The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas (best ereader for comics TXT) 📖

“In short,” said Bonaparte, laughing, “you feel easy and settled in your mind. You think yourself rid of my alliance.”

“Oh, general!” exclaimed Roland.

“You are not ambitious, it seems?”

“General, let me love you for all the good you have done to me, and not for what you seek to do.”

“But suppose it is for my own interests that I seek to bind you to me, not by the ties of friendship alone, but also by those of matrimony. Suppose I say to you: In my plans for the future I cannot rely upon my two brothers, whereas I could never for one instant doubt you?”

“In heart, yes, you are right.”

“In all respects! What can I do with Leclerc—a commonplace man; with Bacciocchi—who is not French; with Murat—lion-hearted and feather-brained? And yet some day I shall have to make princes of them because they are my sisters’ husbands. When that time comes, what can I make of you?”

“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