And will you speak of them as agreeable to yourself?” + +“I’ll turn you into a dove of peace between the two nations,” said +Roland, rising. + +“Oh! thank you,” cried Sir john, seizing the young man’s hand. Then he +added, regretfully, “Must you leave me?” + +“My friend, I have only a few hours’ leave. I have given one to my +mother, two to you, and I owe one to your friend Edouard. I want to +kiss him and ask his masters to let him scuffle as he likes with his +comrades. Then I must get back to the Luxembourg.” + +“Well, take him my compliments, and tell him I have ordered another pair +of pistols for him, so that the next time he is attacked by bandits he +needn’t use the conductor’s.” + +Roland looked at Sir John. + +“Now, what is it?” he asked. + +“What! Don’t you know?” + +“No. What is it I don’t know?” + +“Something that nearly killed our poor Amélie?” + +“What thing?” + +“The attack on the diligence.” + +“But what diligence?” + +“The one which your mother was in.” + +“The diligence my mother was in?” + +“Yes.” + +“The diligence my mother was in was attacked?” + +“You have seen Madame de Montrevel, and she didn’t tell you?” + +“Not a word about that, anyway.” + +“Well, my dear Edouard proved a hero; as no one else defended the coach, +he did. He took the conductor’s pistols and fired.” + +“Brave boy!” exclaimed Roland. + +“Yes, but, unluckily or luckily the conductor had taken the precaution +to remove the bullets. Edouard was praised and petted by the Companions +of Jehu as the bravest of the brave; but he neither killed nor wounded +them.” + +“Are you sure of what you are telling me?” + +“I tell you your sister almost died of fright.” + +“Very good,” said Roland. + +“How very good?” exclaimed Sir John. + +“I mean, all the more reason why I should see Edouard.” + +“What makes you say that.” + +“A plan.” + +“Tell me what it is.” + +“Faith! no. My plans don’t turn out well for you.” + +“But you know, my dear Roland, that if there are any reprisals to +make--” + +“I shall make them for both. You are in love, my dear fellow; live in +your love.” + +“You promise me your support?” + +“That’s understood! I am most anxious to call you brother.” + +“Are you tired of calling me friend?” + +“Faith, yes; it is too little.” + +“Thanks.” + +They pressed each other’s hands and parted. + +A quarter of an hour later Roland reached the Prytanée Français, which +stood then on the present site of the Lyceum of Louis-le-Grand--that is +to say, at the head of the Rue Saint-Jacques, behind the Sorbonne. At +the first words of the director, Roland saw that his young brother had +been especially recommended to the authorities. The boy was sent for. +Edouard flung himself into the arms of his “big brother” with that +passionate adoration he had for him. + +After the first embraces were over, Roland inquired about the stoppage +of the diligence. Madame de Montrevel had been chary of mentioning it; +Sir John had been sober in statement, but not so Edouard. It was +his Iliad, his very own. He related it with every detail--Jérôme’s +connivance with the bandits, the pistols loaded with powder only, his +mother’s fainting-fit, the attention paid to her by those who had caused +it, his own name known to the bandits, the fall of the mask from the +face of the one who was restoring his mother, his certainty that she +must have seen the man’s face. + +Roland was above all struck with this last particular. Then the boy +related their audience with the First Consul, and told how the latter +had kissed and petted him, and finally recommended him to the director +of the Prytanée Français. + +Roland learned from the child all that he wished to know, and as it took +but five minutes to go from the Rue Saint Jacques to the Luxembourg, he +was at the palace in that time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. SCULPTURE AND PAINTING + +When Roland returned to the Luxembourg, the clock of the palace marked +one hour and a quarter after mid-day. + +The First Consul was working with Bourrienne. + +If we were merely writing a novel, we should hasten to its close, and in +order to get there more expeditiously we should neglect certain details, +which, we are told, historical figures can do without. That is not our +opinion. From the day we first put pen to paper--now some thirty years +ago--whether our thought were concentrated on a drama, or whether it +spread itself into a novel, we have had a double end--to instruct and to +amuse. + +And we say instruct first, for amusement has never been to our mind +anything but a mask for instruction. Have we succeeded? We think so. +Before long we shall have covered with our narratives an enormous +period of time; between the “Comtesse de Salisbury” and the “Comte de +Monte-Cristo” five centuries and a half are comprised. Well, we assert +that we have taught France as much history about those five centuries +and a half as any historian. + +More than that; although our opinions are well known; although, under +the Bourbons of the elder branch as under the Bourbons of the younger +branch, under the Republic as under the present government, we have +always proclaimed them loudly, we do not believe that that opinion has +been unduly manifested in our books and dramas. + +We admire the Marquis de Posa in Schiller’s “Don Carlos”; but, in his +stead, we should not have anticipated the spirit of that age to the +point of placing a philosopher of the eighteenth century among the +heroes of the sixteenth, an encyclopedist at the court of Philippe II. +Therefore, just as we have been--in literary parlance--monarchical +under the Monarchy, republican under the Republic, we are to-day +reconstructionists under the Consulate. + +That does not prevent our thought from hovering above men, above their +epoch, and giving to each the share of good and evil they do. Now that +share no one, except God, has the right to award from his individual +point of view. The kings of Egypt who, at the moment they passed into +the unknown, were judged upon the threshold of their tombs, were not +judged by a man, but by a people. That is why it is said: “The judgment +of a people is the judgment of God.” + +Historian, novelist, poet, dramatic author, we are nothing more than the +foreman of a jury who impartially sums up the arguments and leaves the +jury to give their verdict. The book is the summing up; the readers are +the jury. + +That is why, having to paint one of the most gigantic figures, not only +of modern times but of all times; having to paint the period of his +transition, that is to say the moment when Bonaparte transformed himself +into Napoleon, the general into an emperor--that is why we say, in +the fear of becoming unjust, we abandon interpretations and substitute +facts. + +We are not of those who say with Voltaire that, “no one is a hero to his +valet.” + +It may be that the valet is near-sighted or envious--two infirmities +that resemble each other more closely than people think. We maintain +that a hero may become a kind man, but a hero, for being kind, is none +the less a hero. + +What is a hero in the eyes of the public? A man whose genius is +momentarily greater than his heart. What is a hero in private life? A +man whose heart is momentarily greater than his genius. + +Historians, judge the genius! + +People, judge the heart! + +Who judged Charlemagne? The historians. Who judged Henri IV.? The +people. Which, in your opinion, was the most righteously judged? + +Well, in order to render just judgment, and compel the court of +appeals, which is none other than posterity, to confirm contemporaneous +judgments, it is essential not to light up one side only of the figure +we depict, but to walk around it, and wherever the sunlight does not +reach, to hold a torch, or even a candle. + +Now, let us return to Bonaparte. + +He was working, as we said, with Bourrienne. Let us inquire into the +usual division of the First Consul’s time. + +He rose at seven or eight in the morning, and immediately called one of +his secretaries, preferably Bourrienne, and worked with him until ten. +At ten, breakfast was announced; Josephine, Hortense and Eugène +either waited or sat down to table with the family, that is with the +aides-de-camp on duty and Bourrienne. After breakfast he talked with +the usual party, or the invited guests, if there were any; one hour was +devoted to this intercourse, which was generally shared by the +First Consul’s two brothers, Lucien and Joseph, Regnault de +Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Boulay (de la Meurthe), Monge, Berthollet, +Laplace and Arnault. Toward noon Cambacérès arrived. As a general thing +Bonaparte devoted half an hour to his chancellor; then suddenly, without +warning, he would rise and say: “Au revoir, Josephine! au revoir, +Hortense! Come, Bourrienne, let us go to work.” + +This speech, which recurred almost regularly in the same words, was no +sooner uttered than Bonaparte left the salon and returned to his study. +There, no system of work was adopted; it might be some urgent matter or +merely a caprice. Either Bonaparte dictated or Bourrienne read, after +which the First Consul went to the council. + +In the earlier months of the Consulate, he was obliged to cross the +courtyard of the little Luxembourg to reach the council-chamber, which, +if the weather were rainy, put him in bad humor; but toward the end +of December he had the courtyard covered; and from that time he almost +always returned to his study singing. Bonaparte sang almost as false as +Louis XV. + +As soon as he was back he examined the work he had ordered done, signed +his letters, and stretched himself out in his armchair, the arms of +which he stabbed with his penknife as he talked. If he was not inclined +to talk, he reread the letters of the day before, or the pamphlets of +the day, laughing at intervals with the hearty laugh of a great child. +Then suddenly, as one awakening from a dream, he would spring to his +feet and cry out: “Write, Bourrienne!” + +Then he would sketch out the plan for some building to be erected, or +dictate some one of those vast projects which have amazed--let us say +rather, terrified the world. + +At five o’clock he dined; after dinner the First Consul ascended to +Josephine’s apartments, where he usually received the visits of the +ministers, and particularly that of the minister of foreign affairs, M. +de Talleyrand. At midnight, sometimes earlier, but never later, he gave +the signal for retiring by saying, brusquely: “Let us go to bed.” + +The next day, at seven in the morning, the same life began over again, +varied only by unforeseen incidents. + +After these details of the personal habits of the great genius we are +trying to depict under his first aspect, his personal portrait ought, we +think, to come. + +Bonaparte, First Consul, has left fewer indications of his personal +appearance than Napoleon, Emperor. Now, as nothing less resembles the +Emperor of 1812 than the First Consul of 1800; let us endeavor, if +possible, to sketch with a pen those features which the brush has never +fully portrayed, that countenance which neither bronze nor marble has +been able to render. Most of the painters and sculptors who flourished +during this illustrious period of art--Gros, David, Prud’hon, Girodet +and Bosio--have endeavored to transmit to posterity the features of +the Man of Destiny, at the different epochs when the vast providential +vistas which beckoned him first revealed themselves. Thus, we have +portraits of Bonaparte, commander-in-chief, Bonaparte, First Consul, and +Napoleon, Emperor; and although some painters and sculptors have caught +more or less successfully the type of his face, it may be said that +there does not exist, either of the general, the First Consul, or the +emperor, a single portrait or bust which perfectly resembles him. + +It was not within the power of even genius to triumph over an +impossibility. During the first part of Bonaparte’s life it was possible +to paint or chisel Bonaparte’s protuberant skull, his brow furrowed +by the sublime line of thought, his pale elongated face, his granite +complexion, and the meditative character of his countenance. During +the second part of his life it was possible to paint or to chisel his +broadened forehead, his admirably defined eyebrows, his straight nose, +his close-pressed lips, his chin modelled with rare perfection, his +whole face, in short, like a coin of Augustus. But that which neither +his bust nor his portrait could render, which was utterly beyond the +domain of imitation, was the mobility of his look; that look which is to +man what the lightning is to God, namely, the proof of his divinity. + +In Bonaparte, that look obeyed his will with the rapidity of lightning; +in one and the same minute it dared from beneath his eyelids, now keen +and piercing as the blade of a dagger violently unsheathed, now soft as +a sun ray or a kiss, now stern as a challenge, or terrible as a threat. + +Bonaparte had a look for every thought that stirred his soul. In +Napoleon, this look, except in the momentous circumstances of his life, +ceased to be mobile and became fixed, but even so it was none the less +impossible to render; it was a drill sounding the heart of whosoever he +looked upon, the deepest, the most secret thought of which he meant to +sound. Marble or painting might render the fixedness of that look, but +neither the one nor the other could portray its life--that is to say, +its penetrating and magnetic action. Troubled hearts have veiled eyes. + +Bonaparte, even in the days of his leanness, had beautiful hands, and +he displayed them with a certain coquetry. As he grew stouter his hands +became superb; he took the utmost care of them, and looked at them when +talking, with much complacency. He felt the same satisfaction in his +teeth, which were handsome, though not with the splendor of his hands. + +When he walked, either alone or with some one, whether in a room or in +a garden, he always bent a little forward, as though his head were heavy +to carry, and crossed his hands behind his back. He frequently made an +involuntary movement with the right shoulder, as if a nervous shudder +had passed through it, and at the same time his mouth made a curious +movement from right to left, which seemed to result from the other. +These movements, however, had nothing convulsive about them, whatever +may have been said notwithstanding; they were a simple trick indicative +of great preoccupation, a sort of congestion of the mind. It was chiefly +manifested when the general, the First Consul, or the Emperor, was +maturing vast plans. It was after such promenades, accompanied by this +twofold movement of the shoulders and lips, that he dictated his most +important notes. On a campaign, with the army, on horseback, he was +indefatigable; he was almost as much so in ordinary life, and would +often walk five or six hours in succession without perceiving it. + +When he walked thus with some one with whom he was familiar, he commonly +passed his arm through that or his companion and leaned upon him. + +Slender and thin as he was at the period when we place him before our +readers’ eyes, he was much concerned by the fear of future corpulence; +it was to Bourrienne that he usually confided this singular dread. + +“You see, Bourrienne, how slim and abstemious I am. Well, nothing can +rid me of the idea that when I am forty I shall be a great eater and +very fat. I foresee that my constitution will undergo a change. I take +exercise enough, but what will you!--it’s a presentiment; and it won’t +fail to happen.” + +We all know to what obesity he attained when a prisoner at Saint Helena. + +He had a positive passion for baths, which no doubt contributed not a +little to make him fat; this passion became an irresistible need. He +took one every other day, and stayed in it two hours, during which time +the journals and pamphlets of the day were read to him. As the +water cooled he would turn the hot-water faucet until he raised the +temperature of his bathroom to such a degree that the reader could +neither bear it any longer, nor see to read. Not until then would he +permit the door to be opened. + +It has been said that he was subject to epileptic attacks after his +first campaign in Italy. Bourrienne was with him eleven years, and never +saw him suffer from an attack of this malady. + +Bonaparte, though indefatigable when necessity demanded it, required +much sleep, especially during the period of which we are now writing. +Bonaparte, general or First Consul, kept others awake, but he slept, and +slept well. He retired at midnight, sometimes earlier, as we have said, +and when at seven in the morning they entered his room to awaken him +he was always asleep. Usually at the first call he would rise; but +occasionally, still half asleep, he would mutter: “Bourrienne, I beg of +you, let me sleep a little longer.” + +Then, if there was nothing urgent, Bourrienne would return at eight +o’clock; if it was otherwise, he insisted, and then, with much +grumbling, Bonaparte would get up. He slept seven, sometimes eight, +hours out of the twenty-four, taking a short nap in the afternoon. He +also gave particular instruction for the night. + +“At night,” he would say, “come in my room as seldom as possible. Never +wake me if you have good news to announce--good news can wait; but if +there is bad news, wake me instantly, for then there is not a moment to +be lost in facing it.” + +As soon as Bonaparte had risen and made his morning ablutions, which +were very thorough, his valet entered and brushed his hair and shaved +him; while he was being shaved, a secretary or an aide-de-camp read the +newspapers aloud, always beginning with the “Moniteur.” He gave no real +attention to any but the English and German papers. + +“Skip that,” he would say when they read him the French papers; “_I know +what they say, because they only say what I choose._” + +His toilet completed, Bonaparte went down to his study. We have seen +above what he did there. At ten o’clock the breakfast as announced, +usually by the steward, in these words: “The general is served.” No +title, it will be observed, not even that of First Consul. + +The repast was a frugal one. Every morning a dish was served which +Bonaparte particularly liked--a chicken fried in oil with garlic; +the same dish that is now called on the bills of fare at restaurants +“Chicken à la Marengo.” + +Bonaparte drank little, and then only Bordeaux or Burgundy, preferably +the latter. After breakfast, as after dinner, he drank a cup of black +coffee; never between meals. When he chanced to work until late at +night they brought him, not coffee, but chocolate, and the secretary who +worked with him had a cup of the same. Most historians, narrators, and +biographers, after saying that Bonaparte drank a great deal of coffee, +add that he took snuff to excess. + +They are doubly mistaken. From the time he was twenty-four, Bonaparte +had contracted the habit of taking snuff: but only enough to keep his +brain awake. He took it habitually, not, as biographers have declared, +from the pocket of his waistcoat, but from a snuff-box which he changed +almost every day for a new one--having in this matter of collecting +snuff-boxes a certain resemblance to the great Frederick. If he ever did +take snuff from his waistcoat pocket, it was on his battle days, when it +would have been difficult, while riding at a gallop under fire, to hold +both reins and snuff-box. For those days he had special waistcoats, with +the right-hand pocket lined with perfumed leather; and, as the sloping +cut of his coat enabled him to insert his thumb and forefinger into this +pocket without unbuttoning his coat, he could, under any circumstances +and at any gait, take snuff when he pleased. + +As general or First Consul, he never wore gloves, contenting himself +with holding and crumpling them in his left hand. As Emperor, there was +some advance in this propriety; he wore one glove, and as he changed his +gloves, not once, but two or three times a day, his valet adopted the +habit of giving him alternate gloves; thus making one pair serve as two. + +Bonaparte had two great passions which Napoleon inherited--for war and +architectural monuments to his fame. + +Gay, almost jolly in camp, he was dreamy and sombre in repose. To escape +this gloom he had recourse to the electricity of art, and saw visions +of those gigantic monumental works of which he undertook many, and +completed some. He realized that such works are part of the life of +peoples; they are history written in capitals, landmarks of the ages, +left standing long after generations are swept away. He knew that Rome +lives in her ruins, that Greece speaks by her statues, that Egypt, +splendid and mysterious spectre, appeared through her monuments on the +threshold of civilized existence. + +What he loved above everything, what he hugged in preference to all +else, was renown, heroic uproar; hence his need of war, his thirst for +glory. He often said: + +“A great reputation is a great noise; the louder it is, the further it +is heard. Laws, institutions, monuments, nations, all fall; but sound +remains and resounds through other generations. Babylon and Alexandria +are fallen; Semiramis and Alexander stand erect, greater perhaps through +the echo of their renown, waxing and multiplying through the ages, than +they were in their lifetimes.” Then he added, connecting these ideas +with himself: “My power depends on my fame and on the battles I win. +Conquest has made me what I am, and conquest alone can sustain me. A new +born government must dazzle, must amaze. The moment it no longer flames, +it dies out; once it ceases to grow, it falls.” + +He was long a Corsican, impatient under the conquest of his country; +but after the 13th Vendemiaire he became a true Frenchman, and ended by +loving France with true passion. His dream was to see her great, happy, +powerful, at the head of the nations in glory and in art. It is true +that, in making France great, he became great with her, and attached +his name indissolubly to her grandeur. To him, living eternally in this +thought, actuality disappeared in the future; wherever the hurricane +of war may have swept him, France, above all things else, above all +nations, filled his thoughts. “What will my Athenians think?” said +Alexander, after Issus and Arbela. “I hope the French will be content +with me,” said Bonaparte, after Rivoli and the Pyramids. + +Before battle, this modern Alexander gave little thought to what he +should do in case of victory, but much in case of defeat. He, more than +any man, was convinced that trifles often decide the greatest events; he +was therefore more concerned in foreseeing such events than in producing +them. He watched them come to birth, and ripen; then, when the right +time came, he appeared, laid his hand on them, mastered and guided them, +as an able rider roasters and guides a spirited horse. + +His rapid rise in the midst of revolutions and political changes he had +brought about, or seen accomplished, the events which he had controlled, +had given him a certain contempt for men; moreover, he was not inclined +by nature to think well of them. His lips were often heard to utter the +grievous maxim--all the more grievous because he personally knew +its truth--“There are two levers by which men are moved, fear and +self-interest.” + +With such opinions Bonaparte did not, in fact, believe in friendship. + +“How often,” said Bourrienne, “has he said to me, ‘Friendship is only a +word; I love no one, not even my brothers--Joseph a little possibly; but +if I love him it is only from habit, and because he is my elder. Duroc, +yes, I love him; but why? Because his character pleases me; because he +is stern, cold, resolute; besides, Duroc never sheds a tear. But why +should I love any one? Do you think I have any true friends? As long as +I am what I am, I shall have friends--apparently at least; but when my +luck ceases, you’ll see! Trees don’t have leaves in winter. I tell you, +Bourrienne, we must leave whimpering to the women, it’s their business; +as for me, no feelings. I need a vigorous hand and a stout heart; if +not, better let war and government alone.’” + +In his familiar intercourse, Bonaparte was what schoolboys call a tease; +but his teasings were never spiteful, and seldom unkind. His ill-humor, +easily aroused, disappeared like a cloud driven by the wind; it +evaporated in words, and disappeared of its own will. Sometimes, +however, when matters of public import were concerned, and his +lieutenants or ministers were to blame, he gave way to violent anger; +his outbursts were then hard and cruel, and often humiliating. He gave +blows with a club, under which, willingly or unwillingly, the recipient +had to bow his head; witness his scene with Jomini and that with the Duc +de Bellune. + +Bonaparte had two sets of enemies, the Jacobins and the royalists; he +detested the first and feared the second. In speaking of the Jacobins, +he invariably called them the murderers of Louis XVI.; as for the +royalists, that was another thing; one might almost have thought he +foresaw the Restoration. He had about him two men who had voted the +death of the king, Fouché and Cambacérès. + +He dismissed Fouché, and, if he kept Cambacérès, it was because he +wanted the services of that eminent legist; but he could not endure him, +and he would often catch his colleague, the Second Consul, by the ear, +and say: “My poor Cambacérès, I’m so sorry for you; but your goose is +cooked. If ever the Bourbons get back they will hang you.” + +One day Cambacérès lost his temper, and with a twist of his head he +pulled his ear from the living pincers that held it. + +“Come,” he said, “have done with your foolish joking.” + +Whenever Bonaparte escaped any danger, a childish habit, a Corsican +habit, reappeared; he always made a rapid sign of the cross on his +breast with the thumb. + +Whenever he met with any annoyance, or was haunted with a disagreeable +thought, he hummed--what air? An air of his own that was no air at all, +and which nobody ever noticed, he sang so false. Then, still singing, he +would sit down before his writing desk, tilting in his chair, tipping it +back till he almost fell over, and mutilating, as we have said, its arms +with a penknife, which served no other purpose, inasmuch as he never +mended a pen himself. His secretaries were charged with that duty, and +they mended them in the best manner possible, mindful of the fact that +they would have to copy that terrific writing, which, as we know, was +not absolutely illegible. + +The effect produced on Bonaparte by the ringing of bells is known. It +was the only music he understood, and it went straight to his heart. If +he was seated when the vibrations began he would hold up his hand for +silence, and lean toward the sound. If he was walking, he would +stop, bend his head, and listen. As long as the bell rang he remained +motionless; when the sound died away in space, he resumed his work, +saying to those who asked him to explain this singular liking for the +iron voice: “It reminds me of my first years at Brienne; I was happy +then!” + +At the period of which we are writing, his greatest personal interest +was the purchase he had made of the domain of Malmaison. He went there +every night like a schoolboy off for his holiday, and spent Sunday and +often Monday there. There, work was neglected for walking expeditions, +during which he personally superintended the improvements he had +ordered. Occasionally, and especially at first, he would wander beyond +the limits of the estate; but these excursions were thought dangerous by +the police, and given up entirely after the conspiracy of the Aréna and +the affair of the infernal machine. + +The revenue derived from Malmaison, calculated by Bonaparte himself, on +the supposition that he should sell his fruits and vegetables, did not +amount to more than six thousand francs. + +“That’s not bad,” he said to Bourrienne; “but,” he added with a sigh, +“one must have thirty thousand a year to be able to live here.” + +Bonaparte introduced a certain poesy in his taste for the country. He +liked to see a woman with a tall flexible figure glide through the dusky +shrubberies of the park; only that woman must be dressed in white. He +hated gowns of a dark color and had a horror of stout women. As for +pregnant women, he had such an aversion for them that it was very seldom +he invited one to his soirées or his fêtes. For the rest, with little +gallantry in his nature, too overbearing to attract, scarcely civil to +women, it was rare for him to say, even to the prettiest, a pleasant +thing; in fact, he often produced a shudder by the rude remarks he made +even to Josephine’s best friends. To one he remarked: “Oh! what red arms +you have!” To another, “What an ugly headdress you are wearing!” To a +third, “Your gown is dirty; I have seen you wear it twenty times”; or, +“Why don’t you change your dressmaker; you are dressed like a fright.” + +One day he said to the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a charming blonde, whose +hair was the admiration of everyone: + +“It’s queer how red your hair is!” + +“Possibly,” replied the duchess, “but this is the first time any man has +told me so.” + +Bonaparte did not like cards; when he did happen to play it was always +vingt-et-un. For the rest, he had one trait in common with Henry IV., +he cheated; but when the game was over he left all the gold and notes he +had won on the table, saying: + +“You are ninnies! I have cheated all the time we’ve been playing, and +you never found out. Those who lost can take their money back.” + +Born and bred in the Catholic faith, Bonaparte had no preference for any +dogma. When he re-established divine worship it was done as a political +act, not as a religious one. He was fond, however, of discussions +bearing on the subject; but he defined his own part in advance by +saying: “My reason makes me a disbeliever in many things; but the +impressions of my childhood and the inspirations of my early youth have +flung me back into uncertainty.” + +Nevertheless he would never hear of materialism; he cared little what +the dogma was, provided that dogma recognized a Creator. One beautiful +evening in Messidor, on board his vessel, as it glided along between the +twofold azure of the sky and sea, certain mathematicians declared there +was no God, only animated matter. Bonaparte looked at the celestial +arch, a hundred times more brilliant between Malta and Alexandria than +it is in Europe, and, at a moment when they thought him unconscious of +the conversation, he exclaimed, pointing to the stars: “You may say what +you please, but it was a God who made all that.” + +Bonaparte, though very exact in paying his private debts, was just the +reverse about public expenses. He was firmly convinced that in all past +transactions between ministers and purveyors or contractors, that if the +minister who had made the contract was not a dupe, the State at any rate +was robbed; for this reason he delayed the period of payment as long as +possible; there were literally no evasions, no difficulties he would not +make, no bad reasons he would not give. It was a fixed idea with him, an +immutable principle, that every contractor was a cheat. + +One day a man who had made a bid that was accepted was presented to him. + +“What is your name?” he asked, with his accustomed brusqueness. + +“Vollant, citizen First Consul.” + +“Good name for a contractor.” + +“I spell it with two l’s, citizen.” + +“To rob the better, sir,” retorted Bonaparte, turning his back on him. + +Bonaparte seldom changed his decisions, even when he saw they were +unjust. No one ever heard him say: “I was mistaken.” On the contrary, +his favorite saying was: “I always believe the worst”--a saying more +worthy of Simon than Augustus. + +But with all this, one felt that there was more of a desire in +Bonaparte’s mind to seem to despise men than actual contempt for them. +He was neither malignant nor vindictive. Sometimes, it is true, he +relied too much upon necessity, that iron-tipped goddess; but for +the rest, take him away from the field of politics and he was kind, +sympathetic, accessible to pity, fond of children (great proof of a kind +and pitying heart), full of indulgence for human weakness in private +life, and sometimes of a good-humored heartiness, like that of Henri IV. +playing with his children in the presence of the Spanish ambassador. + +If we were writing history we should have many more things to say +of Bonaparte without counting those which--after finishing with +Bonaparte--we should still have to say of Napoleon. But we are writing +a simple narrative, in which Bonaparte plays a part; unfortunately, +wherever Bonaparte shows himself, if only for a moment, he becomes, in +spite of himself, a principal personage. + +The reader must pardon us for having again fallen into digression; that +man, who is a world in himself, has, against our will, swept us along in +his whirlwind. + +Let us return to Roland, and consequently to our legitimate tale. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. THE AMBASSADOR + +We have seen that Roland, on returning to the Luxembourg, asked for the +First Consul and was told that he was engaged with Fouché, the minister +of police. + +Roland was a privileged person; no matter what functionary was with +Bonaparte, he was in the habit, on his return from a journey, or merely +from an errand, of half opening the door and putting in his head. The +First Consul was often so busy that he paid no attention to this head. +When that was the case, Roland would say “General!” which meant, in +the close intimacy which still existed between the two schoolmates: +“General, I am here; do you need me? I’m at your orders.” If the First +Consul did not need him, he replied: “Very good.” If on the contrary he +did need him, he said, simply: “Come in.” Then Roland would enter, +and wait in the recess of a window until the general told him what he +wanted. + +On this occasion, Roland put his head in as usual, saying: “General!” + +“Come in,” replied the First Consul, with visible satisfaction; “come +in, come in!” + +Roland entered. Bonaparte was, as he had been told, busy with the +minister of police. The affair on which the First Consul was engaged, +and which seemed to absorb him a great deal, had also its interest for +Roland. + +It concerned the recent stoppages of diligences by the Companions of +Jehu. + +On the table lay three _procès-verbaux_ relating the stoppage of one +diligence and two mail-coaches. Tribier, the paymaster of the Army of +Italy, was in one of the latter. The stoppages had occurred, one on the +highroad between Meximieux and Montluel, on that part of the road which +crosses the commune of Bellignieux; the second, at the extremity of the +lake of Silans, in the direction of Nantua; the third, on the highroad +between Saint-Etienne and Bourg, at a spot called Les Carronnières. + +A curious fact was connected with these stoppages. A sum of four +thousand francs and a case of jewelry had been mixed up by mistake with +the money-bags belonging to the government. The owners of the money had +thought them lost, when the justice of the peace at Nantua received +an unsigned letter telling him the place where these objects had been +buried, and requesting him to return them to their rightful owners, +as the Companions of Jehu made war upon the government and not against +private individuals. + +In another case; that of the Carronnières--where the robbers, in order +to stop the mail-coach, which had continued on its way with increased +speed in spite of the order to stop, were forced to fire at a horse--the +Companions of Jehu had felt themselves obliged to make good this loss to +the postmaster, who had received five hundred francs for the dead horse. +That was exactly what the animal had cost eight days before; and this +valuation proved that they were dealing with men who understood horses. + +The _procès-verbaux_ sent by the local authorities were accompanied by +the affidavits of the travellers. + +Bonaparte was singing that mysterious tune of which we have spoken; +which showed that he was furious. So, as Roland might be expected to +bring him fresh information, he had called him three times to come in. + +“Well,” said he, “your part of the country is certainly in revolt +against me; just look at that.” + +Roland glanced at the papers and understood at once. + +“Exactly what I came to speak to you about, general,” said he. + +“Then begin at once; but first go ask Bourrienne for my department +atlas.” + +Roland fetched the atlas, and, guessing what Bonaparte desired to look +at, opened it at the department of the Ain. + +“That’s it,” said Bonaparte; “show me where these affairs happened.” + +Roland laid his finger on the edge of the map, in the neighborhood of +Lyons. + +“There, general, that’s the exact place of the first attack, near the +village of Bellignieux.” + +“And the second?” + +“Here,” said Roland, pointing to the other side of the department, +toward Geneva; “there’s the lake of Nantua, and here’s that of Silans.” + +“Now the third?” + +Roland laid his finger on the centre of the map. + +“General, there’s the exact spot. Les Carronnières are not marked on the +map because of their slight importance.” + +“What are Les Carronnières?” asked the First Consul. + +“General, in our part of the country the manufactories of tiles are +called _carronnières_; they belong to citizen Terrier. That’s the place +they ought to be on the map.” + +And Roland made a pencil mark on the paper to show the exact spot where +the stoppage occurred. + +“What!” exclaimed Bonaparte; “why, it happened less than a mile and a +half from Bourg!” + +“Scarcely that, general; that explains why the wounded horse was taken +back to Bourg and died in the stables of the Belle-Alliance.” + +“Do you hear all these details, sir!” said Bonaparte, addressing the +minister of police. + +“Yes, citizen First Consul,” answered the latter. + +“You know I want this brigandage to stop?” + +“I shall use every effort--” + +“It’s not a question of your efforts, but of its being done.” + +The minister bowed. + +“It is only on that condition,” said Bonaparte, “that I shall admit you +are the able man you claim to be.” + +“I’ll help you, citizen,” said Roland. + +“I did not venture to ask for your assistance,” said the minister. + +“Yes, but I offer it; don’t do anything that we have not planned +together.” + +The minister looked at Bonaparte. + +“Quite right,” said Bonaparte; “you can go. Roland will follow you to +the ministry.” + +Fouché bowed and left the room. + +“Now,” continued the First Consul, “your honor depends upon your +exterminating these bandits, Roland. In the first place, the thing is +being carried on in your department; and next, they seem to have some +particular grudge against you and your family.” + +“On the contrary,” said Roland, “that’s what makes me so furious; they +spare me and my family.” + +“Let’s go over it again, Roland. Every detail is of importance; it’s a +war of Bedouins over again.” + +“Just notice this, general. I spend a night in the Chartreuse of +Seillon, because I have been told that it was haunted by ghosts. Sure +enough, a ghost appears, but a perfectly inoffensive one. I fire at it +twice, and it doesn’t even turn around. My mother is in a diligence +that is stopped, and faints away. One of the robbers pays her the most +delicate attentions, bathes her temples with vinegar, and gives her +smelling-salts. My brother Edouard fights them as best he can; they take +him in their arms, kiss him, and make him all sorts of compliments on +his courage; a little more and they would have given him sugar-plums as +a reward for his gallant conduct. Now, just the reverse; my friend Sir +John follows my example, goes where I have been; he is treated as a spy +and stabbed, as they thought, to death.” + +“But he didn’t die.” + +“No. On the contrary, he is so well that he wants to marry my sister.” + +“Ah ha! Has he asked for her?” + +“Officially.” + +“And you answered?” + +“I answered that the matter depended on two persons.” + +“Your mother and you; that’s true.” + +“No; my sister herself--and you.” + +“Your sister I understand; but I?” + +“Didn’t you tell me general, that you would take charge of marrying +her?” + +Bonaparte walked up and down the room with his arms crossed; then, +suddenly stopping before Roland, he said: “What is your Englishman +like?” + +“You have seen him, general.” + +“I don’t mean physically; all Englishmen are alike--blue eyes, red hair, +white skin, long jaws.” + +“That’s their _th_,” said Roland, gravely. + +“Their _th_?” + +“Yes. Did you ever learn English, general?” + +“Faith! I tried to learn it.” + +“Your teacher must have told you that the _th_ was sounded by pressing +the tongue against the teeth. Well, by dint of punching their teeth with +their tongues the English have ended by getting those elongated jaws, +which, as you said just now, is one of the distinctive characteristics +of their physiognomy.” + +Bonaparte looked at Roland to see if that incorrigible jester were +laughing or speaking seriously. Roland was imperturbable. + +“Is that your opinion?” said Bonaparte. + +“Yes, general, and I think that physiologically it is as good as any +other. I have a lot of opinions like it, which I bring to light as the +occasion offers.” + +“Come back to your Englishman.” + +“Certainly, general.” + +“I asked you what he was like.” + +“Well, he is a gentleman; very brave, very calm, very impassible, very +noble, very rich, and, moreover--which may not be a recommendation +to you--a nephew of Lord Grenville, prime minister to his Britannic +Majesty.” + +“What’s that?” + +“I said, prime minister to his Britannic Majesty.” + +Bonaparte resumed his walk; then, presently returning to Roland, he +said: “Can I see your Englishman?” + +“You know, general, that you can do anything.” + +“Where is he?” + +“In Paris.” + +“Go find him and bring him here.” + +Roland was in the habit of obeying without reply; he took his hat and +went toward the door. + +“Send Bourrienne to me,” said the First Consul, just as Roland passed +into the secretary’s room. + +Five minutes later Bourrienne appeared. + +“Sit down there, Bourrienne,” said the First Consul, “and write.” + +Bourrienne sat down, arranged his paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and +waited. + +“Ready?” asked the First Consul, sitting down upon the writing table, +which was another of his habits; a habit that reduced his secretary to +despair, for Bonaparte never ceased swinging himself back and forth all +the time he dictated--a motion that shook the table as much as if it had +been in the middle of the ocean with a heaving sea. + +“I’m ready,” replied Bourrienne, who had ended by forcing himself to +endure, with more or less patience, all Bonaparte’s eccentricities. + +“Then write.” And he dictated: + + Bonaparte, First Consul of the Republic, to his Majesty the King + of Great Britain and Ireland. + + Called by the will of the French nation to the chief magistracy + of the Republic, I think it proper to inform your Majesty + personally of this fact. + + Must the war, which for two years has ravaged the four quarters + of the globe, be perpetuated? Is there no means of staying it? + + How is it that two nations, the most enlightened of Europe, + more powerful and strong than their own safety and + independence require; how is it that they sacrifice to their + ideas of empty grandeur or bigoted antipathies the welfare + of commerce, eternal prosperity, the happiness of families? + How is it that they do not recognize that peace is the first + of needs and the first of a nation’s glories? + + These sentiments cannot be foreign to the heart of a king who + governs a free nation with the sole object of rendering it happy. + + Your Majesty will see in this overture my sincere desire to + contribute efficaciously, for the second time, to a general + pacification, by an advance frankly made and free of those + formalities which, necessary perhaps to disguise the dependence + of feeble states, only disclose in powerful nations a mutual + desire to deceive. + + France and England can, for a long time yet, by the abuse of + their powers, and to the misery of their people, carry on the + struggle without exhaustion; but, and I dare say it, the fate + of all the civilized nations depends on the conclusion of a + war which involves the universe. + +Bonaparte paused. “I think that will do,” said he. “Read it over, +Bourrienne.” + +Bourrienne read the letter he had just written. After each paragraph the +First Consul nodded approvingly; and said: “Go on.” + +Before the last words were fairly uttered, he took the letter from +Bourrienne’s hands and signed it with a new pen. It was a habit of his +never to use the same pen twice. Nothing could be more disagreeable to +him than a spot of ink on his fingers. + +“That’s good,” said he. “Seal it and put on the address: ‘To Lord +Grenville.’” + +Bourrienne did as he was told. At the same moment the noise of a +carriage was heard entering the courtyard of the Luxembourg. A moment +later the door opened and Roland appeared. + +“Well?” asked Bonaparte. + +“Didn’t I tell you you could have anything you wanted, general?” + +“Have you brought your Englishman?” + +“I met him in the Place de Buci; and, knowing that you don’t like to +wait, I caught him just as he was, and made him get into the carriage. +Faith! I thought I should have to drive round to the Rue Mazarine, and +get a guard to bring him. He’s in boots and a frock-coat.” + +“Let him come in,” said Bonaparte. + +“Come in, Sir John,” cried Roland, turning round. + +Lord Tanlay appeared on the threshold. Bonaparte had only to glance at +him to recognize a perfect gentleman. A trifling emaciation, a slight +pallor, gave Sir John the characteristics of great distinction. He +bowed, awaiting the formal introduction, like the true Englishman he +was. + +“General,” said Roland, “I have the honor to present to you Sir John +Tanlay, who proposed to go to the third cataract for the purpose of +seeing you, but who has, to-day, obliged me to drag him by the ear to +the Luxembourg.” + +“Come in, my lord; come in,” said Bonaparte. “This is not the first time +we have seen each other, nor the first that I have expressed the wish to +know you; there was therefore positive ingratitude in trying to evade my +desire.” + +“If I hesitated,” said Sir John, in excellent French, as usual, “it was +because I could scarcely believe in the honor you do me.” + +“And besides, very naturally, from national feeling, you detest me, +don’t you, like the rest of your countrymen?” + +“I must confess, general,” answered Sir John, smiling, “that they have +not got beyond admiration.” + +“And do you share the absurd prejudice that claims that national honor +requires you to hate to-day the enemy who may be a friend to-morrow?” + +“France has been almost a second mother country to me, and my friend +Roland will tell you that I long for the moment when, of my two +countries, the one to which I shall owe the most will be France.” + +“Then you ought to see France and England shaking hands for the good of +the world, without repugnance.” + +“The day when I see that will be a happy day for me.” + +“If you could contribute to bring it about would you do so?” + +“I would risk my life to do it.” + +“Roland tells me you are a relative of Lord Grenville.” + +“His nephew.” + +“Are you on good terms with him?” + +“He was very fond of my mother, his eldest sister.” + +“Have you inherited the fondness he bore your mother?” + +“Yes; only I think he holds it in reserve till I return to England.” + +“Will you deliver a letter for me?” + +“To whom?” + +“King George III.” + +“I shall be greatly honored.” + +“Will you undertake to say to your uncle that which cannot be written in +a letter?” + +“Without changing a syllable; the words of General Bonaparte are +history.” + +“Well, tell him--” but, interrupting himself, he turned to Bourrienne, +saying: “Bourrienne, find me the last letter from the Emperor of +Russia.” + +Bourrienne opened a box, and, without searching, laid his hand on a +letter that he handed to Bonaparte. + +The First Consul cast his eye over the paper and then gave it to Lord +Tanlay. + +“Tell him,” said he, “first and before all, that you have read this +letter.” + +Sir John bowed and read as follows: + + CITIZEN FIRST CONSUL--I have received, each armed and newly + clothed in the uniform of his regiment, the nine thousand + Russians, made prisoners in Holland, whom you have returned + to me without ransom, exchange, or condition of any kind. + + This is pure chivalry, and I boast of being chivalrous. + + I think that which I can best offer you in exchange for this + magnificent present, citizen First Consul, is my friendship. + Will you accept it? + + As an earnest of that friendship, I am sending his passports + to Lord Whitworth, the British Ambassador to Saint Petersburg. + + Furthermore, if you will be, I do not say my second, but my + witness, I will challenge personally every king who will not + take part against England and close his ports to her. + + I begin with my neighbor the King of Denmark, and you will + find in the “Gazette de la Cour” the ultimatum I have sent him. + + What more can I say to you? Nothing, unless it be that you and + I together can give laws to the world. + + I am your admirer and sincere friend, PAUL. + +Lord Tanlay turned to the First Consul. “Of course you know,” said he, +“that the Emperor of Russia is mad.” + +“Is it that letter that makes you think so, my lord?” asked Bonaparte. + +“No; but it confirms my opinion.” + +“It was a madman who gave Henry VI. of Lancaster the crown of +Saint-Louis, and the blazon of England still bears--until I scratch them +out with my sword--the fleur-de-lis of France.” + +Sir John smiled; his national pride revolted at this assumption in the +conqueror of the Pyramids. + +“But,” said Bonaparte, “that is not the question to-day; everything in +its own time.” + +“Yes,” murmured Sir John, “we are too near Aboukir.” + +“Oh, I shall never defeat you at sea,” said Bonaparte; “it would take +fifty years to make France a maritime nation; but over there,” and he +motioned with his hand to the East, “at the present moment, I repeat, +that the question is not war but peace. I must have peace to accomplish +my dream, and, above all, peace with England. You see, I play +aboveboard; I am strong enough to speak frankly. If the day ever comes +when a diplomatist tells the truth, he will be the first diplomatist in +the world; for no one will believe him, and he will attain, unopposed, +his ends.” + +“Then I am to tell my uncle that you desire peace.” + +“At the same time letting him know that I do not fear war. If I can’t +ally myself with King George, I can, as you see, do so with the Emperor +Paul; but Russia has not reached that point of civilization that I +desire in an ally.” + +“A tool is sometimes more useful than an ally.” + +“Yes; but, as you said, the Emperor is mad, and it is better to disarm +than to arm a madman. I tell you that two nations like France and +England ought to be inseparable friends or relentless enemies; friends, +they are the poles of the world, balancing its movements with perfect +equilibrium; enemies, one must destroy the other and become the world’s +sole axis.” + +“But suppose Lord Grenville, not doubting your genius, still doubts your +power; if he holds the opinion of our poet Coleridge, that our island +needs no rampart, no bulwark, other than the raucous murmur of the +ocean, what shall I tell him?” + +“Unroll the map of the world, Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte. + +Bourrienne unrolled a map; Bonaparte stepped over to it. + +“Do you see those two rivers?” said he, pointing to the Volga and the +Danube. “That’s the road to India,” he added. + +“I thought Egypt was, general,” said Sir John. + +“So did I for a time; or, rather, I took it because I had no other. But +the Czar opens this one; your government can force me to take it. Do you +follow me?” + +“Yes; citizen; go on.” + +“Well, if England forces me to fight her, if I am obliged to accept this +alliance with Catherine’s successor, this is what I shall do: I shall +embark forty thousand Russians on the Volga; I shall send them down +the river to Astrakhan; they will cross the Caspian and await me at +Asterabad.” + +Sir John bowed in sign of deep attention. Bonaparte continued: “I shall +embark forty thousand Frenchmen on the Danube.” + +“Excuse me, citizen First Consul, but the Danube is an Austrian river.” + +“I shall have taken Vienna.” + +Sir John stared at Bonaparte. + +“I shall have taken Vienna,” continued the latter. “I shall then embark +forty thousand Frenchmen on the Danube; I find Russian vessels at its +mouth ready to transport them to Taganrog; I march them by land along +the course of the Don to Pratisbianskaïa, whence they move to Tzaritsin; +there they descend the Volga in the same vessels that have transported +the forty thousand Russians to Asterabad; fifteen days later I have +eighty thousand men in western Persia. From Asterabad, these united +corps will march to the Indus; Persia, the enemy of England, is our +natural ally.” + +“Yes; but once in the Punjab, the Persian alliance will do you no good; +and an army of eighty thousand men cannot drag its provisions along with +it.” + +“You forget one thing,” said Bonaparte, as if the expedition were +already under way, “I have left bankers at Teheran and Caboul. Now, +remember what happened nine years ago in Lord Cornwallis’ war with Tippo +Saïb. The commander-in-chief fell short of provisions, and a simple +captain--I forget his name.” + +“Captain Malcolm,” said Lord Tanlay. + +“That’s it!” cried Bonaparte. “You know the story! Captain Malcolm had +recourse to the Brinjaries, those Bohemians of India, who cover the +whole Hindostan peninsula with their encampments, and control the grain +supplies. Well, those Bohemians are faithful to the last penny to those +who pay them; they will feed me.” + +“You must cross the Indus.” + +“What of that!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “I have a hundred and eighty miles +of bank between Déra-Ismaël-Khan and Attok to choose from. I know the +Indus as well as I do the Seine. It is a slow current flowing about +three miles an hour; its medium depth is, I should say, at the point I +mentioned, from twelve to fifteen feet, and there are ten or more fords +on the line of my operations.” + +“Then your line is already traced out?” asked Sir John smiling. + +“Yes, in so far as it follows a broad uninterrupted stretch of fertile, +well-watered provinces; that I avoid the sandy deserts which separate +the lower valley of the Indus from Rajputana; and also that I follow the +general bases of all invasions of India that have had any success, from +Mahmoud of Ghazni, in the year 1000, to Nadir Shah, in 1739. And how +many have taken the route I mean to take between the two epochs! Let us +count them. After Mahmoud of Ghazni came Mohammed Ghori, in 1184, with +one hundred and twenty thousand men; after him, Timur Tang, or Timur the +Lame, whom we call Tamerlane, with sixty thousand men; after Tamerlane, +Babar; after Babar, Humajan, and how many more I can’t remember. Why, +India is there for whoever will go and take it!” + +“You forget, citizen First Consul, that all the conquerors you have +named had only the aboriginal populations to deal with, whereas you have +the English. We hold India--” + +“With from twenty to twenty-two thousand men.” + +“And a hundred thousand Sepoys.” + +“I have counted them all, and I regard England and India, the one with +the respect, the other with the contempt, they merit. Wherever I meet +European infantry, I prepare a second, a third, and if necessary, a +fourth line of reserves, believing that the first three might give way +before the British bayonets; but wherever I find the Sepoys, I need only +the postilion’s whip to scatter the rabble. Have you any other questions +to put to me, my lord?” + +“One, citizen First Consul: are you sincerely desirous of peace?” + +“Here is the letter in which I ask it of your king, my lord, and it is +to be quite sure that it reaches his Britannic Majesty that I ask Lord +Grenville’s nephew to be my messenger.” + +“It shall be done as you desire, citizen; and were I the uncle, instead +of the nephew, I should promise more.” + +“When can you start?” + +“In an hour I shall be gone.” + +“You have no wish to express to me before leaving?” + +“None. In any case, if I have any, I leave my affairs to my friend, +Roland.” + +“Shake hands with me, my lord; it will be a good omen, as you represent +England and I France.” + +Sir John accepted the honor done him by Bonaparte, with the exact +measure of cordiality that indicated both his sympathy for France, and +his mental reserves for the honor of his own nation. + +Then, having pressed Roland’s hand with fraternal effusion, he +bowed again to the First Consul and went out. Bonaparte followed him +reflectively with his eyes; then he said suddenly: “Roland, I not only +consent to your sister’s marriage with Lord Tanlay, but I wish it. Do +you understand? _I wish it_.” + +He laid such emphasis upon those three words, that to any one who knew +him they signified plainly, not “I wish,” but “I will.” + +The tyranny was sweet to Roland, and he accepted it with grateful +thanks. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE TWO SIGNALS + +Let us now relate what happened at the Château des Noires-Fontaines +three days after the events we have just described took place in Paris. + +Since the successive departures of Roland, then Madame de Montrevel and +her son, and finally Sir John--Roland to rejoin his general, Madame de +Montrevel to place Edouard in school, and Sir John to acquaint Roland +with his matrimonial plans--Amélie had remained alone with Charlotte at +the Château des Noires-Fontaines. We say _alone_, because Michel and his +son Jacques did not live in the house, but in the little lodge at the +gate where he added the duties of porter to those of gardener. + +It therefore happened that at night all the windows, excepting those of +Amélie, which, as we have said, were on the first floor overlooking the +garden, and that of Charlotte in the attic, were left in darkness. + +Madame de Montrevel had taken the second chambermaid with her. The two +young girls were perhaps rather isolated in their part of the house, +which consisted of a dozen bedrooms on three floors, especially at a +time when so many rumors of robberies on the highroads reached them. +Michel, therefore, proposed to his young mistress that he sleep in the +main building, so as to be near her in case of need. But she, in a firm +voice, assured him that she felt no fear, and desired no change in the +customary routine of the château. + +Michel did not insist, and retired, saying that Mademoiselle might, in +any case, sleep in peace, for he and Jacques would make the rounds of +the house during the night. + +Amélie at first seemed anxious about those rounds; but she soon noticed +that Michel and Jacques contented themselves with watching on the edge +of the forest of Seillon, and the frequent appearance of a jugged hare, +or a haunch of venison on the table, proved to her that Michel kept his +word regarding the promised rounds. + +She therefore ceased to trouble about Michel’s rounds, which were always +on the side of the house opposite to that where she feared them. + +Now, as we have said, three days after the events we have just related, +or, to speak more correctly, during the night following the third day, +those who were accustomed to see no light save in Amélie’s windows on +the first floor and Charlotte’s on the third, might have observed with +surprise that, from eleven o’clock until midnight, the four windows on +the first floor were illuminated. It is true that each was lighted by a +single wax-candle. They might also have seen the figure of a young +girl through the shades, staring in the direction of the village of +Ceyzeriat. + +This young girl was Amélie, pale, breathing with difficulty, and seeming +to watch anxiously for a signal. + +At the end of a few minutes she wiped her forehead and drew a joyous +breath. A fire was lighted in the direction she had been watching. Then +she passed from room to room, putting out the three candles one after +the other, leaving only the one which was burning in her own room. As if +the fire awaited this return signal, it was now extinguished. + +Amélie sat down by her window and remained motionless, her eyes fixed +on the garden. The night was dark, without moon or stars, and yet at +the end of a quarter of an hour she saw, or rather divined, a shadow +crossing the lawn and approaching the window. She placed her single +candle in the furthest corner of her room, and returned to open her +window. + +He whom she was awaiting was already on the balcony. + +As on the first night when we saw him climb it, the young man put his +arm around the girl’s waist and drew her into the room. She made but +slight resistance; her hand sought the cord of the Venetian blind, +unfastened it from the hook that held it, and let it fall with more +noise than prudence would have counselled. + +Behind the blind, she closed the window; then she fetched the candle +from the corner where she had hidden it. The light illuminated her face, +and the young man gave a cry of alarm, for it was covered with tears. + +“What has happened?” he asked. + +“A great misfortune!” replied the young girl. + +“Oh, I feared it when I saw the signal by which you recalled me after +receiving me last night. But is it irreparable?” + +“Almost,” answered Amélie. + +“I hope, at least, that it threatens only me.” + +“It threatens us both.” + +The young man passed his hand over his brow to wipe away the sweat that +covered it. + +“Tell me,” said he; “you know I am strong.” + +“If you have the strength to hear it,” said she, “I have none to tell +it.” Then, taking a letter from the chimney-piece, she added: “Read +that; that is what I received by the post to-night.” + +The young man took the letter, opened it, and glanced hastily at the +signature. + +“From Madame de Montrevel,” said he. + +“Yes, with a postscript from Roland.” + +The young man read: + + MY DEAREST DAUGHTER--I hope that the news I announce will give + you as much joy as it has already given our dear Roland and me. + Sir John, whose heart you doubted, claiming that it was only a + mechanical contrivance, manufactured in the workshops at + Vaucanson, admits that such an opinion was a just one until the + day he saw you; but he maintains that since that day he has a + heart, and that that heart adores you. + + Did you suspect it, my dear Amélie, from his aristocratic and + polished manners, when your mother’s eyes failed to discern this + tenderness. + + This morning, while breakfasting with your brother, he formally + asked your hand. Your brother received the offer with joy, but + he made no promises at first. The First Consul, before Roland’s + departure for the Vendée, had already spoken of making himself + responsible for your establishment. But since then he has asked to + see Lord Tanlay, and Sir John, though he maintained his national + reserve, was taken into the first Consul’s good graces at once, to + such a degree that he received from him, at their first interview, + a mission to his uncle, Lord Grenville. Sir John started for + England immediately. + + I do not know how many days Sir John will be absent, but on his + return he is certain to present himself to you as your betrothed. + + Lord Tanlay is still young, pleasing in appearance, and immensely + rich; he is highly connected in England, and Roland’s friend. I + do not know a man who has more right, I will not say to your love, + but to your profound esteem. + + The rest of my news I can tell you in two words. The First Consul + is still most kind to me and to your two brothers, and Madame + Bonaparte has let me know that she only awaits your marriage to + place you near her. + + There is talk of leaving the Luxembourg, and removing to the + Tuileries. Do you understand the full meaning of this change of + domicile? + + Your mother, who loves you, + CLOTILDE DE MONTREVEL. + +Without pausing, the young man turned to Roland’s postscript. It was as +follows: + + You have read, my dear little sister, what our good mother has + written. This marriage is a suitable one under all aspects. It + is not a thing to be childish about; the First Consul _wishes_ + you to become Lady Tanlay; that is to say, he _wills_ it. + + I am leaving Paris for a few days. Though you may not see me, + you will hear of me. + + I kiss you, ROLAND. + +“Well, Charles,” asked Amélie, when the young man had finished reading, +“what do you think of that?” + +“That it is something we had to expect from day to day, my poor angel, +but it is none the less terrible.” + +“What is to be done?” + +“There are three things we can do.” + +“Tell me.” + +“In the first place, resist if you have the strength; it is the shortest +and surest way.” + +Amélie dropped her head. + +“You will never dare, will you?” + +“Never.” + +“And yet you are my wife, Amélie; a priest has blessed our union.” + +“But they say that marriage before a priest is null before the law.” + +“Is it not enough for you, the wife of a proscribed man?” asked Morgan, +his voice trembling as he spoke. + +Amélie flung herself into his arms. + +“But my mother,” said she; “our marriage did not have her presence and +blessing.” + +“Because there were too many risks to run, and we wished to run them +alone.” + +“But that man--Did you notice that my brother says he _wills_ it?” + +“Oh, if you loved me, Amélie, that man would see that he may change the +face of the State, carry war from one end of the world to the other, +make laws, build a throne, but that he cannot force lips to say yes when +the heart says no.” + +“If I loved you!” said Amélie, in a tone of soft reproach. “It is +midnight, you are here in my room, I weep in your arms--I, the daughter +of General de Montrevel and the sister of Roland--and you say, ‘If you +loved me.’” + +“I was wrong, I was wrong, my darling Amélie. Yes, I know that you were +brought up in adoration of that man; you cannot understand that any one +should resist him, and whoever does resist him is a rebel in your eyes.” + +“Charles, you said there were three things that we could do. What is the +second?” + +“Accept apparently the marriage they propose to you, and gain time, by +delaying under various pretexts. The man is not immortal.” + +“No; but is too young for us to count on his death. The third way, dear +friend?” + +“Fly--but that is a last resource, Amélie; there are two objections: +first, your repugnance.” + +“I am yours, Charles; I will surmount my repugnance.” + +“And,” added the young man, “my engagements.” + +“Your engagements?” + +“My companions are bound to me, Amélie; but I, too, am bound to them. We +also have a man to whom we have sworn obedience. That man is the future +king of France. If you accept your brother’s devotion to Bonaparte, +accept ours to Louis XVIII.” + +Amélie let her face drop into her hands with a sigh. + +“Then,” said she, “we are lost.” + +“Why so? On various pretexts, your health above all, you can gain a +year. Before the year is out Bonaparte will probably be forced to begin +another war in Italy. A single defeat will destroy his prestige; in +short, a great many things can happen in a year.” + +“Did you read Roland’s postscript, Charles?” + +“Yes; but I didn’t see anything in it that was not in your mother’s +letter.” + +“Read the last sentence again.” And Amélie placed the letter before him. +He read: + + I am leaving Paris for a few days; though you may not see me, + you will hear of me. + +“Well?” + +“Do you know what that means?” + +“No.” + +“It means that Roland is in pursuit of you.” + +“What does that matter? He cannot die by the hand of any of us.” + +“But you, unhappy man, you can die by his!” + +“Do you think I should care so very much if he killed me, Amélie?” + +“Oh! even in my gloomiest moments I never thought of that.” + +“So you think your brother is on the hunt for us?” + +“I am sure of it.” + +“What makes you so certain?” + +“Because he swore over Sir John’s body, when he thought him dead, to +avenge him.” + +“If he had died,” exclaimed the young man, bitterly, “we should not be +where we are, Amélie.” + +“God saved him, Charles; it was therefore good that he did not die.” + +“For us?” + +“I cannot fathom the ways of the Lord. I tell you, my beloved Charles, +beware of Roland; Roland is close by.” + +Charles smiled incredulously. + +“I tell you that he is not only near here, but he has been seen.” + +“He has been seen! Where? Who saw him?” + +“Who saw him?” + +“Yes.” + +“Charlotte, my maid, the jailer’s daughter. She asked permission to +visit her parents yesterday, Sunday; you were coming, so I told her she +could stay till this morning.” + +“Well?” + +“She therefore spent the night with her parents. At eleven o’clock the +captain of the gendarmerie brought in some prisoners. While they were +locking them up, a man, wrapped in a cloak, came in and asked for the +captain. Charlotte thought she recognized the new-comer’s voice. She +looked at him attentively; his cloak slipped from his face, and she saw +that it was my brother.” + +The young man made a movement. + +“Now do you understand, Charles? My brother comes to Bourg, +mysteriously, without letting me know; he asks for the captain of +the gendarmerie, follows him into the prison, speaks only to him, and +disappears. Is that not a threatening outlook for our love? Tell me, +Charles!” + +As Amélie spoke, a dark cloud spread slowly over her lover’s face. + +“Amélie,” said he, “when my companions and I bound ourselves together, +we did not deceive ourselves as to the risks we ran.” + +“But, at least,” said Amélie, “you have changed your place of refuge; +you have abandoned the Chartreuse of Seillon?” + +“None but our dead are there now.” + +“Is the grotto of Ceyzeriat perfectly safe?” + +“As safe as any refuge can be that has two exit.” + +“The Chartreuse of Seillon had two exits; yet, as you say, you left your +dead there.” + +“The dead are safer than the living; they are sure not to die on the +scaffold.” + +Amélie felt a shudder go through her. + +“Charles!” she murmured. + +“Listen,” said the young man. “God is my witness, and you too, that I +have always put laughter and gayety between your presentiments and my +fears; but to-day the aspect of things has changed; we are coming face +to face with the crisis. Whatever the end brings us, it is approaching. +I do not ask of you, my Amélie, those selfish, unreasonable things that +lovers in danger of death exact from their mistresses; I do not ask you +to bind your heart to the dead, your love to a corpse--” + +“Friend,” said the young girl, laying her hand on his arm, “take care; +you are doubting me.” + +“No; I do you the highest honor in leaving you free to accomplish the +sacrifice to its full extent; but I do not want you to be bound by an +oath; no tie shall fetter you.” + +“So be it,” said Amélie. + +“What! ask of you,” continued the young man, “and I ask you to swear +it on our love, which has been, alas! so fatal to you, is this: if I +am arrested and disarmed, if I am imprisoned and condemned to death, I +implore you, Amélie, I exact of you, that in some way you will send me +arms, not only for myself, but for my companions also, so that we may +still be masters of our lives.” + +“But in such a case, Charles, may I not tell all to my brother? May I +not appeal to his tenderness; to the generosity of the First Consul?” + +Before the young girl had finished, her lover seized her violently by +the wrist. + +“Amélie,” said he, “it is no longer one promise I ask of you, there are +two. Swear to me, in the first place, and above all else, that you will +not solicit my pardon. Swear it, Amélie; swear it!” + +“Do I need to swear, dear?” asked the young girl, bursting into tears. +“I promise it.” + +“Promise it on the hour when I first said I loved you, on the hour when +you answered that I was loved!” + +“On your life, on mine, on the past, on the future, on our smiles, on +our tears.” + +“I should die in any case, you see, Amélie, even though I had to beat my +brains out against the wall; but I should die dishonored.” + +“I promise you, Charles.” + +“Then for my second request, Amélie: if we are taken and condemned, send +me arms--arms or poison, the means of dying, any means. Coming from you, +death would be another joy.” + +“Far or near, free or a prisoner, living or dead, you are my master, I +am your slave; order and I obey.” + +“That is all, Amélie; it is simple and clear, you see, no pardon, and +the means of death.” + +“Simple and clear, but terrible.” + +“You will do it, will you not?” + +“You wish me to?” + +“I implore you.” + +“Order or entreaty, Charles, your will shall be done.” + +The young man held the girl, who seemed on the verge of fainting, in his +left arm, and approached his mouth to hers. But, just as their lips +were about to touch, an owl’s cry was heard, so close to the window +that Amélie started and Charles raised his head. The cry was repeated a +second time, and then a third. + +“Ah!” murmured Amélie, “do you hear that bird of ill-omen? We are +doomed, my friend.” + +But Charles shook his head. + +“That is not an owl, Amélie,” he said; “it is the call of our +companions. Put out the light.” + +Amélie blew it out while her lover opened the window. + +“Even here,” she murmured; “they seek you even here!” + +“It is our friend and confidant, the Comte de Jayat; no one else knows +where I am.” Then, leaning from the balcony, he asked: “Is it you, +Montbar?” + +“Yes; is that you, Morgan?” + +“Yes.” + +A man came from behind a clump of trees. + +“News from Paris; not an instant to lose; a matter of life and death to +us all.” + +“Do you hear, Amélie?” + +Taking the young girl in his arms, he pressed her convulsively to his +heart. + +“Go,” she said, in a faint voice, “go. Did you not hear him say it was a +matter of life and death for all of you?” + +“Farewell, my Amélie, my beloved, farewell!” + +“Oh! don’t say farewell.” + +“No, no; au revoir!” + +“Morgan, Morgan!” cried the voice of the man waiting below in the +garden. + +The young man pressed his lips once more to Amélie’s; then, rushing to +the window, he sprang over the balcony at a bound and joined his friend. + +Amélie gave a cry, and ran to the balustrade; but all she saw was two +moving shadows entering the deepening shadows of the fine old trees that +adorned the park. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE GROTTO OF CEYZERIAT + +The two young men plunged into the shadow of the trees. Morgan guided +his companion, less familiar than he with the windings of the park, +until they reached the exact spot where he was in the habit of scaling +the wall. It took but an instant for both of them to accomplish that +feat. The next moment they were on the banks of the Reissouse. + +A boat was fastened to the foot of a willow; they jumped into it, and +three strokes of the oar brought them to the other side. There a path +led along the bank of the river to a little wood which extends from +Ceyzeriat to Etrez, a distance of about nine miles, and thus forms, on +the other side of the river, a pendant to the forest of Seillon. + +On reaching the edge of the wood they stopped. Until then they had been +walking as rapidly as it was possible to do without running, and neither +of them had uttered a word. The whole way was deserted; it was probable, +in fact certain, that no one had seen them. They could breathe freely. + +“Where are the Companions?” asked Morgan. + +“In the grotto,” replied Montbar. + +“Why don’t we go there at once?” + +“Because we shall find one of them at the foot of that beech, who will +tell us if we can go further without danger.” + +“Which one?” + +“D’Assas.” + +A shadow came from behind the tree. + +“Here I am,” it said. + +“Ah! there you are,” exclaimed the two young men. + +“Anything new?” inquired Montbar. + +“Nothing; they are waiting for you to come to a decision.” + +“In that case, let us hurry.” + +The three young men continued on their way. After going about three +hundred yards, Montbar stopped again, and said softly: “Armand!” + +The dry leaves rustled at the call, and a fourth shadow stepped from +behind a clump of trees, and approached his companions. + +“Anything new?” asked Montbar. + +“Yes; a messenger from Cadoudal.” + +“The same one who came before?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where is he?” + +“With the brothers, in the grotto.” + +“Come.” + +Montbar rushed on ahead; the path had grown so narrow that the four +young men could only walk in single file. It rose for about five hundred +paces with an easy but winding slope. Coming to an opening, Montbar +stopped and gave, three times, the same owl’s cry with which he had +called Morgan. A single hoot answered him; then a man slid down from the +branches of a bushy oak. It was the sentinel who guarded the entrance +to the grotto, which was not more than thirty feet from the oak. The +position of the trees surrounding it made it almost impossible of +detection. + +The sentinel exchanged a few whispered words with Montbar, who seemed, +by fulfilling the duties of leader, desirous of leaving Morgan entirely +to his thoughts. Then, as his watch was probably not over, the bandit +climbed the oak again, and was soon so completely blended with the body +of the tree that those he had left might have looked for him in vain in +that aerial bastion. + +The glade became narrower as they neared the entrance to the grotto. +Montbar reached it first, and from a hiding-place known to him he took a +flint, a steel, some tinder, matches, and a torch. The sparks flew, the +tinder caught fire, the match cast a quivering bluish flame, to which +succeeded the crackling, resinous flames of the torch. + +Three or four paths were then visible. Montbar took one without +hesitation. The path sank, winding into the earth, and turned back upon +itself, as if the young men were retracing their steps underground, +along the path that had brought them. It was evident that they were +following the windings of an ancient quarry, probably the one from which +were built, nineteen hundred years earlier, the three Roman towns which +are now mere villages, and Cæsar’s camp which overlooked them. + +At intervals this subterraneous path was cut entirely across by a deep +ditch, impassable except with the aid of a plank, that could, with +a kick, be precipitated into the hollow beneath. Also, from place to +place, breastworks could still be seen, behind which men could intrench +themselves and fire without exposing their persons to the sight or +fire of the enemy. Finally, at five hundred yards from the entrance, a +barricade of the height of a man presented a final obstacle to those who +sought to enter a circular space in which ten or a dozen men were now +seated or lying around, some reading, others playing cards. + +Neither the readers nor the players moved at the noise made by the +new-comers, or at the gleam of their light playing upon the walls of +the quarry, so certain were they that none but friends could reach this +spot, guarded as it was. + +For the rest, the scene of this encampment was extremely picturesque; +wax candles were burning in profusion (the Companions of Jehu were too +aristocratic to make use of any other light) and cast their reflection +upon stands of arms of all kinds, among which double-barrelled muskets +and pistols held first place. Foils and masks were hanging here and +there upon the walls; several musical instruments were lying about, +and a few mirrors in gilt frames proclaimed the fact that dress was a +pastime by no means unappreciated by the strange inhabitants of that +subterranean dwelling. + +They all seemed as tranquil as though the news which had drawn Morgan +from Amélie’s arms was unknown to them, or considered of no importance. + +Nevertheless, when the little group from outside approached, and the +words: “The captain! the captain!” were heard, all rose, not with the +servility of soldiers toward their approaching chief, but with the +affectionate deference of strong and intelligent men for one stronger +and more intelligent than they. + +Then Morgan shook his head, raised his eyes, and, passing before +Montbar, advanced to the centre of the circle which had formed at his +appearance, and said: + +“Well, friends, it seems you have had some news.” + +“Yes, captain,” answered a voice; “the police of the First Consul does +us the honor to be interested in us.” + +“Where is the messenger?” asked Morgan. + +“Here,” replied a young man, wearing the livery of a cabinet courier, +who was still covered with mud and dust. + +“Have you any despatches?” + +“Written, no, verbal, yes.” + +“Where do they come from?” + +“The private office of the minister of police.” + +“Can they be trusted?” + +“I’ll answer for them; they are positively official.” + +(“It’s a good thing to have friends everywhere,” observed Montbar, +parenthetically.) + +“Especially near M. Fouché,” resumed Morgan; “let us hear the news.” + +“Am I to tell it aloud, or to you privately?” + +“I presume we are all interested, so tell it aloud.” + +“Well, the First Consul sent for citizen Fouché at the Louvre, and +lectured him on our account.” + +“Capital! what next?” + +“Citizen Fouché replied that we were clever scamps, very difficult to +find, and still more difficult to capture when we had been found, in +short, he praised us highly.” + +“Very amiable of him. What next?” + +“Next, the First Consul replied that that did not concern him, that we +were brigands, and that it was our brigandage which maintained the war +in Vendée, and that the day we ceased sending money to Brittany there +would be no more Brittany.” + +“Excellent reasoning, it seems to me.” + +“He said the West must be fought in the East and the Midi.” + +“Like England in India.” + +“Consequently he gave citizen Fouché full powers, and, even if it cost a +million and he had to kill five hundred men, he must have our heads.” + +“Well, he knows his man when he makes his demand; remains to be seen if +we let him have them.” + +“So citizen Fouché went home furious, and vowed that before eight days +passed there should not be a single Companion of Jehu left in France.” + +“The time is short.” + +“That same day couriers started for Lyons, Mâcon, Sons-le-Saulnier, +Besançon and Geneva, with orders to the garrison commanders to do +personally all they could for our destruction; but above all to obey +unquestioningly M. Roland de Montrevel, aide-de-camp to the First +Consul, and to put at his disposal as many troops as he thought +needful.” + +“And I can add,” said Morgan, “that M. Roland de Montrevel is already in +the field. He had a conference with the captain of the gendarmerie, in +the prison at Bourg, yesterday.” + +“Does any one know why?” asked a voice. + +“The deuce!” said another, “to engage our cells.” + +“Do you still mean to protect him?” asked d’Assas. + +“More than ever.” + +“Ah! that’s too much!” muttered a voice. + +“Why so,” retorted Morgan imperiously, “isn’t it my right as a +Companion?” + +“Certainly,” said two other voices. + +“Then I use it; both as a Companion and as your leader.” + +“But suppose in the middle of the fray a stray ball should take him?” + said a voice. + +“Then, it is not a right I claim, nor an order that I give, but an +entreaty I make. My friends, promise me, on your honor, that the life of +Roland de Montrevel will be sacred to you.” + +With unanimous voice, all stretching out their hands, they replied: “We +swear on our honor!” + +“Now,” resumed Morgan, “let us look at our position under its true +aspect, without deluding ourselves in any way. Once an intelligent +police force starts out to pursue us, and makes actual war against us, +it will be impossible for us to resist. We may trick them like a fox, or +double like a boar, but our resistance will be merely a matter of time, +that’s all. At least that is my opinion.” + +Morgan questioned his companions with his eyes, and their acquiescence +was unanimous, though it was with a smile on their lips that they +recognized their doom. But that was the way in those strange days. Men +went to their death without fear, and they dealt it to others without +emotion. + +“And now,” asked Montbar, “have you anything further to say?” + +“Yes,” replied Morgan, “I have to add that nothing is easier than to +procure horses, or even to escape on foot; we are all hunters and more +or less mountaineers. It will take us six hours on horse back to get +out of France, or twelve on foot. Once in Switzerland we can snap our +fingers at citizen Fouché and his police. That’s all I have to say.” + +“It would be very amusing to laugh at citizen Fouché,” said Montbar, +“but very dull to leave France.” + +“For that reason, I shall not put this extreme measure to a vote until +after we have talked with Cadoudal’s messenger.” + +“Ah, true,” exclaimed two or three voices; “the Breton! where is the +Breton?” + +“He was asleep when I left,” said Montbar. + +“And he is still sleeping,” said Adler, pointing to a man lying on a +heap of straw in a recess of the grotto. + +They wakened the Breton, who rose to his knees, rubbing his eyes with +one hand and feeling for his carbine with the other. + +“You are with friends,” said a voice; “don’t be afraid.” + +“Afraid!” said the Breton; “who are you, over there, who thinks I am +afraid?” + +“Some one who probably does not know what fear is, my dear +Branche-d’Or,” said Morgan, who recognized in Cadoudal’s messenger the +same man whom they had received at the Chartreuse the night he himself +arrived from Avignon. “I ask pardon on his behalf.” + +Branche-d’Or looked at the young men before him with an air that left +no doubt of his repugnance for a certain sort of pleasantry; but as +the group had evidently no offensive intention, their gayety having no +insolence about it, he said, with a tolerably gracious air: “Which of +you gentlemen is captain? I have a letter for him from my captain.” + +Morgan advanced a step and said: “I am.” + +“Your name?” + +“I have two.” + +“Your fighting name?” + +“Morgan.” + +“Yes, that’s the one the general told me; besides, I recognize you. +You gave me a bag containing sixty thousand francs the night I saw the +monks. The letter is for you then.” + +“Give it to me.” + +The peasant took off his hat, pulled out the lining, and from between +it and the felt he took a piece of paper which resembled another lining, +and seemed at first sight to be blank. Then, with a military salute, he +offered the paper to Morgan, who turned it over and over and could see +no writing; at least none was apparent. + +“A candle,” he said. + +They brought a wax light; Morgan held the paper to the flame. Little +by little, as the paper warmed, the writing appeared. The experience +appeared familiar to the young men; the Breton alone seemed surprised. +To his naive mind the operation probably seemed like witchcraft; but so +long as the devil was aiding the royalist cause the Chouan was willing +to deal with him. + +“Gentlemen,” said Morgan, “do you want to know what the master says?” + +All bowed and listened, while the young man read: + + MY DEAR MORGAN--If you hear that I have abandoned the cause, and + am in treaty with the government of the First Consul and the + Vendéan leaders, do not believe it. I am a Breton of Brittany, + and consequently as stubborn as a true Breton. The First Consul + sent one of his aides-de-camp to offer me an amnesty for all my + men, and the rank of colonel for myself. I have not even consulted + my men, I refused for them and for me. + + Now, all depends on us; as we receive from the princes neither + money nor encouragement, you are our only treasurer; close your + coffers, or rather cease to open those of the government for us, + and the royalist opposition, the heart of which beats only in + Brittany, will subside little by little, and end before long. + + I need not tell you that my life will have ended first. + + Our mission is dangerous; probably it will cost us our heads; but + what can be more glorious than to hear posterity say of us, if + one can hear beyond the grave: “All others despaired; but they, + never!” + + One of us will survive the other, but only to succumb later. Let + that survivor say as he dies: _Etiamsi omnes, ego non._ + + Count on me as I count on you. CADOUDAL. + + P.S.--You know that you can safely give Branche-d’Or all the money + you have for the Cause. He has promised me not to let himself be + taken, and I trust his word. + +A murmur of enthusiasm ran through the group, as Morgan finished the +last words of the letter. + +“You have heard it, gentlemen?” he said. + +“Yes, yes, yes,” repeated every voice. + +“In the first place, how much money have we to give to Branche-d’Or?” + +“Thirteen thousand francs from the Lake of Silans, twenty-two thousand +from Les Carronnières, fourteen thousand from Meximieux, forty-nine +thousand in all,” said one of the group. + +“You hear, Branche-d’Or?” said Morgan; “it is not much--only half what +we gave you last time, but you know the proverb: ‘The handsomest girl in +the world can only give what she has.’” + +“The general knows what you risk to obtain this money, and he says that, +no matter how little you send, he will receive it gratefully.” + +“All the more, that the next will be better,” said a young man who had +just joined the group, unperceived, so absorbed were all present +in Cadoudal’s letter. “More especially if we say two words to the +mail-coach from Chambéry next Saturday.” + +“Ah! is that you, Valensolle?” said Morgan. + +“No real names, if you please, baron; let us be shot, guillotined, drawn +and quartered, but save our family honor. My name is Adler; I answer to +no other.” + +“Pardon me, I did wrong--you were saying?” + +“That the mail-coach from Paris to Chambéry will pass through +Chapelle-de-Guinchay and Belleville next Saturday, carrying fifty +thousand francs of government money to the monks of Saint-Bernard; to +which I may add that there is between those two places a spot called the +Maison-Blanche, which seems to me admirably adapted for an ambuscade.” + +“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Morgan, “Shall we do citizen Fouché +the honor to worry about his police? Shall we leave France? Or shall we +still remain faithful Companions of Jehu?” + +There was but one reply--“We stay.” + +“Right!” said Morgan. “Brothers, I recognize you there. Cadoudal points +out our duty in that admirable letter we have just received. Let us +adopt his heroic motto: _Etiamsi omnes, ego non._” Then addressing the +peasant, he said, “Branche-d’Or, the forty-nine thousand francs are at +your disposal; you can start when you like. Promise something better +next time, in our name, and tell the general for me that, wherever he +goes, even though it be to the scaffold, I shall deem it an honor to +follow, or to precede him. Au revoir, Branche-d’Or.” Then, turning to +the young man who seemed so anxious to preserve his incognito, “My dear +Adler,” he said, like a man who has recovered his gayety, lost for an +instant, “I undertake to feed and lodge you this night, if you will +deign to accept me as a host.” + +“Gratefully, friend Morgan,” replied the new-comer. “Only let me tell +you that I could do without a bed, for I am dropping with fatigue, but +not without supper, for I am dying of hunger.” + +“You shall have a good bed and an excellent supper.” + +“Where must I go for them.” + +“Follow me.” + +“I’m ready.” + +“Then come on. Good-night, gentlemen! Are you on watch, Montbar?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then we can sleep in peace.” + +So saying, Morgan passed his arm through that of his friend, took a +torch in his other hand, and passed into the depths of the grotto, +where we will follow him if our readers are not too weary of this long +session. + +It was the first time that Valensolle, who came, as we have said, +from the neighborhood of Aix, had had occasion to visit the grotto of +Ceyzeriat, recently adopted as the meeting-place of the Companions of +Jehu. At the preceding meetings he had occasion to explore only the +windings and intricacies of the Chartreuse of Seillon, which he now knew +so well that in the farce played before Roland the part of ghost was +intrusted to him. Everything was, therefore, curious and unknown to him +in this new domicile, where he now expected to take his first sleep, +and which seemed likely to be, for some days at least, Morgan’s +headquarters. + +As is always the case in abandoned quarries--which, at the first glance, +partake somewhat of the character of subterranean cities--the different +galleries excavated by the removal of the stone end in a cul de sac; +that is to say, at a point in the mine where the work stops. One of +these streets seemed to prolong itself indefinitely. Nevertheless, there +came a point where the mine would naturally have ended, but there, in +the angle of the tunnelled way, was cut (For what purpose? The thing +remains a mystery to this day among the people of the neigbborhood) an +opening two-thirds the width of the gallery, wide enough, or nearly so, +to give passage to two men abreast. + +The two friends passed through this opening. The air there became +so rarefied that their torch threatened to go out at every step. +Vallensolle felt drops of ice-cold water falling on his hands and face. + +“Bless me,” said he, “does it rain down here?” + +“No,” replied Morgan, laughing; “only we are passing under the +Reissouse.” + +“Then we are going to Bourg?” + +“That’s about it.” + +“All right; you are leading me; you have promised me supper and a bed, +so I have nothing to worry about--unless that light goes out,” added the +young man, looking at the paling flame of the torch. + +“That wouldn’t matter; we can always find ourselves here.” + +“In the end!” said Valensolle. “And when one reflects that we are +wandering through a grotto under rivers at three o’clock in the morning, +sleeping the Lord knows where, with the prospect of being taken, tried, +and guillotined some fine morning, and all for princes who don’t even +know our names, and who if they did know them one day would forget them +the next--I tell you, Morgan, it’s stupid!” + +“My dear fellow,” said Morgan, “what we call stupid, what ordinary +minds never do understand in such a case, has many a chance to become +sublime.” + +“Well, well,” said Valensolle, “I see that you will lose more than I do +in this business; I put devotion into it, but you put enthusiasm.” + +Morgan sighed. + +“Here we are,” said he, letting the conversation drop, like a burden too +heavy to be carried longer. In fact, his foot had just struck against +the first step of a stairway. + +Preceding Valensolle, for whom he lighted the way, Morgan went up ten +steps and reached the gate. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened it. +They found themselves in the burial vault. On each side of the vault +stood coffins on iron tripods: ducal crowns and escutcheons, blazoned +azure, with the cross argent, indicated that these coffins belonged to +the family of Savoy before it came to bear the royal crown. A flight of +stairs at the further end of the cavern led to an upper floor. + +Valensolle cast a curious glance around him, and by the vacillating +light of the torch, he recognized the funereal place he was in. + +“The devil!” said he, “we are just the reverse of the Spartans, it +seems.” + +“Inasmuch as they were Republicans and we are royalists?” asked Morgan. + +“No; because they had skeletons at the end of their suppers, and we have +ours at the beginning.” + +“Are you sure it was the Spartans who proved their philosophy in that +way?” asked Morgan, closing the door. + +“They or others--what matter?” said Vallensolle. “Faith! My citation is +made, and like the Abbé Vertot, who wouldn’t rewrite his siege, I’ll not +change it.” + +“Well, another time you had better say the Egyptians.” + +“Well,” said Valensolle, with an indifference that was not without +a certain sadness, “I’ll probably be a skeleton myself before I have +another chance to display my erudition. But what the devil are you +doing? Why did you put out the torch? You’re not going to make me eat +and sleep here I hope?” + +Morgan had in fact extinguished the torch at the foot of the steps +leading to the upper floor. + +“Give me your hand,” said the young man. + +Valensolle seized his friend’s band with an eagerness that showed how +very slight a desire he had to make a longer stay in the gloomy vaults +of the dukes of Savoy, no matter what honor there might be in such +illustrious companionship. + +Morgan went up the steps. Then, by the tightening of his hand, +Valensolle knew he was making an effort. Presently a stone was raised, +and through the opening a trembling gleam of twilight met the eyes of +the young men, and a fragrant aromatic odor came to comfort their sense +of smell after the mephitic atmosphere of the vaults. + +“Ah!” cried Valensolle, “we are in a barn; I prefer that.” + +Morgan did not answer; he helped his companion to climb out of the +vault, and then let the stone drop back in its place. + +Valensolle looked about him. He was in the midst of a vast building +filled with hay, into which the light filtered through windows of such +exquisite form that they certainly could not be those of a barn. + +“Why!” said Valensolle, “we are not in a barn!” + +“Climb up the hay and sit down near that window,” replied Morgan. + +Valensolle obeyed and scrambled up the hay like a schoolboy in his +holidays; then he sat down, as Morgan had told him, before a window. The +next moment Morgan placed between his friend’s legs a napkin containing +a paté, bread, a bottle of wine, two glasses, two knives and two forks. + +“The deuce!” cried Valensolle, “‘Lucullus sups with Lucullus.’” + +Then gazing through the panes at a building with numberless windows, +which seemed to be a wing of the one they were in, and before which a +sentry was pacing, he exclaimed: “Positively, I can’t eat my supper till +I know where we are. What is this building? And why that sentry at the +door?” + +“Well,” said Morgan, “since you absolutely must know, I will tell +you. We are in the church of Brou, which was converted into a fodder +storehouse by a decree of the Municipal Council. That adjoining building +is now the barracks of the gendarmerie, and that sentry is posted to +prevent any one from disturbing our supper or surprising us while we +sleep.” + +“Brave fellows,” said Valensolle, filling his glass; “their health, +Morgan!” + +“And ours!” said the young man, laughing; “the devil take me if any one +could dream of finding us here.” + +Morgan had hardly drained his glass, when, as if the devil had accepted +the challenge, the sentinel’s harsh, strident voice cried: “_Qui vive!_” + +“Hey!” exclaimed the two young men, “what does this mean?” + +A body of thirty men came from the direction of Pont d’Ain, and, after +giving the countersign to the sentry, at once dispersed; the larger +number, led by two men, who seemed to be officers, entered the barracks; +the others continued on their way. + +“Attention!” said Morgan. + +And both young men, on their knees, their ears alert, their eyes at the +window, waited. + +Let us now explain to the reader the cause of this interruption of a +repast which, though taken at three o’clock in the morning, was not, as +we have seen, over-tranquil. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. A FALSE SCENT + +The jailer’s daughter had not been mistaken; it was indeed Roland whom +she had seen in the jail speaking to the captain of the gendarmerie. +Neither was Amélie wrong in her terror. Roland was really in pursuit of +Morgan. + +Although he avoided going to the Château des Noires-Fontaines, it was +not that he had the slightest suspicion of the interest his sister had +in the leader of the Companions of Jehu; but he feared the indiscretion +of one of his servants. He had recognized Charlotte at the jail, but as +the girl showed no astonishment, he believed she had not recognized him, +all the more because, after exchanging a few words with the captain, +he went out to wait for the latter on the Place du Bastion, which was +always deserted at that hour. + +His duties over, the captain of gendarmerie joined him. He found Roland +impatiently walking back and forth. Roland had merely made himself +known at the jail, but here he proceeded to explain the matter, and to +initiate the captain into the object of his visit. + +Roland had solicited the First Consul, as a favor to himself, that the +pursuit of the Companions of Jehu be intrusted to him personally, a +favor he had obtained without difficulty. An order from the minister +of war placed at his disposal not only the garrison of Bourg, but also +those of the neighboring towns. An order from the minister of police +enjoined all the officers of the gendarmerie to render him every +assistance. + +He naturally applied in the first instance to the captain of the +gendarmerie at Bourg, whom he had long known personally as a man of +great courage and executive ability. He found what he wanted in him. +The captain was furious against the Companions of Jehu, who had stopped +diligences within a mile of his town, and on whom he was unable to lay +his hand. He knew of the reports relating to the last three stoppages +that had been sent to the minister of police, and he understood the +latter’s anger. But Roland brought his amazement to a climax when he +told him of the night he had spent at the Chartreuse of Seillon, and +of what had happened to Sir John at that same Chartreuse during the +succeeding night. + +The captain had heard by common rumor that Madame de Montrevel’s guest +had been stabbed; but as no one had lodged a complaint, he did not think +he had the right to investigate circumstances which it seemed to +him Roland wished to keep in the dark. In those troublous days more +indulgence was shown to officers of the army than they might have +received at other times. + +As for Roland, he had said nothing because he wished to reserve for +himself the satisfaction of pursuing the assassins and sham ghosts of +the Chartreuse when the time came. He now arrived with full power to put +that design into execution, firmly resolved not to return to the +First Consul until it was accomplished. Besides, it was one of those +adventures he was always seeking, at once dangerous and picturesque, an +opportunity of pitting his life against men who cared little for their +own, and probably less for his. Roland had no conception of Morgan’s +safe-guard which had twice protected him from danger--once on the night +he had watched at the Chartreuse, and again when he had fought against +Cadoudal. How could he know that a simple cross was drawn above his +name, and that this symbol of redemption guaranteed his safety from one +end of France to the other? + +For the rest, the first thing to be done was to surround the Chartreuse +of Seillon, and to search thoroughly into its most secret places--a +thing Roland believed himself perfectly competent to do. + +The night was now too far advanced to undertake the expedition, and it +was postponed until the one following. In the meantime Roland remained +quietly in hiding in the captain’s room at the barracks that no one +might suspect his presence at Bourg nor its cause. The following night +he was to guide the expedition. In the course of the morrow, one of the +gendarmes, who was a tailor, agreed to make him a sergeant’s uniform. He +was to pass as a member of the brigade at Sons-le-Saulnier, and, thanks +to the uniform, could direct the search at the Chartreuse without being +recognized. + +Everything happened as planned. Roland entered the barracks with the +captain about one o’clock, ascended to the latter’s room, where he slept +on a bed on the floor like a man who has just passed two days and two +nights in a post-chaise. The next day he restrained his impatience +by drawing a plan of the Chartreuse of Seillon for the captain’s +instruction, with which, even without Roland’s help, that worthy officer +could have directed the expedition without going an inch astray. + +As the captain had but eighteen men under him, and it was not possible +to surround the monastery completely with that number, or rather, to +guard the two exits and make a thorough search through the interior, +and, as it would have taken three or four days to bring in all the men +of the brigade scattered throughout the neighborhood, the officer, by +Roland’s order, went to the colonel of dragoons, garrisoned at Bourg, +told him of the matter in hand, and asked for twelve men, who, with his +own, made thirty in all. + +The colonel not only granted the twelve men, but, learning that +the expedition was to be commanded by Colonel Roland de Montrevel, +aide-de-camp to the First Consul, he proposed that he himself should +join the party at the head of his twelve men. + +Roland accepted his co-operation, and it was agreed that the colonel (we +employ the words colonel and chief of brigade indifferently, both being +interchangeable terms indicating the same rank) and his twelve dragoons +should pick up Roland, the captain, and his eighteen men, the barracks +being directly on their road to the Chartreuse. The time was set for +eleven that night. + +At eleven precisely, with military punctuality, the colonel of dragoons +and his twelve men joined the gendarmes, and the two companies, now +united in one, began their march. Roland, in his sergeant’s uniform, +made himself known to his brother colonel; but to the dragoons and +gendarmes he remained, as agreed upon, a sergeant detached from the +brigade at Sons-le-Saulnier. Only, as it might otherwise have seemed +extraordinary that a sergeant, wholly unfamiliar with these localities, +should be their guide, the men were told that Roland had been in his +youth a novice at Seillon, and was therefore better acquainted than most +persons with the mysterious nooks of the Chartreuse. + +The first feeling of these brave soldiers had been a slight humiliation +at being guided by an ex-monk; but, on the other hand, as that ex-monk +wore the three-cornered hat jauntily, and as his whole manner and +appearance was that of a man who has completely forgotten that he +formerly wore a cowl, they ended by accepting the humiliation, and +reserved their final judgment on the sergeant until they could see how +he handled the musket he carried on his arm, the pistols he wore in his +belt, and the sword that hung at his side. + +The party was supplied with torches, and started in perfect silence. +They were divided into three squads; one of eight men, led by the +captain of gendarmerie, another of ten, commanded by the colonel, and +the third of twelve men, with Roland at its head. On leaving the town +they separated. + +The captain of the gendarmerie, who knew the localities better than +the colonel of dragoons, took upon himself to guard the window of La +Correrie, giving upon the forest of Seillon, with his eight men. +The colonel of dragoons was commissioned by Roland to watch the main +entrance of the Chartreuse; with him were five gendarmes and five +dragoons. Roland was to search the interior, taking with him five +gendarmes and seven dragoons. + +Half an hour was allowed each squad to reach its post; it was more +than was needed. Roland and his men were to scale the orchard wall when +half-past eleven was ringing from the belfry at Péronnaz. The captain +of gendarmerie followed the main road from Pont d’Ain to the edge of +the woods, which he skirted until he reached his appointed station. The +colonel of dragoons took the crossroad which branches from the highway +of Pont d’Ain and leads to the great portal of the Chartreuse. Roland +crossed the fields to the orchard wall which, as the reader will +remember, he had already climbed on two occasions. + +Punctually at half-past eleven he gave the signal to his men to scale +the wall. By the time they reached the other side the men, if they +did not yet know that Roland was brave, were at least sure that he was +active. + +Roland pointed in the dusk to a door--the one that led from the orchard +into the cloister. Then he sprang ahead through the rank grasses; first, +he opened the door; first, he entered the cloister. + +All was dark, silent and solitary. Roland, still guiding his men, +reached the refectory. Absolute solitude; utter silence. + +They crossed the hall obliquely, and returned to the garden without +alarming a living creature except the owls and the bats. There still +remained the cistern, the mortuary vault, and the pavilion, or rather, +the chapel in the forest, to be searched. Roland crossed the open space +between the cistern and the monastery. After descending the steps, he +lighted three torches, kept one, and handed the other two, one to +a dragoon, the other to a gendarme; then he raised the stone that +concealed the stairway. + +The gendarmes who followed Roland began to think him as brave as he was +active. + +They followed the subterranean passage to the first gate; it was closed +but not locked. They entered the funereal vault. Here was more than +solitude, more than silence; here was death. The bravest felt a shiver +in the roots of their hair. + +Roland went from tomb to tomb, sounding each with the butt of the pistol +he held in his hand. Silence everywhere. They crossed the vault, reached +the second gate, and entered the chapel. The same silence, the same +solitude; all was deserted, as it seemed, for years. Roland went +straight to the choir; there lay the blood on the stones; no one had +taken the trouble to efface it. Here was the end of his search, which +had proved futile. Roland could not bring himself to retreat. He fancied +he was not attacked because of his numerous escort; he therefore left +ten men and a torch in the chapel, told them to put themselves in +communication, through the ruined window, with the captain of the +gendarmerie, who was ambushed in the forest within a few feet of the +window, while he himself, with two men, retraced his steps. + +This time the two men who followed Roland thought him more than brave, +they considered him foolhardy. But Roland, caring little whether they +followed or not, retraced his own steps in default of those of the +bandits. The two men, ashamed, followed him. + +Undoubtedly the Chartreuse was deserted. When Roland reached the great +portal, he called to the colonel of dragoons; he and his men were +at their post. Roland opened the door and joined them. They had seen +nothing, heard nothing. The whole party entered the monastery, closing +and barricading the door behind them to cut off the bandits’ retreat, +if they were fortunate enough to meet any. Then they hastened to rejoin +their comrades, who, on their side, had united with the captain and his +eight men, and were waiting for them in the choir. + +There was nothing for it but to retire. Two o’clock had just struck; +nearly three hours had been spent in fruitless search. Roland, +rehabilitated in the estimation of the gendarmes and the dragoons, who +saw that the ex-novice did not shirk danger, regretfully gave the signal +for retreat by opening the door of the chapel which looked toward the +forest. + +This time Roland merely closed the door behind him, there being no +longer any hope of encountering the brigands. Then the little troop +returned to Bourg at a quick step. The captain of gendarmerie, with his +eighteen men and Roland, re-entered the barracks, while the colonel and +his twelve men continued on their way toward the town. + +It was the sentinel’s call, as he challenged the captain and his party, +which had attracted the attention of Morgan and Valensolle; and it was +the noise of their return to the barracks which interrupted the +supper, and caused Morgan to cry out at this unforeseen circumstance: +“Attention!” + +In fact, in the present situation of these young men, every circumstance +merited attention. So the meal was interrupted. Their jaws ceased to +work to give the eyes and ears full scope. It soon became evident that +the services of their eyes were alone needed. + +Each gendarme regained his room without light. The numerous barrack +windows remained dark, so that the watchers were able to concentrate +their attention on a single point. + +Among those dark windows, two were lighted. They stood relatively back +from the rest of the building, and directly opposite to the one where +the young men were supping. These windows were on the first floor, but +in the position the watchers occupied at the top of bales of hay, Morgan +and Valensolle were not only on a level, but could even look down into +them. These windows were those of the room of the captain of gendarmes. + +Whether from indifference on the worthy captain’s part, or by reason of +State penury, the windows were bare of curtains, so that, thanks to the +two candles which the captain had lighted in his guest’s honor, Morgan +and Valensolle could see everything that took place in this room. + +Suddenly Morgan grasped Valensolle’s arm, and pressed it with all his +might. + +“Hey” said Valensolle “what now?” + +Roland had just thrown his three-cornered hat on a chair and Morgan had +recognized him. + +“Roland de Montrevel!” he exclaimed, “Roland in a sergeant’s uniform! +This time we are on his track while he is still seeking ours. It +behooves us not to lose it.” + +“What are you going to do?” asked Valensolle, observing that his friend +was preparing to leave him. + +“Inform our companions. You stay here and do not lose sight of him. He +has taken off his sword, and laid his pistols aside, therefore it is +probable he intends to spend the night in the captain’s room. To-morrow +I defy him to take any road, no matter which, without one of us at his +heels.” + +And Morgan sliding down the declivity of the hay, disappeared from +sight, leaving his companion crouched like a sphinx, with his eyes fixed +on Roland de Montrevel. + +A quarter of an hour later Morgan returned. By this time the officer’s +windows were dark like all the others of the barracks. + +“Well?” asked Morgan. + +“Well,” replied Valensolle, “it ended most prosaically. They undressed +themselves, blew out the candles, and lay down, the captain on his bed, +Roland on a mattress. They are probably trying to outsnore each other at +the present moment.” + +“In that case,” said Morgan, “good-night to them, and to us also.” + +Ten minutes later the wish was granted, and the two young men were +sleeping, as if they did not have danger for a bed-fellow. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. THE HÔTEL DE LA POSTE + +That same morning, about six o’clock, at the cold gray breaking of a +February day, a rider, spurring a post-hack and preceded by a postilion +who was to lead back the horse, left Bourg by the road to Mâcon or +Saint-Julien. + +We say Mâcon _or_ Saint-Julien, because about three miles from the +capital of Bresse the road forks; the one to the right keeping straight +on to Saint-Julien, the other, which deviates to the left, leading to +Mâcon. + +When the rider reached this bifurcation, he was about to take the road +leading to Mâcon, when a voice, apparently coming from beneath an upset +cart, implored his pity. The rider called to the postilion to see what +the matter was. + +A poor market-man was pinned down under a load of vegetables. He had +evidently attempted to hold up the cart just as the wheel, sinking into +the ditch, overbalanced the vehicle. The cart had fallen on him, but +fortunately, he said, he thought no limbs were broken, and all he wanted +was to get the cart righted, and then he could recover his legs. + +The rider was compassionate to his fellow being, for he not only +allowed the postilion to stop and help the market-man, but he himself +dismounted, and with a vigor one would hardly have expected from so +slight a man, he assisted the postilion not only to right the cart, but +to replace it on the roadbed. After which he offered to help the man to +rise; but the latter had said truly; he really was safe and sound, and +if there were a slight shaking of the legs, it only served to prove +the truth of the proverb that God takes care of drunkards. The man was +profuse in his thanks, and took his horse by the bridle, as much, it was +evident, to hold himself steady as to lead the animal. + +The riders remounted their homes, put them to a gallop, and soon +disappeared round a bend which the road makes a short distance before it +reaches the woods of Monnet. + +They had scarcely disappeared when a notable change took place in the +demeanor of our market-man. He stopped his horse, straightened up, put +the mouthpiece of a tiny trumpet to his lips, and blew three times. A +species of groom emerged from the woods which line the road, leading +a gentleman’s horse by the bridle. The market-man rapidly removed his +blouse, discarded his linen trousers, and appeared in vest and breeches +of buckskin, and top boots. He searched in his cart, drew forth a +package which he opened, shook out a green hunting coat with gold +braidings, put it on, and over it a dark-brown overcoat; took from +the servant’s hands a hat which the latter presented him, and which +harmonized with his elegant costume, made the man screw his spurs to +his boots, and sprang upon his horse with the lightness and skill of an +experienced horseman. + +“To-night at seven,” he said to the groom, “be on the road between +Saint-Just and Ceyzeriat. You will meet Morgan. Tell him that he _whom +he knows of_ has gone to Mâcon, but that I shall be there before him.” + +Then, without troubling himself about his cart and vegetables, which he +left in his servant’s charge, the ex-marketman, who was none other than +our old acquaintance Montbar, turned his horse’s head toward the Monnet +woods, and set out at a gallop. His mount was not a miserable post hack, +like that on which Roland was riding. On the contrary, it was a blooded +horse, so that Montbar easily overtook the two riders, and passed them +on the road between the woods of Monnet and Polliat. The horse, except +for a short stop at Saint-Cyr-sur-Menthon, did the twenty-eight or +thirty miles between Bourg and Mâcon, without resting, in three hours. + +Arrived at Mâcon, Montbar dismounted at the Hôtel de la Poste, the only +one which at that time was fitted to receive guests of distinction. For +the rest, from the manner in which Montbar was received it was evident +that the host was dealing with an old acquaintance. + +“Ah! is it you, Monsieur de Jayat?” said the host. “We were wondering +yesterday what had become of you. It’s more than a month since we’ve +seen you in these parts.” + +“Do you think it’s as long as that, friend?” said the young man, +affecting to drop his r’s after the fashion of the day. “Yes, on +my honor, that’s so! I’ve been with friends, the Trefforts and the +Hautecourts. You know those gentlemen by name, don’t you?” + +“By name, and in person.” + +“We hunted to hounds. They’re finely equipped, word of honor! Can I +breakfast here this morning?” + +“Why not?” + +“Then serve me a chicken, a bottle of Bordeaux, two cutlets, fruit--any +trifle will go.” + +“At once. Shall it be served in your room, or in the common room?” + +“In the common room, it’s more amusing; only give me a table to myself. +Don’t forget my horse. He is a fine beast, and I love him better than I +do certain Christians, word of honor!” + +The landlord gave his orders. Montbar stood before the fire, his +coat-tails drawn aside, warming his calves. + +“So you still keep to the posting business?” he said to the landlord, as +if desirous of keeping up the conversation. + +“I should think so!” + +“Then you relay the diligences?” + +“Not the diligences, but the mail-coaches.” + +“Ah! tell me--I want to go to Chambéry some of these days--how many +places are there in the mail-coach?” + +“Three; two inside, and one out with the courier.” + +“Do I stand any chance of finding a vacant seat?” + +“It may happen; but the safest way is to hire your own conveyance.” + +“Can’t I engage a place beforehand?” + +“No; for don’t you see, Monsieur de Jayat, that if travellers take +places from Paris to Lyons, they have the first right.” + +“See, the aristocrats!” said Montbar, laughing. “Apropos of aristocrats, +there is one behind me posting here. I passed him about a mile the other +side of Polliat. I thought his hack a little wind-broken.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed the landlord, “that’s not astonishing; my brothers in +the business have a poor lot of horses.” + +“Why, there’s our man!” continued Montbar; “I thought I had more of a +lead of him.” + +Roland was, in fact, just passing the windows at a gallop. + +“Do you still want chamber No. 1, Monsieur de Jayat?” asked the +landlord. + +“Why do you ask?” + +“Because it is the best one, and if you don’t take it, I shall give it +to that man, provided he wants to make any stay.” + +“Oh! don’t bother about me; I shan’t know till later in the day whether +I go or stay. If the new-comer means to remain give him No. l. I will +content myself with No. 2.” + +“The gentleman is served,” said the waiter, looking through the door +which led from the kitchen to the common room. + +Montbar nodded and accepted the invitation. He entered the common room +just as Roland came into the kitchen. The dinner was on the table. +Montbar changed his plate and sat down with his back to the door. +The precaution was useless. Roland did not enter the common room, +and Montbar breakfasted without interruption. When dessert was over, +however, the host himself brought in his coffee. Montbar understood that +the good man was in talkative humor; a fortunate circumstance, for there +were certain things he was anxious to hear about. + +“Well,” said Montbar, “what became of our man? Did he only change +horses?” + +“No, no, no,” said the landlord; “as you said, he’s an aristocrat. He +ordered breakfast in his own room.” + +“His room or my room?” asked Montbar; “for I’m certain you put him in +that famous No. 1.” + +“Confound it! Monsieur de Jayat, it’s your own fault. You told me I +could do as I liked.” + +“And you took me at my word; that was right. I shall be satisfied with +No. 2.” + +“You’ll be very uncomfortable. It’s only separated from No. 1 by a +partition, and you can hear everything that happens from one room to the +other.” + +“Nonsense, my dear man, do you think I’ve come here to do improper +things, or sing seditious songs, that you are afraid the stranger should +hear or see what I do?” + +“Oh! that’s not it.” + +“What is it then?” + +“I’m not afraid you’ll disturb others. I’m afraid they’ll disturb you.” + +“So your new guest is a roisterer?” + +“No; he looks to me like an officer.” + +“What makes you think so?” + +“His manner, in the first place. Then he inquired what regiment was in +garrison at Mâcon; and when I told him it was the 7th mounted Chasseurs, +he said: ‘Good! the colonel is a friend of mine. Can a waiter take him +my card and ask him to breakfast with me?’” + +“Ah, ha!” + +“So you see how it is. When officers get together they make so much +racket and noise. Perhaps they’ll not only breakfast, but dine and sup +together.” + +“I’ve told you already, my good man, that I am not sure of passing the +night here. I am expecting letters from Paris, _paste restante_, which +will decide me. In the meantime, light a fire in No. 2, and make as +little noise as possible, to avoid annoying my neighbors. And, at the +same time, send me up pen and ink, and some paper. I have letters to +write.” + +Montbar’s orders were promptly executed, and he himself followed the +waiter to see that Roland was not disturbed by his proximity. + +The chamber was just what the landlord had said. Not a movement could +be made, not a word uttered in the next room, that was not heard. +Consequently Montbar distinctly heard the waiter announce Colonel +Saint-Maurice, then the resounding steps of the latter in the corridor, +and the exclamations of the two friends, delighted to meet again. + +On the other hand, Roland, who had been for a moment disturbed by the +noise in the adjoining room, forgot it as soon as it had ceased, and +there was no danger of its being renewed. Montbar, left alone, seated +himself at the table, on which were paper, pen and ink, and remained +perfectly motionless. + +The two officers had known each other in Italy, where Roland was under +the command of Saint-Maurice, the latter being then a captain and Roland +a lieutenant. At present their rank was equal, but Roland had beside +a double commission from the First Consul and the minister of police, +which placed all officers of his own rank under his command, and even, +within the limits of his mission, those of a higher rank. + +Morgan had not been mistaken in supposing that Amélie’s brother was in +pursuit of the Companions of Jehu. If Roland’s nocturnal search at the +Chartreuse of Seillon was not convincing, the conversation between the +young officer and his colleague was proof positive. In it, it developed +that the First Consul was really sending fifty thousand francs as a +gift to the monks of Saint-Bernard, by post; but that this money was in +reality a trap devised for the capture of the Companions of Jehu, if all +means failed to surprise them in the Chartreuse of Seillon or some other +refuge. + +It now-remained to be seen how these bandits should be captured. +The case was eagerly debated between the two officers while they had +breakfast. By the time dessert was served they were both agreed upon a +plan. + +That same evening, Morgan received the following letter: + + Just as Adler told us, next Friday at five o’clock the mail-coach + will leave Paris with fifty thousand francs for the fathers of + Saint-Bernard. + + The three places, the one in the coupé and the two in the interior, + are already engaged by three travellers who will join the coach, + one at Sens, the other two at Tonnerre. The travellers are, in the + coupé, one of citizen Fouché’s best men: in the interior M. Roland + de Montrevel and the colonel of the 7th Chasseurs, garrisoned at + Mâcon. They will be in civilians’ clothes not to excite suspicion, + but armed to the teeth. + + Twelve mounted Chasseurs, with muskets, pistols, and sabres, will + escort the coach, but at some distance behind it, so as to arrive + during the fray. The first pistol fired will be the signal for + putting their horses to a gallop and falling upon us. + + Now my advice is that, in spite of these precautions, in fact + because of these precautions, the attack should be made at the + place agreed upon, namely the Maison-Blanche. If that is also the + opinion of the comrades, let me know it. I will myself take the + coach, as postilion, from Mâcon to Belleville. I will undertake + to settle the colonel, and one of you must be responsible for + Fouché’s agent. + + As for M. Roland de Montrevel, no harm will befall him, for I + have a means, known to me alone and by me invented, by which he + can be prevented from leaving the coach. + + The precise day and hour at which the mail to Chambéry will pass + the Maison-Blanche is Saturday at six in the evening. Answer in + these words, “Saturday, six of the evening,” and all will go on + rollers. MONTBAR. + +At midnight Montbar, who had complained of the noise his neighbor made, +and had removed to a room at the opposite end of the inn, was awakened +by a courier, who was none other than the groom who had brought him his +horse ready bridled and saddled in the morning. The letter contained +only these words, followed by a postscript: + + Saturday, six of the evening. MORGAN. + + P.S.--Do not forget, even when fighting, above all when fighting, + that Roland de Montrevel’s life is safeguarded. + +The young man read this reply with visible satisfaction. The matter was +no longer a mere stoppage of a diligence, but a species of affair of +honor among men of differing opinions, with clashes of courage and +bravery. It was no longer a matter of gold spilled upon the highroad, +but of blood to be shed--not of pistols loaded with powder, and wielded +by a child’s hands, but of deadly weapons handled by soldiers accustomed +to their use. + +For the rest, as Montbar had all the day that was dawning and the morrow +before him in which to mature his plans, he contented himself with +asking his groom to inquire which postilion would take the coach at +Mâcon at five o’clock for the two stages between Mâcon and Belleville. +He also sent him to buy four screw-rings and two padlocks fastening with +keys. + +He already knew that the mail was due at Mâcon at half past four, waited +for the travellers to dine, and started again punctually at five. +No doubt all his plans were previously laid, for, after giving these +directions, Montbar dismissed his servant and went to sleep like a man +who has long arrears of slumber to make up. + +The next morning he did not wake, or rather did not come downstairs +until nine o’clock. He asked casually what had become of his noisy +neighbor, and was told that he had started in the Lyons mail at six +in the morning, with his friend the colonel of the Chasseurs; but the +landlord thought they had only engaged places as far as Tonnerre. + +If Monsieur de Jayat had interested himself in the young officer, +the latter, in turn, had made inquiries about him, asking who he was, +whether he came habitually to the hotel, and whether he would be willing +to sell his horse. The landlord had replied that he knew Monsieur de +Jayat well, for he was in the habit of coming to the hotel whenever +business brought him to Mâcon, and that, as for the horse, he did not +believe, considering the affection the young gentleman showed for the +animal, that he would consent to part with him for any price. On which +the traveller had departed without saying any more. + +After breakfast M. de Jayat, who seemed to find time hanging heavily on +his hands, ordered his horse, mounted it, and rode out from Mâcon by the +Lyons road. As long as he was in the town he allowed his horse to take +the pace his fancy dictated, but once beyond it, he gathered up the +reins and pressed the animal with his knees. The hint sufficed, and the +animal broke into a gallop. + +Montbar passed through the villages of Varennes, La Crèche, +and Chapelle-de-Guinchay, and did not stop until he reached the +Maison-Blanche. The spot was exactly as Valensolle had described it, and +was admirably adapted for an ambuscade. + +The Maison-Blanche stood in a tiny valley between a sharp declivity and +a rise in the ground. A little rivulet without a name flowed past the +corner of the garden and made its way to the Saône just above Challe. +Tall bushy trees followed the course of the little stream, and described +a half-circle, inclosing the house on three sides. The house itself was +formerly an inn which proved unproductive to the innkeeper. It had been +closed for seven or eight years, and was beginning to fall into decay. +Before reaching it, the main road coming from Mâcon made a sharp turn. + +Montbar examined the locality with the care of an engineer choosing +his ground for a battlefield. He drew a pencil and a note-book from his +pocket and made an accurate plan of the position. Then he returned to +Mâcon. + +Two hours later his groom departed, carrying the plan to Morgan, having +informed his master that Antoine was the name of the postilion who was +to take the coach from Mâcon to Belleville. The groom also gave him the +four screw-rings and the two padlocks he had purchased. + +Montbar ordered up a bottle of old Burgundy, and sent for Antoine. + +Ten minutes later Antoine appeared. He was a fine, handsome fellow, +twenty-five or six years of age, about Montbar’s height; a fact which +the latter, in looking him over from head to foot, remarked with +satisfaction. The postilion paused at the threshold, and, carrying his +hand to his hat in a military salute, he said: “Did the citizen send for +me?” + +“Are you the man they call Antoine?” asked Montbar. + +“At your service, and that of your company.” + +“Well, you can serve me, friend. But close the door and come here.” + +Antoine closed the door, came within two steps of Montbar, saluted +again, and said: “Ready, master.” + +“In the first place,” said Montbar, “if you have no objections, we’ll +drink a glass of wine to the health of your mistress.” + +“Oh! oh! My mistress!” cried Antoine. “Can fellows like me afford +mistresses? They’re all very well for gentlemen such as you.” + +“Come, you scamp!” said Montbar. “You can’t make me believe that, with +your make-up, you’ve made a vow of chastity.” + +“Oh! I don’t say I’m a monk in that particular. I may have a bit of a +love-affair here and there along the high-road.” + +“Yes, at every tavern; and that’s why we stop so often with our return +horses to drink a drop or fill a pipe.” + +“Confound it!” said Antoine, with an indescribable twist of the +shoulders. “A fellow must have his fun.” + +“Well, taste the wine, my lad. I’ll warrant it won’t make you weep.” And +filling a glass, Montbar signed to the postilion to fill the other. + +“A fine honor for me! To your health and that of your company!” + +This was an habitual phrase of the worthy postilion, a sort of extension +of politeness which did not need the presence of others to justify it in +his eyes. + +“Ha!” said he, after drinking and smacking his lips, “there’s +vintage for you--and I have gulped it down at a swallow as if it were +heel-taps!” + +“That was a mistake, Antoine.” + +“Yes, it was a mistake.” + +“Luckily,” said Montbar, refilling his glass, “you can repair it.” + +“No higher than my thumb, citizen,” said the facetious postilion, taking +care that his thumb touched the rim of the glass. + +“One minute,” said Montbar, just as Antoine was putting his glass to his +lips. + +“Just in time,” said the postilion; “it was on its way. What is it?” + +“You wouldn’t let me drink to the health of your mistress, but I hope +you won’t refuse to drink to mine.” + +“Oh! that’s never refused, especially with such wine. To the health of +your mistress and her company.” + +Thereupon citizen Antoine swallowed the crimson liquor, tasting and +relishing it this time. + +“Hey!” exclaimed Montbar, “you’re in too much of a hurry, my friend.” + +“Pooh!” retorted the postilion. + +“Yes. Suppose I have several mistresses. If I don’t name the one we +drink to what good will it do her?” + +“Why, that’s true!” + +“Sad; but you’ll have to try again, my friend.” + +“Ha! Try again, of course! Can’t do things half-way with a man like you. +The sin’s committed; we’ll drink again.” And Antoine held out his glass. +Montbar filled it to the brim. + +“Now,” said Antoine, eying the bottle, and making sure it was empty, +“there must be no mistake. Her name?” + +“To the beautiful Josephine!” said Montbar. + +“To the beautiful Josephine!” repeated Antoine. + +And he swallowed the Burgundy with increasing satisfaction. Then, after +drinking, and wiping his lips on his sleeve, he said, as he set the +glass on the table: “Hey! one moment, citizen.” + +“What now?” exclaimed Montbar. “Anything wrong this time?” + +“I should say so. We’ve made a great blunder but it’s too late now.” + +“Why so?” + +“The bottle is empty.” + +“That one, yes; but not this one.” + +So saying, Montbar took from the chimney corner another bottle, already +uncorked. + +“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Antoine, a radiant smile lighting his face. + +“Is there any remedy for it?” asked Montbar. + +“There is,” replied Antoine, holding out his glass. + +Montbar filled it as scrupulously full as he had the first three. + +“Well,” said the postilion, holding the ruby liquid to the light and +admiring its sparkle, “as I was saying, we drank to the health of the +beautiful Josephine--” + +“Yes,” said Montbar. + +“But,” said Antoine, “there are a devilish lot of Josephines in France.” + +“True. How many do you suppose there are, Antoine?” + +“Perhaps a hundred thousand.” + +“Granted. What then?” + +“Well, out of that hundred thousand a tenth of them must be beautiful.” + +“That’s a good many.” + +“Say a twentieth.” + +“All right.” + +“That makes five thousand.” + +“The devil! You’re strong in arithmetic!” + +“I’m the son of a schoolmaster.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, to which of those five thousand did we drink, hey?” + +“You’re right, Antoine. The family name must follow. To the beautiful +Josephine--” + +“Stop. This glass was begun; it won’t do. If the health is to do her any +good, we’ll have to empty it and fill it again.” + +He put the glass to his lips. + +“There, it’s empty,” he said. + +“And full,” added Montbar, putting the bottle to the glass. + +“I’m ready. To the beautiful Josephine--” + +“To the beautiful Josephine--Lollier!” + +And Montbar emptied his glass. + +“By the Lord!” exclaimed Antoine. “Wait a moment. Josephine Lollier! +Why, I know her.” + +“I didn’t say you didn’t.” + +“Josephine Lollier! Why, she’s the daughter of the man who keeps the +post-horses at Belleville.” + +“Exactly.” + +“Damn it!” exclaimed the postilion, “you’re not to be pitied--a pretty +slip of a girl! To the health of beautiful Josephine Lollier.” + +And he swallowed his fifth glass of Burgundy. + +“Now,” asked Montbar, “do you understand why I had you sent up here, my +lad?” + +“No; but I don’t bear you any grudge for it, all the same.” + +“That’s very kind of you.” + +“Oh! I’m a pretty good devil.” + +“Well, I’ll tell you why I sent for you.” + +“I’m all ears.” + +“Wait. You’ll hear better if your glass is full than if it’s empty.” + +“Are you a doctor for deaf folk?” asked the postilion, banteringly. + +“No; but I’ve lived a good deal among drunkards,” replied Montbar, +filling Antoine’s glass again. + +“A man is not a drunkard because he likes wine,” said Antoine. + +“I agree with you, my good fellow,” replied Montbar. “A man is only a +drunkard when he can’t carry his liquor.” + +“Well said,” cried Antoine, who seemed to carry his pretty well. “I’m +listening.” + +“You told me that you didn’t understand why I had sent for you.” + +“That’s what I said.” + +“Still, you must have suspected that I had an object?” + +“Every man has an object, good or bad, according to our priest,” + observed Antoine, sententiously. + +“Well, my friend,” resumed Montbar, “mine is to make my way by night, +without being recognized, into the courtyard of Master Nicolas-Denis +Lollier, postmaster at Belleville.” + +“At Belleville,” repeated Antoine, who had followed Montbar’s words +with all the attention he was capable of. “You wish to make your way +by night, without being recognized, into the courtyard of Master +Nicolas-Denis Lollier, postmaster at Belleville, in order to see the +beautiful Josephine? Ah, ha! my sly dog!” + +“You have it, my dear Antoine; and I wish to get in without being +recognized, because Father Lollier has discovered everything, and has +forbidden his daughter to see me.” + +“You don’t say so. Well, what can I do about it?” + +“Your wits are still muddled, Antoine. Drink another glass of wine to +brighten them up.” + +“Right you are,” exclaimed Antoine. + +And he swallowed his sixth glass of wine. + +“You ask what you can do, Antoine?” + +“Yes, what can I do? That’s what I ask.” + +“Everything, my friend.” + +“I?” + +“You.” + +“Ha! I’m curious to know what. Clear it up, clear it up!” And he held +out his glass. + +“You drive the mail to Chambéry to-morrow, don’t you?” + +“Yes; at six o’clock.” + +“Well, suppose that Antoine is a good fellow?” + +“No supposing about it; he is!” + +“Well, this is what Antoine does--” + +“Go on; what does he do?” + +“In the first place, he empties his glass.” + +“Done! that’s not difficult.” + +“Then he takes these ten louis.” + +Montbar spread ten louis on the table. + +“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Antoine, “yellow boys, real ones. I thought those +little devils had all emigrated.” + +“You see there are some left.” + +“And what is Antoine to do to put them in his pocket?” + +“Antoine must lend me his best postilion’s suit.” + +“To you?” + +“And let me take his place to-morrow night.” + +“Ah, yes; so that you can see the beautiful Josephine to-morrow night.” + +“Of course. I reach Belleville at eight, drive into the courtyard, and +say the horses are tired and must rest from eight till ten, and from +eight to ten--” + +“You can fool Père Lollier.” + +“Well, there you are, Antoine!” + +“There I am! When a fellow’s young he goes with the young ‘uns; when +he’s a bachelor he’s in with the bachelors; when he’s old and a papa, he +can go with the papas, and cry, ‘Long live the papas.’” + +“Then, my good Antoine, you’ll lend me your best jacket and breeches?” + +“I’ve just got a new jacket and breeches that I’ve never worn.” + +“And you’ll let me take your place?” + +“With pleasure.” + +“Then I’ll give you five louis for earnest money.” + +“And the rest?” + +“Tomorrow, when I pull on the boots; only--there’s one precaution you +must take.” + +“What is it?” + +“There’s talk of brigands robbing diligences; you’ll be careful to put +the holsters on the saddle.” + +“What for?” + +“For pistols.” + +“No, no! Don’t you go and shoot those fine young fellows.” + +“What! do you call robbers who pillage diligences fine young men?” + +“A man’s not a robber because he takes government money.” + +“Is that your opinion?” + +“I should say so; besides, it’s the opinion of a good many other people, +too. As for me, if I were a judge, I’d never in the world condemn them.” + +“Perhaps you would drink to their health?” + +“Of course, if the wine was good.” + +“I dare you to do it,” said Montbar, emptying the last of the second +bottle into Antoine’s glass. + +“You know the proverb?” said the postilion. + +“What is it?” + +“Never defy a fool to commit his folly. To the health of the Companions +of Jehu.” + +“Amen!” responded Montbar. + +“And the five louis?” asked Antoine, putting his glass on the table. + +“There they are.” + +“Thank you; you shall have the holsters on your saddle; but take my +advice and don’t put pistols in ‘em; or if you do, follow Père Jérôme’s +example--he’s the conductor of the Geneva diligence--and put powder and +no balls in ‘em.” + +And with that philanthropic advice, the postilion took his leave, and +went down the stairway singing a postilion’s song in a vinous voice. + +Montbar followed the song conscientiously through two verses, then, as +the voice died away in the distance, he was obliged to forego the rest +of the song, however interesting he may have found it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. THE CHAMBÉRY MAIL-COACH + +The next day, at five in the afternoon, Antoine, anxious, no doubt, not +to be late, was in the courtyard of the Hôtel de la Poste, harnessing +the three horses which were to relay the mail-coach. + +Shortly after, the coach rumbled into the courtyard at a gallop, and was +pulled up under the windows of a room close to the servants’ stairway, +which had seemed greatly to occupy Antoine’s attention. If any one had +paid attention to so slight a detail it might have been observed that +the window-curtain was somewhat imprudently drawn aside to permit the +occupant of the room to see the persons who got out of the coach. There +were three men, who, with the haste of famished travellers, made their +way toward the brilliantly lighted windows of the common room. + +They had scarcely entered, when a smart postilion came down the kitchen +staircase, shod simply with thin pumps over which he intended to pull +his heavy riding-boots, These he received from Antoine, slipping five +louis into his hand at the same time, and turned for the man to throw +his riding cape over his shoulders, a protection rendered necessary by +the severity of the weather. + +This completed, Antoine returned hastily to the stables and hid in the +darkest corner. As for the man who had taken his place, reassured no +doubt by the high collar of the cape that concealed half of his face, +he went straight to the horses which stood ready harnessed, slipped his +pistols into the holsters, and, profitting by the moment when the other +horses were being led into the stable by their postilion, he took a +gimlet, which might in case of need serve as a dagger, from his pocket, +and screwed the four rings into the woodwork of the coach, one into each +door, and the other two into the body of the coach. After which he +put the horses to with a rapidity and skill which bespoke in him a +man familiar from childhood with all the details of an art pushed to +extremes in our day by that honorable class of society which we call +“gentlemen riders.” + +That done, he waited, quieting his restless horses by voice and whip, +judiciously combined, or used in turn. + +Everyone knows the rapidity with which the meals of the unhappy beings +condemned to travel by mail are hurried through. The half-hour was not +up, when the voice of the conductor was heard, calling: + +“Come, citizen travellers, take your places.” + +Montbar placed himself close to the carriage door and recognized Roland +and the colonel of the 7th Chasseurs, perfectly, in spite of their +disguise, as they jumped into the coach, paying no attention whatever to +the postilion. + +The latter closed the door upon them, slipped the padlock through +the two rings and turned the key. Then, walking around the coach, he +pretended to drop his whip before the other door, and, in stooping for +it, slipped the second padlock through the rings, deftly turned the key +as he straightened up, and, assured that the two officers were securely +locked in, he sprang upon his horse, grumbling at the conductor who had +left him to do his work. In fact the conductor was still squabbling with +the landlord over his bill when the third traveller got into his place +in the coupé. + +“Are you coming this evening, to-night, or to-morrow morning, Père +François?” cried the pretended postilion, imitating Antoine as best he +could. + +“All right, all right, I’m coming,” answered the conductor; then, +looking around him: “Why, where are the travellers?” he asked. + +“Here,” replied the two officers from the interior and the agent from +the coupé. + +“Is the door properly closed?” persisted Père François. + +“I’ll answer for that,” said Montbar. + +“Then off you go, baggage!” cried the conductor, as he climbed into the +coupé and closed the door behind him. + +The postilion did not wait to be told twice; he started his horses, +digging his spurs into the belly of the one he rode and lashing the +others vigorously. The mail-coach dashed forward at a gallop. + +Montbar drove as if he had never done anything else in his life; as he +crossed the town the windows rattled and the houses shook; never did +real postilion crack his whip with greater science. + +As he left Mâcon he saw a little troop of horse; they were the twelve +chasseurs told off to follow the coach without seeming to escort it. +The colonel passed his head through the window and made a sign to the +sergeant who commanded them. + +Montbar did not seem to notice anything; but after going some four or +five hundred yards, he turned his head, while executing a symphony with +his whip, and saw that the escort had started. + +“Wait, my babes!” said Montbar, “I’ll make you see the country.” And he +dug in his spurs and brought down his whip. The horses seemed to have +wings, and the coach flew over the cobblestones like the chariot of +thunder rumbling past. The conductor became alarmed. + +“Hey, Master Antoine,” cried he, “are you drunk?” + +“Drunk? fine drinking!” replied Montbar; “I dined on a beetroot salad.” + +“Damn him! If he goes like that,” cried Roland, thrusting his head +through the window, “the escort can’t keep up.” + +“You hear what he says!” shrieked the conductor. + +“No,” replied Montbar, “I don’t.” + +“Well, he says that if you keep this up the escort can’t follow.” + +“Is there an escort?” asked Montbar. + +“Of course; we’re carrying government money.” + +“That’s different; you ought to have said so at first.” + +But instead of slacking his pace the coach was whirled along as before; +if there was any change, it was for greater velocity than before. + +“Antoine, if there’s an accident, I’ll shoot you through the head,” + shouted the conductor. + +“Run along!” exclaimed Montbar; “everybody knows those pistols haven’t +any balls in them.” + +“Possibly not; but mine have!” cried the police agent. + +“That remains to be seen,” replied Montbar, keeping on his way at the +same pace without heed to these remonstrances. + +On they went with the speed of lightning through the village of +Varennes, then through that of La Crêche and the little town of +Chapelle-de-Guinchay; only half a mile further and they would reach the +Maison-Blanche. The horses were dripping, and tossed the foam from their +mouths as they neighed with excitement. + +Montbar glanced behind him; more than a mile back the sparks were flying +from the escort’s horses. Before him was the mountainous declivity. Down +it he dashed, gathering the reins to master his horses when the time +came. + +The conductor had ceased expostulating, for he saw that the hand which +guided the horses was firm and capable. But from time to time the +colonel thrust his head through the window to look for his men. + +Half-way down the slope Montbar had his horses under control, without, +however, seeming to check their course. Then he began to sing, at the +top of his voice, the “Réveil du Peuple,” the song of the royalists, +just as the “Marseillaise” was the song of the Jacobins. + +“What’s that rogue about?” cried Roland, putting his head through the +window. “Tell him to hold his tongue, conductor, or I’ll put a ball +through his loins.” + +Perhaps the conductor might have repeated Roland’s threat to Montbar, +but he suddenly saw a black line blocking the road. “Halt, conductor!” + thundered a voice the next moment. + +“Postilion, drive over the bellies of those bandits!” shouted the police +agent. + +“Drive on yourself!” said Montbar. “Do you suppose I’m going over the +stomachs of friends? Who-o-ah!” + +The mail coach stopped as if by magic. + +“Go on! go on!” cried Roland and the colonel, aware that the escort was +too far behind to help them. + +“Ha! You villain of a postilion,” cried the police agent, springing out +of the coupé, and pointing his pistol at Montbar, “you shall pay for +this.” + +The words were scarcely uttered when Montbar, forestalling him, fired, +and the agent rolled, mortally wounded, under the wheels of the coach. +His fingers, convulsed by death, touched the trigger and the pistol went +off, but the ball touched no one. + +“Conductor,” shouted the two officers, “by all the powers of heaven, +open, open, open quickly!” + +“Gentlemen,” said Morgan, advancing, “we are not attacking your persons, +we merely want the government money. Conductor! that fifty thousand +francs, and quickly too!” + +Two shots from the interior made answer for the officers, who, after +vainly shaking the doors, were still more fruitlessly attempting to +force themselves through the windows. No doubt one of their shots took +effect, for a cry of rage was heard and a flash illuminated the road. +The colonel gave a sigh, and fell back against Roland. He was killed +outright. + +Roland fired again, but no one replied to him. His pistols were both +discharged; locked in as he was he could not use his sabre, and he +howled with rage. + +Meantime the conductor was forced, with a pistol at his throat, to +give up the money. Two men took the bags containing the fifty thousand +francs, and fastened them on Montbar’s horse, which his groom had +brought ready saddled and bridled, as if to a meet. Montbar kicked off +his heavy boots and sprang into the saddle. + +“My compliments to the First Consul, Monsieur de Montrevel!” cried +Morgan. Then, turning to his companions, he cried: “Scatter which way +you will, you know the rendezvous for to-morrow night.” + +“Yes, yes,” replied ten or a dozen voices. + +And the band dispersed like a flock of birds, disappearing down the +valley into the shadow of the trees that lined the banks of the little +river and surrounded the Maison-Blanche. + +At that moment the gallop of horses was heard, and the escort, alarmed +by the pistol shots, appeared on the crest of the hill and came down +the slope like an avalanche. But it came too late; it found only the +conductor sitting dazed by the roadside, the bodies of the colonel and +of Fouché’s agent, and Roland a prisoner, roaring like a lion gnawing at +the bars of its cage. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. LORD GRENVILLE’S REPLY + +While the events we have just recorded were transpiring, and occupying +the minds and newspapers of the provinces, other events, of very +different import, were maturing in Paris, which were destined to occupy +the minds and newspapers of the whole world. + +Lord Tanlay had returned, bringing the reply of his uncle, Lord +Grenville. This reply consisted of a letter addressed to M. de +Talleyrand, inclosing a memorandum for the First Consul. The letter was +couched in the following terms: + + DOWNING STREET, February 14, 1800 + + Sir--I have received and placed before the King the letter + which you transmitted to me through my nephew, Lord Tanlay. + His Majesty, seeing no reason to depart from the + long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign + states, directs me to forward you in his name the official + reply which is herewith inclosed. + + I have the honor to be, with the highest esteem, your very + humble and obedient servant, GRENVILLE. + +The letter was dry; the memorandum curt. Moreover, the First Consul’s +letter to King George was autographic, and King George, not “departing +from the long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign +States,” replied by a simple memorandum written by a secretary. + +True, the memorandum was signed “Grenville.” It was a long recrimination +against France; against the spirit of disorder, which disturbed the +nation; against the fears which that spirit of disorder inspired in all +Europe; and on the necessity imposed on the sovereigns of Europe, for +the sake of their own safety, to repress it. In short, the memorandum +was virtually a continuation of the war. + +The reading of such a dictum made Bonaparte’s eyes flash with the flame +which, in him, preceded his great decisions, as lightning precedes +thunder. + +“So, sir,” said he, turning to Lord Tanlay, “this is all you have +obtained?” + +“Yes, citizen First Consul.” + +“Then you did not repeat verbally to your uncle all that I charged you +to say to him?” + +“I did not omit a syllable.” + +“Did you tell him that you had lived in France three years, that you had +seen her, had studied her; that she was strong, powerful, prosperous and +desirous of peace while prepared for war?” + +“I told him all that.” + +“Did you add that the war which England is making against France is +a senseless war; that the spirit of disorder of which they speak, and +which, at the worst, is only the effervescence of freedom too long +restrained, which it were wiser to confine to France by means of a +general peace; that that peace is the sole _cordon sanitaire_ which can +prevent it from crossing our frontiers; and that if the volcano of war +is lighted in France, France will spread like lava over foreign lands. +Italy is delivered, says the King of England; but from whom? From her +liberators. Italy is delivered, but why? Because I conquered Egypt from +the Delta to the third Cataract; Italy is delivered because I was no +longer in Italy. But--I am here: in a month I can be in Italy. What do I +need to win her back from the Alps to the Adriatic? A single battle. Do +you know what Masséna is doing in defending Genoa? Waiting for me. Ha! +the sovereigns of Europe need war to protect their crowns? Well, my +lord, I tell you that I will shake Europe until their crowns tremble on +their heads. Want war, do they? Just wait--Bourrienne! Bourrienne!” + +The door between the First Consul’s study and the secretary’s office +opened precipitately, and Bourrienne rushed in, his face terrified, as +though he thought Bonaparte were calling for help. But when he saw him +highly excited, crumpling the diplomatic memorandum in one hand and +striking with the other on his desk, while Lord Tanlay was standing +calm, erect and silent near him, he understood immediately that +England’s answer had irritated the First Consul. + +“Did you call me, general?” he asked. + +“Yes,” said the First Consul, “sit down there and write.” + +Then in a harsh, jerky voice, without seeking his words, which, on the +contrary, seemed to crowd through the portal of his brain, he dictated +the following proclamation: + + SOLDIERS!--In promising peace to the French people, I was your + mouthpiece; I know your power. + + You are the same men who conquered the Rhine, Holland and Italy, + and granted peace beneath the walls of astounded Vienna. + + Soldiers, it is no longer our own frontiers that you have to + defend; it is the enemy’s country you must now invade. + + Soldiers, when the time comes, I shall be among you, and + astounded Europe shall remember that you belong to the race + of heroes! + +Bourrienne raised his head, expectant, after writing the last words. + +“Well, that’s all,” said Bonaparte. + +“Shall I add the sacramental words: ‘Vive la République!’?” + +“Why do you ask that?” + +“Because we have issued no proclamation during the last four months, and +something may be changed in the ordinary formulas.” + +“The proclamation will do as it is,” said Bonaparte, “add nothing to +it.” + +Taking a pen, he dashed rather than wrote his signature at the bottom of +the paper, then handing it to Bourrienne, he said: “See that it appears +in the ‘Moniteur’ to-morrow.” + +Bourrienne left the room, carrying the proclamation with him. + +Bonaparte, left alone with Lord Tanlay, walked up and down the room for +a moment, as though he had forgotten the Englishman’s presence; then he +stopped suddenly before him. + +“My lord,” he asked, “do you think you obtained from your uncle all that +another man might have obtained in your place?” + +“More, citizen First Consul.” + +“More! more! Pray, what have you obtained?” + +“I think that the citizen First Consul did not read the royal memorandum +with all the attention it deserves.” + +“Heavens!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “I know it by heart.” + +“Then the citizen First Consul cannot have weighed the meaning and the +wording of a certain paragraph.” + +“You think so?” + +“I am sure of it; and if the citizen First Consul will permit me to read +him the paragraph to which I allude--” + +Bonaparte relaxed his hold upon the crumpled note, and handed it to Lord +Tanlay, saying: “Read it.” + +Sir John cast his eyes over the document, with which he seemed to be +familiar, paused at the tenth paragraph, and read: + + The best and surest means for peace and security, and for their + continuance, would be the restoration of that line of princes who + for so many centuries have preserved to the French nation its + internal prosperity and the respect and consideration of foreign + countries. Such an event would have removed, and at any time will + remove, the obstacles which are now in the way of negotiations + and peace; it would guarantee to France the tranquil possession + of her former territory, and procure for all the other nations of + Europe, through a like tranquillity and peace, that security which + they are now obliged to seek by other means. + +“Well,” said Bonaparte, impatiently, “I have read all that, and +perfectly understood it. Be Monk, labor for another man, and your +victories, your renown, your genius will be forgiven you; humble +yourself, and you shall be allowed to remain great!” + +“Citizen First Consul,” said Lord Tanlay, “no one knows better than +I the difference between you and Monk, and how far you surpass him in +genius and renown.” + +“Then why do you read me that?” + +“I only read that paragraph,” replied Sir John, “to lead you to give to +the one following its due significance.” + +“Let’s hear it,” said Bonaparte, with repressed impatience. + +Sir John continued: + + But, however desirable such an event may be for France and for + the world, it is not to this means alone that his Majesty + restricts the possibility of a safe and sure pacification. + +Sir John emphasized the last words. + +“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Bonaparte, stepping hastily to Sir John’s side. + +The Englishman continued: + + His Majesty does not presume to prescribe to France her form + of government, nor the hands into which she may place the + necessary authority to conduct the affairs of a great and + powerful nation. + +“Read that again, sir,” said Bonaparte, eagerly. + +“Read it yourself,” replied Sir John. + +He handed him the note, and Bonaparte re-read it. + +“Was it you, sir,” he asked, “who added that paragraph?” + +“I certainly insisted on it.” + +Bonaparte reflected. + +“You are right,” he said; “a great step has been taken; the return of +the Bourbons is no longer a condition _sine quâ non_. I am accepted, not +only as a military, but also as a political power.” Then, holding out +his hand to Sir John, he added: “Have you anything to ask of me, sir?” + +“The only thing I seek has been asked of you by my friend Roland.” + +“And I answered, sir, that I shall be pleased to see you the husband of +his sister. If I were richer, or if you were less so, I would offer to +dower her”--Sir John made a motion--“but as I know your fortune will +suffice for two,” added Bonaparte, smiling, “or even more, I leave you +the joy of giving not only happiness, but also wealth to the woman you +love. Bourrienne!” he called. + +Bourrienne appeared. + +“I have sent it, general,” he said. + +“Very good,” replied the First Consul; “but that is not what I called +you for.” + +“I await your orders.” + +“At whatever hour of the day or night Lord Tanlay presents himself, +I shall be happy to receive him without delay; you hear me, my dear +Bourrienne? You hear me, my lord?” + +Lord Tanlay bowed his thanks. + +“And now,” said Bonaparte, “I presume you are in a hurry to be off to +the Château des Noires-Fontaines. I won’t detain you, but there is one +condition I impose.” + +“And that is, general?” + +“If I need you for another mission--” + +“That is not a condition, citizen First Consul; it is a favor.” + +Lord Tanlay bowed and withdrew. + +Bourrienne prepared to follow him, but Bonaparte called him back. “Is +there a carriage below?” he asked. + +Bourrienne looked into the courtyard. “Yes, general.” + +“Then get ready and come with me.” + +“I am ready, general; I have only my hat and overcoat to get, and they +are in the office.” + +“Then let us go,” said Bonaparte. + +He took up his hat and coat, went down the private staircase, and signed +to the carriage to come up. Notwithstanding Bourrienne’s haste, he got +down after him. A footman opened the door; Bonaparte sprang in. + +“Where are we going, general?” asked Bourrienne. + +“To the Tuileries,” replied Bonaparte. + +Bourrienne, amazed, repeated the order, and looked at the First Consul +as if to seek an explanation; but the latter was plunged in thought, and +the secretary, who at this time was still the friend, thought it best +not to disturb him. + +The horses started at gallop--Bonaparte’s usual mode of progression--and +took the way to the Tuileries. + +The Tuileries, inhabited by Louis XVI. after the days of the 5th and 6th +of October, and occupied successively by the Convention and the Council +of Five Hundred, had remained empty and devastated since the 18th +Brumaire. Since that day Bonaparte had more than once cast his eyes +on that ancient palace of royalty; but he knew the importance of not +arousing any suspicion that a future king might dwell in the palace of +the abolished monarchy. + +Bonaparte had brought back from Italy a magnificent bust of Junius +Brutus; there was no suitable place for it at the Luxembourg, and toward +the end of November, Bonaparte had sent for the Republican, David, and +ordered him to place the bust in the gallery of the Tuileries. Who could +suppose that David, the friend of Marat, was preparing the dwelling of a +future emperor by placing the bust of Cæsar’s murderer in the gallery of +the Tuileries? No one did suppose, nor even suspect it. + +When Bonaparte went to see if the bust were properly placed, he noticed +the havoc committed in the palace of Catherine of Medicis. The Tuileries +were no longer the abode of kings, it is true, but they were a national +palace, and the nation could not allow one of its palaces to become +dilapidated. Bonaparte sent for citizen Lecomte, the architect, and +ordered him to _clean_ the Tuileries. The word might be taken in both +senses--moral and physical. + +The architect was requested to send in an estimate of the cost of the +cleaning. It amounted to five hundred thousand francs. Bonaparte asked +if for that sum, the Tuileries could be converted into a suitable +“palace for the government.” The architect replied that the sum +named would suffice not only to restore the Tuileries to their former +condition, but to make them habitable. + +A habitable palace, that was all Bonaparte wanted. How should he, a +Republican, need regal luxury? The “palace of the government” ought to +be severely plain, decorated with marbles and statues only. But what +ought those statues to be? It was the First Consul’s duty to select +them. + +Accordingly, Bonaparte chose them from the three great ages and the +three great nations: from the Greeks, from the Romans, from France and +her rivals. From the Greeks he chose Alexander and Demosthenes; the +genius of conquest and the genius of eloquence. From the Romans he chose +Scipio, Cicero, Cato, Brutus and Cæsar, placing the great victim side +by side with the murderer, as great almost as himself. From the +modern world he chose Gustavus Adolphus, Turenne, the great Condé, +Duguay-Trouin, Marlborough, Prince Eugene, and the Maréchal de +Saxe; and, finally, the great Frederick and George Washington--false +philosophy upon a throne, and true wisdom founding a free state. + +To these he added warlike heroes--Dampierre, Dugommier, Joubert--to +prove that, while he did not fear the memory of a Bourbon in the great +Condé, neither was he jealous of his brothers-in-arms, the victims of a +cause already no longer his. + +Matters were in this state at the period of which we are now speaking; +that is, the last of February, 1800. The Tuileries had been cleaned, +the busts were in their niches, the statues were on their pedestals; and +only a favorable occasion was wanting. + +That occasion came when the news of Washington’s death was received. The +founder of the liberty of the United States had ceased to breathe on the +14th of December, 1799. + +It was that event of which Bonaparte was thinking, when Bourrienne +saw by the expression of his face that he must be left entirely to the +reflections which absorbed him. + +The carriage stopped before the Tuileries. Bonaparte sprang out with the +same haste with which he had entered it; went rapidly up the stairs, and +through the apartments, examining more particularly those which had been +inhabited by Louis XVI. and Marie-Antoinette. In the private study of +Louis XVI. he stopped short. + +“Here’s where we will live, Bourrienne,” he said, suddenly, as if +the latter had followed him through the mental labyrinth in which he +wandered, following the thread of Ariadne which we call thought. “Yes, +we will lodge here; the Third Consul can have the Pavilion of Flora, and +Cambacérès will remain at the Chancellerie.” + +“In that way,” said Bourrienne, “when the time comes, you will have only +one to turn out.” + +“Come, come,” said Bonaparte, catching Bourrienne by the ear, “that’s +not bad.” + +“When shall we move in, general?” asked Bourrienne. + +“Oh, not to-morrow; it will take at least a week to prepare the +Parisians to see me leave the Luxembourg for the Tuileries.” + +“Eight days,” exclaimed Bourrienne; “that will do.” + +“Especially if we begin at once. Come, Bourrienne, to the Luxembourg.” + +With the rapidity that characterized all his movements when serious +matters were in question, he passed through the suites of apartments he +had already visited, ran down the stairs, and sprang into the carriage, +calling out: “To the Luxembourg!” + +“Wait, wait,” cried Bourrienne, still in the vestibule; “general, won’t +you wait for me?” + +“Laggard!” exclaimed Bonaparte. And the carriage started, as it had +come, at a gallop. + +When Bonaparte re-entered his study he found the minister of police +awaiting him. + +“Well, what now, citizen Fouché? You look upset. Have I, perchance, been +assassinated?” + +“Citizen First Consul,” said the minister, “you seemed to attach the +utmost importance to the destruction of those bands who call themselves +the Companions of Jehu.” + +“Evidently, since I sent Roland himself to pursue them. Have you any +news of them?” + +“We have.” + +“From whom?” + +“Their leader himself.” + +“Their leader?” + +“He has had the audacity to send me a report of their last exploit.” + +“Against whom?” + +“The fifty thousand francs you sent to the Saint-Bernard fathers.” + +“What became of them?” + +“The fifty thousand francs?” + +“Yes.” + +“They are in the possession of those brigands, and their leader informs +me he will transfer them shortly to Cadoudal.” + +“Then Roland is killed?” + +“No.” + +“How do you mean, no?” + +“My agent is killed; Colonel Maurice is killed; but your aide-de-camp is +safe and sound.” + +“Then he will hang himself,” said Bonaparte. + +“What good would that do? The rope would break; you know his luck.” + +“Or his misfortune, yes--Where is the report?” + +“You mean the letter?” + +“Letter, report, thing--whatever it was that told you this news.” + +The minister handed the First Consul a paper inclosed in a perfumed +envelope. + +“What’s this?” + +“The thing you asked for.” + +Bonaparte read the address: “To the citizen Fouché, minister of police. +Paris.” Then he opened the letter, which contained the following. + + CITIZEN MINISTER--I have the honor to inform you that the fifty + thousand francs intended for the monks of Saint-Bernard came + into our hands on the night of February 25, 1800 (old style), + and that they will reach those of citizen Cadoudal within the + week. + + The affair was well-managed, save for the deaths of your agent + and Colonel Saint-Maurice. As for M. Roland de Montrevel, I have + the satisfaction of informing you that nothing distressing has + befallen him. I did not forget that he was good enough to receive + me at the Luxembourg. + + I write you, citizen minister, because I presume that M. Roland + de Montrevel is just now too much occupied in pursuing us to + write you himself. But I am sure that at his first leisure moment + you will receive from him a report containing all the details + into which I cannot enter for lack of time and facilities for + writing. + + In exchange for the service I render you, citizen minister, I + will ask you to do one for me; namely, inform Madame de Montrevel, + without delay, that her son is in safety. MORGAN. + + Maison-Blanche, on the road from Mâcon to Lyons, Saturday, 9 P.M. + +“Ha, the devil!” said Bonaparte; “a bold scamp!” Then he added, with a +sigh: “What colonels and captains those men would make me!” + +“What are your orders, citizen First Consul?” asked the minister of +police. + +“None; that concerns Roland. His honor is at stake; and, as he is not +killed, he will take his revenge.” + +“Then the First Consul will take no further notice of the affair?” + +“Not for the present, at any rate.” Then, turning to his secretary, he +added, “We have other fish to fry, haven’t we, Bourrienne?” + +Bourrienne nodded affirmatively. + +“When does the First Consul wish to see me again?” asked the minister. + +“To-night, at ten o’clock. We move out in eight days.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“To the Tuileries.” + +Fouché gave a start of amazement. + +“Against your opinion, I know,” said the First Consul; “but I’ll take +the whole business on myself; you have only to obey.” + +Fouché bowed, and prepared to leave the room. + +“By the way!” exclaimed Bonaparte. + +Fouché turned round. + +“Don’t forget to notify Madame de Montrevel that her son is safe and +sound; that’s the least you can do for citizen Morgan after the service +he has rendered you.” + +And he turned his back on the minister of police, who retired, biting +his lips till the blood came. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. CHANGE OF RESIDENCE + +That same day, the First Consul, left alone with Bourrienne, dictated +the following order, addressed to the Consulate guard and to the army at +large: + + Washington is dead! That great man fought against tyranny. He + consolidated the liberty of America. His memory will ever be dear + to the French people, to all free men in both hemispheres, but + especially to the French soldiers, who, like Washington and his + soldiers, have fought for Liberty and Equality. Consequently, the + First Consul orders that the flags and banners of the Republic + shall be hung with crape for ten days. + +But the First Consul did not intend to confine himself to this order of +the day. + +Among the means he took to facilitate his removal from the Luxembourg to +the Tuileries was one of those fêtes by which he knew, none better, how +to amuse the eyes and also direct the minds of the spectator. This fête +was to take place at the Invalides, or, as they said in those days, the +Temple of Mars. A bust of Washington was to be crowned, and the flags of +Aboukir were to be received from the hands of General Lannes. + +It was one of those combinations which Bonaparte thoroughly +understood--a flash of lightning drawn from the contact of contrasting +facts. He presented the great man of the New World, and a great victory +of the old; young America coupled with the palms of Thebes and Memphis. + +On the day fixed for the ceremony, six thousand cavalry were in line +from the Luxembourg to the Invalides. At eight o’clock, Bonaparte +mounted his horse in the main courtyard of the Consular palace; issuing +by the Rue de Tournon he took the line of the quays, accompanied by a +staff of generals, none of whom were over thirty-five years of age. + +Lannes headed the procession; behind him were sixty Guides bearing the +sixty captured flags; then came Bonaparte about two horse’s-lengths +ahead of his staff. + +The minister of war, Berthier, awaited the procession under the dome +of the temple. He leaned against a statue of Mars at rest, and the +ministers and councillors of state were grouped around him. The flags +of Denain and Fontenoy, and those of the first campaign in Italy, +were already suspended from the columns which supported the roof. +Two centenarian “Invalids” who had fought beside Maréchal Saxe were +standing, one to the right and one to the left of Berthier, like +caryatides of an ancient world, gazing across the centuries. To the +right, on a raised platform, was the bust of Washington, which was now +to be draped with the flags of Aboukir. On another platform, opposite to +the former, stood Bonaparte’s armchair. + +On each side of the temple were tiers of seats in which was gathered all +the elegant society of Paris, or rather that portion of it which gave +its adhesion to the order of ideas then to be celebrated. + +When the flags appeared, the trumpets blared, their metallic sounds +echoing through the arches of the temple, + +Lannes entered first. At a sign from him, the Guides mounted two by +two the steps of the platform and placed the staffs of the flags in the +holders prepared for them. During this time Bonaparte took his place in +the chair, + +Then Lannes advanced to the minister of war, and, in that voice that +rang out so clearly on the battlefield, crying “Forward!” he said: + +“Citizen minister, these are the flags of the Ottoman army, destroyed +before your eyes at Aboukir. The army of Egypt, after crossing burning +deserts, surviving thirst and hunger, found itself before an enemy proud +of his numbers and his victories, and believing that he saw an easy prey +in our troops, exhausted by their march and incessant combats. He had +yet to learn that the French soldier is greater because he knows how to +suffer than because he knows how to vanquish, and that his courage rises +and augments in danger. Three thousand Frenchmen, as you know, fell +upon eighteen thousand barbarians, broke their ranks, forced them +back, pressed them between our lines and the sea; and the terror of our +bayonets is such that the Mussulmans, driven to choose a death, rushed +into the depths of the Mediterranean. + +“On that memorable day hung the destinies of Egypt, France and Europe, +and they were saved by your courage, + +“Allied Powers! if you dare to violate French territory, and if the +general who was given back to us by the victory of Aboukir makes an +appeal to the nation--Allied Powers! I say to you, that your successes +would be more fatal to you than disasters! What Frenchman is there who +would not march to victory again under the banners of the First Consul, +or serve his apprenticeship to fame with him?” + +Then, addressing the “Invalids,” for whom the whole lower gallery had +been reserved, he continued in a still more powerful voice: + +“And you, brave veterans, honorable victims of the fate of battles, you +will not be the last to flock under the orders of him who knows your +misfortunes and your glory, and who now delivers to your keeping these +trophies won by your valor. Ah, I know you, veterans, you burn to +sacrifice the half of your remaining lives to your country and its +freedom!” + +This specimen of the military eloquence of the conqueror of Montebello +was received with deafening applause. Three times the minister of war +endeavored to make reply; and three times the bravos cut him short. At +last, however, silence came, and Berthier expressed himself as follows: + +“To raise on the banks of the Seine these trophies won on the banks of +the Nile; to hang beneath the domes of our temples, beside the flags of +Vienna, of Petersburg, of London, the banners blessed in the mosques of +Byzantium and Cairo; to see them here, presented by the same warriors, +young in years, old in glory, whom Victory has so often crowned--these +things are granted only to Republican France. + +“Yet this is but a part of what he has done, that hero, in the flower +of his age covered with the laurels of Europe, he, who stood a victor +before the Pyramids, from the summits of which forty centuries looked +down upon him while, surrounded by his warriors and learned men, he +emancipated the native soil of art and restored to it the lights of +civilization. + +“Soldiers, plant in this temple of the warrior virtues those ensigns +of the Crescent, captured on the rocks of Canopus by three thousand +Frenchmen from eighteen thousand Ottomans, as brave as they were +barbarous. Let them bear witness, not to the valor of the French +soldier--the universe itself resounds to that--but to his unalterable +constancy, his sublime devotion. Let the sight of these banners console +you, veteran warriors, you, whose bodies, gloriously mutilated on the +field of honor, deprive your courage of other exercise than hope and +prayer. Let them proclaim from that dome above us, to all the enemies +of France, the influence of genius, the value of the heroes who captured +them; forewarning of the horrors of war all those who are deaf to our +offers of peace. Yes, if they will have war, they shall have it--war, +terrible and unrelenting! + +“The nation, satisfied, regards the Army of the East with pride. + +“That invincible army will learn with joy that the First Consul is +watchful of its glory. It is the object of the keenest solicitude on the +part of the Republic. It will hear with pride that we have honored it +in our temples, while awaiting the moment when we shall imitate, if need +be, on the fields of Europe, the warlike virtues it has displayed on the +burning sands of Africa and Asia. + +“Come, in the name of that army, intrepid general, come in the name of +those heroes among whom you now appear, and receive an embrace in token +of the national gratitude. + +“And in the moment when we again take up our arms in defence of our +independence (if the blind fury of kings refuses the peace we offer), +let us cast a branch of laurel on the ashes of Washington, that hero who +freed America from the yoke of our worst and most implacable enemy. +Let his illustrious shade tell us of the glory which follows a nation’s +liberator beyond the grave!” + +Bonaparte now came down from his platform, and in the name of France was +embraced by Berthier. + +M. de Fontanes, who was appointed to pronounce the eulogy on Washington, +waited courteously until the echoes of the torrent of applause, which +seemed to fall in cascades through the vast amphitheatre, had died away. +In the midst of these glorious individualities, M. de Fontanes was a +curiosity, half political, half literary. After the 18th Fructidor he +was proscribed with Suard and Laharpe; but, being perfectly hidden in a +friend’s house, and never going out except at night, he managed to avoid +leaving France. Nevertheless, an accident, impossible to foresee, had +betrayed him. He was knocked down one night on the Place du Carrousel +by a runaway horse, and was recognized by a policeman, who ran to +his assistance. But Fouché, who was at once informed, not only of his +presence in France, but also of his actual hiding-place, pretended to +know nothing of him. + +A few days after the 18th Brumaire, Maret, who became later the Duc +de Bassano, Laplace, who continued to be simply a man of science, and +Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, who died mad, spoke to the First Consul +of M. de Fontanes and of his presence in Paris, + +“Present him to me,” replied the First Consul simply. + +M. de Fontanes was presented to Bonaparte, who, recognizing his supple +nature and the unctuous flattery of his eloquence, chose him to deliver +the eulogy on Washington, and perhaps something of his own at the same +time. + +M. de Fontanes’ address was too long to be reported here; all that we +shall say about it is, that it was precisely what Bonaparte desired. + +That evening there was a grand reception at the Luxembourg. During the +ceremony a rumor was spread that the First Consul contemplated removing +to the Tuileries. Persons who were either bold or curious ventured on +a few words to Josephine. She, poor woman, who still saw before her the +tumbrel and the scaffold of Marie Antoinette, had an instinctive horror +of all that might connect her with royalty; she therefore hesitated to +reply and referred all questions to her husband. + +Then another rumor began to be bruited about which served as a +counterpoise to the former. Murat, it was said, had asked the hand of +Mademoiselle Caroline Bonaparte in marriage. But this marriage was not +without its obstacles; Bonaparte had had a quarrel, lasting over a year, +with the man who aspired to the honor of becoming his brother-in-law. +The cause of this quarrel will seem rather strange to our readers. + +Murat, the lion of the army; Murat, whose courage had become proverbial; +Murat, who might well have been taken by a sculptor as a model for +the god of war; Murat, on one occasion, when he must have slept ill or +breakfasted badly, had a moment of weakness. + +It happened before Mantua, in which city Wurmser, after the battle of +Rivoli, was forced to shut himself up with twenty-eight thousand men; +General Miollis, with four thousand only, was investing the place. +During a sortie attempted by the Austrians, Murat, at the head of five +hundred men, received an order to charge three thousand. Murat charged, +but feebly. Bonaparte, whose aide-de-camp he then was, was so irritated +that he would not suffer him to remain about him. This was a great blow +to Murat, all the more because he was at that time desirous of becoming +the general’s brother-in-law; he was deeply in love with Caroline +Bonaparte. + +How had that love come about? It can be told in two words. Perhaps +those who read our books singly are surprised that we sometimes dwell on +certain details which seem somewhat long drawn out for the book in which +they appear. The fact is, we are not writing isolated books, but, as we +have already said, we are filling, or trying to fill, an immense frame. +To us, the presence of our characters is not limited to their appearance +in one book. The man you meet in one book may be a king in a second +volume, and exiled or shot in a third. + +Balzac did a great and noble work with a hundred aspects, and he +called it the “Comédie Humaine.” Our work, begun at the same time as +his--although, be it understood, we do not praise it--may fitly be +called “The Drama of France.” + +Now, let us return to Murat, and tell how this love, which had so +glorious and, possibly, so fatal an influence on his destiny, came to +him. + +In 1796, Murat was sent to Paris, charged with the duty of presenting +to the Directory the flags and banners taken by the French army at the +battles of Dego and Mondovi. During this voyage he made the acquaintance +of Madame Bonaparte and Madame Tallien. At Madame Bonaparte’s house he +again met Mademoiselle Caroline Bonaparte. We say _again_, for that was +not the first time he had met the woman who was to share the crown of +Naples with him. They had met in Rome, at her brother’s house, and, in +spite of the rivalry of a young and handsome Roman prince, she had shown +him a marked preference. + +The three women combined to obtain for him the rank of general of +brigade from the Directory. Murat returned to the Army of Italy, more in +love than ever, and, in spite of his new rank, he solicited and obtained +the favor of remaining with the general-in-chief as aide-de-camp. +Unhappily, the fatal sortie took place soon after, in consequence of +which he fell in disgrace with Bonaparte. This disgrace had for awhile +all the characteristics of actual enmity. Bonaparte dismissed him from +his service as aide-de-camp, and transferred him to Neille’s division, +and then to that of Baraguey-d’Hilliers. The result was, that when +Bonaparte returned to Paris after the treaty of Tolentino, Murat did not +accompany him. + +This did not at all suit the female triumvirate, who had taken the young +general under its direction. The beautiful intriguers entered into +the campaign, and as the expedition to Egypt was then preparing, they +induced the minister of war to send Murat with it. He embarked in the +same ship as Bonaparte, namely the “Orient,” but the latter did not +address a single word to him during the voyage. After they reached +Alexandria, Murat was at first unable to break the icy barrier opposed +to him by the general, who, more to put him at a distance from his +own person than to give him an opportunity to distinguish himself, +confronted him with Mourad Bey. But, during that campaign, Murat +performed such prodigies of valor that he effaced, by such bravery, the +memory of that momentary weakness; he charged so intrepidly, so madly at +Aboukir, that Bonaparte had not the heart to bear him further malice. + +Consequently Murat had returned to France with Bonaparte. He had +powerfully co-operated with him on the 18th and especially on the 19th +Brumaire. He was, therefore, restored to full favor, and, as a proof of +that favor, had received the command of the Consular guard. + +He thought this the moment to declare his love, a love already +well-known to Josephine, who favored it; for which she had two reasons. +In the first place, she was a woman in the most charming acceptation +of the word; that is to say, all the gentler passions of women were +attractive to her. Joachim loved Caroline, Caroline loved Joachim; that +was enough to make her wish to protect their love. In the second place, +Bonaparte’s brothers detested Josephine; Joseph and Lucien were her +bitterest enemies, and she was not sorry to make herself two ardent +friends in Caroline and Murat. She therefore encouraged the latter to +approach Bonaparte on the subject. + +Three days before the ceremony we have just described, Murat had entered +Bonaparte’s study, and, after endless hesitation and circumlocution, had +proffered his request. + +It is probable that the love of the young pair was no news to Bonaparte, +who, however, received it with stern gravity, and contented himself +with replying that he would think it over. The matter, in fact, required +thinking over. Bonaparte came of a noble family, Murat was the son of an +innkeeper. The alliance at such a moment might have great significance. +Was the First Consul, in spite of his noble birth, in spite of the +exalted rank to which he had raised himself, not only sufficiently +republican, but also sufficiently democratic to mingle his blood with +that of the common people. + +He did not reflect long; his strong, good sense, and his logical mind, +told him that he had every interest in allowing the marriage, and he +gave his consent to it the same day. + +The double news of this marriage and of the removal to the Tuileries was +launched on the public at the same time; the one was to counterpoise +the other. The First Consul was about to occupy the palace of the former +kings, to sleep in the bed of the Bourbons, as they said at that time, +but he gave his sister to the son of an innkeeper! + +And now, it may be asked, what dowry did the future Queen of Naples +bring to the hero of Aboukir? Thirty thousand francs and a diamond +necklace, which the First Consul took from his wife, being too poor to +buy one. Josephine, who was very fond of her necklace, pouted a little; +but the gift, thus obtained, was a triumphant reply to those who claimed +that Bonaparte had made a fortune in Italy; besides, why had she taken +the interests of the young couple so to heart? She had insisted on +marrying them, and she ought to contribute to the dowry. + +The result of this clever combination was that on the day when the +Consuls left the Luxembourg for the “palace of the government,” escorted +by the _son of an innkeeper_, soon to be Bonaparte’s brother-in-law, it +did not occur to those who saw the procession pass to do otherwise than +admire and applaud. And, in truth, what could be more admirable and +worthy of applause than those processions, which had at their head such +men as Murat, Moreau, Junot, Duroc, Augereau, and Masséna? + +A grand review had been ordered to take place that same day in the +square of the Carrousel. Madame Bonaparte was to be present--not, to be +sure, in the balcony of the clock-tower, that being evidently too royal, +but at the window of Lebrun’s apartment in the Pavilion of Flora. + +Bonaparte started at one o’clock precisely from the Luxembourg, escorted +by three thousand picked men, among them the splendid regiment of the +Guides, created three years earlier as a bodyguard to Bonaparte during +the Italian campaign, in consequence of a great danger he had escaped +on one occasion. He was resting in a small château, after the exhaustion +attendant upon the passage of the Mincio, and was preparing to take a +bath, when a retreating Austrian detachment, losing its way, invaded +the château, which had no other guard than the sentries. Bonaparte had +barely time to escape in his shirt. + +A curious difficulty, which deserves to be recorded, arose on the +morning of this removal, which took place the 30th Pluviose, year +VIII. The generals, of course, had their horses and the ministers their +carriages, but the other functionaries had not yet judged it expedient +to go to such an expense. Carriages were therefore lacking. They were +supplied from the hackney coach-stands, and slips of paper of the same +color as the carriages were pasted over their numbers. + +The carriage of the First Consul alone was harnessed with six white +horses, but as the three consuls were in the same carriage, Bonaparte +and Cambacérès on the front seat, and Lebrun on the back, it was, after +all, but two horses apiece. Besides, were not these six white horses +given to the commander-in-chief by the Emperor Francis himself, after +the treaty of Campo-Formio, a trophy in themselves? + +The carriage crossed a part of Paris, following the Rue de Thionville, +the Quai Voltaire, and the Pont-Royal. From the archway of the Carrousel +to the great portal of the Tuileries the Consular guard lined the way. +As Bonaparte passed through the archway, he raised his head and read the +inscription it bore. That inscription was as follows: + + AUGUST 10, 1792. + ROYALTY IS ABOLISHED IN FRANCE + AND SHALL NEVER RISE AGAIN. + +An almost imperceptible smile flickered on the First Consul’s lips. + +At the door of the Tuileries, Bonaparte left the carriage and sprang +into the saddle to review the troops. When he appeared on his war-horse +the applause burst forth wildly on all sides. + +After the review was over, he placed himself in front of the +clock-tower, with Murat on his right, Lannes at his left, and the +glorious staff of the Army of Italy behind him. Then began the march +past. + +And now it was that one of those inspirations came to him which engrave +themselves forever on the hearts of soldiers. As the flags of the 30th, +the 96th, and the 33d demi-brigades were borne past him, and he saw +that, of those banners, there remained but a stick and a few rags, +riddled with balls and blackened with powder, he took his hat from his +head and bowed. + +Then, when the march was over, he dismounted from his horse, and, with +a firm step, he walked up the grand stairway of the Valois and the +Bourbons. + +That night, when he was alone with Bourrienne, the latter asked: “Well, +general, are you satisfied?” + +“Yes,” replied Bonaparte, dreamily, “everything went off nicely, didn’t +it?” + +“Wonderfully well.” + +“I saw you standing near Madame Bonaparte at the ground-floor window of +the Pavilion of Flora.” + +“I saw you, too, general; you were reading the inscription on the arch +of the Carrousel.” + +“Yes,” said Bonaparte, “‘August 10,1792. Royalty is abolished in France, +and shall never rise again.’” + +“Shall I have it removed?” asked Bourrienne. + +“Useless,” replied the First Consul, “it will fall of itself.” Then, +with a sigh, he added: “Bourrienne, do you know whom I missed to-day?” + +“No, general.” + +“Roland. What the devil is he doing that he doesn’t give me any news of +himself?” + +We are about to see what Roland was doing. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. THE FOLLOWER OF TRAILS + +The reader will not have forgotten the situation in which the escort of +chasseurs found the Chambéry mail-coach. + +The first thing they did was to look for the obstacle which prevented +Roland from getting out. They found the padlock and wrenched off the +door. + +Roland bounded from the coach like a tiger from its cage. We have said +that the ground was covered with snow. Roland, hunter and soldier, had +but one idea--to follow the trail of the Companions of Jehu. He had seen +them disappear in the direction of Thoissy; but he believed they were +not likely to continue in that direction because, between them and the +little town ran the Saône, and there were no bridges across the river +between Belleville and Mâcon. He ordered the escort and the conductor +to wait for him on the highroad, and alone and on foot, without even +waiting to reload his pistols, he started on the tracks of Morgan and +his companions. + +He was not mistaken. A mile from the highroad the fugitives had come +to the river; there they had halted, probably deliberating, for the +trampling of their horses’ hoofs was plainly visible; then they had +separated into two troops, one going up the river to Mâcon, and the +other descending it in the direction of Belleville. + +This separation was doubtless intended to puzzle their pursuers, if +they were pursued. Roland had heard the parting call of the leader: +“To-morrow night, you know where!” He had no doubt, therefore, that +whichever trail he followed, whether up or down--if the snow did not +melt too fast--would lead him to the rendezvous, where, either together +or singly, the Companions of Jehu were certain to assemble. + +He returned upon his own tracks, ordered the conductor to put on the +boots thrown aside by the pretended postilion, mount the horse and +take the coach to the next relay, namely Belleville. The sergeant of +chasseurs and four of his men, who knew how to write, were to accompany +the conductor and sign his report of what had occurred. Roland forbade +all mention of himself and where he had gone, lest the brigands should +get word of his future plans. The rest of the escort were to carry back +their colonel’s body, and make deposition on their own account, along +the same lines as the conductor, to the authorities, and equally without +mention of Roland. + +These orders given, the young man dismounted a chasseur and took his +horse, selecting the one he thought most serviceable. Then he reloaded +his pistols, and put them in the holsters in place of the regulation +weapons of the dismounted chasseur. Having done this, and promised the +conductor and the chasseurs a speedy vengeance, conditioned, however, on +their keeping his present proceedings secret, he mounted the horse and +rode off in the direction he had already investigated. + +When he reached the spot where the two troops had separated, he had to +decide between the different trails. He chose that which descended the +Saône toward Belleville. He had excellent reason for making this choice, +although it might possibly take him out of his way for six or eight +miles. In the first place he was nearer Belleville than Mâcon; then he +had spent twenty-four hours at Mâcon, and might be recognized there, +whereas he had never stopped at Belleville longer than the time required +to change horses when accident brought him there by post. + +The events we have just recorded had taken barely an hour to happen. +Eight o’clock was striking from the church clock at Thoissy when Roland +started in pursuit of the fugitives. The way was plain; five or six +horses had left their imprint on the snow; one of these horses had +paced. + +Roland jumped the two or three brooks which watered the space he had to +cross to reach Belleville. A hundred yards from the town he paused, for +here the trail separated again; two of the six travellers had turned to +the right, that is to say, they had struck away from the river, the +four others to the left, continuing on their way to Belleville. At the +outskirts of the town, another secession had taken place; three of the +riders had gone round the town, one had entered it. + +Roland followed the latter, sure that he could recover the traces of the +others. The one who had entered the town and followed the main street +had stopped at a pretty house between court and garden, numbered 67. He +had rung and some one had let him in; for through the iron grating could +be seen traces of footsteps, and beside them the tracks of a horse being +led to the stable. + +It was quite evident that one, at least, of the Companions of Jehu +had stopped there. By going to the mayor of the town, exhibiting his +authority, and asking for gendarmes, Roland could have arrested him at +once. But that was not his object; he did not wish to arrest a solitary +individual; he wanted to catch the whole company in a trap. + +He made a note in his mind of No. 67, and continued on his way. He +crossed the entire town and rode a few hundred paces beyond it without +meeting any fresh traces. He was about to return, when it occurred to +him that, if the tracks of the three riders reappeared anywhere, it +would be at the head of the bridge. And there, sure enough, he found the +hoof-prints of three horses, which were undoubtedly those he sought, for +one of them paced. + +Roland galloped in pursuit. On reaching Monceaux--same precaution, +the riders had skirted the village; but Roland was too good a scout to +trouble himself about that. He kept on his way, and at the other end of +Monceaux he recovered the fugitives’ tracks. Not far from Châtillon one +of the three horses had left the highroad, turning to the right toward +a little château, standing on a hill a short distance from the road +between Châtillon and Trévoux. This time the three remaining riders, +evidently believing they had done enough to mislead any one who might be +following, had kept straight on through Châtillon and taken the road to +Neuville. + +The direction taken by the fugitives was eminently satisfactory to +Roland; they were undoubtedly on their way to Bourg; if they had not +intended to go there they would have taken the road to Marlieux. Now, +Bourg was the headquarters Roland had himself chosen for the centre +of his own operations; it was his own town, and he knew, with the +minuteness of boyish knowledge, every bush, every ruin, every cavern in +the neighborhood. + +At Neuville the riders had skirted the village. Roland did not trouble +himself about a ruse, already known and thwarted; but on the other side +he found but one trail. He could not be mistaken in that horse, however; +it was the pacer. Certain of recovering the trail again, Roland retraced +his steps. The two riders had separated at a road leading off to Vannes; +one had taken that road, the other had skirted the village, which, as +we have said, was on the road to Bourg. This was the one to follow; +besides, the gait of the horse made it easier, as it could not be +confused with any other. Moreover, he was on his way to Bourg, and +between Neuville and Bourg there was but one other village, that of +Saint-Denis. For the rest, it was not probable that the solitary rider +intended to go further than Bourg. + +Roland continued on his way with more eagerness than ever, convinced +that he was nearing the end. In fact the rider had not skirted Bourg, +but had boldly entered the town. There, it seemed to Roland that the +man had hesitated, unless this hesitation were a last ruse to hide his +tracks. But after ten minutes spent in following his devious tracks +Roland was sure of his facts; it was not trickery but hesitation. + +The print of a man’s steps came from a side street; the traveller and +the pedestrian had conferred together for a moment, and then the former +had evidently employed the latter as a guide. From that point on, the +footsteps of a man went side by side with those of the horse. Both came +to an end at the hôtel de la Belle-Alliance. Roland remembered that the +horse wounded in the attack at Les Carronnières had been brought to this +inn. In all probability there was some connivance between the inn-keeper +and the Companion of Jehu. For the rest, in all probability the rider +would stay there until the next evening. Roland felt by his own fatigue +that the man he was following must need rest. And Roland, in order +not to force his horse and the better to reconnoitre the tracks he was +following, had taken six hours to do thirty miles. + +Three o’olock was striking from the truncated bell-tower of Nôtre-Dame. +Roland debated what to do. Should he stop at some inn in the town? +Impossible, he was too well known in Bourg; besides, his horse with +its cavalry saddle-cloth would excite suspicion. It was one of the +conditions of success that his presence at Bourg should remain unknown. + +He could hide at the Château des Noires-Fontaines and keep on the watch, +but could he trust the servants? Michel and Jacques would hold their +tongues, Roland was sure of them; but Charlotte, the jailer’s daughter, +she might gossip. However, it was three o’clock in the morning, every +one was asleep, and the safest plan was certainly to put himself in +communication with Michel. Michel would find some way of concealing his +presence. + +To the deep regret of his horse, who had no doubt scented a stable, +Roland wheeled about and rode off in the direction of Pont-d’Ain. As he +passed the church of Brou he glanced at the barrack of the gendarmes, +where, in all probability, they and their captain were sleeping the +sleep of the righteous. + +Roland cut through the little strip of forest which jutted into the +road. The snow deadened the sound of his horse’s hoofs. Branching into +the road from the other side, he saw two men slinking along in the +ditch, carrying a deer slung by its forelegs to a sapling. He thought he +recognized the cut of the two men, and he spurred his horse to overtake +them. The men were on the watch; they turned, saw the rider, who was +evidently making for them, flung the animal into the ditch, and made for +the shelter of the forest of Seillon. + +“Hey, Michel!” cried Roland, more and more convinced that he had to do +with his own gardener. + +Michel stopped short; the other man kept on his way across the fields. + +“Hey, Jacques!” shouted Roland. + +The other man stopped. If they were recognized, it was useless to fly; +besides, there was nothing hostile in the call; the voice was friendly, +rather than threatening. + +“Bless me!” said Jacques, “it sounds like M. Roland.” + +“I do believe it is he,” said Michel. + +And the two men, instead of continuing their flight, returned to the +highroad. + +Roland had not heard what the two poachers had said, but he had guessed. + +“Hey, the deuce! of course it is I,” he shouted. + +A minute more and Michel and Jacques were beside him. The questions +of father and son were a crossfire, and it must be owned they had good +reason for amazement. Roland, in civilian’s dress, on a cavalry horse, +at three in the morning, on the road from Bourg to the château! The +young officer cut short all questions. + +“Silence, poachers!” said he, “put that deer behind me and be off at +trot to the château. No one must know of my presence there, not even my +sister.” + +Roland spoke with military precision, and both men knew that when he +gave an order there was no replying. They picked up the deer, put it +behind his saddle, and followed the gentle trot of the horse at a run. +There was less than a mile to do, and it took but ten minutes. At a +short distance from the château, Roland pulled up. The two men went +forward as scouts to see if all were quiet. Satisfied on that point, +they made a sign to Roland to advance. + +Roland came, dismounted, found the door of the lodge open, and entered. +Michel took the horse to the stable and carried the deer to the kitchen; +for Michel belonged to that honorable class of poachers, who kill game +for the pleasure of killing, and not for the selfish interest of sale. +There was no need for precaution, either for horse or deer; for Amélie +took no more notice of what went on in the stable than of what they +served her to eat. + +During this time Jacques lighted the fire. When Michel returned he +brought the remains of a leg of mutton and some eggs for an omelet. +Jacques made up a bed in the office. + +Roland warmed himself and ate his supper without saying a word. The two +men looked at each other with an astonishment that was not devoid of a +certain degree of anxiety. A rumor of the expedition to Seillon had got +about, and it was whispered that Roland had led it. Apparently, he had +returned for another similar expedition. + +When Roland had finished his supper he looked up and saw Michel. + +“Ah! so there you are?” he exclaimed. + +“I am waiting for Monsieur’s orders.” + +“Here they are; listen carefully.” + +“I’m all ears.” + +“It’s a question of life or death; of more than that, of my honor.” + +“Speak, Monsieur Roland.” + +Roland pulled out his watch. + +“It is now five o’clock. When the inn of the Belle-Alliance opens, be +there, as if you were just sauntering by; then stop a minute to chat +with whoever opens it.” + +“That will probably be Pierre.” + +“Pierre or another; find out from him who the traveller is who arrived +last night on a pacing horse. You know what pacing is, don’t you?” + +“The deuce! You mean a horse that goes like a bear, both feet forward at +the same time.” + +“Bravo! You can also find out whether the traveller is leaving this +morning, or whether he proposes to spend the day at the hotel, can’t +you?” + +“Of course I can find that out.” + +“Well, when you have found out all that, come and tell me; but remember, +not a word about my being here. If any one asks about me, say that they +had a letter from me yesterday, and that I was in Paris with the First +Consul.” + +“That’s understood.” + +Michel departed. Roland went to bed and to sleep, leaving Jacques to +guard the building. + +When Roland awoke Michel had returned. He had found out all that his +master desired to know. The horseman who had arrived in the night was +to leave the next morning, and on the travellers’ register, which +every innkeeper was obliged by law to keep in those days, was entered: +“Saturday, 30th Pluviose, _ten at night_; the citizen Valensolle, from +Lyons going to Geneva.” Thus the alibi was prepared; for the register +would prove that the citizen Valensolle had arrived at ten o’clock, and +it was impossible that he could have assisted in robbing the mail-coach +near the Maison-Blanche at half-past eight and yet have reached the +Hotel de la Belle-Alliance at ten. + +But what impressed Roland the most was that the man he had followed +through the night, and whose name and retreat he had just discovered, +was none other than the second of Alfred de Barjols, whom he himself +had killed in a duel near the fountain of Vaucluse; and that that second +was, in all probability, the man who had played the part of ghost at the +Chartreuse of Seillon. + +So, then, the Companions of Jehu were not mere thieves, but, on the +contrary, as rumor said, gentlemen of good family, who, while the noble +Bretons were laying down their lives for the royalist cause in the West, +were, here in the East, braving the scaffold to send to the combatants +the money they took from the government. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. AN INSPIRATION + +We have seen that during the pursuit of the preceding night Roland could +have arrested one or two of the men he was pursuing. He could now do +the same with M. de Valensolle, who was probably, like Roland himself, +taking a day’s rest after a night of great fatigue. + +To do it he had only to write a line to the captain of gendarmes, or to +the colonel of dragoons, who had assisted him during that ineffectual +search at Seillon. Their honor was concerned in the affair. They could +instantly surprise M. de Valensolle in bed, and at the cost of two +pistol shots--two men killed or wounded--he would be taken. + +But M. de Valensolle’s arrest would give warning to the rest of the +band, who would instantly put themselves in safety beyond the frontier. +It was better, therefore, to keep to his first idea; to go slowly, to +follow the different trails which must converge to one centre, and, at +the risk of a general engagement, throw a net over the whole company. + +To do that, M. de Valensolle must not be arrested. It was better to +follow him on his pretended journey to Geneva, which was probably but a +blind to foil investigation. It was therefore agreed that Roland, whose +disguise, however good, was liable to be penetrated, should remain +at the lodge, and Michel and Jacques should head off the game. In all +probabilities, M. de Valensolle would not set out from the inn before +nightfall. + +Roland made inquiries of Michel about the life his sister had led since +her mother’s departure. He learned that she had never once left the +grounds during that time. Her habits were still the same, except for the +walks and visits she had made with Madame de Montrevel. + +She rose at seven or eight in the morning, sketched or practiced her +music till breakfast, and afterward read or employed herself at some +kind of embroidery, or took advantage of the sunshine to go out with +Charlotte to the river. Sometimes she bade Michel unfasten the little +boat, and then, well wrapped in furs, would row up the Reissouse as far +as Montagnac or down to Saint-Just. During these trips she spoke to no +one. Then she dined. After dinner, she retired to her bedroom and did +not appear again. + +By half-past six, therefore, Michel and Jacques could decamp without +arousing any suspicion as to their where-about; and, accordingly, at +that hour they took their blouses, game-bags and guns, and started. +Roland had given them their instructions. They were to follow the pacing +horse until they had ascertained his destination, or until they had +lost all trace of him. Michel was to lie in wait opposite the inn of the +Belle-Alliance; Jacques was to station himself outside of Bourg, +just where the main road divides into three branches, one going to +Saint-Amour, another to Saint-Claude, and the third to Nantua. This last +was at the same time the highroad to Geneva. It was evident that unless +M. de Valensolle returned upon his steps, which was not probable, he +would take one or another of these three roads. + +The father started in one direction, the son in another. Michel went +toward the town by the road to Pont-d’Ain, passing the church of Brou. +Jacques crossed the Reissouse, followed the right bank of the little +river, and found himself, after walking a few hundred yards beyond the +town, at the sharp angle made by the parting of the three roads. Father +and son reached their separate posts at about the same time. + +At this particular moment, that is to say, about seven o’clock, the +stillness and solitude surrounding the Château des Noires-Fontaines was +broken by the arrival of a post-chaise, which stopped before the iron +gate. A servant in livery got off the box and pulled the chain of the +bell. + +It was Michel’s business to open the gate, but Michel was away, as we +know. Amélie and Charlotte probably counted on him, for the bell was +rung three times before any one answered it. At last the maid appeared +at the head of the stairs calling Michel. Michel made no reply. Finally, +protected by the locked gates, Charlotte ventured to approach them. In +spite of the obscurity she recognized the servant. + +“Ah, is it you, Monsieur James?” she cried, somewhat reassured. James +was Sir John’s confidential valet. + +“Yes, mademoiselle, it is I, or rather it is Sir John.” + +The carriage door opened at this moment, and his master’s voice was +heard saying: “Mademoiselle Charlotte, will you tell your mistress that +I have just arrived from Paris, that I have called to leave my card, and +to ask permission, not to be received this evening, but to be allowed to +call to-morrow, if she will grant me that favor. Ask her at what hour I +shall least inconvenience her.” + +Mademoiselle Charlotte had a high opinion of Sir John, consequently +she acquitted herself of the commission with the utmost alacrity. Five +minutes later she returned to announce that Sir John would be received +the next day between twelve and one o’clock. + +Roland knew what the Englishman had come for. In his mind the marriage +was an accomplished fact, and he regarded Sir John already as his +brother-in-law. He hesitated a moment as to whether he should or should +not make himself known to Sir John, and tell his friend about his +projects; but he reflected that Sir John was not a man to let him work +them out alone. He, too, had a revenge to take on the Companions of +Jehu; he would certainly insist on taking part in the expedition, +whatever it was. And that expedition, however it might result, was +certain to be dangerous, and another disaster might befall him. Roland’s +luck, as Roland well knew, did not extend to his friends. Sir John, +grievously wounded, had barely escaped with his life, and the colonel +of dragoons had been killed outright. He therefore allowed Sir John to +drive away without giving any sign of his own proximity. + +As for Charlotte, she did not seem in the least surprised that Michel +was not there to open the gate. Evidently they were accustomed to his +absences, and they did not disturb either the mistress or the maid. +For the rest, Roland knew his sister well enough to understand this +indifference. Amélie, feeble under a moral suffering wholly unsuspected +by Roland, who attributed to simple nervous crises the fluctuations of +his sister’s character, Amélie was strong and brave before real danger. +That was no doubt why she felt no fear about remaining with Charlotte +alone in the lonely house, without other protection than that afforded +by the two gardeners, who spent their nights in poaching. + +As for ourselves, we know that Michel and his son did really serve their +mistress’ desire more in absenting themselves thus frequently from the +château than in staying [near] it. Their absence left the coast clear +for Morgan, [and that] was all Amélie really cared about. + +That evening and part of the night went by without bringing Roland any +news. He tried to sleep, but succeeded ill. He fancied every minute that +he heard some one at the door. The day was just beginning to glimmer +through the shutters when the door did actually open. Michel and Jacques +were returning, and this is what had happened to them: + +They had each gone to his post, Michel at the inn door, Jacques to the +junction of the roads. Twenty paces from the door Michel had met Pierre, +and three words sufficed to show him that M. de Valensolle was still at +the inn. The latter had announced that, as he had a long journey before +him, he would let his horse rest and would not start until nightfall. +Pierre did not doubt that he was going to Geneva, as he said. + +Michel proposed a glass of wine to Pierre. Pierre accepted. After that, +Michel was sure of being warned of any change. Pierre was the hostler, +and nothing could be done in the stable without his knowledge. A lad +attached to the inn promised to convey the news to Michel, in return +for which Michel gave him three charges of powder with which to make +firecrackers. + +At midnight the traveller had not yet started; they had drunk four +bottles of wine, but Michel had partaken sparingly of them. He had found +means to pour three of the four bottles into Pierre’s glass, where they +did not long remain. At midnight the wine-shop closed, and Michel having +nowhere to go for the four hours that still remained until daybreak, +Pierre offered him a bed of straw in the stable. Michel accepted. The +two friends went back arm-in-arm; Pierre staggering, Michel pretending +to stagger. + +At three o’clock in the morning the servant of the hotel awakened +Michel. The traveller wanted his horse. Michel, pretending that he must +be off to see to his game, also rose. His toilet was not long in making; +he had only to shake the straw from his hair, game-bag, and blouse, +after which he took leave of his friend Pierre and hid himself at the +corner of the street. + +Fifteen minutes later the gate opened and a man rode out on a pacing +horse. It was M. de Valensolle. He took the street that led to the +Geneva road. Michel followed without concealment, whistling a hunting +air. Only, as Michel could not run for fear of attracting the rider’s +notice, he lost sight of him before long. But Jacques was there, thought +he, waiting at the fork of the roads. Yes, Jacques had been there, +but he had been there for over six hours of a winter’s night, in five +degrees of cold. Had he the courage to stand six hours in the snow and +kick his soles against a tree? + +Thinking thus, Michel took a short cut through the streets and lanes, +running at full speed; but horse and rider, in spite of his haste, had +gone faster than he. He reached the fork of the roads. All was silent +and solitary. The snow, trampled the day before, a Sunday, no longer +showed distinct tracks. The steps of the horse were lost in the mud of +the road. Nor did he waste further time in vain searching. He wondered +what had become of Jacques; but his poacher’s eye soon told him. + +Jacques had stood on watch at the foot of a tree. For how long? It was +difficult to say, but long enough to become very cold. The snow was well +beaten down by his heavy hunting-boots. He had evidently tried to keep +warm by walking up and down. Then suddenly he must have remembered a +little mud hut on the other side of the road, such as the road-menders +build as a shelter against the rain. He had gone down the ditch and +crossed the road. His trail, lost for a moment in the centre of the +road, was visible on the snow at either side. This trail formed a +diagonal line, making straight for the hut. It was evidently in the hut +that Jacques had passed the night. But when had he left it? And why +had he left it? The first question was unanswerable. But to the most +inexperienced scout the second was plain enough. He had left it to +follow M. de Valensolle. The same footsteps that had approached the hut +were to be seen going, as they left it, in the direction of Ceyzeriat. + +The traveller had really taken the road to Geneva. Jacques’ footsteps +showed it plainly. The stride was long, like that of a man running, and +he had followed the road behind the trees, evidently to conceal himself +from the rider. At a wretched tavern, one of those with the legend +inscribed over its door: “Here we give food and drink, equestrian and +pedestrian lodgings,” the trail stopped. It was clear that the rider had +stopped before this inn, for Jacques had also paused behind a tree some +twenty feet distant, where the snow was-trampled. Then, probably after +the gate had closed on horse and rider, Jacques had left his tree, +crossed the road, this time with hesitation, his short steps leading, +not to the door, but to the window. + +Michel put his own feet in his son’s footprints and reached the window. +Through the chinks in the shutter the interior, when lighted, could be +seen; but now all was dark, and Michel could see nothing. But Jacques +had certainly looked through the window; no doubt it was then lighted, +and he had been able to see something. + +Where had he gone on leaving the window? Round the house, close to the +wall. This excursion was easy to follow. The snow was virgin. As for +his purpose in going round the house that was not difficult to make out. +Jacques, like a lad of sense, had concluded that the traveller had not +left a good hotel, saying that he was going to Geneva, to put up at a +miserable tavern a mile from the town. + +He must have ridden through the yard and gone out by some other exit. +Jacques had, therefore, skirted the house in the hope of recovering the +trail, if not of the horse, at least of the rider on the other side. + +Sure enough, from a small gate in the rear, opening toward the forest +that extends from Coterz to Ceyzeriat, footsteps could be seen advancing +in a straight line to the edge of the woods. They were those of a man +elegantly shod, wearing spurs on his heels, for the spurs had left their +marks upon the snow. + +Jacques had not hesitated to follow these marks. The track of his heavy +shoes could be seen near the prints of the delicate boot--the large foot +of the peasant near the slender foot of the city man. + +It was now five o’clock. Day was breaking, and Michel resolved to go no +further. Jacques was on the trail, and the young poacher was worth as +much as the old one. Michel circled the open as if he were returning +from Ceyzeriat, resolving to enter the inn and wait for Jacques’ return; +certain that his son would know he had followed him and had stopped +short at this isolated house. + +Michel knocked on the window-shutter and was soon admitted. He knew the +landlord, who was well accustomed to his nocturnal habits, asked for a +bottle, complaining bitterly of his poor luck, and asked permission to +wait for his son, who was in the woods on the other side, and who, he +hoped, had been more successful in tracking the game. It goes without +saying that this permission was readily accorded. Michel opened the +window-shutters, in order to look out on the road. + +It was not long before some one knocked on the glass. It was Jacques. +His father called him. + +Jacques had been as unfortunate as his father. No game; and he was +frozen. An armful of wood was thrown on the fire and a second bottle of +wine was brought. Jacques warmed himself and drank. + +Then, as it was necessary that the two poachers should be back at the +château before daylight, that their absence might not be noticed, Michel +paid for the wine and the wood, and the pair departed. + +Neither had said one word before the landlord of the subject that filled +their minds. He was not to suspect that they were on other trail than +that of game. But no sooner were they outside of the house than Michel +drew close to his son. Jacques recounted how he had followed the tracks +until they had reached a crossroad in the forest. There a man, armed +with a gun, had suddenly appeared and asked him what he was doing in +the forest at that hour. Jacques replied that he was watching for game. +“Then go further,” said the man; “don’t you see that this place is +taken?” + +Jacques admitted the justice of this claim, and went on about a hundred +rods further, but, just as he was slanting to the left to return to the +crossroad, another man, armed like the first, had suddenly started up +with the same inopportune question. Jacques gave him the same answer: +“Watching for game.” The man had then pointed to the edge of the woods, +saying in a threatening manner: “If I have any advice to give you, my +young friend, it is to go over there. It will be safer for you than +here.” + +Jacques had taken this advice, or at least had pretended to take it, for +as soon as he had reached the edge of the woods he had crept along in +the ditch, until, convinced that it would be impossible to recover M. de +Valensolle’s track, he had struck into the open, and returned by fields +and the highroad to the tavern, where he hoped to, and in fact did, find +his father. + +They reached the Château des Noires-Fontaines, as we have seen, just as +day was breaking. + +All that we have related was repeated to Roland with a multiplicity of +detail which we must omit, and convinced the young officer that the two +armed men, who had warned off Jacques, were not poachers as they seemed, +but Companions of Jehu. But where was their haunt located? + +There was no deserted convent, no ruin, in that direction. + +Suddenly Roland clapped his hand to his head. “Idiot that I am!” he +cried, “why did I never think of that?” + +A smile of triumph crossed his lips, and addressing the two men, who +were mortified at having brought him no more definite news, he cried: +“My lads, I know all I want to know. Go to bed and sleep sound; my word, +you deserve to!” He himself, setting the example, slept like a man +whose brain has solved a problem of the utmost importance which has long +harassed it. + +The thought had just flashed through his mind that the Companions +of Jehu had abandoned the Chartreuse of Seillon for the grottoes of +Ceyzeriat; and at the same time he recalled the subterranean passage +leading from these grottoes to the church of Brou. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. A RECONNOISSANCE + +That same day, Sir John, making use of the permission accorded him the +night before, presented himself at the Château des Noires-Fontaines +between twelve and one o’clock. + +Everything occurred as Morgan had advised. Sir John was received as the +friend of the family, Lord Tanlay as a suitor whose attentions were most +flattering. Amélie made no opposition to the wishes of her mother and +brother, and to the commands of the First Consul, further than to dwell +on the state of her health and to ask for delay on that account. Sir +John bowed and submitted; he had obtained more than he had hoped to +obtain. He was accepted. + +He felt that his presence in Bourg, if prolonged, would be an +impropriety, Amélie being (still on the plea of ill-health) parted from +her mother and brother. He therefore announced that he would pay her a +second visit on the morrow, and leave Bourg that same evening. He would +delay further visits until Amélie came to Paris, or until Madame +de Montrevel returned to Bourg. The latter arrangement was the more +probable of the two, for Amélie assured him she needed the country air +and the spring-like weather to assist her in recovering her health. + +Thanks to Sir John’s considerate delicacy, the plan arranged between +Amélie and Morgan was thus carried out, and the two lovers had before +them a period of solitude and a respite in which to form their plans. + +Michel learned these details from Charlotte and imparted them in turn +to Roland. The latter determined to await Sir John’s departure before he +took any decisive steps against the Companions of Jehu. But this did not +prevent him from endeavoring to set at rest any remaining doubts. + +When night came he put on a hunting-suit, and over it Michel’s blouse, +concealed his face beneath a broad-brimmed hat, slipped a pair of +pistols in his knife-belt, hidden by the blouse, and boldly took the +road from Noires-Fontaines to Bourg. He stopped at the barracks of the +gendarmerie and asked to see the captain. + +The captain was in his room. Roland went up and made himself known. +Then, as it was only eight o’clock, and some one passing might recognize +him, he blew out the light, and the two men talked in the dark. The +captain knew already what had happened on the Lyons road three days +earlier, and, certain that Roland was not killed, was expecting him. To +his great astonishment, Roland asked him for only one, or rather for two +things: the key of the church of Brou and a crowbar. + +The captain gave him the required articles, and offered to accompany +him, but Roland refused. It was evident to his mind that he had been +betrayed by some one connected with the affair of the Maison-Blanche, +and he would not expose himself to a second defeat. He therefore begged +the captain to tell no one of his presence in Bourg, and to await his +return, even if it were delayed some hours. The captain agreed. + +Roland, the key in his right hand, the crowbar in his left, reached +the side door of the church without making any noise. This he unlocked, +entered, relocked it behind him, and found himself facing a wall of hay. +He listened. The most profound silence reigned. + +He remembered his boyish habits, took his bearings, put the key in his +pocket, and scrambled up the wall of hay, which was about fifteen feet +high and formed a sort of platform. When he reached the top he slid +down on the other side, as though he were descending the scarp of a +fortification, and reached the flooring of the church, which was almost +wholly composed of mortuary stones. + +The choir was empty, thanks to a rood-screen which protected it on one +side, and also to the walls which inclosed it to right and left. +The door of the screen was open and Roland entered the choir without +difficulty. He came face to face with the monument of Philippe le Beau. +At the head of the tomb was a large square flagstone. It covered the +steps which led to the burial vaults. + +Roland must have known the way, for as soon as he reached the stone he +knelt down and felt with his hand for the edge of it. When he found it +he stood up, inserted his lever and raised the slab. With one hand he +held it up while he went down the steps. Then he lowered it slowly. +It seemed as though this nocturnal visitor were voluntarily separating +himself from the land of the living, and descending into the world of +the dead. And strange indeed to him, who sees by night as by day, on +the earth and beneath it, must the impassibility of this young man have +seemed, who passed among the dead in search of the living, and who, +in spite of darkness and solitude, did not shudder at the touch of the +mortuary marbles. + +He walked on, feeling his way among the tombs, until he came to the iron +gate leading to the subterranean passage. He looked for the lock. It was +only bolted. He inserted the end of his lever between the bolt and the +staple, and pushed it gently. The gate opened. He drew it close after +him, but did not lock it, so as to avoid delay on his return. The +crowbar he left at the corner of the gate. + +Then, with straining ears, dilated pupils, every sense tense with this +effort to hear, the need to breathe, the impossibility of seeing, he +advanced slowly, a pistol in one hand, touching the wall with the other +to guide himself. He walked thus for fifteen minutes. A few drops of +ice-cold water fell through the roof on his hands and shoulders, and +told him he was passing under the river. + +At the end of this time he found the door which opened from the passage +into the quarry. There he halted a moment. He could now breathe more +freely, and, moreover, he fancied that he heard distant sounds, and +could see flickering lights, like will-o’-the-wisps, on the pillars that +supported the roof. An observer might have thought, not distinguishing +the face of the silent listener, that he showed hesitation; but +the moment his countenance was seen, no one could have mistaken its +expression of hope. + +He then resumed his way, heading toward the light he thought he had +seen. As he advanced, the lights and the noises grew more distinct. It +was evident that the quarry was inhabited. By whom? He did not yet know, +but he would know. + +He was already within ten feet of that open clearing in the midst of +the granite walls which we described on our first visit to the grotto +of Ceyzeriat. Roland clung closely to the wall, and moved forward +almost imperceptibly. In the dim half-light he looked like a gliding +bass-relief. + +At last his head passed beyond an angle of the wall, and his glance +rested upon what we may call the camp of the Companions of Jehu. + +A dozen or more of the members sat there at supper. Roland was seized +with a wild desire to precipitate himself into their midst, attacking +them singly, and fighting until he died. But he repressed the insensate +thought, withdrew his head as slowly as he had advanced it, and, with +beaming eyes and heart full of joy, returned, unseen and unsuspected, +along the way he had come. Everything was now explained; the deserted +Chartreuse, M. de Valensolle’s disappearance, and the counterfeit +poachers near the entrance to the grotto of Ceyzeriat. + +This time he was sure of his vengeance, his deadly, terrible +vengeance--deadly, because, in like manner as he had been spared (he +suspected intentionally), he meant to spare others; with this difference +that, whereas he had been spared for life, he would order these men +spared for death, death on the scaffold. + +Half-way back he thought he heard a noise behind him. He turned and was +certain he saw a gleam of light. He quickened his steps. The gate once +passed, there was no danger of losing his way. It was no longer a quarry +with a thousand windings; it was a straight and narrow vaulted passage +leading to the mortuary grating. At the end of ten minutes he again +passed under the river; a couple of minutes later, his outstretched hand +touched the iron gate. + +He took the crowbar from the place where he had left it, entered the +vault, pulled the gate to, closed it gently and noiselessly, and, +guiding himself by the tombs, he regained the staircase, pushed up the +flagstone with his head, and stood once more in the land of the living. + +There it was comparative daylight. He left the choir, closed the door of +the screen as he had found it, scaled the hay, crossed the platform, and +slid down the other side. The key was still in his pocket. He unlocked +the door and stepped out into the street. + +The captain of gendarmerie was anxiously awaiting him. They conferred +together for a few moments, and then they returned to Bourg by the +outer road to avoid being seen. Here they entered the town through +the market-gate, and followed the Rue de la Révolution, the Rue de la +Liberté, and the Rue d’Espagne, since called the Rue Simonneau. There +Roland ensconced himself in a corner of the Rue du Greffe and waited. +The captain continued on his way alone. He went down the Rue des Ursules +(for the last seven years called the Rue des Casernes). This was where +the colonel of dragoons lived. He had just gone to bed when the captain +of the gendarmerie entered his room; in two words the latter told all, +and he rose at once and dressed in haste. + +When the colonel of dragoons and the captain of gendarmerie appeared in +the square, a shadow detached itself from the opposite wall and came up +to them. That shadow was Roland. The three men stood talking for about +ten minutes, Roland giving his orders, the other two listening and +approving. + +Then they separated. The colonel returned home. Roland and the captain +followed the Rue de l’Etoile, climbed the steps of the Jacobins, passed +down the Rue du Bourgneuf, and reached the outer road once more. Then +they struck diagonally across to the highroad of Pont-d’Ain. The captain +stopped at the barracks, which were on the way, and Roland continued +alone to the château. + +Twenty minutes later--in order not to awaken Amélie--instead of ringing +the bell he knocked on Michel’s window-blind. Michel opened, and with +one bound Roland, devoured by that fever which took possession of him +whenever he incurred, or merely dreamed of some danger, sprang into the +room. + +He would not have awakened Amélie had he rung, for Amélie was not +asleep. Charlotte had been into town ostensibly to see her father, but +really to take a letter from her mistress to Morgan. She had seen Morgan +and brought back his answer. + +Amélie was reading that answer, which was as follows: + + DEAR LOVE OF MINE--Yes, all goes well on your side, for you are + an angel; but I greatly fear that all may go ill on mine, for I + am the demon. + + I must see you, I must hold you in my arms and press you to my + Heart. I know not what presentiment hangs over me; but I am sad, + sad as death. + + Send Charlotte to-morrow to make sure that Sir John is gone, and + then, if you are certain, make the accustomed signal. Do not be + alarmed; do not talk to me of the snow, or tell me that my + footsteps will be seen. This time it is not I who will go to you, + but you who must come to me. Do you understand? You can safely + walk in the park, and no one will notice your footsteps. + + Put on your warmest shawl and your thickest furs. Then we will + spend an hour in the boat under the willows together, and change + our roles for once. Usually I tell you of my hopes and you tell + me of your fears; but to-morrow, you will tell me of your hopes + and I will tell you of my fears, my darling Amélie. + + Only, be sure to come out as soon as you have made the signal. I + will await it at Montagnac, and from Montagnac to the Reissouse + it will not take a love like mine five minutes to reach you. + + Au revoir, my poor Amélie; had you never met me you would have + been the happiest of the happy. Fatality placed me in your path, + and I have made a martyr of you. + + Your CHARLES. + + P.S.--To-morrow without fail, unless some insurmountable obstacle + prevents. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. IN WHICH MORGAN’S PRESENTIMENTS ARE VERIFIED + +It often happens that the skies are never so calm or so serene as before +a storm. The day was beautiful and still; one of those glorious days of +February when, in spite of the tingling cold of the atmosphere, in spite +of a winding-sheet of snow covering the earth, the sun smiles down upon +mankind with a promise of spring. + +Sir John came at noon to make his farewell visit to Amélie. He had, or +thought he had, her promise, and that satisfied him. His impatience was +altogether personal; but Amélie, in accepting his suit, even though she +relegated the period of her marriage to the vaguest possible future, +had crowned his hopes. He trusted to the First Consul and to Roland’s +friendship for the rest. He therefore returned to Paris to do much of +his courting with Madame de Montrevel, not being able to remain at Bourg +and carry it on with Amélie. + +A quarter of an hour after he had left the Château des Noires-Fontaines, +Charlotte was also on her way to Bourg. At four o’clock she returned, +bringing word that she had seen Sir John with her own eyes getting into +his travelling carriage, and that he had taken the road to Mâcon. + +Amélie could therefore feel perfectly at ease on that score. She +breathed freer. She had tried to inspire Morgan with a peace of mind +which she herself did not share. Since the day that Charlotte had +brought back the news of Roland’s presence at Bourg, she had had a +presentiment, like that of Morgan himself, that they were approaching +some terrible crisis. She knew all that had happened at the Chartreuse +of Seillon. She foresaw the struggle between her brother and her +lover, and, with her mind at rest about her brother, thanks to Morgan’s +protection, she, knowing Roland’s character, trembled for her lover’s +life. + +Moreover, she had heard of the stoppage of the Chambéry mail-coach and +the death of the colonel of Chasseurs. She also knew that her brother +had escaped, but that he had disappeared since that time. She had +received no letter from him herself. This disappearance and silence, to +her who knew her brother so well, was even worse than open and declared +war. + +As for Morgan, she had not seen him since the scene we have narrated, +when she promised to send him arms wherever he might be, in case he were +condemned to death. Amélie therefore awaited this interview, for which +Morgan had asked, with as much impatience as he who had asked it. As +soon as she thought Michel and his son were in bed, she lighted the four +windows with the candles which were to summon Morgan to her. + +Then, following her lover’s injunctions, she wrapped herself in a +cashmere shawl, which Roland had brought her from the battlefield of the +Pyramids, and which he had unwound from the head of a chieftain whom he +had killed. Over this she flung a fur mantle, left Charlotte behind to +keep her informed in case of eventualities, which she trusted would not +be forthcoming, opened the park gate, and hastened toward the river. + +During the day she had gone to the Reissouse and back several times to +trace a line of footsteps, among which the nocturnal ones would not be +noticed. She now descended, if not tranquilly at least boldly, the slope +leading to the river. Once there, she looked about her for the boat +beneath the willows. A man was waiting in it--Morgan. With two strokes +of the oar he reached a spot where Amélie could come to him. The young +girl sprang down and he caught her in his arms. + +The first thing the young girl noticed was the joyous radiance which +illuminated, if we may say so, the face of her lover. + +“Oh!” she cried, “you have something nice to tell me.” “What makes you +think so, dearest?” asked Morgan with his tenderest smile. + +“There is something in your face, my darling Charles, something more +than the mere happiness of seeing me.” + +“You are right,” said Morgan, throwing the boat-chain around a willow +and letting the oars float idly beside the boat. Then, taking Amélie in +his arms, he said, “You were right, my Amélie. Oh! blind weak beings! It +is at the very moment that happiness knocks at our door that we despair +and doubt.” + +“Oh, speak, speak!” said Amélie, “tell me what has happened.” + +“Do you remember, my Amélie, how you answered me the last time we met, +when I asked you to fly and spoke to you of your probable repugnance to +the step?” + +“Yes, I remember, Charles. I said that I was yours, and that, though I +felt that repugnance, I would conquer it for your sake.” + +“And I replied that I had engagements which would prevent my leaving the +country; that I was bound to others, and they to me; that our duty +was to one man to whom we owed absolute obedience--the future King of +France, Louis XVIII.” + +“Yes, you told me that.” + +“Well, we are now released from our pledges, Amélie, not only by the +King, but by our general, Georges Cadoudal.” + +“Oh! my friend, then you will be as other men, only above all others.” + +“I shall become a simple exile, Amélie. There is no hope of our being +included in the Breton or Vendéan amnesty.” + +“Why not?” + +“We are not soldiers, my darling child. We are not even rebels. We are +Companions of Jehu.” + +Amélie sighed. + +“We are bandits, brigands, highwaymen,” said Morgan, dwelling on the +words with evident intention. + +“Hush!” said Amélie, laying her hand on her lover’s lips. “Hush! don’t +let us speak of that. Tell me how it is that your king has released you, +and your general also.” + +“The First Consul wished to see Cadoudal. In the first place, he sent +your brother to him with certain proposals. Cadoudal refused to come +to terms; but, like ourselves, he received orders from Louis XVIII. to +cease hostilities. Coincident with that order came another message +from the First Consul to Cadoudal. It was a safeguard for the Vendéan +general, and an invitation to come to Paris; an overture from one power +to another power. Cadoudal accepted, and is now on his way to Paris. If +it is not peace, it is at least a truce.” + +“Oh, what joy, my Charles!” + +“Don’t rejoice too much, my love.” + +“Why not?” + +“Do you know why they have issued this order to suspend hostilities?” + +“No.” + +“Because M. Fouché is a long-headed man. He realized that, since +he could not defeat us, he must dishonor us. He has organized false +companies of Jehu, which he has set loose in Maine and Anjou, who don’t +stop at the government money, but pillage and rob travellers, and invade +the châteaux and farms by night, and roast the feet of the owners to +make them tell where their treasure is hidden. Well, these men, these +bandits, these _roasters_, have taken our name, and claim to be fighting +for the same principles, so that M. Fouché and his police declare that +we are not only beyond the pale of the law, but beyond that of honor.” + +“Oh!” + +“That is what I wished to tell you before I ask you to fly with me, my +Amélie. In the eyes of France, in the eyes of foreigners, even in the +eyes of the prince we have served, and for whom we have risked the +scaffold, we shall be hereafter, and probably are now, dishonored men +worthy of the scaffold.” + +“Yes; but to me you are my Charles, the man of devoted convictions, the +firm royalist, continuing to struggle for a cause when other men have +abandoned it. To me you are the loyal Baron de Sainte-Hermine, or, if +you like it better, you are to me the noble, courageous, invincible +Morgan.” + +“Ah! that is what I longed to hear, my darling. If you feel thus, you +will not hesitate, in spite of the cloud of infamy that hangs over our +honor, you will not hesitate--I will not say to give yourself to me, for +that you have already done--but to become my wife.” + +“Hesitate! No, not for an instant, not for a second! To do it is the joy +of my soul, the happiness of my life! Your wife? I am your wife in the +sight of God, and God will have granted my every prayer on the day that +he enables me to be your wife before men.” + +Morgan fell on his knees. + +“Then,” he said, “here at your feet, with clasped hands and my whole +heart supplicating, I say to you, Amélie, will you fly with me? Will you +leave France with me? Will you be my wife in other lands?” + +Amélie sprang erect and clasped her head in her hands, as though her +brain were bursting with the force of the blood that rushed to it. +Morgan caught both her hands and looked at her anxiously. + +“Do you hesitate?” he asked in a broken, trembling voice. + +“No, not an instant!” she cried resolutely. “I am yours in the past, in +the present, in the future, here, everywhere. Only the thought convulses +me. It is so unexpected.” + +“Reflect well, Amélie. What I ask of you is to abandon country and +family, all that is dear to you, all that is sacred. If you follow me, +you leave the home where you were born, the mother who nurtured you, the +brother who loves you, and who, perhaps, when he hears that you are the +wife of a brigand, will hate you. He will certainly despise you.” + +As he spoke, Morgan’s eyes were anxiously questioning Amélie’s face. +Over that face a tender smile stole gradually, and then it turned from +heaven to earth, and bent upon Morgan, who was still on his knees before +her. + +“Oh, Charles!” she murmured, in a voice as soft as the clear limpid +river flowing at her feet, “the love that comes direct from the Divine +is very powerful indeed, since, in spite of those dreadful words you +have just uttered, I say to you without hesitation, almost without +regret: Charles, I am here; Charles, I am yours. Where shall we go?” + +“Amélie, our fate is not one to discuss. If we go, if you follow me, it +must be at once. To-morrow we must be beyond the frontier.” + +“How do we go?” + +“I have two horses, ready saddled at Montagnac, one for you, Amélie, and +one for me. I have letters of credit for two hundred thousand francs on +London and Vienna. We will go wherever you prefer.” + +“Wherever you are, Charles. What difference does it make so long as you +are there?” + +“Then come.” + +“Can I have five minutes, Charles; is that too much?” + +“Where are you going?” + +“To say good-by to many things, to fetch your precious letters and the +ivory chaplet used at my first communion. Oh! there are many sacred +cherished souvenirs of my childhood which will remind me over there of +my mother, of France. I will fetch them and return.” + +“Amélie!” + +“What is it?” + +“I cannot leave you. If I part with you an instant now I feel that I +shall lose you forever. Amélie, let me go with you.” + +“Yes, come. What matter if they see your footsteps now? We shall be far +enough away to-morrow. Come!” The young man sprang from the boat and +gave his hand to Amélie to help her out. Then he folded his arm about +her and they walked to the house. + +On the portico Charles stopped. + +“Go on alone,” said he; “memory is a chaste thing. I know that, and I +will not embarrass you by my presence. I will wait here and watch for +you. So long as I know you are close by me I do not fear to lose you. +Go, dear, and come back quickly.” + +Amélie answered with a kiss. Then she ran hastily up to her room, took +the little coffer of carved oak clamped with iron, her treasury, which +contained her lover’s letters from first to last, unfastened from the +mirror above her bed the white and virginal chaplet that hung there; +put into her belt a watch her father had given her, and passed into her +mother’s bedchamber. There she stooped and kissed the pillow where her +mother’s head had lain, knelt before the Christ at the foot of the bed, +began a thanksgiving she dared not finish, changed it to a prayer, and +then suddenly stopped--she fancied she heard Charles calling her. + +She listened and heard her name a second time, uttered in a tone of +agony she could not understand. She quivered, sprang to her feet, and +ran rapidly down the stairs. + +“What is it?” cried Amélie, seizing the young man’s hand. + +“Listen, listen!” said he. + +Amélie strained her ears to catch the sound which seemed to her like +musketry. It came from the direction of Ceyzeriat. + +“Oh!” cried Morgan, “I was right in doubting my happiness to the last. +My friends are attacked. Adieu, Amélie, adieu!” + +“Adieu!” cried Amélie, turning pale. “What, will you leave me?” + +The sound of the firing grew more distinct. + +“Don’t you hear them? They are fighting, and I am not there to fight +with them.” + +Daughter and sister of a soldier, Amélie understood him and she made no +resistance. + +“Go!” she said, letting her hands drop beside her. “You were right, we +are lost.” + +The young man uttered a cry of rage, caught her to his breast, and +pressed her to him as though he would smother her. Then, bounding from +the portico, he rushed in the direction of the firing with the speed of +a deer pursued by hunters. + +“I come! I come, my friends!” he cried. And he disappeared like a shadow +beneath the tall trees of the park. + +Amélie fell upon her knees, her hands stretched toward him without the +strength to recall him, or, if she did so, it was in so faint a voice +that Morgan did not stop or even check his speed to answer her. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. ROLAND’S REVENGE + +It is easy to guess what had happened. Roland had not wasted his time +with the captain of gendarmerie and the colonel of dragoons. They on +their side did not forget that they had their own revenge to take. + +Roland had informed them of the subterranean passage that led from the +church of Brou to the grotto of Ceyzeriat. At nine in the evening the +captain and the eighteen men under his command were to go to the church, +descend into the burial vault of the Dukes of Savoy, and prevent with +their bayonets all communication between the subterranean passage and +the quarry. + +Roland, at the head of twenty men, was to inclose the woods in a +semicircle, drawing in upon it until the two ends should meet at the +grotto of Ceyzeriat. The first movement of the party was to be made at +nine o’clock, in conjunction with the captain of the gendarmerie. + +We have seen, from what Morgan told Amélie, the nature of the present +intentions of the Companions of Jehu. The news brought from Mittau and +from Brittany had put them at ease. Each man felt that he was free, and, +knowing that the struggle had been a hopeless one, he rejoiced in his +liberty. + +There was therefore a full meeting at the grotto of Ceyzeriat, almost +a fête. At twelve o’clock the Companions of Jehu were to separate, and +each one, according to his facilities, was to cross the frontier and +leave France. + +We know how their leader employed his last moments. The others, who had +not the same ties of the heart, were supping together in the broad open +space of the quarry, brilliantly illuminated--a feast of separation and +farewell; for, once out of France, the Vendée and Brittany pacificated, +Condé’s army destroyed, who knew when and where they should meet again +in foreign lands. + +Suddenly the report of a shot fell upon their ears. + +Every man sprang to his feet as if moved by an electric shock. A second +shot, and then through the depths of the quarry rang the cry, quivering +on the wings of the bird of ill-omen, “To arms!” + +To the Companions of Jehu, subjected to all the vicissitudes of life of +an outlaw, the occasional rest they snatched was never that of peace. +Pistols, daggers, carbines, were ever near at hand. At the cry, given +no doubt by the sentinel, each man sprang to his weapons and stood with +panting breast and strained ears, waiting. + +In the midst of the silence a step as rapid as well could be in the +darkness was heard. Then, within the circle of light thrown by the +torches and candles, a man appeared. + +“To arms!” he cried again, “we are attacked!” + +The two shots the Companions of Jehu had heard were from the +double-barrelled gun of the sentry. It was he who now appeared, his +smoking gun in his hand. + +“Where is Morgan?” cried twenty voices. + +“Absent,” replied Montbar; “consequently I command. Put out the lights +and retreat to the church. A fight is useless now. It would only be +waste of blood.” + +He was obeyed with an alacrity that showed that every one appreciated +the danger. The little company drew together in the darkness. + +Montbar, who knew the windings of the subterranean passage almost as +well as Morgan, directed the troop, and, followed by his companions, he +plunged into the heart of the quarry. Suddenly, as he neared the gate of +the passage, he fancied he heard an order given in a low tone not fifty +feet away, then a sound like the cocking of guns. He stretched out both +arms and muttered in a low voice: + +“Halt!” At the same instant came the command, this time perfectly +audible: “Fire!” + +It was hardly given before the cavern was lighted with a glare, followed +by a frightful volley. Ten carbines had been discharged at once into the +narrow passage. By their light Montbar and his companions recognized the +uniform of the gendarmes. + +“Fire!” cried Montbar in turn. + +Seven or eight shots answered the command. Again the darkness was +illuminated. Two of the Companions of Jehu lay upon the ground, one +killed outright, the other mortally wounded. + +“Our retreat is cut off, my friends,” cried Montbar. “To the +right-about! If we have a chance, it is through the forest.” + +The movement was executed with the precision of a military manoeuvre. +Montbar, again at the head of his companions, retraced his steps. At +that moment the gendarmes fired again. But no one replied. Those who had +discharged their guns reloaded them. Those who had not, reserved their +fire for the real struggle which was to come. One or two sighs alone +told that the last volley of the gendarmes had not been without result. + +At the end of five minutes Montbar stopped. The little party had reached +the open space of the quarry. + +“Are your pistols and guns all loaded?” he asked. + +“Yes,” answered a dozen voices. + +“Remember the order for those who fall into the hands of the police. We +belong to the army of M. de Teyssonnet, and we are here to recruit +men for the royalist cause. If they talk to us of mail-coaches and +diligences, we don’t know what they mean.” + +“Agreed.” + +“In either case it will be death. We know that well enough; but the +death of a soldier is better than that of thieves--the volley of a +platoon rather than the guillotine.” + +“Yes, yes,” cried a mocking voice, “we know what that is--Vive la +fusillade!” + +“Forward, friends!” said Montbar, “and let us sell our lives for what +they are worth; that is to say, as dearly as possible.” + +“Forward!” they all cried. + +Then, as rapidly as was possible in the profound darkness, the little +troop resumed its march, still under the guidance of Montbar. As they +advanced, the leader noticed a smell of smoke which alarmed him. At the +same time gleams of light began to flicker on the granite walls at the +angles of the path, showing that something strange was happening at the +opening of the grotto. + +“I believe those scoundrels are smoking us out,” exclaimed Montbar. + +“I fear so,” replied Adler. + +“They think we are foxes.” + +“Oh!” replied the same voice, “they shall know by our claws that we are +lions.” + +The smoke became thicker and thicker, the light more and more vivid. + +They turned the last corner. A pile of dried wood had been lighted in +the quarry about fifty feet from the entrance, not for the smoke, but +for the light it gave. By the blaze of that savage flame the weapons of +the dragoons could be seen gleaming at the entrance of the grotto. + +Ten steps in advance of the men stood an officer, waiting. He was +leaning on his carbine, not only exposed to attack, but apparently +courting it. It was Roland. He was easily recognized. He had flung his +cap away, his head was bare, and the fitful light of the flames played +upon his features. But that which should have cost him his life saved +him. Montbar recognized him and stepped backward. + +“Roland de Montrevel!” he said. “Remember Morgan’s injunction.” + +“Yes,” replied the other Companions, in muffled tones. + +“And now,” said Montbar, “let us die, but dearly!” + +And he sprang forward into the space illuminated by the fire, and +discharged one barrel of his gun at the dragoons, who replied with a +volley. + +It would be impossible to relate all that followed. The grotto was +filled with smoke, which the flame of each weapon pierced like a flash +of lightning. The two bands clinched and fought hand to hand, pistols +and daggers serving them in turn. At the noise of the struggle, the +gendarmes poured in from the rear--few more demons added to this fight +of devils--but the groups of friends and enemies were so confused they +dared not fire. They struggled in the red and lurid atmosphere, fell +down and rose again; a roar of rage was heard, then a cry of agony--the +death sigh of a man. The survivor sought another man, and the struggle +was renewed. + +This work of death lasted fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. At the end +of those twenty minutes twenty corpses could be counted in the grotto of +Ceyzeriat. Thirteen were those of the gendarmes and the dragoons, +nine belonged to the Companions of Jehu. Five of the latter were still +living; overwhelmed by numbers, crippled by wounds, they were taken +alive. The gendarmes and the dragoons, twenty-five in number, surrounded +them. + +The captain of gendarmes had his arm shattered, the colonel of dragoons +was wounded in the thigh. Roland alone, covered with blood that was +not his own, had not a scratch. Two of the prisoners were so grievously +wounded that it was impossible for them to walk, and the soldiers were +obliged to carry them on an improvised litter. Torches were lighted, and +the whole troop, with the prisoners, took the road to the town. + +As they were leaving the forest to branch into the high-road, the gallop +of a horse was heard. It came on rapidly. “Go on,” said Roland; “I will +stay here and find out what this means.” + +It was a rider, who, as we have said, was advancing at full speed. + +“Who goes there?” cried Roland, raising his carbine when the rider was +about twenty paces from him. + +“One more prisoner, Monsieur de Montrevel,” replied the rider, “I could +not be in at the fight, but I will at least go to the scaffold. Where +are my friends?” + +“There, sir,” replied Roland, who had recognized, not the face, but the +voice of the rider, a voice which he now heard for the third time. As he +spoke, he pointed to the little group in the centre of the soldiers who +were making their way along the road from Ceyzeriat to Bourg. + +“I am glad to see that no harm has befallen you, M. de Montrevel,” + said the young man, with great courtesy; “I assure you it gives me +much happiness.” And spurring his horse, he was beside the soldiers and +gendarmes in a few strides. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, springing +from his horse, “I claim a place among my three friends, the Vicomte de +Jayat, the Comte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier.” + +The three prisoners gave a cry of admiration and held out their hands to +their friend. The two wounded men lifted themselves up on their litters, +and murmured: “Well done, Sainte-Hermine, well done!” + +“I do believe, God help me!” cried Roland, “that those brigands will +have the nobler side of the affair!” + + + + +CHAPTER L. CADOUDAL AT THE TUILERIES + +The day but one after the events which we have just related took place, +two men were walking side by side up and down the grand salon of the +Tuileries. They were talking eagerly, accompanying their words with +hasty and animated gestures. These men were the First Consul, Bonaparte, +and Cadoudal. + +Cadoudal, impelled by the misery that might be entailed by a prolonged +struggle in Brittany, had just signed a peace with Brune. It was after +this signing of the peace that he had released the Companions of Jehu +from their obligations. Unhappily, this release had reached them, as we +have seen, twenty-four hours too late. + +When treating with Brune, Cadoudal had asked nothing for himself +save the liberty to go immediately to England. But Brune had been so +insistent, that he had consented to an interview with the First Consul. +He had, in consequence, come to Paris. The very morning of his arrival +he went to the Tuileries, sent in his name, and had been received. It +was Rapp who, in Roland’s absence, introduced him. As the aide-de-camp +withdrew, he left both doors open, so as to see everything from +Bourrienne’s room, and to be able to go to the assistance of the First +Consul if necessary. + +But Bonaparte, who perfectly understood Rapp’s motive, closed the door. +Then, returning hastily to Cadoudal’s side, he said: “Ah! so it is you +at last! One of your enemies, my aide-de-camp, Roland de Montrevel, has +told me fine things of you.” + +“That does not surprise me,” replied Cadoudal. “During the short time I +saw M. de Montrevel, I recognized in him a most chivalrous nature.” + +“Yes; and that touched you?” asked the First Consul, fixing his falcon +eye on the royalist chief. “Listen, Georges. I need energetic men like +you to accomplish the work I have undertaken. Will you be one of them? +I have already offered you the rank of colonel, but you are worth more +than that. I now offer you the rank of general of division.” + +“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, citizen First Consul,” replied +Cadoudal; “but you would despise me if I accepted.” + +“Why so?” queried Bonaparte, hastily. + +“Because I have pledged myself to the House of Bourbon; and I shall +remain faithful to it under all circumstances.” + +“Let us discuss the matter,” resumed the First Consul. “Is there no way +to bind you?” + +“General,” replied the royalist leader, “may I be permitted to repeat to +you what has been said to me?” + +“Why not?” + +“Because it touches upon the deepest political interests.” + +“Pooh! some nonsense,” said the First Consul, smiling uneasily. + +Cadoudal stopped short and looked fixedly at his companion. + +“It is said that an agreement was made between you and Commodore Sidney +Smith at Alexandria, the purport of which was to allow you to return to +France on the condition, accepted by you, of restoring the throne to our +former kings.” + +Bonaparte burst out laughing. + +“How astonishing you are, you plebeians!” he said, “with your love for +your former kings! Suppose that I did re-establish the throne (a thing, +I assure you, I have not the smallest desire to do), what return will +you get, you who have shed your blood for the cause? Not even the +confirmation of the rank you have won in it, colonel. Have you ever +known in the royalist ranks a colonel who was not a noble? Did you ever +hear of any man rising by his merits into that class of people? Whereas +with me, Georges, you can attain to what you will. The higher I raise +myself, the higher I shall raise those who surround me. As for seeing me +play the part of Monk, dismiss that from your mind. Monk lived in an +age in which the prejudices we fought and overthrew in 1789 were in full +force. Had Monk wished to make himself king, he could not have done +so. Dictator? No! It needed a Cromwell for that! Richard could not +have maintained himself. It is true that he was the true son of a great +man--in other words a fool. If I had wished to make myself king, there +was nothing to hinder me; and if ever the wish takes me there will be +nothing to hinder. Now, if you have an answer to that, give it.” + +“You tell me, citizen First Consul, that the situation in France in 1800 +is not the same as England in 1660. Charles I. was beheaded in 1649, +Louis XVI. in 1793. Eleven years elapsed in England between the death +of the king and the restoration of his son. Seven years have already +elapsed in France since the death of Louis XVI. Will you tell me +that the English revolution was a religious one, whereas the French +revolution was a political one? To that I reply that a charter is as +easy to make as an abjuration.” + +Bonaparte smiled. + +“No,” he said, “I should not tell you that. I should say to you simply +this: that Cromwell was fifty years old when Charles I. died. I was +twenty-four at the death of Louis XVI. Cromwell died at the age of +fifty-nine. In ten years’ time he was able to undertake much, but to +accomplish little. Besides, his reform was a total one--a vast political +reform by the substitution of a republican government for a monarchical +one. Well, grant that I live to be Cromwell’s age, fifty-nine; that is +not too much to expect; I shall still have twenty years, just the +double of Cromwell. And remark, I change nothing, I progress; I do +not overthrow, I build up. Suppose that Cæsar, at thirty years of age, +instead of being merely the first roué of Rome, had been its greatest +citizen; suppose his campaign in Gaul had been made; that his campaign +in Egypt was over, his campaign in Spain happily concluded; suppose that +he was thirty years old instead of fifty--don’t you think he would have +been both Cæsar and Augustus?” + +“Yes, unless he found Brutus, Cassius, and Casca on his path.” + +“So,” said Bonaparte, sadly, “my enemies are reckoning on assassination, +are they? In that case the thing is easy, and you, my enemy, have the +first chance. What hinders you at this moment, if you feel like Brutus, +from striking me as he struck Cæsar? I am alone with you, the doors +are shut; and you would have the time to finish me before any one could +reach you.” + +Cadoudal made a step backward. + +“No,” said he, “we do not count upon assassination, and I think our +extremity must be great indeed before any of us would become a murderer; +but there are the chances of war. A single reverse would destroy your +prestige. One defeat would bring the enemy to the heart of France. The +camp-fires of the Austrians can already be seen from the frontiers +of Provence. A cannon-ball may take off your head, as it did that of +Marshal Berwick, and then what becomes of France? You have no children, +and your brothers--” + +“Oh!” cried Bonaparte, “from that point of view you are right enough; +but, if you don’t believe in Providence, I do. I believe that nothing +happens by chance. I believe that when, on the 15th of August, 1769 (one +year, day for day, after Louis XV. issued the decree reuniting Corsica +to France), a child was born in Ajaccio, destined to bring about the +13th Vendémiaire and the 18th Brumaire, and that Providence had great +designs, mighty projects, in view for that child. I am that child. If +I have a mission, I have nothing to fear. My mission is a buckler. If I +have no mission, if I am mistaken, if, instead of living the twenty-five +or thirty years I need to accomplish my work, I am stabbed to the heart +like Cæsar, or knocked over by a cannon-ball like Berwick, Providence +will have had its reasons for acting so, and on Providence will devolve +the duty of providing for France. We spoke just now of Cæsar. When Rome +followed his body, mourning, and burned the houses of his murderers, +when the Eternal City turned its eyes to the four quarters of the globe, +asking whence would come the genius to stay her civil wars, when she +trembled at the sight of drunken Antony and treacherous Lepidus, she +never thought of the pupil of Apollonius, the nephew of Cæsar, the young +Octavius. Who then remembered that son of the Velletri banker, whitened +with the flour of his ancestors? No one; not even the far-sighted +Cicero. ‘_Orandum et tollendum_,’ he said. Well, that lad fooled all +the graybeards in the Senate, and reigned almost as long as Louis XIV. +Georges, Georges! don’t struggle against the Providence which created +me, or that Providence will destroy you.” + +“Then I shall be destroyed while following the path and the religion of +my fathers,” replied Cadoudal, bowing; “and I hope that God will pardon +my error, which will be that of a fervent Christian and a faithful son.” + +Bonaparte laid his hands on the shoulders of the young leader. + +“So be it,” said he; “but at least remain neuter. Leave events to +complete themselves. Watch the thrones as they topple, the crowns as +they fall. Usually spectators pay for a show; I will pay you to look +on.” + +“And what will you pay me for that, citizen First Consul?” asked +Cadoudal, laughing. + +“One hundred thousand francs a year,” replied Bonaparte. + +“If you would give a hundred thousand francs to one poor rebel leader,” + said Cadoudal, “what would you give to the prince for whom he fought?” + +“Nothing, sir. I pay you for your courage, not for the principle for +which you fought. I prove to you that I, man of my own works, judge men +solely by theirs. Accept, Georges, I beg of you.” + +“And suppose I refuse?” + +“You will do wrong.” + +“Will I still be free to depart when I please?” + +Bonaparte went to the door and opened it. + +“The aide-de-camp on duty,” he said. + +He waited, expecting to see Rapp. Roland appeared. + +“Ah, is it you!” he cried. Then, turning to Cadoudal, he said: “Colonel, +I do not need to present to you my aide-de-camp, M. Roland de Montrevel. +He is already one of your acquaintances. Roland, tell the colonel that +he is as free in Paris as you were in his camp at Muzillac, and that if +he wishes a passport for any country in the world, Fouché has orders to +give it to him.” + +“Your word suffices, citizen First Consul,” replied Cadoudal, bowing. “I +leave to-night.” + +“May I ask where you are going?” + +“To London, general.” + +“So much the better.” + +“Why so much the better?” + +“Because there you will be near the men for whom you have fought.” + +“And then?” + +“Then, when you have seen them--” + +“What?” + +“You will compare them with those against whom you have fought. But, +once out of France, colonel--” + +Bonaparte paused. + +“I am waiting,” said Cadoudal. + +“Do not return without warning me, or, if you do, do not be surprised if +I treat you as an enemy.” + +“That would be an honor, general. By treating me so you will show that +you consider me a man to be feared.” + +So saying, Georges bowed to the First Consul, and retired. + +“Well, general,” asked Roland, after the door had closed on the Breton +leader, “is he the man I represented him to be?” + +“Yes,” responded Bonaparte, thoughtfully; “only he sees things awry. But +the exaggeration of his ideas arises from noble sentiments, which must +give him great influence over his own people.” Then he added, in a +low voice, “But we must make an end of him. And now what have you been +doing, Roland?” + +“Making an end of my work,” replied Roland. + +“Ah, ha! Then the Companions of Jehu--” + +“No longer exist, general. Three-fourths are dead, the rest prisoners.” + +“And you are safe and sound?” + +“Don’t speak of it, general. I do verily believe I have a compact with +the devil.” + +That same evening Cadoudal, as he said, left Paris for England. On +receiving the news that the Breton leader was in London, Louis XVIII. +wrote him the following letter: + + I have learned with the greatest satisfaction, general, that + you have at last _escaped_ from the bands of the tyrant who + misconceived you so far as to offer you service under him. I + deplore the unhappy circumstances which obliged you to treat + with him; but I did not feel the slightest uneasiness; the + heart of my faithful Bretons, and yours in particular, are + too well known to me. To-day you are free, you are near my + brother, all my hopes revive. I need not say more to such a + Frenchman as you. + + LOUIS. + +To this letter were added a lieutenant-general’s commission and the +grand cordon of Saint-Louis. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. THE ARMY OF THE RESERVES + +The First Consul had reached the point he desired. The Companions of +Jehu were destroyed and the Vendée was pacificated. + +When demanding peace from England he had hoped for war. He understood +very well that, born of war, he could exist only by war. He seemed to +foresee that a poet would arise and call him “The Giant of War.” + +But war--what war? Where should he wage it? An article of the +constitution of the year VIII. forbade the First Consul to command the +armies in person, or to leave France. + +In all constitutions there is inevitably some absurd provision. Happy +the constitutions that have but one! The First Consul found a means to +evade this particular absurdity. + +He established a camp at Dijon. The army which occupied this camp was +called the Army of the Reserves. The force withdrawn from Brittany and +the Vendée, some thirty thousand men in all, formed the nucleus of +this army. Twenty thousand conscripts were incorporated in it; General +Berthier was appointed commander-in-chief. The plan which Bonaparte +explained to Roland in his study one day was still working in his mind. +He expected to recover Italy by a single battle, but that battle must be +a great victory. + +Moreau, as a reward for his co-operation on the 18th Brumaire, received +the command he had so much desired. He was made commander-in-chief of +the Army of the Rhine, with eighty thousand men under him. Augereau, +with twenty-five thousand more, was on the Dutch frontier. And Masséna, +commanding the Army of Italy, had withdrawn to the country about Genoa, +where he was tenaciously maintaining himself against the land forces of +the Austrian General Ott, and the British fleet under Admiral Keith. + +While the latter movements were taking place in Italy, Moreau had +assumed the offensive on the Rhine, and defeated the enemy at Stockach +and Moeskirch. A single victory was to furnish an excuse to put the Army +of Reserves under waiting orders. Two victories would leave no doubt +as to the necessity of co-operation. Only, how was this army to be +transported to Italy? + +Bonaparte’s first thought was to march up the Valais and to cross the +Simplon. He would thus turn Piedmont and enter Milan. But the operation +was a long one, and must be done overtly. Bonaparte renounced it. His +plan was to surprise the Austrians and to appear with his whole army on +the plains of Piedmont before it was even suspected that he had +crossed the Alps. He therefore decided to make the passage of the +Great Saint-Bernard. It was for this purpose that he had sent the fifty +thousand francs, seized by the Companions of Jehu, to the monks whose +monastery crowns that mountain. Another fifty thousand had been sent +since, which had reached their destination safely. By the help of this +money the monastery was to be amply provisioned for an army of fifty +thousand men halting there for a day. + +Consequently, toward the end of April the whole of the artillery was +advanced to Lauzanne, Villeneuve, Martigny, and Saint-Pierre. General +Marmont, commanding the artillery, had already been sent forward to +find a means of transporting cannon over the Alps. It was almost an +impracticable thing to do; and yet it must be achieved. No precedent +existed as a guide. Hannibal with his elephants, Numidians, and Gauls; +Charlemagne with his Franks, had no such obstacles to surmount. + +During the campaign in Italy in 1796, the army had not crossed the Alps, +but turned them, descending from Nice to Cerasco by the Corniche road. +This time a truly titanic work was undertaken. + +In the first place, was the mountain unoccupied? The mountain without +the Austrians was in itself difficult enough to conquer! Lannes was +despatched like a forlorn hope with a whole division. He crossed +the peak of the Saint-Bernard without baggage or artillery, and took +possession of Châtillon. The Austrians had left no troops in Piedmont, +except the cavalry in barracks and a few posts of observation. There +were no obstacles to contend with except those of nature. Operations +were begun at once. + +Sledges had been made to transport the guns; but narrow as they might +be, they were still too wide for the road. Some other means must be +devised. The trunks of pines were hollowed and the guns inserted. At one +end was a rope to pull them, at the other a tiller to guide them. Twenty +grenadiers took the cables. Twenty others carried the baggage of those +who drew them. An artilleryman commanded each detachment with absolute +power, if need be, over life and death. The iron mass in such a case was +far more precious than the flesh of men. + +Before leaving each man received a pair of new shoes and twenty +biscuits. Each put on his shoes and hung his biscuits around his neck. +The First Consul, stationed at the foot of the mountain, gave to each +cannon detachment the word to start. + +A man must traverse the same roads as a tourist, on foot or on +mule-back, he must plunge his eye to the depth of the precipice, before +he can have any idea of what this crossing was. Up, always up those +beetling slopes, by narrow paths, on jagged stones, which cut the shoes +first, the feet next! + +From time to time they stopped, drew breath, and then on again without a +murmur. The ice-belt was reached. Before attempting it the men received +new shoes; those of the morning were in shreds. A biscuit was eaten, a +drop of brandy from the canteen was swallowed, and on they went. No man +knew whither he was climbing. Some asked how many more days it would +take; others if they might stop for a moment at the moon. At last they +came to the eternal snows. There the toil was less severe. The gun-logs +slid upon the snow, and they went faster. + +One fact will show the measure of power given to the artilleryman who +commanded each gun. + +General Chamberlhac was passing. He thought the advance not fast enough. +Wishing to hasten it, he spoke to an artilleryman in a tone of command. + +“You are not in command here,” replied the man; “I am. I am responsible +for the gun; I direct its march. Pass on.” + +The general approached the artilleryman as if to take him by the throat. +But the man stepped back, saying: “General, don’t touch me, or I will +send you to the bottom of that precipice with a blow of this tiller.” + +After unheard-of toil they reached the foot of the last rise, at the +summit of which stands the convent. There they found traces of Lannes’ +division. As the slope was very steep, the soldiers had cut a sort of +stairway in the ice. The men now scaled it. The fathers of Saint-Bernard +were awaiting them on the summit. As each gun came up the men were taken +by squads into the hospice. Tables were set along the passage with bread +and Gruyere cheese and wine. + +When the soldiers left the convent they pressed the hands of the monks +and embraced the dogs. + +The descent at first seemed easier than the ascent, and the officers +declared it was their turn to drag the guns. But now the cannon +outstripped the teams, and some were dragged down faster than they +wished. General Lannes and his division were still in the advance. He +had reached the valley before the rest of the army, entered the Aosta, +and received his orders to march upon Ivrea, at the entrance to the +plains of Piedmont. There, however, he encountered an obstacle which no +one had foreseen. + +The fortress of Bard is situated about twenty-four miles from Aosta. On +the road to Ivrea, a little behind the village, a small hill closes the +valley almost hermetically. The river Dora flows between this hill and +the mountain on the right. The river, or rather, the torrent, fills +the whole space. The mountain on the left presents very much the same +aspect; only, instead of the river, it is the highroad which passes +between the hill and the mountain. It is there that the fortress of Bard +stands. It is built on the summit of the hill, and extends down one side +of it to the highroad. + +How was it that no one had thought of this obstacle which was well nigh +insurmountable? There was no way to assault it from the bottom of the +valley, and it was impossible to scale the rocks above it. + +Yet, by dint of searching, they did find a path that they were able to +level sufficiently for the cavalry and the infantry to pass; but they +tried in vain to get the artillery over it, although they took the guns +apart as at the Mont Saint-Bernard. + +Bonaparte ordered two cannon levelled on the road, and opened fire on +the fortress; but it was soon evident that these guns made no effect. +Moreover, a cannon ball from the fortress struck one of the two cannon +and shattered it. The First Consul then ordered an assault by storm. + +Columns formed in the village, and armed with ladders dashed up at a run +and reached the fortress at several points; but to insure success, not +only celerity, but silence was needed. It ought to have been a surprise; +but Colonel Dufour, who commanded one column, ordered the advance to be +sounded, and marched boldly to the assault. The column was repulsed, and +the colonel received a ball through his body. + +Then a company of picked marksmen were chosen. They were supplied +with provisions and cartridges, and crept between the rocks until they +reached a ledge, from which they commanded the fort. From this ledge +they discovered another, not quite so high, but which also overlooked +the fort. To this they contrived, with extreme difficulty, to hoist two +guns, with which they formed a battery. These two pieces on one side, +and the sharpshooters on the other, began to make the enemy uneasy. + +In the meantime, General Marmont proposed a plan to the First Consul, +so bold that the enemy could not suspect it. It was nothing less than +to move the artillery along the highroad, notwithstanding that the enemy +could rake it. + +Manure and wool from the mattresses were found in the villages and +were spread upon the road. The wheels and chains, and all the jingling +portions of the gun-carriages were swathed in hay. The horses belonging +to the guns and caissons were taken out, and fifty men supplied their +places. This latter precaution had two advantages: first, the horses +might neigh, while the men had every interest in keeping dead silence; +secondly, a dead horse will stop a whole convoy, whereas a dead man, not +being fastened to the traces, can be pushed aside and his place taken +without even stopping the march. An officer and a subordinate officer +of artillery were placed in charge of each carriage or caisson, with +the promise of six hundred francs for the transport of each gun or wagon +beyond the range of the fort. + +General Marmont, who had proposed the plan, superintended the first +operation himself. Happily, a storm prevailed and made the night +extremely dark. The first six cannon and the first six caissons passed +without a single shot from the fortress. The men returned, picking their +steps silently, one after another, in single file; but this time the +enemy must have heard some noise, and, wishing to knew the cause, threw +hand-grenades. Fortunately, they fell beyond the road. + +Why should these men, who had once passed, return? Merely to get their +muskets and knapsacks. This might have been avoided had they been +stowed on the caissons; but no one can think of everything, and, as it +happened, no one in the fort at Bard had thought at all. + +As soon as the possibility of the passage was demonstrated, the +transport of the artillery became a duty like any other; only, now +that the enemy were warned, it was more dangerous. The fort resembled a +volcano with its belching flames and smoke; but, owing to the vertical +direction in which it was forced to fire, it made more noise than it did +harm. Five or six men were killed to each wagon; that is to say, a tenth +of each fifty; but the cannon once safely past, the fate of the campaign +was secure. + +Later it was discovered that the pass of the Little Saint-Bernard would +have been practicable, and that the whole artillery could have crossed +it without dismounting a gun or losing a man. It is true, however, that +the feat would have been less glorious because less difficult. + +The army was now in the fertile plains of Piedmont. It was reinforced on +the Ticino by a corps of twelve thousand men detached from the Army of +the Rhine by Moreau, who, after the two victories he had just won, could +afford to lend this contingent to the Army of Italy. He had sent them +by the Saint-Gothard. Thus strengthened, the First Consul entered Milan +without striking a blow. + +By the bye, how came the First Consul, who, according to a provision +of the constitution of the year VIII., could not assume command of the +army, nor yet leave France, to be where he was? We shall now tell you. + +The evening before the day on which he left Paris--that is to say, +the 15th of May, or, according to the calendars of the time, the 15th +Floreal--he had sent for the two other consuls and all the ministers, +saying to Lucien: “Prepare a circular letter to the prefects to-morrow.” + Then he said to Fouché: “You will publish the circular in all the +newspapers. You are to say that I have left for Dijon to inspect the +Army of the Reserves. Add, but without affirming it positively, that +I may go as far as Geneva. In any case, let it be well impressed on +everyone that I shall not be absent more than a fortnight. If anything +unusual happens I shall return like a thunderclap. I commend to your +keeping all the great interests of France; and I hope you will soon hear +of me by way of Vienna and London.” + +On the 6th he started. From that moment his strong determination was to +make his way to the plains of Piedmont, and there to fight a decisive +battle. Then, as he never doubted that he would conquer, he would +answer, like Scipio, to those who accused him of violating the +constitution: “On such a day, at such an hour, I fought the +Carthagenians; let us go to the capitol, and render thanks to the gods.” + +Leaving France on the 6th of May, the First Consul was encamped with his +whole army between Casale and Turin on the 26th of the same month. It +had rained the whole day; but, as often happens in Italy, toward evening +the sky had cleared, changing in a few moments from murky darkness to +loveliest azure, and the stars came sparkling out. + +The First Consul signed to Roland to follow him, and together they +issued from the little town of Chivasso and walked along the banks of +the river. About a hundred yards beyond the last house a tree, blown +down by the wind, offered a seat to the pedestrians. Bonaparte sat down +and signed to Roland to join him. He apparently had something to say, +some confidence to make to his young aide-de-camp. + +Both were silent for a time, and then Bonaparte said: “Roland, do you +remember a conversation we had together at the Luxembourg?” + +“General,” said Roland, laughing, “we had a good many conversations +together at the Luxembourg; in one of which you told me we were to cross +into Italy in the spring, and fight General Mélas at Torre di Gallifolo +or San-Guiliano. Does that still hold good?” + +“Yes; but that is not the conversation I mean.” + +“What was it, general?” + +“The day we talked of marriage.” + +“Ah, yes! My sister’s marriage. That has probably taken place by this +time, general.” + +“I don’t mean your sister’s marriage; I mean yours.” + +“Good!” said Roland, with a bitter smile. “I thought that had been +disposed of, general.” And he made a motion as if to rise. Bonaparte +caught him by the arm. + +“Do you know whom I meant you to marry at that time, Roland?” he said, +with a gravity that showed he was determined to be heard. + +“No, general.” + +“Well, my sister Caroline.” + +“Your sister?” + +“Yes. Does that astonish you?” + +“I had no idea you had ever thought of doing me that honor.” + +“Either you are ungrateful, Roland, or you are saying what you do not +mean. You know that I love you.” + +“Oh! my general!” + +He took the First Consul’s two hands and pressed them with the deepest +gratitude. + +“Yes, I should have liked you for my brother-in-law.” + +“Your sister and Murat love each other, general,” said Roland. “It is +much better that the plan should have gone no further. Besides,” he +added, in muffled tones, “I thought I told you that I did not care to +marry.” + +Bonaparte smiled. “Why don’t you say offhand that you intend becoming a +Trappist father?” + +“Faith, general, re-establish the cloisters and remove these +opportunities for me to try to get myself killed, which, thank God! are +not lacking, and you have guessed what my end will be.” + +“Are you in love? Is this the result of some woman’s faithlessness?” + +“Good!” said Roland, “so you think I am in love! That is the last +straw!” + +“Do you complain of my affection when I wished to marry you to my +sister?” + +“But the thing is impossible now! Your three sisters are all +married--one to General Leduc, one to Prince Bacciocchi, and the third +to Murat.” + +“In short,” said Bonaparte, laughing, “you feel easy and settled in your +mind. You think yourself rid of my alliance.” + +“Oh, general!” exclaimed Roland. + +“You are not ambitious, it seems?” + +“General, let me love you for all the good you have done to me, and not +for what you seek to do.” + +“But suppose it is for my own interests that I seek to bind you to me, +not by the ties of friendship alone, but also by those of matrimony. +Suppose I say to you: In my plans for the future I cannot rely upon my +two brothers, whereas I could never for one instant doubt you?” + +“In heart, yes, you are right.” + +“In all respects! What can I do with Leclerc--a commonplace man; +with Bacciocchi--who is not French; with Murat--lion-hearted and +feather-brained? And yet some day I shall have to make princes of them +because they are my sisters’ husbands. When that time comes, what can I +make of you?” + +“A marshal of France.” + +“And afterward?” + +“Afterward? I should say that was enough.” + +“And then you would be one of twelve, and not a unity of your own.” + +“Let me be simply your friend. Let me always thresh out the truth with +you, and then I’ll warrant I shall be out of the crowd.” + +“That may be enough for you, Roland, but it is not enough for me,” + persisted Bonaparte. Then, as Roland said nothing, he continued, “I have +no more sisters, Roland, it is true; but I have dreamed that you might +be something more to me than a brother.” Then, as Roland still said +nothing, he went on: “I know a young girl, Roland, a charming child, +whom I love as a daughter. She is just seventeen. You are twenty-six, +and a brigadier-general _de facto_. Before the end of the campaign you +will be general of division. Well, Roland, when the campaign is over, we +will return together to Paris, and you shall marry her--” + +“General,” interrupted Roland, “I think I see Bourrienne looking for +you.” + +And in fact the First Consul’s secretary was already within two feet of +the friends. + +“Is that you, Bourrienne?” asked Bonaparte, somewhat impatiently. + +“Yes, general, a courier from France.” + +“Ah!” + +“And a letter from Madame Bonaparte.” + +“Good!” said the First Consul, rising eagerly, “give it to me.” And he +almost snatched the letter from Bourrienne’s hand. + +“And for me?” asked Roland. “Nothing for me?” + +“Nothing.” + +“That is strange,” said the young man, pensively. + +The moon had risen, and by its clear, beautiful light Bonaparte was +able to read his letters. Through the first two pages his face expressed +perfect serenity. Bonaparte adored his wife; the letters published +by Queen Hortense bear witness to that fact. Roland watched these +expressions of the soul on his general’s face. But toward the close +of the letter Bonaparte’s face clouded; he frowned and cast a furtive +glance at Roland. + +“Ah!” exclaimed the young man, “it seems there is something about me in +the letter.” + +Bonaparte did not answer and continued to read. When he had finished, +he folded the letter and put it in the side pocket of his coat. Then, +turning to Bourrienne, he said: “Very well, we will return. I shall +probably have to despatch a courier. Go mend some pens while you are +waiting for me.” + +Bourrienne bowed and returned to Chivasso. + +Bonaparte then went up to Roland and laid his hand on his shoulder, +saying: “I have no luck with the marriages I attempt to make.” + +“How so?” asked Roland. + +“Your sister’s marriage is off.” + +“Has she refused?” + +“No; she has not.” + +“She has not? Can it be Sir John?” + +“Yes.” + +“Refused to marry my sister after asking her of me, of my mother, of +you, of herself?” + +“Come, don’t begin to get angry. Try to see that there is some mystery +in all this.” + +“I don’t see any mystery, I see an insult!” + +“Ah! there you are, Roland. That explains why your mother and sister did +not write to you. But Josephine thought the matter so serious that you +ought to be informed. She writes me this news and asks me to tell you of +it if I think best. You see I have not hesitated.” + +“I thank you sincerely, general. Does Lord Tanlay give any reason for +this refusal?” + +“A reason that is no reason.” + +“What is it?” + +“It can’t be the true one.” + +“But what is it?” + +“It is only necessary to look at the man and to talk with him for five +minutes to understand that.” + +“But, general, what reason does he give for breaking his word?” + +“That your sister is not as rich as he thought she was.” + +Roland burst into that nervous laugh which was a sign with him of +violent agitation. + +“Ha!” said he, “that was the very first thing I told him.” + +“What did you tell him?” + +“That my sister hadn’t a penny. How can the children of republican +generals be rich?” + +“And what did he answer?” + +“That he was rich enough for two.” + +“You see, therefore, that that was not the real reason for his refusal.” + +“And it is your opinion that one of your aides-de-camp can receive such +an insult, and not demand satisfaction?” + +“In such situations the person who feels affronted must judge of the +matter for himself, my dear Roland.” + +“General, how many days do you think it will be before we have a +decisive action?” + +Bonaparte calculated. + +“Not less than fifteen days, or three weeks,” he answered. + +“Then, general, I ask you for a furlough of fifteen days.” + +“On one condition.” + +“What is it?” + +“That you will first go to Bourg and ask your sister from which side the +refusal came.” + +“That is my intention.” + +“In that case you have not a moment to lose.” + +“You see I lose none,” said the young man, already on his way to the +village. + +“One moment,” said Bonaparte; “you will take my despatches to Paris, +won’t you?” + +“Ah! I see; I am the courier you spoke of just now to Bourrienne.” + +“Precisely.” + +“Come then.” + +“Wait one moment. The young men you arrested--” + +“The Companions of Jehu?” + +“Yes. Well, it seems that they were all of noble families. They were +fanatics rather than criminals. It appears that your mother has been +made the victim of some judicial trick or other in testifying at their +trial and has called their conviction.” + +“Possibly. My mother was in the coach stopped by them, as you know, and +saw the face of their leader.” + +“Well, your mother implores me, through Josephine, to pardon those poor +madmen--that is the very word she uses. They have appealed their case. +You will get there before the appeal can be rejected, and, if you think +it desirable, tell the minister of Justice for me to suspend matters. +After you get back we can see what is best to be done.” + +“Thank you, general. Anything more?” + +“No,” said Bonaparte, “except to think over our conversation.” + +“What was it about?” + +“Your marriage.” + + + + +CHAPTER LII. THE TRIAL + +“Well, I’ll say as you did just now, we’ll talk about it when I return, +if I do.” + +“Bless me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “I’m not afraid; you’ll kill him as you +have the others; only this time, I must admit, I shall be sorry to have +him die.” + +“If you are going to feel so badly about it, general, I can easily be +killed in his stead.” + +“Don’t do anything foolish, ninny!” cried Bonaparte; hastily; “I should +feel still worse if I lost you.” + +“Really, general, you are the hardest man to please that I know of,” + said Roland with his harsh laugh. + +And this time he took his way to Chivasso without further delay. + +Half an hour later, Roland was galloping along the road to Ivrae in a +post-chaise. He was to travel thus to Aosta, at Aosta take a mule, cross +the Saint-Bernard to Martigny, thence to Geneva, on to Bourg, and from +Bourg to Paris. + +While he is galloping along let us see what has happened in France, +and clear up the points in the conversation between Bonaparte and his +aide-de-camp which must be obscure to the reader’s mind. + +The prisoners which Roland had made at the grotto of Ceyzeriat had +remained but one night in the prison at Bourg. They had been immediately +transferred to that of Besançon, where they were to appear before a +council of war. + +It will be remembered that two of these prisoners were so grievously +wounded that they were carried into Bourg on stretchers. One of them +died that same night, the other, three days after they reached Besançon. +The number of prisoners was therefore reduced to four; Morgan, who had +surrendered himself voluntarily and who was safe and sound, and Montbar, +Adler, and d’Assas, who were more or less wounded in the fight, though +none of them dangerously. These four aliases hid, as the reader will +remember, the real names of the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, the Comte de +Jayat, the Vicomte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier. + +While the evidence was being taken against the four prisoners before +the military commission at Besançon, the time expired when under the +law such cases were tried by courts-martial. The prisoners became +accountable therefore to the civil tribunals. This made a great +difference to them, not only as to the penalty if convicted, but in the +mode of execution. Condemned by a court-martial, they would be shot; +condemned by the courts, they would be guillotined. Death by the first +was not infamous; death by the second was. + +As soon as it appeared that their case was to be brought before a jury, +it belonged by law to the court of Bourg. Toward the end of March the +prisoners were therefore transferred from the prison of Besançon to that +of Bourg, and the first steps toward a trial were taken. + +But here the prisoners adopted a line of defence that greatly +embarrassed the prosecuting officers. They declared themselves to be the +Baron de Sainte-Hermine, the Comte de Jayat, the Vicomte de Valensolle, +and the Marquis de Ribier, and to have no connection with the pillagers +of diligences, whose names were Morgan, Montbar, Adler, and d’Assas. +They acknowledged having belonged to armed bands; but these forces +belonged to the army of M. de Teyssonnet and were a ramification of the +army of Brittany intended to operate in the East and the Midi, while the +army of Brittany, which had just signed a peace, operated in the North. +They had waited only to hear of Cadoudal’s surrender to do likewise, and +the despatch of the Breton leader was no doubt on its way to them when +they were attacked and captured. + +It was difficult to disprove this. The diligences had invariably been +pillaged by masked, men, and, apart from Madame de Montrevel and Sir +John Tanlay, no one had ever seen the faces of the assailants. + +The reader will recall those circumstances: Sir John, on the night they +had tried, condemned, and stabbed him; Madame de Montrevel, when the +diligence was stopped, and she, in her nervous struggle, had struck off +the mask of the leader. + +Both had been summoned before the preliminary court and both had been +confronted with the prisoners; but neither Sir John nor Madame de +Montrevel had recognized any of them. How came they to practice this +deception? As for Madame de Montrevel, it was comprehensible. She felt a +double gratitude to the man who had come to her assistance, and who had +also forgiven, and even praised, Edouard’s attack upon himself. But +Sir John’s silence was more difficult to explain, for among the four +prisoners he must have recognized at least two of his assailants. + +They had recognized him, and a certain quiver had run through their +veins as they did so, but their eyes were none the less resolutely fixed +upon him, when, to their great astonishment, Sir John, in spite of the +judge’s insistence, had calmly replied: “I have not the honor of knowing +these gentlemen.” + +Amélie--we have not spoken of her, for there are sorrows no pen can +depict--Amélie, pale, feverish, almost expiring since that fatal night +when Morgan was arrested, awaited the return of her mother and Sir +John from the preliminary trial with dreadful anxiety. Sir John arrived +first. Madame de Montrevel had remained behind to give some orders to +Michel. As soon as Amélie saw him she rushed forward, crying out: “What +happened?” + +Sir John looked behind him, to make sure that Madame de Montrevel could +neither see nor hear him, then he said: “Your mother and I recognized no +one.” + +“Ah! how noble you are I how generous! how good, my lord!” cried the +young girl, trying to kiss his hand. + +But he, withdrawing his hand, said hastily: “I have only done as I +promised you; but hush--here is your mother.” + +Amélie stepped back. “Ah, mamma!” she said, “so you did not say anything +to compromise those unfortunate men?” + +“What!” replied Madame de Montrevel; “would you have me send to the +scaffold a man who had helped me, and who, instead of punishing Edouard, +kissed him?” + +“And yet,” said Amélie, trembling, “you recognized him, did you not?” + +“Perfectly,” replied Madame de Montrevel. “He is the fair man with the +black eyebrows who calls himself the Baron de Sainte-Hermine.” + +Amélie gave a stifled cry. Then, making an effort to control herself, +she said: “Is that the end of it for Sir John and you? Will you be +called to testify again?” + +“Probably not,” replied Madame de Montrevel. + +“In any case,” observed Sir John, “as neither your mother nor I +recognized any one, she will persist in that declaration.” + +“Oh! most certainly,” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel. “God keep me from +causing the death of that unhappy young man. I should never forgive +myself. It is bad enough that Roland should have been the one to capture +him and his companions.” + +Amélie sighed, but nevertheless her face assumed a calmer expression. +She looked gratefully at Sir John, and then went up to her room, where +Charlotte was waiting for her. Charlotte had become more than a maid, +she was now Amélie’s friend. Every day since the four young men had +returned to the prison at Bourg she had gone there to see her father +for an hour or so. During these visits nothing was talked of but the +prisoners, whom the worthy jailer, royalist as he was, pitied with +all his heart. Charlotte made him tell her everything, even to their +slightest words, and later reported all to Amélie. + +Matters stood thus when Madame de Montrevel and Sir John arrived at +Noires-Fontaines. Before leaving Paris, the First Consul had informed +Madame de Montrevel, both through Josephine and Roland, that he approved +of her daughter’s marriage, and wished it to take place during his +absence, and as soon as possible. Sir John had declared to her that +his most ardent wishes were for this union, and that he only awaited +Amélie’s commands to become the happiest of men. Matters having reached +this point, Madame de Montrevel, on the morning of the day on which +she and Sir John were to give their testimony, had arranged a private +interview between her daughter and Sir John. + +The interview lasted over an hour, and Sir John did not leave Amélie +until the carriage came to the door which was to take Madame de +Montrevel and himself to the court. We have seen that his deposition was +all in the prisoners’ favor, and we have also seen how Amélie received +him on his return. + +That evening Madame de Montrevel had a long conversation with her +daughter. To her mother’s pressing inquiries, Amélie merely replied that +the state of her health was such that she desired a postponement of her +marriage, and that she counted on Sir John’s delicacy to grant it. + +The next day Madame de Montrevel was obliged to return to Paris, +her position in Madame Bonaparte’s household not admitting of longer +absence. The morning of her departure she urged Amélie to accompany her; +but again the young girl dwelt upon the feebleness of her health. The +sweetest and most reviving months in the year were just opening, and she +begged to be allowed to spend then in the country, for they were sure, +she said, to do her good. + +Madame de Montrevel, always unable to deny Amélie anything, above all +where it concerned her health, granted her request. + +On her return to Paris, Madame de Montrevel travelled as before, with +Sir John. Much to her surprise, during the two days’ journey he did not +say anything to her about his marriage to Amélie. But Madame Bonaparte, +as soon as she saw her friend, asked the usual question: “Well, when +shall we marry Amélie and Sir John? You know how much the First Consul +desires it.” + +To which Madame de Montrevel replied: “It all depends on Sir John.” + +This response furnished Madame Bonaparte with much food for reflection. +Why should a man who had been so eager suddenly grow cold? Time alone +could explain the mystery. + +Time went by, and the trial of the prisoners began. They were confronted +with all the travellers who had signed the various depositions, which, +as we have seen, were in the possession of the minister of police. No +one had recognized them, for no one had seen their faces uncovered. +Moreover, the travellers asserted that none of their property, either +money or jewels, had been taken. Jean Picot testified that the two +hundred louis which had been taken from him by accident had been +returned. + +These preliminary inquiries lasted over two months. At the end of that +time the accused, against whom there was no evidence connecting them +with the pillage of the coaches, were under no accusation but that +of their own admissions; that is to say, of being affiliated with the +Breton and Vendéan insurrection. They were simply one of the armed bands +roaming the Jura under the orders of M. de Teyssonnet. + +The judges delayed the final trial as long as possible, hoping that some +more direct testimony might be discovered. This hope was balked. No one +had really suffered from the deeds imputed to these young men, except +the Treasury, whose misfortunes concerned no one. The trial could not be +delayed any longer. + +The prisoners, on their side, had made the best of their time. By means, +as we have seen, of an exchange of passports, Morgan had travelled +sometimes as Ribier, and Ribier as Sainte-Hermine, and so with the +others. The result was a confusion in the testimony of the innkeepers, +which the entries in their books only served to increase. The arrival +of travellers, noted on the registers an hour too early or an hour too +late, furnished the prisoners with irrefutable alibis. The judges were +morally convinced of their guilt; but their conviction was impossible +against such testimony. + +On the other hand, it must be said that public sympathy was wholly with +the prisoners. + +The trial began. The prison at Bourg adjoins the courtroom. The +prisoners could be brought there through the interior passages. Large as +the hall was, it was crowded on the opening day. The whole population +of Bourg thronged about the doors, and persons came from Mâcon, +Sons-le-Saulnier, Besançon, and Nantua, so great was the excitement +caused by the stoppages, and so popular were the exploits of the +Companions of Jehu. + +The entrance of the four prisoners was greeted by a murmur in which +there was nothing offensive. Public sentiment seemed equally divided +between curiosity and sympathy. Their presence, it must be admitted, was +well calculated to inspire both. Very handsome, dressed in the latest +fashion of the day, self-possessed without insolence, smiling toward the +audience, courteous to their judges, though at times a little sarcastic, +their personal appearance was their best defence. + +The oldest of the four was barely thirty. Questioned as to their names, +Christian and family, their age, and places of birth, they answered as +follows: + +“Charles de Sainte-Hermine, born at Tours, department of the +Indre-et-Loire, aged twenty-four.” + +“Louis-André de Jayat, born at Bage-le-Château, department of the Ain, +aged twenty-nine.” + +“Raoul-Frederic-Auguste de Valensolle, born at Sainte-Colombe, +department of the Rhone, aged twenty-seven.” + +“Pierre-Hector de Ribier, born at Bollène, department of Vaucluse, aged +twenty-six.” + +Questioned as to their social condition and state, all four said they +were of noble rank and royalists. + +These fine young men, defending themselves against death on the +scaffold, not against a soldier’s death before the guns--who asked the +death they claimed to have merited as insurrectionists, but a death +of honor--formed a splendid spectacle of youth, courage, and gallant +bearing. + +The judges saw plainly that on the accusation of being insurrectionists, +the Vendée having submitted and Brittany being pacificated, they would +have to be acquitted. That was not a result to satisfy the minister of +police. Death awarded by a council of war would not have satisfied him; +he had determined that these men should die the death of malefactors, a +death of infamy. + +The trial had now lasted three days without proceeding in the direction +of the minister’s wishes. Charlotte, who could reach the courtroom +through the prison, was there each day, and returned each night to +Amélie with some fresh word of hope. On the fourth day, Amélie could +bear the suspense no longer. She dressed herself in a costume similar +to the one that Charlotte wore, except that the black lace of the +head-dress was longer and thicker than is usual with the Bressan peasant +woman. It formed a veil and completely hid her features. + +Charlotte presented Amélie to her father as one of her friends who was +anxious to see the trial. The good man did not recognize Mademoiselle de +Montrevel, and in order to enable the young girls to see the prisoners +well he placed them in the doorway of the porter’s room, which opened +upon the passage leading to the courtroom. This passage was so narrow +at this particular point that the four gendarmes who accompanied the +prisoners changed the line of march. First came two officers, then the +prisoners one by one, then the other two officers. The girls stood in +the doorway. + +When Amélie heard the doors open she was obliged to lean upon +Charlotte’s shoulder for support, the earth seemed to give way under +her feet and the wall at her back. She heard the sound of feet and the +rattle of the gendarmes’ sabres, then the door of the prison opened. + +First one gendarme appeared, then another, then Sainte-Hermine, walking +first, as though he were still Morgan, the captain of the Companions of +Jehu. + +As he passed Amélie murmured: “Charles!” + +The prisoner recognized the beloved voice, gave a faint cry, and felt +a paper slip into his hand. He pressed that precious hand, murmured her +name, and passed on. + +The others who followed did not, or pretended not to, notice the two +girls. As for the gendarmes, they had seen and heard nothing. + +As soon as the party stepped into the light, Morgan unfolded the note +and read as follows: + + Do not be anxious, my beloved Charles; I am and ever will be + your faithful Amélie, in life or death. I have told all to Lord + Tanlay. He is the most generous man on earth; he has promised me + to break off the marriage and to take the whole responsibility + on himself. I love you. + +Morgan kissed the note and put it in his breast. Then he glanced down +the corridor and saw the two Bressan women leaning against the door. +Amélie had risked all to see him once more. It is true, however, that at +this last session of the court no additional witnesses were expected who +could injure the accused, and in the absence of proof it was impossible +to convict them. + +The best lawyers in the department, those of Lyons and Besançon, had +been retained by the prisoners for their defence. Each had spoken in +turn, destroying bit by bit the indictment, as, in the tournaments of +the Middle Ages, a strong and dexterous knight was wont to knock off, +piece by piece, his adversary’s armor. Flattering applause had followed +the more remarkable points of their arguments, in spite of the usher’s +warnings and the admonitions of the judge. + +Amélie, with clasped hands, was thanking God, who had so visibly +manifested Himself in the prisoners’ favor. A dreadful weight was lifted +from her tortured breast. She breathed with joy, and looked through +tears of gratitude at the Christ which hung above the judge’s head. + +The arguments were all made, and the case about to be closed. Suddenly +an usher entered the courtroom, approached the judge, and whispered +something in his ear. + +“Gentlemen,” said the judge, “the court is adjourned for a time. Let the +prisoners be taken out.” + +There was a movement of feverish anxiety among the audience. What could +have happened? What unexpected event was about to take place? Every +one looked anxiously at his neighbor. Amélie’s heart was wrung by a +presentiment. She pressed her hand to her breast; it was as though an +ice-cold iron had pierced it to the springs of life. + +The gendarmes rose. The prisoners did likewise, and were then marched +back to their cells. One after the other they passed Amélie. The hands +of the lovers touched each other; those of Amélie were as cold as death. + +“Whatever happens, thank you,” said Charles, as he passed. + +Amélie tried to answer, but the words died on her lips. + +During this time the judge had risen and passed into the +council-chamber. There he found a veiled woman, who had just descended +from a carriage at the door of the courthouse, and had not spoken to any +one on her way in. + +“Madame,” said the judge, “I offer you many excuses for the way in which +I have brought you from Paris; but the life of a man depends upon it, +and before that consideration everything must yield.” + +“You have no need to excuse yourself, sir,” replied the veiled lady, “I +know the prerogatives of the law, and I am here at your orders.” + +“Madame,” said the judge, “the court and myself recognize the feeling of +delicacy which prompted you, when first confronted with the prisoners, +to decline to recognize the one who assisted you when fainting. At +that time the prisoners denied their identity with the pillagers of the +diligences. Since then they have confessed all; but it is our wish to +know the one who showed you that consideration, in order that we may +recommend him to the First Consul’s clemency.” + +“What!” exclaimed the lady, “have they really confessed?” + +“Yes, madame, but they will not say which of their number helped you, +fearing, no doubt, to contradict your testimony, and thus cause you +embarrassment.” + +“What is it you request of me, sir?” + +“That you will save the gentleman who assisted you.” + +“Oh! willingly,” said the lady, rising; “what am I to do?” + +“Answer a question which I shall ask you.” + +“I am ready, sir.” + +“Wait here a moment. You will be sent for presently.” + +The judge went back into the courtroom. A gendarme was placed at each +door to prevent any one from approaching the lady. The judge resumed his +seat. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “the session is reopened.” + +General excitement prevailed. The ushers called for silence, and silence +was restored. + +“Bring in the witness,” said the judge. + +An usher opened the door of the council-chamber, and the lady, still +veiled, was brought into court. All eyes turned upon her. Who was she? +Why was she there? What had she come for? Amélie’s eyes fastened upon +her at once. + +“O my God!” she murmured, “grant that I be mistaken.” + +“Madame,” said the judge, “the prisoners are about to be brought in. +Have the goodness to point out the one who, when the Geneva diligence +was stopped, paid you those attentions.” + +A shudder ran through the audience. They felt that some fatal trap had +been laid for the prisoners. + +A dozen voices began to shout: “Say nothing!” but the ushers, at a sign +from the judge, cried out imperatively: “Silence!” + +Amélie’s heart turned deadly cold. A cold sweat poured from her +forehead. Her knees gave way and trembled under her. + +“Bring in the prisoners,” said the judge, imposing silence by a look +as the usher had with his voice. “And you, madame, have the goodness to +advance and raise your veil.” + +The veiled lady obeyed. + +“My mother!” cried Amélie, but in a voice so choked that only those near +her heard the words. + +“Madame de Montrevel!” murmured the audience. + +At that moment the first gendarme appeared at the door, then the second. +After him came the prisoners, but not in the same order as before. +Morgan had placed himself third, so that, separated as he was from the +gendarmes by Montbar and Adler in front and d’Assas behind, he might be +better able to clasp Amélie’s hand. + +Montbar entered first. + +Madame de Montrevel shook her head. + +Then came Adler. + +Madame de Montrevel made the same negative sign. + +Just then Morgan passed before Amélie. + +“We are lost!” she said. + +He looked at her in astonishment as she pressed his hand convulsively. +Then he entered. + +“That is he,” said Madame de Montrevel, as soon as she saw Morgan--or, +if the reader prefers it, Baron Charles de Sainte-Hermine--who was +now proved one and the same man by means of Madame de Montrevel’s +identification. + +A long cry of distress burst from the audience. Montbar burst into a +laugh. + +“Ha! by my faith!” he cried, “that will teach you, dear friend, to play +the gallant with fainting women.” Then, turning to Madame de Montrevel, +he added: “With three short words, madame, you have decapitated four +heads.” + +A terrible silence fell, in the midst of which a groan was heard. + +“Usher,” said the judge, “have you warned the public that all marks of +approbation or disapproval are forbidden?” + +The usher inquired who had disobeyed the order of the court. It was a +woman wearing the dress of a Bressan peasant, who was being carried into +the jailer’s room. + +From that moment the accused made no further attempt at denial; but, +just as Morgan had united with them when arrested, they now joined with +him. Their four heads should be saved, or fall together. + +That same day, at ten in the evening, the jury rendered a verdict of +guilty, and the court pronounced the sentence of death. + +Three days later, by force of entreaties, the lawyers obtained +permission for the accused to appeal their case; but they were not +admitted to bail. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. IN WHICH AMÉLIE KEEPS HER WORD + +The verdict rendered by the jury of the town of Bourg had a terrible +effect, not only in the courtroom, but throughout the entire town. The +four prisoners had shown such chivalric brotherhood, such noble bearing, +such deep conviction in the faith they professed, that their enemies +themselves admired the devotion which had made robbers and highwaymen of +men of rank and family. + +Madame de Montrevel, overwhelmed by the part she had been made to play +at the crucial point of this drama, saw but one means of repairing the +evil she had done, and that was to start at once for Paris and fling +herself at the feet of the First Consul, imploring him to pardon the +four condemned men. She did not even take time to go to the Château des +Noires-Fontaines to see Amélie. She knew that Bonaparte’s departure was +fixed for the first week in May, and this was already the 6th. When she +last left Paris everything had been prepared for that departure. + +She wrote a line to Amélie explaining by what fatal deception she had +been instrumental in destroying the lives of four men, when she intended +to save the life of one. Then, as if ashamed of having broken the pledge +she had made to Amélie, and above all to herself, she ordered fresh +post-horses and returned to Paris. + +She arrived there on the morning of the 8th of May. Bonaparte had +started on the evening of the 6th. He said on leaving that he was only +going to Dijon, possibly as far as Geneva, but in any case he should +not be absent more than three weeks. The prisoners’ appeal, even if +rejected, would not receive final consideration for five or six weeks. +All hope need not therefore be abandoned. + +But, alas! it became evident that the review at Dijon was only a +pretext, that the journey to Geneva had never been seriously thought of, +and that Bonaparte, instead of going to Switzerland, was really on his +way to Italy. + +Then Madame de Montrevel, unwilling to appeal to her son, for she had +heard his oath when Lord Tanlay had been left for dead, and knew the +part he had played in the capture of the Companions of Jehu--then Madame +de Montrevel appealed to Josephine, and Josephine promised to write to +the First Consul. That same evening she kept her promise. + +But the trial had made a great stir. It was not with these prisoners as +with ordinary men. Justice made haste, and thirty-five days after the +verdict had been rendered the appeal was rejected. This decision was +immediately sent to Bourg with an order to execute the prisoners within +twenty-four hours. But notwithstanding the haste of the minister of +police in forwarding this decision, the first intimation of the fatal +news was not received by the judicial authorities at Bourg. While the +prisoners were taking their daily walk in the courtyard a stone was +thrown over the outer wall and fell at their feet. Morgan, who still +retained in relation to his comrades the position of leader, picked +it up, opened the letter which inclosed the stone, and read it. Then, +turning to his friends, he said: “Gentlemen, the appeal has been +rejected, as we might have expected, and the ceremony will take place in +all probability to-morrow.” + +Valensolle and Ribier, who were playing a species of quoits with +crown-pieces and louis, left off their game to hear the news. Having +heard it they returned to their game without remark. + +Jayat, who was reading “La Nouvelle Héloise,” resumed his book, saying: +“Then, I shall not have time to finish M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s +masterpiece, and upon my word I don’t regret it, for it is the most +utterly false and wearisome book I ever read in my life!” + +Sainte-Hermine passed his hand over his forehead, murmuring: “Poor +Amélie!” Then observing Charlotte, who was at the window of the jailer’s +room overlooking the courtyard, he went to her. “Tell Amélie that she +must keep the promise she made me, to-night.” + +The jailer’s daughter closed the window, kissed her father, and told him +that in all probability he would see her there again that evening. Then +she returned to Noires-Fontaines, a road she had taken twice every day +for the last two months, once at noon on her way to the prison, once in +the evening on returning to the château. + +Every night she found Amélie in the same place, sitting at the window +which, in happier days, had given admittance to her beloved Charles. +Since the day she had fainted in the courtroom she had shed no tears, +and, we may almost add, had uttered no word. Unlike the marble of +antiquity awakening into life, she might have been compared to a living +woman petrifying into stone. Every day she grew paler. + +Charlotte watched her with astonishment. Common minds, always impressed +by noisy demonstrations, that is to say, by cries and tears, are unable +to understand a mute sorrow. Dumbness to them means indifference. She +was therefore astonished at the calmness with which Amélie received the +message she was charged to deliver. She did not see in the dimness of +the twilight that Amélie’s face from being pale grew livid. She did not +feel the deadly clutch which, like an iron wrench, had seized her heart. +She did not know that as her mistress walked to the door an automatic +stiffness was in her limbs. Nevertheless she followed her anxiously. But +at the door Amélie stretched out her hand. + +“Wait for me there,” she said. + +Charlotte obeyed. Amélie closed the door behind her, and went up to +Roland’s room. + +Roland’s room was veritably that of a soldier and a huntsman, and its +chief adornments were trophies and weapons. Arms of all kinds were here, +French and foreign, from the blue-barrelled pistol of Versailles to the +silver-handled pistol of Cairo, from the tempered blade of Catalonia to +the Turkish cimeter. + +Amélie took down from this arsenal four daggers, sharp-edged and +pointed, and eight pistols of different shapes. She put balls in a bag +and powder in a horn. Thus supplied she returned to her own room. There +Charlotte assisted her in putting on the peasant gown. Then she waited +for the night. + +Night comes late in June. Amélie stood motionless, mute, leaning against +the chimney-piece, and looking through the open window at the village +of Ceyzeriat, which was slowly disappearing in the gathering shades +of night. When she could no longer distinguish anything but the lights +which were being lighted one by one, she said: + +“Come, it is time to go.” + +The two young girls went out. Michel paid no attention to Amélie, +supposing her to be some friend of Charlotte’s, who had called to see +her and whom the jailer’s daughter was now escorting home. + +Ten o’clock was striking as they passed the church of Brou. It was +quarter past when Charlotte knocked at the prison door. Old Courtois +opened it. + +We have already shown the political opinions of the worthy jailer. He +was a royalist. He therefore felt the deepest sympathy for the four +condemned men, and had hoped, like nearly every one in Bourg--like +Madame de Montrevel, whose despair at what she had done was known to +him--that the First Consul would pardon them. He had therefore mitigated +their captivity as much as possible, without failing in his duty, by +relieving them of all needless restrictions. On the other hand, it is +true that he had refused a gift of sixty thousand francs (a sum which +in those days was worth nearly treble what it is now) to allow them to +escape. + +We have seen how, being taken into confidence by his daughter, he had +allowed Amélie, disguised as a Bressan peasant, to be present at the +trial. The reader will also remember the kindness the worthy man had +shown to Amélie and her mother when they themselves were prisoners. +This time, as he was still ignorant of the rejection of the appeal, he +allowed his feelings to be worked upon. Charlotte had told him that her +young mistress was to start that night for Paris to endeavor to hasten +the pardon, and that she desired before leaving to see the Baron de +Sainte-Hermine and obtain his last instructions. + +There were five doors to break through to reach the street, a squad of +guards in the courtyard, and sentinels within and without the prison. +Consequently Père Courtois felt no anxiety lest his prisoners escape. He +therefore consented that Amélie should see Morgan. + +We trust our readers will excuse us if we use the names Morgan, Charles, +and the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, interchangeably, since they are aware +that by that triple appellation we intend to designate the same man. + +Courtois took a light and walked before Amélie. The young girl, as +though prepared to start by the mail-coach at once on leaving the +prison, carried a travelling bag in her hand. Charlotte followed her +mistress. + +“You will recognize the cell, Mademoiselle de Montrevel,” said Courtois. +“It is the one in which you were confined with your mother. The leader +of these unfortunate young men, the Baron Charles de Sainte-Hermine, +asked me as a favor to put them in cage No. 1. You know that’s the +name we give our cells. I did not think I ought to refuse him that +consolation, knowing how the poor fellow loved you. Oh, don’t be +uneasy, Mademoiselle Amélie, I will never breathe your secret. Then he +questioned me, asking which had been your mother’s bed, and which yours. +I told him, and then he wanted his to stand just where yours did. That +wasn’t hard, for the bed was not only in the same place, but it was the +very one you had used. So, since the poor fellow entered your cell, he +has spent nearly all his time lying on your bed.” + +Amélie gave a sigh that resembled a groan. She felt--and it was long +since she had done so--a tear moisten her eyelids. Yes! she was loved as +she loved, and the lips of a disinterested stranger gave her the proof +of it. At this moment of eternal separation this conviction shone like a +diamond of light in its setting of sorrow. + +The doors opened one by one before Père Courtois. When they reached the +last one, Amélie laid her hand on the jailer’s shoulder. She thought +she heard a chant. Listening attentively, she became aware that it was a +voice repeating verses. + +But the voice was not Morgan’s; it was unknown to her. Here is what it +said: + + I have bared all my heart to the God of the just, + He has witnessed my penitent tears; + He has stilled my remorse, He has armed me with trust, + He has pitied and calmed all my fears. + + My enemies, scoffing, have said in their rage: + “Let him die, be his mem’ry accursed!” + Saith the merciful Father, my grief to assuage, + “Their hatred hath now done its worst. + + “I have heard thy complaints, and I know that the ban + Of remorse hath e’en brought thee so low; + I can pity the soul of the penitent man + That was weak in this valley of woe; + + “I will crown thy lost name with the just acclaim + Of the slow-judging righteous years; + Their pity and justice in time shall proclaim + Thine honor; then layoff thy fears!” + + I bless thee, O God! who hast deigned to restore + Mine honor that Thou hast made whole + From shame and remorse; as I enter Death’s door + To Thee I commend my poor soul! + + To the banquet of life, an unfortunate guest, + I came for a day, and I go-- + I die in my vigor; I sought not to rest + In the grave where the weary lie low. + + Farewell to thee, earth! farewell, tender verdure + Of woodland! Farewell, sunny shore! + Green fields that I love, azure skies, smiling Nature, + Farewell! I shall see thee no more. + + May thy beauty still gladden the friends that I love, + Whom I long for--but stern fate denies; + May they pass full of years, though I wait them above; + May a last loving hand close their eyes. + +The voice was silent; no doubt the last verse was finished. Amélie, who +would not interrupt the last meditations of the doomed men, and who had +recognized Gilbert’s beautiful ode written on a hospital bed the night +before his death, now signed to the jailer to open the door. Père +Courtois, jailer as he was, seemed to share the young girl’s emotion, +for he put the key in the lock and turned it as softly as he could. The +door opened. + +Amélie saw at a glance the whole interior of the cell, and the persons +in it. + +Valensolle was standing, leaning against the wall, and still holding the +book from which he had just read the lines that Amélie had overheard. +Jayat was seated near a table with his head resting on his hands. +Ribier was sitting on the table itself. Near him, but further back, +Sainte-Hermine, his eyes closed as if in sleep, was lying on the bed. At +sight of the young girl, whom they knew to be Amélie, Ribier and Jayat +rose. Morgan did not move; he had heard nothing. + +Amélie went directly to him, and, as if the love she felt for him were +sanctified by the nearness of death, she gave no heed to the presence of +his friends, but pressed her lips to his, murmuring: “Awake, my Charles, +it is I, Amélie. I have come to keep my promise.” + +Morgan gave a cry of joy and clasped her in his arms. + +“Monsieur Courtois,” said Montbar, “you are a worthy man. Leave those +poor young people alone. It would be sacrilege to trouble their last +moments together on earth by our presence.” + +Père Courtois, without a word, opened the door of the adjoining cell. +Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier entered it, and the door was closed upon +them. Then, making a sign to Charlotte, Courtois himself went away. The +lovers were alone. + +There are scenes that should not be described, words that must not be +repeated. God, who sees and hears them from his immortal throne, alone +knows what sombre joys, what bitter pleasures they contain. + +At the end of an hour the two young people heard the key turn once +more in the lock. They were sad but calm. The conviction that their +separation would not be for long gave them a sweet serenity. The worthy +jailer seemed more grieved and distressed at his second appearance than +at his first; but Morgan and Amélie thanked him with a smile. + +He went to the cell where the others were locked up and opened it, +murmuring to himself: “Faith! It would have been hard if they couldn’t +have been alone together on their last night.” + +Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier returned. Amélie, with her left arm wound +around Morgan, held out her right hand to them. All three, one after the +other, kissed that cold, damp hand. Then Morgan led her to the door. + +“Au revoir!” he said. + +“Soon!” she answered. + +And then this parting at the gates of death was sealed by a long kiss, +followed by a groan so terrible that it seemed to rend their hearts in +twain. + +The door closed again, the bolts and bars shot into their places. + +“Well?” cried Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier with one accord. + +“Here!” replied Morgan, emptying the travelling bag upon the table. + +The three young men gave a cry of joy as they saw the shining pistols +and gleaming blades. It was all that they desired next to liberty--the +joy, the dolorous precious joy of knowing themselves masters of their +own lives, and, if need be, that of others. + +During this time the jailer led Amélie to the street. When they reached +it he hesitated a moment, then he touched Amélie’s arm, saying as he did +so: “Mademoiselle de Montrevel, forgive me for causing you so much pain, +but it is useless for you to go to Paris.” + +“Because the appeal has been rejected and the execution takes place +to-morrow, I suppose you mean,” said Amélie. + +The jailer in his astonishment stepped back a pace. + +“I knew it, my friend,” said Amélie. Then turning to Charlotte, she +said: “Take me to the nearest church and come for me to-morrow after all +is over.” + +The nearest church was not far off. It was that of Sainte-Claire. For +the last three months it had been opened for public worship under the +decree of the First Consul. As it was now nearly midnight, the doors +were closed; but Charlotte knew where the sexton lived and she went to +wake him. Amélie waited, leaning against the walls as motionless as the +marble figures that adorned its frontal. + +The sexton arrived at the end of half an hour. During that time the girl +had seen a dreadful sight. Three men had passed her, dragging a cart, +which she saw by the light of the moon was painted red. Within this cart +she perceived shapeless objects, long planks and singular ladders, +all painted the same color. They were dragging it toward the bastion +Montrevel, the place used for the executions. Amélie divined what it +was, and, with a cry, she fell upon her knees. + +At that cry the men in black turned round. They fancied for a moment +that one of the sculptured figures of the porch had descended from +its niche and was kneeling there. The one who seemed to be the leader +stepped close to the young girl. + +“Don’t come near me!” she cried. “Don’t come near me!” + +The man returned humbly to his place and continued on his way. The cart +disappeared round the corner of the Rue des Prisons; but the noise of +its wheels still sounded on the stones and echoed in the girl’s heart. + +When the sacristan and Charlotte returned they found the young girl on +her knees. The man raised some objections against opening the church +at that hour of the night; but a piece of gold and Mademoiselle de +Montrevel’s name dispelled his scruples. A second gold piece decided him +to light a little chapel. It was the one in which Amélie had made her +first communion. There, kneeling before the altar, she implored them to +leave her alone. + +Toward three in the morning she saw the colored window above the altar +of the Virgin begin to lighten. It looked to the east, so that the first +ray of light came direct to her eyes as a messenger from God. + +Little by little the town awoke. To Amélie the noise seemed louder than +ever before. Soon the vaulted ceiling of the church shook with the tramp +of a troop of horsemen. This troop was on its way to the prison. + +A little before nine the young girl heard a great noise, and it seemed +to her that the whole town must be rushing in the same direction. +She strove to lose herself in prayer, that she might not hear these +different sounds that spoke to her in an unknown language of which her +anguish told her she understood every word. + +In truth, a terrible thing was happening at the prison. It was no wonder +that the whole town had rushed thither. + +At nine o’clock Père Courtois entered the jail to tell the prisoners at +one and the same time that their appeal had been rejected and that they +must prepare for immediate death. He found the four prisoners armed to +the teeth. + +The jailer, taken unawares, was pulled into the cell and the door locked +behind him. Then the young men, without any defence on his part, +so astonished was he, seized his keys, and passing through the door +opposite to the one by which he had entered they locked it on him. +Leaving him in their cell, they found themselves in the adjoining one, +in which he had placed three of them during Amélie’s interview with +Morgan. + +One of the keys on the jailer’s bunch opened the other door of this +cell, and that door led to the inner courtyard of the prison. This +courtyard was closed by three massive doors, all of which led to a sort +of lobby, opening upon the porter’s lodge, which in turn adjoined the +law-courts. From this lodge fifteen steps led down into a vast courtyard +closed by an iron gate and railing. Usually this gate was only locked at +night. If it should happen to be open on this occasion it would offer a +possibility of escape. + +Morgan found the key of the prisoners’ court, opened the door, and +rushed with his companions to the porter’s lodge and to the portico, +from which the fifteen steps led down into the courtyard. From there the +three young men could see that all hope was lost. + +The iron gate was closed, and eighty men, dragoons and gendarmes, were +drawn up in front of it. + +When the four prisoners, free and armed to the teeth, sprang from the +porter’s lodge to the portico, a great cry, a cry of astonishment and +terror, burst from the crowd in the street beyond the railing. + +Their aspect was formidable, indeed; for to preserve the freedom of +their movements, perhaps to hide the shedding of blood, which would have +shown so quickly on their white linen, they were naked to the waist. A +handkerchief knotted around their middle bristled with weapons. + +A glance sufficed to show them that they were indeed masters of their +own lives, but not of their liberty. Amid the clamoring of the crowd and +the clanking of the sabres, as they were drawn from their scabbards, the +young men paused an instant and conferred together. Then Montbar, after +shaking hands with his companions, walked down the fifteen steps and +advanced to the gate. + +When he was within four yards of the gate he turned, with a last glance +at his comrades, bowed graciously to the now silent mob, and said to +the soldiers: “Very well, gentlemen of the gendarmerie! Very well, +dragoons!” + +Then, placing the muzzle of his pistol to his mouth, he blew out his +brains. + +Confused and frantic cries followed the explosion, but ceased almost +immediately as Valensolle came down the steps, holding in his hand a +dagger with a straight and pointed blade. His pistols, which he did not +seem inclined to use, were still in his belt. + +He advanced to a sort of shed supported on three pillars, stopped at the +first pillar, rested the hilt of his dagger upon it, and, with a last +salutation to his friends, clasped the column with one arm till +the blade had disappeared in his breast. For an instant he remained +standing, then a mortal pallor overspread his face, his arm loosened its +hold, and he fell to the ground, stone-dead. + +The crowd was mute, paralyzed with horror. + +It was now Ribier’s turn. He advanced to the gate, and, once there, +aimed the two pistols he held at the gendarmes. He did not fire, but the +gendarmes did. Three or four shots were heard, and Ribier fell, pierced +by two balls. + +Admiration seized upon the spectators at sight of these successive +catastrophes. They saw that the young men were willing to die, but +to die with honor, and as they willed, and also with the grace of the +gladiators of antiquity. Silence therefore reigned when Morgan, now left +alone, came smiling down the steps of the portico and held up his hand +in sign that he wished to speak. Besides, what more could it want--this +eager mob; watching for blood? + +A greater sight had been given to it than it came to see. Four dead men +had been promised to it; four heads were to be cut off; but here was +variety in death, unexpected, picturesque. It was natural, therefore, +that the crowd should keep silence when Morgan was seen to advance. + +He held neither pistols nor daggers in his hands; they were in his belt. +He passed the body of Valensolle, and placed himself between those of +Jayat and Ribier. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us negotiate.” + +The hush that followed was so great that those present seemed scarcely +to breathe. Morgan said: “There lies a man who has blown out his brains +[he pointed to Jayat]; here lies one who stabbed himself [he designated +Valensolle]; a third who has been shot [he indicated Ribier]; you want +to see the fourth guillotined. I understand that.” + +A dreadful shudder passed through the crowd. + +“Well,” continued Morgan, “I am willing to give you that satisfaction. I +am ready, but I desire to go to the scaffold in my own way. No one +shall touch me; if any one does come near me I shall blow out his +brains--except that gentleman,” continued Morgan, pointing to the +executioner. “This is his affair and mine only.” + +The crowd apparently thought this request reasonable, for from all sides +came the cry, “Yes, yes, yes.” + +The officer saw that the quickest way to end the matter was to yield to +Morgan’s demand. + +“Will you promise me,” he asked, “that if your hands and feet are not +bound you will not try to escape?” + +“I give my word of honor,” replied Morgan. + +“Then,” said the officer; “stand aside, and let us take up the bodies of +your comrades.” + +“That is but right,” said Morgan, and he turned aside to a wall about +ten paces distant and leaned against it. + +The gate opened. Three men dressed in black entered the courtyard and +picked up the bodies one after the other. Ribier was not quite dead; he +opened his eyes and seemed to look for Morgan. + +“Here I am,” said the latter. “Rest easy, dear friend, I follow.” + +Ribier closed his eyes without uttering a word. + +When the three bodies had been removed, the officer of the gendarmerie +addressed Morgan. + +“Are you ready, sir?” he asked. + +“Yes,” replied Morgan, bowing with exquisite politeness. + +“Then come.” + +“I come.” + +And he took his place between a platoon of gendarmerie and a detachment +of dragoons. + +“Will you mount the cart, sir, or go on foot?” asked the captain. + +“On foot, on foot, sir. I am anxious that all shall see it is my +pleasure to be guillotined, and that I am not afraid.” + +The sinister procession crossed the Place des Lisses and skirted the +walls of the Hôtel Montbazon. The cart bearing the three bodies came +first, then the dragoons, then Morgan walking alone in a clear space of +some ten feet before and behind him, then the gendarmes. At the end of +the wall they turned to the left. + +Suddenly, through an opening that existed at that time between the wall +and the market-place, Morgan saw the scaffold raising its two posts to +heaven like two bloody arms. + +“Faugh!” he exclaimed, “I have never seen a guillotine, and I had no +idea it was so ugly.” + +Then, without further remark, he drew his dagger and plunged it into his +breast up to the hilt. + +The captain of the gendarmerie saw the movement without being in time +to prevent it. He spurred his horse toward Morgan, who, to his own +amazement and that of every one else, remained standing. But Morgan, +drawing a pistol from his belt and cocking it, exclaimed: “Stop! It was +agreed that no one should touch me. I shall die alone, or three of us +will die together.” + +The captain reined back his horse. + +“Forward!” said Morgan. + +They reached the foot of the guillotine. Morgan drew out his dagger and +struck again as deeply as before. A cry of rage rather than pain escaped +him. + +“My soul must be riveted to my body,” he said. + +Then, as the assistants wished to help him mount the scaffold on which +the executioner was awaiting him, he cried out: “No, I say again, let no +one touch me.” + +Then he mounted the three steps without staggering. + +When he reached the platform, he drew out the dagger again and struck +himself a third time. Then a frightful laugh burst from his lips; +flinging the dagger, which he had wrenched from the third ineffectual +wound, at the feet of the executioner, he exclaimed: “By my faith! I +have done enough. It is your turn; do it if you can.” + +A minute later the head of the intrepid young man fell upon the +scaffold, and by a phenomenon of that unconquerable vitality which he +possessed it rebounded and rolled forward beyond the timbers of the +guillotine. + +Go to Bourg, as I did, and they will tell you that, as the head rolled +forward, it was heard to utter the name of Amélie. + +The dead bodies were guillotined after the living one; so that the +spectators, instead of losing anything by the events we have just +related, enjoyed a double spectacle. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. THE CONFESSION + +Three days after the events we have just recited, a carriage covered +with dust and drawn by two horses white with foam stopped about seven of +the evening before the gate of the Château des Noires-Fontaines. To the +great astonishment of the person who was in such haste to arrive, the +gates were open, a crowd of peasants filled the courtyard, and men and +women were kneeling on the portico. Then, his sense of hearing being +rendered more acute by astonishment at what he had seen, he fancied he +heard the ringing of a bell. + +He opened the door of the chaise, sprang out, crossed the courtyard +rapidly, went up the portico, and found the stairway leading to the +first floor filled with people. + +Up the stairs he ran as he had up the portico, and heard what seemed to +him a murmured prayer from his sister’s bedroom. He went to the room. +The door was open. Madame de Montrevel and little Edouard were kneeling +beside Amélie’s pillow; Charlotte, Michel, and his son Jacques were +close at hand. The curate of Sainte-Claire was administering the last +sacraments; the dismal scene was lighted only by the light of the +wax-tapers. + +The reader has recognized Roland in the traveller whose carriage stopped +at the gate. The bystanders made way for him; he entered the room with +his head uncovered and knelt beside his mother. + +The dying girl lay on her back, her hands clasped, her head raised on +her pillows, her eyes fixed upon the sky, in a sort of ecstasy. She +seemed unconscious of Roland’s arrival. It was as though her soul were +floating between heaven and earth, while the body still belonged to this +world. + +Madame de Montrevel’s hand sought that of Roland, and finding it, the +poor mother dropped her head on his shoulder, sobbing. The sobs passed +unnoticed by the dying girl, even as her brother’s arrival had done. +She lay there perfectly immovable. Only when the viaticum had been +administered, when the priest’s voice promised her eternal blessedness, +her marble lips appeared to live again, and she murmured in a feeble but +intelligible voice: “Amen!” + +Then the bell rang again; the choir-boy, who was carrying it, left the +room first, followed by the two acolytes who bore the tapers, then the +cross-bearer, and lastly the priest with the Host. All the strangers +present followed the procession, and the family and household were +left alone. The house, an instant before so full of sound and life, was +silent, almost deserted. + +The dying girl had not moved; her lips were closed, her hands clasped, +her eyes raised to heaven. After a few minutes Roland stooped to his +mother’s ear, and whispered: “Come out with me, mother, I must speak +to you.” Madame de Montrevel rose. She pushed little Edouard toward the +bed, and the child stood on tiptoe to kiss his sister on the forehead. +Then the mother followed him, and, leaning over, with a sob she +pressed a kiss upon the same spot. Roland, with dry eyes but a breaking +heart--he would have given much for tears in which to drown his +sorrow--kissed his sister as his mother and little brother had done. She +seemed as insensible to this kiss as to the preceding ones. + +Edouard left the room, followed by Madame de Montrevel and Roland. Just +as they reached the door they stopped, quivering. They had heard the +name of Roland, uttered in a low but distinct tone. + +Roland turned. Amélie called him a second time. + +“Did you call me, Amélie?” he asked. + +“Yes,” replied the dying girl. + +“Alone, or with my mother?” + +“Alone.” + +That voice, devoid of emphasis, yet perfectly intelligible, had +something glacial about it; it was like an echo from another world. + +“Go, mother,” said Roland. “You see that she wishes to be alone with +me.” + +“O my God!” murmured Madame de Montrevel, “can there still be hope?” + +Low as these words were, the dying girl heard them. + +“No, mother,” she said. “God has permitted me to see my brother again; +but to-night I go to Him.” + +Madame de Montrevel groaned. + +“Roland, Roland!” she said, “she is there already.” + +Roland signed to her to leave them alone, and she went away with little +Edouard. Roland closed the door, and returned to his sister’s bedside +with unutterable emotion. + +Her body was already stiffening in death; the breath from her lips would +scarcely have dimmed a mirror; the eyes only, wide-open, were fixed and +brilliant, as though the whole remaining life of the body, dead before +its time, were centred, there. Roland had heard of this strange state +called ecstasy, which is nothing else than catalepsy. He saw that Amélie +was a victim of that preliminary death. + +“I am here, sister,” he said. “What can I do for you?” + +“I knew you would come,” she replied, still without moving, “and I +waited for you.” + +“How did you know that I was coming?” asked Roland. + +“I saw you coming.” + +Roland shuddered. + +“Did you know why I was coming?” he asked. + +“Yes; I prayed God so earnestly in my heart that He gave me strength to +rise and write to you.” + +“When was that?” + +“Last night.” + +“Where is the letter?” + +“Under my pillow. Take it, and read it.” + +Roland hesitated an instant. Was his sister delirious? + +“Poor Amélie!” he murmured. + +“Do not pity me,” she said, “I go to join him.” + +“Whom?” asked Roland. + +“Him whom I loved, and whom you killed.” + +Roland uttered a cry. This was delirium; or else--what did his sister +mean? + +“Amélie,” said he, “I came to question you--” + +“About Lord Tanlay; yes, I know,” replied the young girl. + +“You knew! How could you know?” + +“Did I not tell you I saw you coming, and knew why you came?” + +“Then answer me.” + +“Do not turn me from God and from him, Roland. I have written it all; +read my letter.” + +Roland slipped his hand beneath the pillow, convinced that his sister +was delirious. + +To his great astonishment he felt a paper, which he drew out. It was +a sealed letter; on it were written these words: “For Roland, who will +come to-morrow.” + +He went over to the night-light in order to read the letter, which was +dated the night before at eleven o’clock in the evening. + + My brother, we have each a terrible thing to forgive the + other. + +Roland looked at his sister; she was still motionless. He continued to +read: + + I loved Charles de Sainte-Hermine; I did more than + love him, he was my lover. + +“Oh!” muttered the young man between his teeth, “he shall die.” + +“He is dead,” said Amélie. + +The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words to +which Amélie had replied too low even to hear them himself. His eyes +went back to the letter. + + There was no legal marriage possible between the sister + of Roland de Montrevel and the leader of the Companions + of Jehu: that was the terrible secret which I bore--and + it crushed me. + + One person alone had to know it, and I told him; that + person was Sir John Tanlay. + + May God forever bless that noble-hearted man, who + promised to break off an impossible marriage, and who + kept his word. Let his life be sacred to you, Roland; he + has been my only friend in sorrow, and his tears have + mingled with mine. + + I loved Charles de Saint-Hermine; I was his mistress; + that is the terrible thing you must forgive. + + But, in exchange, you caused his death; that is the + terrible thing I now forgive you. + + Oh! come fast, Roland, for I cannot die till you are + here. + + To die is to see him again; to die is to be with him and + never to leave him again. I am glad to die. + +All was clearly and plainly written; there was no sign of delirium in +the letter. + +Roland read it through twice, and stood for an instant silent, +motionless, palpitating, full of bitterness; then pity got the better +of his anger. He went to Amélie, stretched his hand over her, and said: +“Sister, I forgive you.” + +A slight quiver shook the dying body. + +“And now,” she said, “call my mother, that I may die in her arms.” + +Roland opened the door and called Madame de Montrevel. She was waiting +and came at once. + +“Is there any change?” she asked, eagerly. + +“No,” replied Roland, “only Amélie wishes to die in your arms.” + +Madame de Montrevel fell upon her knees beside her daughter’s bed. + +Then Amélie, as though an invisible hand had loosened the bonds that +held her rigid body to the bed, rose slowly, parted the hands that +were clasped upon her breast, and let one fall slowly into those of her +mother. + +“Mother,” she said, “you gave me life and you have taken it from me; I +bless you. It was a mother’s act. There was no happiness possible for +your daughter in this life.” + +Then, letting her other hand fall into that of Roland, who was kneeling +on the other side of the bed, she said: “We have forgiven each other, +brother?” + +“Yes, dear Amélie,” he replied, “and from the depths of our hearts, I +hope.” + +“I have still one last request to make.” + +“What is it?” + +“Do not forget that Lord Tanlay has been my best friend.” + +“Fear nothing,” said Roland; “Lord Tanlay’s life is sacred to me.” + +Amélie drew a long breath; then in a voice which showed her growing +weakness, she said: “Farewell, mother; farewell, Roland; kiss Edouard +for me.” + +Then with a cry from her soul, in which there was more of joy than +sadness, she said: “Here I am, Charles, here I am!” + +She fell back upon her bed, withdrawing her two hands as she did so, and +clasping them upon her breast again. + +Roland and his mother rose and leaned over her. She had resumed her +first position, except that her eyelids were closed and her breath +extinguished. Amélie’s martyrdom was over, she was dead. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. INVULNERABLE + +Amélie died during the night of Monday and Tuesday, that is to say, +the 2d and 3d of June. On the evening of Thursday, the 5th of June, the +Grand Opera at Paris was crowded for the second presentation of “Ossian, +or the Bards.” + +The great admiration which the First Consul professed for the poems of +Macpherson was universally known; consequently the National Academy, +as much in flattery as from literary choice, had brought out an opera, +which, in spite of all exertions, did not appear until a month after +General Bonaparte had left Paris to join the Army of the Reserves. + +In the balcony to the left sat a lover of music who was noticeable +for the deep attention he paid to the performance. During the interval +between the acts, the door-keeper came to him and said in a low voice: + +“Pardon me, sir, are you Sir John Tanlay?” + +“I am.” + +“In that case, my lord, a gentleman has a message to give you; he says +it is of the utmost importance, and asks if you will speak to him in the +corridor.” + +“Oh!” said Sir John, “is he an officer?” + +“He is in civilian’s dress, but he looks like an officer.” + +“Very good,” replied Sir John; “I know who he is.” + +He rose and followed the woman. Roland was waiting in the corridor. Lord +Tanlay showed no surprise on seeing him, but the stern look on the young +man’s face repressed the first impulse of his deep affection, which was +to fling himself upon his friend’s breast. + +“Here I am, sir,” said Sir John. + +Roland bowed. + +“I have just come from your hotel,” he said. “You have, it seems, taken +the precaution to inform the porter of your whereabout every time you +have gone out, so that persons who have business with you should know +where to find you.” + +“That is true, sir.” + +“The precaution is a good one, especially for those who, like myself, +come from a long distance and are hurried and have no time to spare.” + +“Then,” said Sir John, “was it to see me that you left the army and came +to Paris?” + +“Solely for that honor, sir; and I trust that you will guess my motives, +and spare me the necessity of explaining them.” + +“From this moment I am at your service, sir,” replied Sir John. + +“At what hour to-morrow can two of my friends wait upon you?” + +“From seven in the morning until midnight; unless you prefer that it +should be now.” + +“No, my lord; I have but just arrived, and I must have time to find my +friends and give them my instructions. If it will not inconvenience you, +they will probably call upon you to-morrow between ten and eleven. I +shall be very much obliged to you if the affair we have to settle could +be arranged for the same day.” + +“I believe that will be possible, sir; as I understand it to be your +wish, the delay will not be from my side.” + +“That is all I wished to know, my lord; pray do not let me detain you +longer.” + +Roland bowed, and Sir John returned the salutation. Then the young man +left the theatre and Sir John returned to his seat in the balcony. The +words had been exchanged in such perfectly well modulated voices, and +with such an impassible expression of countenance on both sides, that +no one would have supposed that a quarrel had arisen between the two men +who had just greeted each other so courteously. + +It happened to be the reception day of the minister of war. Roland +returned to his hotel, removed the traces of his journey, jumped into a +carriage, and a little before ten he was announced in the salon of the +citizen Carnot. + +Two purposes took him there: in the first place, he had a verbal +communication to make to the minister of war from the First Consul; in +the second place, he hoped to find there the two witnesses he was in +need of to arrange his meeting with Sir John. + +Everything happened as Roland had hoped. He gave the minister of war all +the details of the crossing of the Mont Saint-Bernard and the situation +of the army; and he himself found the two friends of whom he was in +search. A few words sufficed to let them know what he wished; soldiers +are particularly open to such confidences. + +Roland spoke of a grave insult, the nature of which must remain a secret +even to his seconds. He declared that he was the offended party, and +claimed the choice of weapons and mode of fighting--advantages which +belong to the challenger. + +The young fellows agreed to present themselves to Sir John the following +morning at the Hôtel Mirabeau, Rue de Richelieu, at nine o’clock, and +make the necessary arrangements with Sir John’s seconds. After that they +would join Roland at the Hôtel de Paris in the same street. + +Roland returned to his room at eleven that evening, wrote for about an +hour, then went to bed and to sleep. + +At half-past nine the next morning his friends came to him. They had +just left Sir John. He admitted all Roland’s contentions; declared that +he would not discuss any of the arrangements; adding that if Roland +regarded himself as the injured party, it was for him to dictate the +conditions. To their remark that they had hoped to discuss such matters +with two of his friends and not with himself, he replied that he knew no +one in Paris intimately enough to ask their assistance in such a matter, +and that he hoped, once on the ground, that one of Roland’s seconds +would consent to act in his behalf. The two officers were agreed that +Lord Tanlay had conducted himself with the utmost punctiliousness in +every respect. + +Roland declared that Sir John’s request for the services of one of his +two seconds was not only just but suitable, and he authorized either +one of them to act for Sir John and to take charge of his interests. All +that remained for Roland to do was to dictate his conditions. They were +as follows! + +Pistols were chosen. When loaded the adversaries were to stand at five +paces. At the third clap of the seconds’ hands they were to fire. It +was, as we see, a duel to the death, in which, if either survived, he +would be at the mercy of his opponent. Consequently the young officers +made many objections; but Roland insisted, declaring that he alone +could judge of the gravity of the insult offered him, and that no other +reparation than this would satisfy him. They were obliged to yield +to such obstinacy. But the friend who was to act as Sir John’s second +refused to bind himself for his principal, declaring that unless Sir +John ordered it he would refuse to be a party to such a murder. + +“Don’t excite yourself, dear friend,” said Roland, “I know Sir John, and +I think he will be more accommodating than you.” + +The seconds returned to Sir John; they found him at his English +breakfast of beefsteak, potatoes and tea. On seeing them he rose, +invited them to share his repast, and, on their refusing, placed himself +at their disposal. They began by assuring him that he could count upon +one of them to act as his second. The one acting for Roland announced +the conditions. At each stipulation Sir John bowed his head in token of +assent and merely replied: “Very good!” + +The one who had taken charge of his interests attempted to make some +objections to a form of combat that, unless something impossible to +foresee occurred, must end in the death of both parties; but Lord Tanlay +begged him to make no objections. + +“M. de Montrevel is a gallant man,” he said; “I do not wish to thwart +him in anything; whatever he does is right.” + +It only remained to settle the hour and the place of meeting. On these +points Sir John again placed himself at Roland’s disposal. The two +seconds left even more delighted with him after this interview than they +had been after the first. Roland was waiting for them and listened to +what had taken place. + +“What did I tell you?” he asked. + +They requested him to name the time and place. He selected seven o’clock +in the evening in the Allée de la Muette. At that hour the Bois was +almost deserted, but the light was still good enough (it will be +remembered that this was in the month of June) for the two adversaries +to fight with any weapon. + +No one had spoken of the pistols. The young men proposed to get them at +an armorer’s. + +“No,” said Roland, “Sir John has an excellent pair of duelling pistols +which I have already used. If he is not unwilling to fight with those +pistols I should prefer them to all others.” + +The young man who was now acting as Sir John’s second went to him with +the three following questions: Whether the time and place suited him, +and whether he would allow his pistols to be used. + +Lord Tanlay replied by regulating his watch by that of his second and by +handing him the box of pistols. + +“Shall I call for you, my lord?” asked the young man. + +Sir John smiled sadly. + +“Needless,” he replied; “you are M. de Montrevel’s friend, and you will +find the drive pleasanter with him than with me. I will go on horseback +with my servant. You will find me on the ground.” + +The young officer carried this reply to Roland. + +“What did I tell you?” observed Roland again. + +It was then mid-day, there were still seven hours before them, and +Roland dismissed his friends to their various pleasures and occupations. +At half-past six precisely they were to be at his door with three horses +and two servants. It was necessary, in order to avoid interference, that +the trip should appear to be nothing more than an ordinary promenade. + +At half-past six precisely the waiter informed Roland that his friends +were in the courtyard. Roland greeted them cordially and sprang into his +saddle. The party followed the boulevards as far as the Place Louis XV. +and then turned up the Champs Elysées. On the way the strange phenomenon +that had so much astonished Sir John at the time of Roland’s duel with +M. de Barjols recurred. Roland’s gayety might have been thought an +affectation had it not been so evidently genuine. The two young +men acting as seconds were of undoubted courage, but even they were +bewildered by such utter indifference. They might have understood it +had this affair been an ordinary duel, for coolness and dexterity insure +their possessor a great advantage over his adversary; but in a combat +like this to which they were going neither coolness nor dexterity would +avail to save the combatants, if not from death at least from some +terrible wound. + +Furthermore, Roland urged on his horse like a man in haste, so that +they reached the end of the Allée de la Muette five minutes before the +appointed time. + +A man was walking in the allée. Roland recognized Sir John. The seconds +watched the young man’s face as he caught sight of his adversary. To +their great astonishment it expressed only tender good-will. + +A few more steps and the four principal actors in the scene that was +about to take place met. + +Sir John was perfectly calm, but his face wore a look of profound +sadness. It was evident that this meeting grieved him as deeply as it +seemed to rejoice Roland. + +The party dismounted. One of the seconds took the box of pistols from +the servants and ordered them to lead away the horses, and not to return +until they heard pistol-shots. The principals then entered the part of +the woods that seemed the thickest, and looked about them for a suitable +spot. For the rest, as Roland had foreseen, the Bois was deserted; the +approach of the dinner hour had called every one home. + +They found a small open spot exactly suited to their needs. The seconds +looked at Roland and Sir John. They both nodded their heads in approval. + +“Is there to be any change?” one of the seconds asked Sir John. + +“Ask M. de Montrevel,” replied Lord Tanlay; “I am entirely at his +disposal.” + +“Nothing,” said Roland. + +The seconds took the pistols from the box and loaded them. Sir +John stood apart, switching the heads of the tall grasses with his +riding-whip. + +Roland watched him hesitatingly for a moment, then taking his resolve, +he walked resolutely toward him. Sir John raised his head and looked at +him with apparent hope. + +“My lord,” said Roland, “I may have certain grievances against you, but +I know you to be, none the less, a man of your word.” + +“You are right,” replied Sir John. + +“If you survive me will you keep the promise that you made me at +Avignon?” + +“There is no possibility that I shall survive you, but so long as I have +any breath left in my body, you can count upon me.” + +“I refer to the final disposition to be made of my body.” + +“The same, I presume, as at Avignon?” + +“The same, my lord.” + +“Very well, you may set your mind at rest.” + +Roland bowed to Sir John and returned to his friends. + +“Have you any wishes in case the affair terminates fatally?” asked one +of them. + +“One only.” + +“What is it?” + +“That you permit Sir John to take entire charge of the funeral +arrangements. For the rest, I have a note in my left hand for him. In +case I have not time to speak after the affair is over, you are to open +my hand and give him the note.” + +“Is that all?” + +“Yes.” + +“The pistols are loaded, then.” + +“Very well, inform Sir John.” + +One of the seconds approached Sir John. The other measured off five +paces. Roland saw that the distance was greater than he had supposed. + +“Excuse me,” he said, “I said three paces.” + +“Five,” replied the officer who was measuring the distance. + +“Not at all, dear friend, you are wrong.” + +He turned to Sir John and to the other second questioningly. + +“Three paces will do very well,” replied Sir John, bowing. + +There was nothing to be said if the two adversaries were agreed. The +five paces were reduced to three. Then two sabres were laid on the +ground to mark the limit. Sir John and Roland took their places, +standing so that their toes touched the sabres. A pistol was then handed +to each of them. + +They bowed to say that they were ready. The two seconds stepped aside. +They were to give the signal by clapping their hands three times. At the +first clap the principals were to cock their pistols; at the second to +take aim; at the third to fire. + +The three claps were given at regular intervals amid the most profound +silence; the wind itself seemed to pause and the rustle of the trees +was hushed. The principals were calm, but the seconds were visibly +distressed. + +At the third clap two shots rang out so simultaneously that they seemed +but one. But to the utter astonishment of the seconds the combatants +remained standing. At the signal Roland had lowered his pistol and fired +into the ground. Sir John had raised his and cut the branch of a tree +three feet behind Roland. Each was clearly amazed--amazed that he +himself was still living, after having spared his antagonist. + +Roland was the first to speak. + +“Ah!” he cried, “my sister was right in saying that you were the most +generous man on earth.” + +And throwing his pistol aside he opened his arms to Sir John, who rushed +into them. + +“Ah! I understand,” he said. “You wanted to die; but, God be thanked, I +am not your murderer.” + +The two seconds came up. + +“What is the matter?” they asked together. + +“Nothing,” said Roland, “except that I could not die by the hand of the +man I love best on earth. You saw for yourselves that he preferred to +die rather than kill me.” + +Then throwing himself once more into Sir John’s arms, and grasping the +hands of his two friends, he said: “I see that I must leave that to the +Austrians. And now, gentlemen, you must excuse me. The First Consul is +on the eve of a great battle in Italy, and I have not a moment to lose +if I am to be there.” + +Leaving Sir John to make what explanations he thought suitable to the +seconds, Roland rushed to the road, sprang upon his horse, and returned +to Paris at a gallop. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. CONCLUSION + +In the meantime the French army continued its march, and on the 5th of +June it entered Milan. + +There was little resistance. The fort of Milan was invested. Murat, +sent to Piacenza, had taken the city without a blow. Lannes had defeated +General Ott at Montebello. Thus disposed, the French army was in the +rear of the Austrians before the latter were aware of it. + +During the night of the 8th of June a courier arrived from Murat, +who, as we have said, was occupying Piacenza. Murat had intercepted a +despatch from General Melas, and was now sending it to Bonaparte. This +despatch announced the capitulation of Genoa; Masséna, after eating +horses, dogs, cats and rats, had been forced to surrender. Melas spoke +of the Army of the Reserves with the utmost contempt; he declared that +the story of Bonaparte’s presence in Italy was a hoax; and asserted that +he knew for certain that the First Consul was in Paris. + +Here was news that must instantly be imparted to Bonaparte, for it came +under the category of bad news. Consequently, Bourrienne woke him up at +three o’clock in the morning and translated the despatch. Bonaparte’s +first words were as follows: + +“Pooh! Bourrienne, you don’t understand German.” + +But Bourrienne repeated the translation word for word. After this +reading the general rose, had everybody waked up, gave his orders, and +then went back to bed and to sleep. + +That same day he left Milan and established his headquarters at +Stradella; there he remained until June 12th, left on the 13th, and +marched to the Scrivia through Montebello, where he saw the field +of-battle, still torn and bleeding after Lannes’ victory. The traces of +death were everywhere; the church was still overflowing with the dead +and wounded. + +“The devil!” said the First Consul to the victor, “you must have made it +pretty hot here.” + +“So hot, general, that the bones in my division were cracking and +rattling like hail on a skylight.” + +Desaix joined the First Consul on the 11th of June, while he was still +at Stradella. Released by the capitulation of El-Arish, he had reached +Toulon the 6th of May, the very day on which Bonaparte left Paris. At +the foot of the Mont Saint-Bernard Bonaparte received a letter from him, +asking whether he should march to Paris or rejoin the army. + +“Start for Paris, indeed!” exclaimed Bonaparte; “write him to rejoin the +army at headquarters, wherever that may be.” + +Bourrienne had written, and, as we have seen, Desaix joined the army the +11th of June, at Stradella. The First Consul received him with twofold +joy. In the first place, he regained a man without ambition, an +intelligent officer and a devoted friend. In the second place, Desaix +arrived just in the nick of time to take charge of the division lately +under Boudet, who had been killed. Through a false report, received +through General Gardannes, the First Consul was led to believe that the +enemy refused to give battle and was retiring to Genoa. He sent Desaix +and his division on the road to Novi to cut them off. + +The night of the 13th passed tranquilly. In spite of a heavy storm, an +engagement had taken place the preceding evening in which the Austrians +had been defeated. It seemed as though men and nature were wearied +alike, for all was still during the night. Bonaparte was easy in his +mind; there was but one bridge over the Bormida, and he had been assured +that that was down. Pickets were stationed as far as possible along the +Bormida, each with four scouts. + +The whole of the night was occupied by the enemy in crossing the river. +At two in the morning two parties of scouts were captured; seven of the +eight men were killed, the eighth made his way back to camp crying: “To +arms!” + +A courier was instantly despatched to the First Consul, who was sleeping +at Torre di Galifo. Meanwhile, till orders could be received, the drums +beat to arms all along the line. A man must have shared in such a scene +to understand the effect produced on a sleeping army by the roll of +drums calling to arms at three in the morning. The bravest shuddered. +The troops were sleeping in their clothes; every man sprang up, ran to +the stacked arms, and seized his weapons. + +The lines formed on the vast plains of Marengo. The noise of the drums +swept on like a train of lighted powder. In the dim half-light the hasty +movements of the pickets could be seen. When the day broke, the French +troops were stationed as follows: + +The division Gardannes and the division Chamberlhac, forming the extreme +advance, were encamped around a little country-place called Petra Bona, +at the angle formed by the highroad from Marengo to Tortona, and the +Bormida, which crosses the road on its way to the Tanaro. + +The corps of General Lannes was before the village of San Giuliano, the +place which Bonaparte had pointed out to Roland three months earlier, +telling him that on that spot the fate of the campaign would be decided. + +The Consular guard was stationed some five hundred yards or so in the +rear of Lannes. + +The cavalry brigade, under General Kellermann, and a few squadrons of +chasseurs and hussars, forming the left, filled up, along the advanced +line, the gap between the divisions of Gardannes and Chamberlhac. + +A second brigade, under General Champeaux, filled up the gap on the +right between General Lannes’ cavalry. + +And finally the twelfth regiment of hussars, and the twenty-first +chasseurs, detached by Murat under the orders of General Rivaud, +occupied the opening of the Valley of Salo and the extreme right of the +position. + +These forces amounted to about twenty-five or six thousand men, not +counting the divisions Monnet and Boudet, ten thousand men in all, +commanded by Desaix, and now, as we have said, detached from the main +army to cut off the retreat of the enemy to Genoa. Only, instead of +making that retreat, the enemy were now attacking. + +During the day of the 13th of June, General Melas, commander-in-chief of +the Austrian army, having succeeded in reuniting the troops of Generals +Haddich, Kaim and Ott, crossed the Tanaro, and was now encamped before +Alessandria with thirty-six thousand infantry, seven thousand cavalry, +and a numerous well-served and well-horsed artillery. + +At four o’clock in the morning the firing began and General Victor +assigned all to their line of battle. At five Bonaparte was awakened +by the sound of cannon. While he was dressing, General Victor’s +aide-de-camp rode up to tell him that the enemy had crossed the Bormida +and was attacking all along the line of battle. + +The First Consul called for his horse, and, springing upon it, galloped +off toward the spot where the fighting was going on. From the summit of +the hill he could overlook the position of both armies. + +The enemy was formed in three columns; that on the left, comprising all +the cavalry and light infantry, was moving toward Castel-Ceriolo by the +Salo road, while the columns of the right and centre, resting upon each +other and comprising the infantry regiments under Generals Haddich, Kaim +and O’Reilly, and the reserve of grenadiers under command of General +Ott, were advancing along the Tortona road and up the Bormida. + +The moment they crossed the river the latter columns came in contact +with the troops of General Gardannes, posted, as we have said, at +the farmhouse and the ravine of Petra Bona. It was the noise of the +artillery advancing in this direction that had brought Bonaparte to the +scene of battle. He arrived just as Gardannes’ division, crushed under +the fire of that artillery, was beginning to fall back, and General +Victor was sending forward Chamberlhac’s division to its support. +Protected by this move, Gardannes’ troops retreated in good order, and +covered the village of Marengo. + +The situation was critical; all the plans of the commander-in-chief +were overthrown. Instead of attacking, as was his wont, with troops +judiciously massed, he was attacked himself before he could concentrate +his forces. The Austrians, profiting by the sweep of land that lay +before them, ceased to march in columns, and deployed in lines parallel +to those of Gardannes and Chamberlhac--with this difference, that +they were two to the French army’s one. The first of these lines was +commanded by General Haddich, the second by General Melas, the third by +General Ott. + +At a short distance from the Bormida flows a stream called the +Fontanone, which passes through a deep ravine forming a semicircle round +the village of Marengo, and protecting it. General Victor had already +divined the advantages to be derived from this natural intrenchment, and +he used it to rally the divisions of Gardannes and Chamberlhac. + +Bonaparte, approving Victor’s arrangements, sent him word to defend +Marengo to the very last extremity. He himself needed time to prepare +his game on this great chess-board inclosed between the Bormida, the +Fontanone, and Marengo. + +His first step was to recall Desaix, then marching, as we have said, +to cut the retreat to Genoa. General Bonaparte sent off two or three +aides-de-camp with orders not to stop until they had reached that corps. +Then he waited, seeing clearly that there was nothing to do but to fall +back in as orderly a manner as possible, until he could gather a compact +mass that would enable him, not only to stop the retrograde movement, +but to assume the offensive. + +But this waiting was horrible. + +Presently the action was renewed along the whole line. The Austrians +had reached one bank of the Fontanone, of which the French occupied +the other. Each was firing on the other from either side of the ravine; +grape-shot flew from side to side within pistol range. Protected by its +terrible artillery, the enemy had only to extend himself a little more +to overwhelm Bonaparte’s forces. General Rivaud, of Gardannes’ division, +saw the Austrians preparing for this manoeuvre. He marched out from +Marengo, and placed a battalion in the open with orders to die there +rather than retreat, then, while that battalion drew the enemy’s fire, +he formed his cavalry in column, came round the flank of the battalion, +fell upon three thousand Austrians advancing to the charge, repulsed +them, threw them into disorder, and, all wounded as he was by a +splintered ball, forced them back behind their own lines. After that +he took up a position to the right of the battalion, which had not +retreated a step. + +But during this time Gardannes’ division, which had been struggling with +the enemy from early morning, was driven back upon Marengo, followed by +the first Austrian line, which forced Chamberlhac’s division to retreat +in like manner. There an aide-de-camp sent by Bonaparte ordered the two +divisions to rally and retake Marengo at any cost. + +General Victor reformed them, put himself at their head, forced his way +through the streets, which the Austrians had not had time to barricade, +retook the village, lost it again, took it a third time, and then, +overwhelmed by numbers, lost it for the third time. + +It was then eleven o’clock. Desaix, overtaken by Bonaparte’s +aide-de-camp, ought at that hour to be on his way to the battle. + +Meanwhile, Lannes with his two divisions came to the help of his +struggling comrades. This reinforcement enabled Gardannes and +Chamberlhac to reform their lines parallel to the enemy, who had now +debouched, through Marengo, to the right and also to the left of the +village. + +The Austrians were on the point of overwhelming the French. + +Lannes, forming his centre with the divisions rallied by Victor, +deployed with his two least exhausted divisions for the purpose of +opposing them to the Austrian wings. The two corps--the one excited +by the prospect of victory, the other refreshed by a long rest--flung +themselves with fury into the fight, which was now renewed along the +whole line. + +After struggling an hour, hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, General +Kaim’s corps fell back; General Champeaux, at the head of the first and +eighth regiments of dragoons, charged upon him, increasing his disorder. +General Watrin, with the sixth light infantry and the twenty-second and +fortieth of the line, started in pursuit and drove him nearly a thousand +rods beyond the rivulet. But this movement separated the French from +their own corps; the centre divisions were endangered by the victory on +the right, and Generals Watrin and Champeaux were forced to fall back to +the lines they had left uncovered. + +At the same time Kellermann was doing on the left wing what Champeaux +and Watrin had done on the right. Two cavalry charges made an opening +through the enemy’s line; but behind that first line was a second. Not +daring to go further forward, because of superior numbers, Kellermann +lost the fruits of that momentary victory. + +It was now noon. The French army, which undulated like a flaming serpent +along a front of some three miles, was broken in the centre. The centre, +retreating, abandoned the wings. The wings were therefore forced to +follow the retrograde movement. Kellermann to the left, Watrin to the +right, had given their men the order to fall back. The retreat was made +in squares, under the fire of eighty pieces of artillery which preceded +the main body of the Austrian army. The French ranks shrank visibly; men +were borne to the ambulances by men who did not return. + +One division retreated through a field of ripe wheat; a shell burst and +fired the straw, and two or three thousand men were caught in the midst +of a terrible conflagration; cartridge-boxes exploded, and fearful +disorder reigned in the ranks. + +It was then that Bonaparte sent forward the Consular guard. + +Up they went at a charge, deployed in line of battle, and stopped the +enemy’s advance. Meantime the mounted grenadiers dashed forward at a +gallop and overthrew the Austrian cavalry. + +Meanwhile the division which had escaped from the conflagration received +fresh cartridges and reformed in line. But this movement had no other +result than to prevent the retreat from becoming a rout. + +It was two o’clock. + +Bonaparte watched the battle, sitting on the bank of a ditch beside the +highroad to Alessandria. He was alone. His left arm was slipped through +his horse’s bridle; with the other he flicked the pebbles in the road +with the tip of his riding-whip. Cannon-balls were plowing the earth +about him. He seemed indifferent to this great drama on which hung all +his hopes. Never had he played so desperate a game--six years of victory +against the crown of France! + +Suddenly he roused from his revery. Amid the dreadful roar of cannon and +musketry his ear caught the hoof-beats of a galloping horse. He raised +his head. A rider, dashing along at full speed, his horse covered with +white froth, came from the direction of Novi. When he was within fifty +feet, Bonaparte gave one cry: + +“Roland!” + +The latter dashed on, crying: “Desaix! Desaix! Desaix!” + +Bonaparte opened his arms; Roland sprang from his horse, and flung +himself upon the First Consul’s neck. + +There was a double joy for Bonaparte in this arrival--that of again +seeing a man whom he knew would be devoted to him unto death, and +because of the news he brought. + +“And Desaix?” he questioned. + +“Is within three miles; one of your aides met him retracing his steps +toward the cannon.” + +“Then,” said Bonaparte, “he may yet come in time.” + +“How? In time?” + +“Look!” + +Roland glanced at the battlefield and grasped the situation in an +instant. + +During the few moments that had elapsed while they were conversing, +matters had gone from bad to worse. The first Austrian column, the one +which had marched on Castel-Ceriolo and had not yet been engaged, was +about to fall on the right of the French army. If it broke the line the +retreat would be flight--Desaix would come too late. + +“Take my last two regiments of grenadiers,” said Bonaparte. “Rally +the Consular guard, and carry it with you to the extreme right--you +understand? in a square, Roland!--and stop that column like a stone +redoubt.” + +There was not an instant to lose. Roland sprang upon his horse, took the +two regiments of grenadiers, rallied the Consular guard, and dashed to +the right. When he was within fifty feet of General Elsnitz’s column, he +called out: “In square! The First Consul is looking at us!” + +The square formed. Each man seemed to take root in his place. + +General Elsnitz, instead of continuing his way in the movement to +support Generals Melas and Kaim--instead of despising the nine +hundred men who present no cause for fear in the rear of a victorious +army--General Elsnitz paused and turned upon them with fury. + +Those nine hundred men were indeed the stone redoubt that General +Bonaparte had ordered them to be. Artillery, musketry, bayonets, all +were turned upon them, but they yielded not an inch. + +Bonaparte was watching them with admiration, when, turning in the +direction of Novi, he caught the gleam of Desaix’s bayonets. Standing on +a knoll raised above the plain, he could see what was invisible to the +enemy. + +He signed to a group of officers who were near him, awaiting orders; +behind stood orderlies holding their horses. The officers advanced. +Bonaparte pointed to the forest of bayonets, now glistening in the +sunlight, and said to one of the officers: “Gallop to those bayonets and +tell them to hasten. As for Desaix, tell him I am waiting for him here.” + +The officer galloped off. Bonaparte again turned his eyes to the +battlefield. The retreat continued; but Roland and his nine hundred +had stopped General Elsnitz and his column. The stone redoubt was +transformed into a volcano; it was belching fire from all four sides. +Then Bonaparte, addressing three officers, cried out: “One of you to the +centre; the other two to the wings! Say everywhere that the reserves are +at hand, and that we resume the offensive.” + +The three officers departed like arrows shot from a bow, their ways +parting in direct lines to their different destinations. Bonaparte +watched them for a few moments, and when he turned round he saw a rider +in a general’s uniform approaching. + +It was Desaix--Desaix, whom he had left in Egypt, and who that very +morning had said, laughing: “The bullets of Europe don’t recognize me; +some ill-luck is surely impending over me.” + +One grasp of the hand was all that these two friends needed to reveal +their hearts. + +Then Bonaparte stretched out his arm toward the battlefield. + +A single glance told more than all the words in the world. + +Twenty thousand men had gone into the fight that morning, and now +scarcely more than ten thousand were left within a radius of six +miles--only nine thousand infantry, one thousand cavalry, and ten cannon +still in condition for use. One quarter of the army was either dead or +wounded, another quarter was employed in removing the wounded; for the +First Consul would not suffer them to be abandoned. All of these forces, +save and excepting Roland and his nine hundred men, were retreating. + +The vast space between the Bormida and the ground over which the army +was now retreating was covered with the dead bodies of men and horses, +dismounted cannon and shattered ammunition wagons. Here and there rose +columns of flame and smoke from the burning fields of grain. + +Desaix took in these details at a glance. + +“What do you think of the battle?” asked Bonaparte. + +“I think that this one is lost,” answered Desaix; “but as it is only +three o’clock in the afternoon, we have time to gain another.” + +“Only,” said a voice, “we need cannon!” + +This voice belonged to Marmont, commanding the artillery. + +“True, Marmont; but where are we to get them?” + +“I have five pieces still intact from the battlefield; we left five more +at Scrivia, which are just coming up.” + +“And the eight pieces I have with me,” said Desaix. + +“Eighteen pieces!” said Marmont; “that is all I need.” An aide-de-camp +was sent to hasten the arrival of Desaix’s guns. His troops were +advancing rapidly, and were scarcely half a mile from the field of +battle. Their line of approach seemed formed for the purpose at hand; on +the left of the road was a gigantic perpendicular hedge protected by a +bank. The infantry was made to file in a narrow line along it, and it +even hid the cavalry from view. + +During this time Marmont had collected his guns and stationed them +in battery on the right front of the army. Suddenly they burst forth, +vomiting a deluge of grapeshot and canister upon the Austrians. For an +instant the enemy wavered. + +Bonaparte profited by that instant of hesitation to send forward the +whole front of the French army. + +“Comrades!” he cried, “we have made steps enough backward; remember, it +is my custom to sleep on the battlefield!” + +At the same moment, and as if in reply to Marmont’s cannonade, volleys +of musketry burst forth to the left, taking the Austrians in flank. +It was Desaix and his division, come down upon them at short range and +enfilading the enemy with the fire of his guns. + +The whole army knew that this was the reserve, and that it behooved them +to aid this reserve by a supreme effort. + +“Forward!” rang from right to left. The drums beat the charge. The +Austrians, who had not seen the reserves, and were marching with their +guns on their shoulders, as if at parade, felt that something strange +was happening within the French lines; they struggled to retain the +victory they now felt to be slipping from their grasp. + +But everywhere the French army had resumed the offensive. On all sides +the ominous roll of the charge and the victorious Marseillaise were +heard above the din. Marmont’s battery belched fire; Kellermann dashed +forward with his cuirassiers and cut his way through both lines of the +enemy. + +Desaix jumped ditches, leaped hedges, and, reaching a little eminence, +turned to see if his division were still following him. There he fell; +but his death, instead of diminishing the ardor of his men, redoubled +it, and they charged with their bayonets upon the column of General +Zach. + +At that moment Kellermann, who had broken through both of the enemy’s +lines, saw Desaix’s division struggling with a compact, immovable mass. +He charged in flank, forced his way into a gap, widened it, broke the +square, quartered it, and in less than fifteen minutes the five thousand +Austrian grenadiers who formed the mass were overthrown, dispersed, +crushed, annihilated. They disappeared like smoke. General Zach and his +staff, all that was left, were taken prisoners. + +Then, in turn, the enemy endeavored to make use of his immense cavalry +corps; but the incessant volleys of musketry, the blasting canister, the +terrible bayonets, stopped short the charge. Murat was manoeuvring on +the flank with two light-battery guns and a howitzer, which dealt death +to the foe. + +He paused for an instant to succor Roland and his nine hundred men. A +shell from the howitzer fell and burst in the Austrian ranks; it opened +a gulf of flame. Roland sprang into it, a pistol in one hand, his sword +in the other. The whole Consular guard followed him, opening the enemy’s +ranks as a wedge opens the trunk of an oak. Onward he dashed, till +he reached an ammunition wagon surrounded by the enemy; then, without +pausing an instant, he thrust the hand holding the pistol through +the opening of the wagon and fired. A frightful explosion followed, a +volcano had burst its crater and annihilated those around it. + +General Elsnitz’s corps was in full flight; the rest of the Austrian +army swayed, retreated, and broke. The generals tried in vain to stop +the torrent and form up for a retreat. In thirty minutes the French army +had crossed the plain it had defended foot by foot for eight hours. + +The enemy did not stop until Marengo was reached. There they made a +vain attempt to reform under fire of the artillery of Carra-Saint-Cyr +(forgotten at Castel-Ceriolo, and not recovered until the day was over); +but the Desaix, Gardannes, and Chamberlhac divisions, coming up at a +run, pursued the flying Austrians through the streets. + +Marengo was carried. The enemy retired on Petra Bona, and that too was +taken. Then the Austrians rushed toward the bridge of the Bormida; but +Carra-Saint-Cyr was there before them. The flying multitudes sought the +fords, or plunged into the Bormida under a devastating fire, which did +not slacken before ten that night. + +The remains of the Austrian army regained their camp at Alessandria. The +French army bivouacked near the bridge. The day had cost the Austrian +army four thousand five hundred men killed, six thousand wounded, five +thousand prisoners, besides twelve flags and thirty cannon. + +Never did fortune show herself under two such opposite aspects as +on that day. At two in the afternoon, the day spelt defeat and its +disastrous consequences to Bonaparte; at five, it was Italy reconquered +and the throne of France in prospect. + +That night the First Consul wrote the following letter to Madame de +Montrevel: + + MADAME--I have to-day won my greatest victory; but + it has cost me the two halves of my heart, Desaix and + Roland. + + Do not grieve, madame; your son did not care to live, + and he could not have died more gloriously. + + BONAPARTE. + +Many futile efforts were made to recover the body of the young +aide-de-camp: like Romulus, he had vanished in a whirlwind. + +None ever knew why he had pursued death with such eager longing. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Companions of Jehu, by Alexandre Dumas, père + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPANIONS OF JEHU *** + +***** This file should be named 7079-0.txt or 7079-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/0/7/7079/ + +Produced by Robert J. 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