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 yon 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 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 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