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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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Madame de Montrevel was about to answer when the door opened and an usher appeared.
“The First Consul awaits Madame de Montrevel,” he said.
“Go,” said Josephine; “Bonaparte’s time is so precious that he is almost as impatient as Louis XV., who had nothing to do. He does not like to wait.”
Madame de Montrevel rose hastily and turned to take Edouard with her.
“No,” said Josephine; “leave this beautiful boy with me. You will stay and dine with us, and Bonaparte can see him then. Besides, if my husband takes a fancy to see him, he can send for him. For the time, I am his second mamma. Come, what shall we do to amuse ourselves?”
“The First Consul must have a fine lot of weapons, madame,” replied the boy.
“Yes, very fine ones. Well, I will show you the First Consul’s arms.”
Josephine, leading the child, went out of one door, and Madame de Montrevel followed the usher through the other.
On the way the countess met a fair man, with a pale face and haggard eye, who looked at her with an uneasiness that seemed habitual to him. She drew hastily aside to let him pass. The usher noticed her movement.
“That is the minister of police,” he said in a low voice. Madame de Montrevel watched him as he disappeared, with a certain curiosity. Fouché was already at that time fatally celebrated. Just then the door of Bonaparte’s study opened and his head was seen through the aperture. He caught sight of Madame de Montrevel.
“Come in, madame,” he said; “come in.”
Madame de Montrevel hastened her steps and entered the study.
“Come in,” said Bonaparte, closing the door himself. “I have kept you waiting much against my will; but I had to give Fouché a scolding. You know I am very well satisfied with Roland, and that I intend to make a general of him at the first opportunity. When did you arrive?”
“This very moment, general.”
“Where from? Roland told me, but I have forgotten.”
“From Bourg.”
“What road?”
“Through Champagne.”
“Champagne! Then when did you reach Châtillon?”
“Yesterday morning at nine o’clock.”
“In that case, you must have heard of the stoppage of the diligence.”
“General—”
“Yes, a diligence was stopped at ten in the morning, between Châtillon and Bar-sur-Seine.”
“General, it was ours.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the diligence that was stopped?”
“I was.”
“Ah! now I shall get the exact details! Excuse me, but you understand my desire for correct information, don’t you? In a civilized country which has General Bonaparte for its chief magistrate, diligences can’t be stopped in broad daylight on the highroads with impunity, or—”
“General, I can tell you nothing, except that those who stopped it were on horseback and masked.”
“How many were there?”
“Four.”
“How many men were there in the diligence?”
“Four, including the conductor.”
“And they didn’t defend themselves?”
“No, general.”
“The police report says, however, that two shots were fired.”
“Yes, general, but those two shots—”
“Well?”
“Were fired by my son.”
“Your son? Why, he is in Vendée!”
“Roland, yes; but Edouard was with me.”
“Edouard! Who is Edouard?”
“Roland’s brother.”
“True, he spoke of him; but he is only a child.”
“He is not yet twelve, general.”
“And it was he who fired the two shots?”
“Yes, general.”
“Why didn’t you bring him with you?”
“I did.”
“Where is he?”
“I left him with Madame Bonaparte.”
Bonaparte rang, and an usher appeared.
“Tell Josephine to bring the boy to me.” Then, walking up and down his study, he muttered, “Four men! And a child taught them courage! Were any of the robbers wounded?”
“There were no balls in the pistols.”
“What I no balls?”
“No; they belonged to the conductor, and he had taken the precaution to load them with powder only.”
“Very good; his name shall be known.”
Just then the door opened, and Madame Bonaparte entered, leading the boy by the hand.
“Come here,” Bonaparte said to him.
Edouard went up to him without hesitation and made a military salute.
“So you fired at the robbers twice, did you?”
“There, you see, mamma, they were robbers!” interrupted the child.
“Of course they were robbers; I should like to hear any one declare they were not! Was it you who fired at them, when the men were afraid?”
“Yes, it was I, general. But unfortunately that coward of a conductor had loaded his pistols only with powder; otherwise I should have killed their leader.”
“Then you were not afraid?”
“I?” replied the boy. “No, I am never afraid.”
“You ought to be named Cornelia, madame,” exclaimed Bonaparte, turning to Madame de Montrevel, who was leaning on Josephine’s arm. Then he said to the child, kissing him: “Very good; we will take care of you. What would you like to be?”
“Soldier first.”
“What do you mean by first?”
“Why, first a soldier, then later a colonel like my brother, and then a general like my father.”
“It won’t be my fault if you are not,” answered the First Consul.
“Nor mine,” retorted the boy.
“Edouard!” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, timidly.
“Now don’t scold him for answering properly;” and Bonaparte, lifting the child to the level of his face, kissed him.
“You must dine with us,” said he, “and tonight Bourrienne, who met you at the hotel, will install you in the Rue de la Victoire. You must stay there till Roland gets back; he will then find you suitable lodgings. Edouard shall go to the Prytanée, and I will marry off your daughter.”
“General!”
“That’s all settled with Roland.” Then, turning to Josephine, he said: “Take Madame de Montrevel with you, and try not to let her be bored.—And, Madame de Montrevel, if your friend (he emphasized the words) wishes to go to a milliner, prevent it; she can’t want bonnets, for she bought thirty-eight last month.”
Then, giving Edouard a friendly tap, he dismissed the two women with a wave of the hand.
We have said that at the very moment when Morgan and his three companions stopped the Geneva diligence between Bar-sur-Seine and Châtillon, Roland was entering Nantes.
If we are to know the result of his mission we must not grope our way, step by step, through the darkness in which the Abbé Bernier wrapped his ambitious projects, but we must join him later at the village of Muzillac, between Ambon and Guernic, six miles above the little bay into which the Vilaine River falls.
There we find ourselves in the heart of the Morbihan; that is to say, in the region that gave birth to the Chouannerie. It was close to Laval, on the little farm of the Poiriers, that the four Chouan brothers were born to Pierre Cottereau and Jeanne Moyné. One of their ancestors, a misanthropical woodcutter, a morose peasant, kept himself aloof from the other peasants as the chat-huant (screech-owl) keeps aloof from the other birds; hence the name Chouan, a corruption of chat-huant.
The name became that of a party. On the right bank of the Loire they said Chouans when they meant Bretons, just as on the left bank they said brigands when they meant Vendéans.
It is not for us to relate the death and destruction of that heroic family, nor follow to the scaffold the two sisters and a brother, nor tell of battlefields where Jean and René, martyrs to their faith, lay dying or dead. Many years have elapsed since the executions of Perrine, René and Pierre, and the death of Jean; and the martyrdom of the sisters, the exploits of the brothers have passed into legends. We have now to do with their successors.
It is true that these gars (lads) are faithful to their traditions. As they fought beside la Rouërie, Bois-Hardy and Bernard de Villeneuve, so did they fight beside Bourmont, Frotté, and Georges Cadoudal. Theirs was always the same courage, the same devotion—that of the Christian soldier, the faithful royalist. Their aspect is always the same, rough and savage; their weapons, the same gun or cudgel, called in those parts a “ferte.” Their garments are the same; a brown woollen cap, or a broad-brimmed hat scarcely covering the long straight hair that fell in tangles on their shoulders, the old Aulerci Cenomani, as in Cæsar’s day, promisso capillo; they are the same Bretons with wide breeches of whom Martial said:
Tam laxa est… Quam veteres braccoe Britonis pauperis.
To protect themselves from rain and cold they wore goatskin garments, made with the long hair turned outside; on the breasts of which, as countersign, some wore a scapulary and chaplet, others a heart, the heart of Jesus; this latter was the distinctive sign of a fraternity which withdrew apart each day for common prayer.
Such were the men, who, at the time we are crossing the borderland between the Loire-Inférieure and Morbihan, were scattered from La Roche-Bernard to Vannes, and from Quertemberg to Billiers, surrounding consequently the village of Muzillac.
But it needed the eye of the eagle soaring in the clouds, or that of the screech-owl piercing the darkness, to distinguish these men among the gorse and heather and underbrush where they were crouching.
Let us pass through this network of invisible sentinels, and after fording two streams, the affluents of a nameless river which flows into the sea near Billiers, between Arzal and Dangau, let us boldly enter the village of Muzillac.
All is still and sombre; a single light shines through the blinds of a house, or rather a cottage, which nothing distinguishes from its fellows. It is the fourth to the right on entering the village.
Let us put our eye to one of these chinks and look in.
We see a man dressed like the rich peasants of Morbihan, except that gold lace about a finger wide stripes the collar and buttonholes of his coat and also the edges of his hat. The rest of his dress consists of leathern trousers and high-topped boots. His sword is thrown upon a chair. A brace of pistols lies within reach of his hand. Within the fireplace the barrels of two or three muskets reflect the light of a blazing fire.
The man is seated before a table; a lamp lights some papers which he is reading with great attention, and illuminates his face at the same time.
The face is that of a man of thirty. When the cares of a partisan warfare do not darken it, its expression must surely be frank and joyous. Beautiful blond hair frames it; great blue eyes enliven it; the head, of a shape peculiarly Breton, seems to show, if we believe in Gall’s system, an exaggerated development of the organs of self-will. And the man has two names. That by which he is known to his soldiers, his familiar name, is Roundhead; and his real name, received from brave and worthy parents, Georges Cadudal, or rather Cadoudal, tradition having changed the orthography of a name that is now historic.
Georges was the son of a farmer of the parish of Kerléano in the commune of Brech. The story goes that this farmer was once a miller. Georges had just received at the college of Vannes—distant only a few leagues from Brech—a good and solid education when the first appeals for a royalist insurrection were made in Vendée. Cadoudal listened to them, gathered together a number of his companions, and offered his services to Stofflet. But Stofflet insisted on seeing him at work before he accepted him. Georges asked nothing better. Such occasions were not long to seek in
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