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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“A marshal of France.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward? I should say that was enough.”
“And then you would be one of twelve, and not a unity of your own.”
“Let me be simply your friend. Let me always thresh out the truth with you, and then I’ll warrant I shall be out of the crowd.”
“That may be enough for you, Roland, but it is not enough for me,” persisted Bonaparte. Then, as Roland said nothing, he continued, “I have no more sisters, Roland, it is true; but I have dreamed that you might be something more to me than a brother.” Then, as Roland still said nothing, he went on: “I know a young girl, Roland, a charming child, whom I love as a daughter. She is just seventeen. You are twenty-six, and a brigadier-general de facto. Before the end of the campaign you will be general of division. Well, Roland, when the campaign is over, we will return together to Paris, and you shall marry her—”
“General,” interrupted Roland, “I think I see Bourrienne looking for you.”
And in fact the First Consul’s secretary was already within two feet of the friends.
“Is that you, Bourrienne?” asked Bonaparte, somewhat impatiently.
“Yes, general, a courier from France.”
“Ah!”
“And a letter from Madame Bonaparte.”
“Good!” said the First Consul, rising eagerly, “give it to me.” And he almost snatched the letter from Bourrienne’s hand.
“And for me?” asked Roland. “Nothing for me?”
“Nothing.”
“That is strange,” said the young man, pensively.
The moon had risen, and by its clear, beautiful light Bonaparte was able to read his letters. Through the first two pages his face expressed perfect serenity. Bonaparte adored his wife; the letters published by Queen Hortense bear witness to that fact. Roland watched these expressions of the soul on his general’s face. But toward the close of the letter Bonaparte’s face clouded; he frowned and cast a furtive glance at Roland.
“Ah!” exclaimed the young man, “it seems there is something about me in the letter.”
Bonaparte did not answer and continued to read. When he had finished, he folded the letter and put it in the side pocket of his coat. Then, turning to Bourrienne, he said: “Very well, we will return. I shall probably have to despatch a courier. Go mend some pens while you are waiting for me.”
Bourrienne bowed and returned to Chivasso.
Bonaparte then went up to Roland and laid his hand on his shoulder, saying: “I have no luck with the marriages I attempt to make.”
“How so?” asked Roland.
“Your sister’s marriage is off.”
“Has she refused?”
“No; she has not.”
“She has not? Can it be Sir John?”
“Yes.”
“Refused to marry my sister after asking her of me, of my mother, of you, of herself?”
“Come, don’t begin to get angry. Try to see that there is some mystery in all this.”
“I don’t see any mystery, I see an insult!”
“Ah! there you are, Roland. That explains why your mother and sister did not write to you. But Josephine thought the matter so serious that you ought to be informed. She writes me this news and asks me to tell you of it if I think best. You see I have not hesitated.”
“I thank you sincerely, general. Does Lord Tanlay give any reason for this refusal?”
“A reason that is no reason.”
“What is it?”
“It can’t be the true one.”
“But what is it?”
“It is only necessary to look at the man and to talk with him for five minutes to understand that.”
“But, general, what reason does he give for breaking his word?”
“That your sister is not as rich as he thought she was.”
Roland burst into that nervous laugh which was a sign with him of violent agitation.
“Ha!” said he, “that was the very first thing I told him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That my sister hadn’t a penny. How can the children of republican generals be rich?”
“And what did he answer?”
“That he was rich enough for two.”
“You see, therefore, that that was not the real reason for his refusal.”
“And it is your opinion that one of your aides-de-camp can receive such an insult, and not demand satisfaction?”
“In such situations the person who feels affronted must judge of the matter for himself, my dear Roland.”
“General, how many days do you think it will be before we have a decisive action?”
Bonaparte calculated.
“Not less than fifteen days, or three weeks,” he answered.
“Then, general, I ask you for a furlough of fifteen days.”
“On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“That you will first go to Bourg and ask your sister from which side the refusal came.”
“That is my intention.”
“In that case you have not a moment to lose.”
“You see I lose none,” said the young man, already on his way to the village.
“One moment,” said Bonaparte; “you will take my despatches to Paris, won’t you?”
“Ah! I see; I am the courier you spoke of just now to Bourrienne.”
“Precisely.”
“Come then.”
“Wait one moment. The young men you arrested—”
“The Companions of Jehu?”
“Yes. Well, it seems that they were all of noble families. They were fanatics rather than criminals. It appears that your mother has been made the victim of some judicial trick or other in testifying at their trial and has called their conviction.”
“Possibly. My mother was in the coach stopped by them, as you know, and saw the face of their leader.”
“Well, your mother implores me, through Josephine, to pardon those poor madmen—that is the very word she uses. They have appealed their case. You will get there before the appeal can be rejected, and, if you think it desirable, tell the minister of Justice for me to suspend matters. After you get back we can see what is best to be done.”
“Thank you, general. Anything more?”
“No,” said Bonaparte, “except to think over our conversation.”
“What was it about?”
“Your marriage.”
“Well, I’ll say as you did just now, we’ll talk about it when I return, if I do.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “I’m not afraid; you’ll kill him as you have the others; only this time, I must admit, I shall be sorry to have him die.”
“If you are going to feel so badly about it, general, I can easily be killed in his stead.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, ninny!” cried Bonaparte; hastily; “I should feel still worse if I lost you.”
“Really, general, you are the hardest man to please that I know of,” said Roland with his harsh laugh.
And this time he took his way to Chivasso without further delay.
Half an hour later, Roland was galloping along the road to Ivrae in a post-chaise. He was to travel thus to Aosta, at Aosta take a mule, cross the Saint-Bernard to Martigny, thence to Geneva, on to Bourg, and from Bourg to Paris.
While he is galloping along let us see what has happened in France, and clear up the points in the conversation between Bonaparte and his aide-de-camp which must be obscure to the reader’s mind.
The prisoners which Roland had made at the grotto of Ceyzeriat had remained but one night in the prison at Bourg. They had been immediately transferred to that of Besançon, where they were to appear before a council of war.
It will be remembered that two of these prisoners were so grievously wounded that they were carried into Bourg on stretchers. One of them died that same night, the other, three days after they reached Besançon. The number of prisoners was therefore reduced to four; Morgan, who had surrendered himself voluntarily and who was safe and sound, and Montbar, Adler, and d’Assas, who were more or less wounded in the fight, though none of them dangerously. These four aliases hid, as the reader will remember, the real names of the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, the Comte de Jayat, the Vicomte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier.
While the evidence was being taken against the four prisoners before the military commission at Besançon, the time expired when under the law such cases were tried by courts-martial. The prisoners became accountable therefore to the civil tribunals. This made a great difference to them, not only as to the penalty if convicted, but in the mode of execution. Condemned by a court-martial, they would be shot; condemned by the courts, they would be guillotined. Death by the first was not infamous; death by the second was.
As soon as it appeared that their case was to be brought before a jury, it belonged by law to the court of Bourg. Toward the end of March the prisoners were therefore transferred from the prison of Besançon to that of Bourg, and the first steps toward a trial were taken.
But here the prisoners adopted a line of defence that greatly embarrassed the prosecuting officers. They declared themselves to be the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, the Comte de Jayat, the Vicomte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier, and to have no connection with the pillagers of diligences, whose names were Morgan, Montbar, Adler, and d’Assas. They acknowledged having belonged to armed bands; but these forces belonged to the army of M. de Teyssonnet and were a ramification of the army of Brittany intended to operate in the East and the Midi, while the army of Brittany, which had just signed a peace, operated in the North. They had waited only to hear of Cadoudal’s surrender to do likewise, and the despatch of the Breton leader was no doubt on its way to them when they were attacked and captured.
It was difficult to disprove this. The diligences had invariably been pillaged by masked, men, and, apart from Madame de Montrevel and Sir John Tanlay, no one had ever seen the faces of the assailants.
The reader will recall those circumstances: Sir John, on the night they had tried, condemned, and stabbed him; Madame de Montrevel, when the diligence was stopped, and she, in her nervous struggle, had struck off the mask of the leader.
Both had been summoned before the preliminary court and both had been confronted with the prisoners; but neither Sir John nor Madame de Montrevel had recognized any of them. How came they to practice this deception? As for Madame de Montrevel, it was comprehensible. She felt a double gratitude to the man who had come to her assistance, and who had also forgiven, and even praised, Edouard’s attack upon himself. But Sir John’s silence was more difficult to explain, for among the four prisoners he must have recognized at least two of his assailants.
They had recognized him, and a certain quiver had run through their veins as they did so, but their eyes were none the less resolutely fixed upon him, when, to their great astonishment, Sir John, in spite of the judge’s insistence, had calmly replied: “I have not the honor of knowing these gentlemen.”
Amélie—we have not spoken of her, for there are sorrows no pen can depict—Amélie, pale, feverish, almost expiring since that fatal night when Morgan was arrested, awaited the return of her mother and Sir John from the preliminary trial with dreadful anxiety. Sir John arrived first. Madame de Montrevel had remained behind to give some orders to Michel. As soon as Amélie saw him she rushed forward, crying out: “What happened?”
Sir John looked behind him, to make sure that Madame de Montrevel could neither see nor hear him, then he said: “Your mother and I recognized no one.”
“Ah! how noble you are I how generous! how good, my lord!” cried the young girl, trying to kiss his hand.
But he, withdrawing his hand, said hastily: “I have only done as I promised you; but hush—here is
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