The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas (great novels of all time .TXT) 📖

skin, long jaws.”

“That’s their th,” said Roland, gravely.

“Their th?”

“Yes. Did yon ever learn English, general?”

“Faith! I tried to learn it.”

“Your teacher must have told you that the th was sounded by pressing the tongue against the teeth. Well, by dint of punching their teeth with their tongues the English have ended by getting those elongated jaws, which, as you said just now, is one of the distinctive characteristics of their physiognomy.”

Bonaparte looked at Roland to see if that incorrigible jester were laughing or speaking seriously. Roland was imperturbable.

“Is that your opinion?” said Bonaparte.

“Yes, general, and I think that physiologically it is as good as any other. I have a lot of opinions like it, which I bring to light as the occasion offers.”

“Come back to your Englishman.”

“Certainly, general.”

“I asked you what he was like.”

“Well, he is a gentleman; very brave, very calm, very impassible, very noble, very rich, and, moreover—which may not be a recommendation to you—a nephew of Lord Grenville, prime minister to his Britannic Majesty.”

“What’s that?”

“I said, prime minister to his Britannic Majesty.”

Bonaparte resumed his walk; then, presently returning to Roland, he said: “Can I see your Englishman?”

“You know, general, that you can do anything.”

“Where is he?”

“In Paris.”

“Go find him and bring him here.”

Roland was in the habit of obeying without reply; he took his hat and went toward the door.

“Send Bourrienne to me,” said the First Consul, just as Roland passed into the secretary’s room.

Five minutes later Bourrienne appeared.

“Sit down there, Bourrienne,” said the First Consul, “and write.”

Bourrienne sat down, arranged his paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and waited.

“Ready?” asked the First Consul, sitting down upon the writing table, which was another of his habits; a habit that reduced his secretary to despair, for Bonaparte never ceased swinging himself back and forth all the time he dictated—a motion that shook the table as much as if it had been in the middle of the ocean with a heaving sea.

“I’m ready,” replied Bourrienne, who had ended by forcing himself to endure, with more or less patience, all Bonaparte’s eccentricities.

“Then write.” And he dictated:

Bonaparte, First Consul of the Republic, to his Majesty the King of Great Britain and Ireland.

Called by the will of the French nation to the chief magistracy of the Republic, I think it proper to inform your Majesty personally of this fact.

Must the war, which for two years has ravaged the four quarters of the globe, be perpetuated? Is there no means of staying it?

How is it that two nations, the most enlightened of Europe, more powerful and strong than their own safety and independence require; how is it that they sacrifice to their ideas of empty grandeur or bigoted antipathies the welfare of commerce, eternal prosperity, the happiness of families? How is it that they do not recognize that peace is the first of needs and the first of a nation’s glories?

These sentiments cannot be foreign to the heart of a king who governs a free nation with the sole object of rendering it happy.

Your Majesty will see in this overture my sincere desire to contribute efficaciously, for the second time, to a general pacification, by an advance frankly made and free of those formalities which, necessary perhaps to disguise the dependence of feeble states, only disclose in powerful nations a mutual desire to deceive.

France and England can, for a long time yet, by the abuse of their powers, and to the misery of their people, carry on the struggle without exhaustion; but, and I dare say it, the fate of all the civilized nations depends on the conclusion of a war which involves the universe.

Bonaparte paused. “I think that will do,” said he. “Read it over, Bourrienne.”

Bourrienne read the letter he had just written. After each paragraph the First Consul nodded approvingly; and said: “Go on.”

Before the last words were fairly uttered, he took the letter from Bourrienne’s hands and signed it with a new pen. It was a habit of his never to use the same pen twice. Nothing could be more disagreeable to him than a spot of ink on his fingers.

“That’s good,” said he. “Seal it and put on the address: ‘To Lord Grenville.’”

Bourrienne did as he was told. At the same moment the noise of a carriage was heard entering the courtyard of the Luxembourg. A moment later the door opened and Roland appeared.

“Well?” asked Bonaparte.

“Didn’t I tell you you could have anything you wanted, general?”

“Have you brought your Englishman?”

“I met him in the Place de Buci; and, knowing that you don’t like to wait, I caught him just as he was, and made him get into the carriage. Faith! I thought I should have to drive round to the Rue Mazarine, and get a guard to bring him. He’s in boots and a frockcoat.”

“Let him come in,” said Bonaparte.

“Come in, Sir John,” cried Roland, turning round.

Lord Tanlay appeared on the threshold. Bonaparte had only to glance at him to recognize a perfect gentleman. A trifling emaciation, a slight pallor, gave Sir John the characteristics of great distinction. He bowed, awaiting the formal introduction, like the true Englishman he was.

“General,” said Roland, “I have the honor to present to you Sir John Tanlay, who proposed to go to the third cataract for the purpose of seeing you, but who has, to-day, obliged me to drag him by the ear to the Luxembourg.”

“Come in, my lord; come in,” said Bonaparte. “This is not the first time we have seen each other, nor the first that I have expressed the wish to know you; there was therefore positive ingratitude in trying to evade my desire.”

“If I hesitated,” said Sir John, in excellent French, as usual, “it was because I could scarcely believe in the honor you do me.”

“And besides, very naturally, from national feeling, you detest me, don’t you, like the rest of your countrymen?”

“I must confess, general,” answered Sir John, smiling, “that they have not got beyond admiration.”

“And do you share the absurd prejudice that claims that national honor requires you to hate to-day the enemy who may be a friend tomorrow?”

“France has been almost a second mother country to me, and my friend Roland will tell you that I long for the moment when, of my two countries, the one to which I shall owe the most will be France.”

“Then you ought to see France and England shaking hands for the good of the world, without repugnance.”

“The day when I see that will be a happy day for me.”

“If you could contribute to bring it about would you do so?”

“I would risk my life to do it.”

“Roland tells me you are a relative of Lord Grenville.”

“His nephew.”

“Are you on good terms with him?”

“He was very fond of my mother, his eldest sister.”

“Have you inherited the fondness he bore your mother?”

“Yes; only I think he holds it in reserve till I return to England.”

“Will you deliver a letter for me?”

“To whom?”

“King George III.”

“I shall be greatly honored.”

“Will you undertake to say to your uncle that which cannot be written in a letter?”

“Without changing a syllable; the words of General Bonaparte are history.”

“Well, tell him—” but, interrupting himself, he turned to Bourrienne, saying: “Bourrienne, find me the last letter from the Emperor of Russia.”

Bourrienne opened a box, and, without searching, laid his hand on a letter that he handed to Bonaparte.

The First Consul cast his eye over the paper and then gave it to Lord Tanlay.

“Tell him,” said he, “first and before all, that you have read this letter.”

Sir John bowed and read as follows:

CITIZEN FIRST CONSUL—I have received, each armed and newly clothed in the uniform of his regiment, the nine thousand Russians, made prisoners in Holland, whom you have returned to me without ransom, exchange, or condition of any kind.

This is pure chivalry, and I boast of being chivalrous.

I think that which I can best offer you in exchange for this magnificent present, citizen First Consul, is my friendship. Will you accept it?

As an earnest of that friendship, I am sending his passports to Lord Whitworth, the British Ambassador to Saint Petersburg.

Furthermore, if you will be, I do not say my second, but my witness, I will challenge personally every king who will not take part against England and close his ports to her.

I begin with my neighbor the King of Denmark, and you will find in the “Gazette de la Cour” the ultimatum I have sent him.

What more can I say to you? Nothing, unless it be that you and I together can give laws to the world.

I am your admirer and sincere friend, PAUL.

Lord Tanlay turned to the First Consul. “Of course you know,” said he, “that the Emperor of Russia is mad.”

“Is it that letter that makes you think so, my lord?” asked Bonaparte.

“No; but it confirms my opinion.”

“It was a madman who gave Henry VI. of Lancaster the crown of Saint-Louis, and the blazon of England still bears—until I scratch them out with my sword—the fleur-de-lis of France.”

Sir John smiled; his national pride revolted at this assumption in the conqueror of the Pyramids.

“But,” said Bonaparte, “that is not the question to-day; everything in its own time.”

“Yes,” murmured Sir John, “we are too near Aboukir.”

“Oh, I shall never defeat you at sea,” said Bonaparte; “it would take fifty years to make France a maritime nation; but over there,” and he motioned with his hand to the East, “at the present moment, I repeat, that the question is not war but peace. I must have peace to accomplish my dream, and, above all, peace with England. You see, I play aboveboard; I am strong enough to speak frankly. If the day ever comes when a diplomatist tells the truth, he will be the first diplomatist in the world; for no one will believe him, and he will attain, unopposed, his ends.”

“Then I am to tell my uncle that you desire peace.”

“At the same time letting him know that I do not fear war. If I can’t ally myself with King George, I can, as you see, do so with the Emperor Paul; but Russia has not reached that point of civilization that I desire in an ally.”

“A tool is sometimes more useful than an ally.”

“Yes; but, as you said, the Emperor is mad, and it is better to disarm than to arm a madman. I tell you that two nations like France and England ought to be inseparable friends or relentless enemies; friends, they are the poles of the world, balancing its movements with perfect equilibrium; enemies, one must destroy the other and become the world’s sole axis.”

“But suppose Lord Grenville, not doubting your genius, still doubts your power; if he holds the opinion of our poet Coleridge, that our island needs no rampart, no bulwark, other than the raucous murmur of the ocean, what shall I tell him?”

“Unroll the map of the world, Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte.

Bourrienne unrolled a map; Bonaparte stepped over to it.

“Do you see those two rivers?” said he, pointing to the Volga and the Danube. “That’s the road to India,” he added.

“I thought Egypt was, general,” said Sir John.

“So did I for a time; or, rather, I took it because I had no other. But the Czar opens this one; your government can force me to take it. Do you follow me?”

“Yes; citizen; go on.”

“Well, if England forces me to fight her, if I am obliged to