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

a step and said: “I am.”

“Your name?”

“I have two.”

“Your fighting name?”

“Morgan.”

“Yes, that’s the one the general told me; besides, I recognize you. You gave me a bag containing sixty thousand francs the night I saw the monks. The letter is for you then.”

“Give it to me.”

The peasant took off his hat, pulled out the lining, and from between it and the felt he took a piece of paper which resembled another lining, and seemed at first sight to be blank. Then, with a military salute, he offered the paper to Morgan, who turned it over and over and could see no writing; at least none was apparent.

“A candle,” he said.

They brought a wax light; Morgan held the paper to the flame. Little by little, as the paper warmed, the writing appeared. The experience appeared familiar to the young men; the Breton alone seemed surprised. To his naive mind the operation probably seemed like witchcraft; but so long as the devil was aiding the royalist cause the Chouan was willing to deal with him.

“Gentlemen,” said Morgan, “do you want to know what the master says?”

All bowed and listened, while the young man read:

MY DEAR MORGAN—If you hear that I have abandoned the cause, and am in treaty with the government of the First Consul and the Vendéan leaders, do not believe it. I am a Breton of Brittany, and consequently as stubborn as a true Breton. The First Consul sent one of his aides-de-camp to offer me an amnesty for all my men, and the rank of colonel for myself. I have not even consulted my men, I refused for them and for me.

Now, all depends on us; as we receive from the princes neither money nor encouragement, you are our only treasurer; close your coffers, or rather cease to open those of the government for us, and the royalist opposition, the heart of which beats only in Brittany, will subside little by little, and end before long.

I need not tell you that my life will have ended first.

Our mission is dangerous; probably it will cost us our heads; but what can be more glorious than to hear posterity say of us, if one can hear beyond the grave: “All others despaired; but they, never!”

One of us will survive the other, but only to succumb later. Let that survivor say as he dies: Etiamsi omnes, ego non.

Count on me as I count on you. CADOUDAL.

P.S.—You know that you can safely give Branched’Or all the money you have for the Cause. He has promised me not to let himself be taken, and I trust his word.

A murmur of enthusiasm ran through the group, as Morgan finished the last words of the letter.

“You have heard it, gentlemen?” he said.

“Yes, yes, yes,” repeated every voice.

“In the first place, how much money have we to give to Branched’Or?”

“Thirteen thousand francs from the Lake of Silans, twenty-two thousand from Les Carronnières, fourteen thousand from Meximieux, forty-nine thousand in all,” said one of the group.

“You hear, Branched’Or?” said Morgan; “it is not much—only half what we gave you last time, but you know the proverb: ‘The handsomest girl in the world can only give what she has.’”

“The general knows what you risk to obtain this money, and he says that, no matter how little you send, he will receive it gratefully.”

“All the more, that the next will be better,” said a young man who had just joined the group, unperceived, so absorbed were all present in Cadoudal’s letter. “More especially if we say two words to the mail-coach from Chambéry next Saturday.”

“Ah! is that you, Valensolle?” said Morgan.

“No real names, if you please, baron; let us be shot, guillotined, drawn and quartered, but save our family honor. My name is Adler; I answer to no other.”

“Pardon me, I did wrong—you were saying?”

“That the mail-coach from Paris to Chambéry will pass through Chapelle-de-Guinchay and Belleville next Saturday, carrying fifty thousand francs of government money to the monks of Saint-Bernard; to which I may add that there is between those two places a spot called the Maison-Blanche, which seems to me admirably adapted for an ambuscade.”

“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Morgan, “Shall we do citizen Fouché the honor to worry about his police? Shall we leave France? Or shall we still remain faithful Companions of Jehu?”

There was but one reply—“We stay.”

“Right!” said Morgan. “Brothers, I recognize you there. Cadoudal points out our duty in that admirable letter we have just received. Let us adopt his heroic motto: Etiamsi omnes, ego non.” Then addressing the peasant, he said, “Branched’Or, the forty-nine thousand francs are at your disposal; you can start when you like. Promise something better next time, in our name, and tell the general for me that, wherever he goes, even though it be to the scaffold, I shall deem it an honor to follow, or to precede him. Au revoir, Branched’Or.” Then, turning to the young man who seemed so anxious to preserve his incognito, “My dear Adler,” he said, like a man who has recovered his gayety, lost for an instant, “I undertake to feed and lodge you this night, if you will deign to accept me as a host.”

“Gratefully, friend Morgan,” replied the new-comer. “Only let me tell you that I could do without a bed, for I am dropping with fatigue, but not without supper, for I am dying of hunger.”

“You shall have a good bed and an excellent supper.”

“Where must I go for them.”

“Follow me.”

“I’m ready.”

“Then come on. Good-night, gentlemen! Are you on watch, Montbar?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can sleep in peace.”

So saying, Morgan passed his arm through that of his friend, took a torch in his other hand, and passed into the depths of the grotto, where we will follow him if our readers are not too weary of this long session.

It was the first time that Valensolle, who came, as we have said, from the neighborhood of Aix, had had occasion to visit the grotto of Ceyzeriat, recently adopted as the meeting-place of the Companions of Jehu. At the preceding meetings he had occasion to explore only the windings and intricacies of the Chartreuse of Seillon, which he now knew so well that in the farce played before Roland the part of ghost was intrusted to him. Everything was, therefore, curious and unknown to him in this new domicile, where he now expected to take his first sleep, and which seemed likely to be, for some days at least, Morgan’s headquarters.

As is always the case in abandoned quarries—which, at the first glance, partake somewhat of the character of subterranean cities—the different galleries excavated by the removal of the stone end in a cul de sac; that is to say, at a point in the mine where the work stops. One of these streets seemed to prolong itself indefinitely. Nevertheless, there came a point where the mine would naturally have ended, but there, in the angle of the tunnelled way, was cut (For what purpose? The thing remains a mystery to this day among the people of the neigbborhood) an opening two-thirds the width of the gallery, wide enough, or nearly so, to give passage to two men abreast.

The two friends passed through this opening. The air there became so rarefied that their torch threatened to go out at every step. Vallensolle felt drops of ice-cold water falling on his hands and face.

“Bless me,” said he, “does it rain down here?”

“No,” replied Morgan, laughing; “only we are passing under the Reissouse.”

“Then we are going to Bourg?”

“That’s about it.”

“All right; you are leading me; you have promised me supper and a bed, so I have nothing to worry about—unless that light goes out,” added the young man, looking at the paling flame of the torch.

“That wouldn’t matter; we can always find ourselves here.”

“In the end!” said Valensolle. “And when one reflects that we are wandering through a grotto under rivers at three o’clock in the morning, sleeping the Lord knows where, with the prospect of being taken, tried, and guillotined some fine morning, and all for princes who don’t even know our names, and who if they did know them one day would forget them the next—I tell you, Morgan, it’s stupid!”

“My dear fellow,” said Morgan, “what we call stupid, what ordinary minds never do understand in such a case, has many a chance to become sublime.”

“Well, well,” said Valensolle, “I see that you will lose more than I do in this business; I put devotion into it, but you put enthusiasm.”

Morgan sighed.

“Here we are,” said he, letting the conversation drop, like a burden too heavy to be carried longer. In fact, his foot had just struck against the first step of a stairway.

Preceding Valensolle, for whom he lighted the way, Morgan went up ten steps and reached the gate. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened it. They found themselves in the burial vault. On each side of the vault stood coffins on iron tripods: ducal crowns and escutcheons, blazoned azure, with the cross argent, indicated that these coffins belonged to the family of Savoy before it came to bear the royal crown. A flight of stairs at the further end of the cavern led to an upper floor.

Valensolle cast a curious glance around him, and by the vacillating light of the torch, he recognized the funereal place he was in.

“The devil!” said he, “we are just the reverse of the Spartans, it seems.”

“Inasmuch as they were Republicans and we are royalists?” asked Morgan.

“No; because they had skeletons at the end of their suppers, and we have ours at the beginning.”

“Are you sure it was the Spartans who proved their philosophy in that way?” asked Morgan, closing the door.

“They or others—what matter?” said Vallensolle. “Faith! My citation is made, and like the Abbé Vertot, who wouldn’t rewrite his siege, I’ll not change it.”

“Well, another time you had better say the Egyptians.”

“Well,” said Valensolle, with an indifference that was not without a certain sadness, “I’ll probably be a skeleton myself before I have another chance to display my erudition. But what the devil are you doing? Why did you put out the torch? You’re not going to make me eat and sleep here I hope?”

Morgan had in fact extinguished the torch at the foot of the steps leading to the upper floor.

“Give me your hand,” said the young man.

Valensolle seized his friend’s band with an eagerness that showed how very slight a desire he had to make a longer stay in the gloomy vaults of the dukes of Savoy, no matter what honor there might be in such illustrious companionship.

Morgan went up the steps. Then, by the tightening of his hand, Valensolle knew he was making an effort. Presently a stone was raised, and through the opening a trembling gleam of twilight met the eyes of the young men, and a fragrant aromatic odor came to comfort their sense of smell after the mephitic atmosphere of the vaults.

“Ah!” cried Valensolle, “we are in a barn; I prefer that.”

Morgan did not answer; he helped his companion to climb out of the vault, and then let the stone drop back in its place.

Valensolle looked about him. He was in the midst of a vast building filled with hay, into which the light filtered through windows of such exquisite form that they certainly could not be those of a barn.

“Why!” said Valensolle, “we are not in a barn!”

“Climb up the hay and sit down near that window,” replied Morgan.

Valensolle obeyed and scrambled up the hay like a schoolboy in his