The Companions of Jehu, Alexandre Dumas [romance book recommendations TXT] 📗

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?”