The Companions of Jehu, Alexandre Dumas père [top 10 best books of all time .TXT] 📗

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 Amelie 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 Amelie!" 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?

"Amelie," 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 Amelie.

The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words to which Amelie 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 I 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 Amelie, 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 Amelie wishes to die in your arms."

Madame de Montrevel fell upon her knees beside her daughter's bed.

Then Amelie, 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 Amelie," 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."

Amelie 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. Amelie's martyrdom was over, she was dead.


CHAPTER LV

INVULNERABLE

Amelie 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 Hotel 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 Hotel de Paris in the same street.

Roland returned to his room at eleven