The Companions of Jehu, Alexandre Dumas [great books of all time .txt] 📗

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 bareheaded. 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 tomorrow. 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 yon 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