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

“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,