The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas père (bts book recommendations TXT) 📖

mistress."

"Oh! oh! My mistress!" cried Antoine. "Can fellows like me afford mistresses? They're all very well for gentlemen such as you."

"Come, you scamp!" said Montbar. "You can't make me believe that, with your make-up, you've made a vow of chastity."

"Oh! I don't say I'm a monk in that particular. I may have a bit of a love-affair here and there along the high-road."

"Yes, at every tavern; and that's why we stop so often with our return horses to drink a drop or fill a pipe."

"Confound it!" said Antoine, with an indescribable twist of the shoulders. "A fellow must have his fun."

"Well, taste the wine, my lad. I'll warrant it won't make you weep." And filling a glass, Montbar signed to the postilion to fill the other.

"A fine honor for me! To your health and that of your company!"

This was an habitual phrase of the worthy postilion, a sort of extension of politeness which did not need the presence of others to justify it in his eyes.

"Ha!" said he, after drinking and smacking his lips, "there's vintage for you--and I have gulped it down at a swallow as if it were heel-taps!"

"That was a mistake, Antoine."

"Yes, it was a mistake."

"Luckily," said Montbar, refilling his glass, "you can repair it."

"No higher than my thumb, citizen," said the facetious postilion, taking care that his thumb touched the rim of the glass.

"One minute," said Montbar, just as Antoine was putting his glass to his lips.

"Just in time," said the postilion; "it was on its way. What is it?"

"You wouldn't let me drink to the health of your mistress, but I hope you won't refuse to drink to mine."

"Oh! that's never refused, especially with such wine. To the health of your mistress and her company."

Thereupon citizen Antoine swallowed the crimson liquor, tasting and relishing it this time.

"Hey!" exclaimed Montbar, "you're in too much of a hurry, my friend."

"Pooh!" retorted the postilion.

"Yes. Suppose I have several mistresses. If I don't name the one we drink to what good will it do her?"

"Why, that's true!"

"Sad; but you'll have to try again, my friend."

"Ha! Try again, of course! Can't do things half-way with a man like you. The sin's committed; we'll drink again." And Antoine held out his glass. Montbar filled it to the brim.

"Now," said Antoine, eying the bottle, and making sure it was empty, "there must be no mistake. Her name?"

"To the beautiful Josephine!" said Montbar.

"To the beautiful Josephine!" repeated Antoine.

And he swallowed the Burgundy with increasing satisfaction. Then, after drinking, and wiping his lips on his sleeve, he said, as he set the glass on the table: "Hey! one moment, citizen."

"What now?" exclaimed Montbar. "Anything wrong this time?"

"I should say so. We've made a great blunder but it's too late now."

"Why so?"

"The bottle is empty."

"That one, yes; but not this one."

So saying, Montbar took from the chimney corner another bottle, already uncorked.

"Ah! ah!" exclaimed Antoine, a radiant smile lighting his face.

"Is there any remedy for it?" asked Montbar.

"There is," replied Antoine, holding out his glass.

Montbar filled it as scrupulously full as he had the first three.

"Well," said the postilion, holding the ruby liquid to the light and admiring its sparkle, "as I was saying, we drank to the health of the beautiful Josephine--"

"Yes," said Montbar.

"But," said Antoine, "there are a devilish lot of Josephines in France."

"True. How many do you suppose there are, Antoine?"

"Perhaps a hundred thousand."

"Granted. What then?"

"Well, out of that hundred thousand a tenth of them must be beautiful."

"That's a good many."

"Say a twentieth."

"All right."

"That makes five thousand."

"The devil! You're strong in arithmetic!"

"I'm the son of a schoolmaster."

"Well?"

"Well, to which of those five thousand did we drink, hey?"

"You're right, Antoine. The family name must follow. To the beautiful Josephine--"

"Stop. This glass was begun; it won't do. If the health is to do her any good, we'll have to empty it and fill it again."

He put the glass to his lips.

"There, it's empty," he said.

"And full," added Montbar, putting the bottle to the glass.

"I'm ready. To the beautiful Josephine--"

"To the beautiful Josephine--Lollier!"

And Montbar emptied his glass.

"By the Lord!" exclaimed Antoine. "Wait a moment. Josephine Lollier! Why, I know her."

"I didn't say you didn't."

"Josephine Lollier! Why, she's the daughter of the man who keeps the post-horses at Belleville."

"Exactly."

"Damn it!" exclaimed the postilion, "you're not to be pitied--a pretty slip of a girl! To the health of beautiful Josephine Lollier."

And he swallowed his fifth glass of Burgundy.

"Now," asked Montbar, "do you understand why I had you sent up here, my lad?"

"No; but I don't bear you any grudge for it, all the same."

"That's very kind of you."

"Oh! I'm a pretty good devil."

"Well, I'll tell you why I sent for you."

"I'm all ears."

"Wait. You'll hear better if your glass is full than if it's empty."

"Are you a doctor for deaf folk?" asked the postilion, banteringly.

"No; but I've lived a good deal among drunkards," replied Montbar, filling Antoine's glass again.

"A man is not a drunkard because he likes wine," said Antoine.

"I agree with you, my good fellow," replied Montbar. "A man is only a drunkard when he can't carry his liquor."

"Well said," cried Antoine, who seemed to carry his pretty well. "I'm listening."

"You told me that you didn't understand why I had sent for you."

"That's what I said."

"Still, you must have suspected that I had an object?"

"Every man has an object, good or bad, according to our priest," observed Antoine, sententiously.

"Well, my friend," resumed Montbar, "mine is to make my way by night, without being recognized, into the courtyard of Master Nicolas-Denis Lollier, postmaster at Belleville."

"At Belleville," repeated Antoine, who had followed Montbar's words with all the attention he was capable of. "You wish to make your way by night, without being recognized, into the courtyard of Master Nicolas-Denis Lollier, postmaster at Belleville, in order to see the beautiful Josephine? Ah, ha! my sly dog!"

"You have it, my dear Antoine; and I wish to get in without being recognized, because Father Lollier has discovered everything, and has forbidden his daughter to see me."

"You don't say so. Well, what can I do about it?"

"Your wits are still muddled, Antoine. Drink another glass of wine to brighten them up."

"Right you are," exclaimed Antoine.

And he swallowed his sixth glass of wine.

"You ask what you can do, Antoine?"

"Yes, what can I do? That's what I ask."

"Everything, my friend."

"I?"

"You."

"Ha! I'm curious to know what. Clear it up, clear it up!" And he held out his glass.

"You drive the mail to Chambery to-morrow, don't you?"

"Yes; at six o'clock."

"Well, suppose that Antoine is a good fellow?"

"No supposing about it; he is!"

"Well, this is what Antoine does--"

"Go on; what does he do?"

"In the first place, he empties his glass."

"Done! that's not difficult."

"Then he takes these ten louis."

Montbar spread ten louis on the table.

"Ah, ha!" exclaimed Antoine, "yellow boys, real ones. I thought those little devils had all emigrated."

"You see there are some left."

"And what is Antoine to do to put them in his pocket?"

"Antoine must lend me his best postilion's suit."

"To you?"

"And let me take his place to-morrow night."

"Ah, yes; so that you can see the beautiful Josephine to-morrow night."

"Of course. I reach Belleville at eight, drive into the courtyard, and say the horses are tired and must rest from eight till ten, and from eight to ten--"

"You can fool Pere Lollier."

"Well, there you are, Antoine!"

"There I am! When a fellow's young he goes with the young 'uns; when he's a bachelor he's in with the bachelors; when he's old and a papa, he can go with the papas, and cry, 'Long live the papas.'"

"Then, my good Antoine, you'll lend me your best jacket and breeches?"

"I've just got a new jacket and breeches that I've never worn."

"And you'll let me take your place?"

"With pleasure."

"Then I'll give you five louis for earnest money."

"And the rest?"

"Tomorrow, when I pull on the boots; only--there's one precaution you must take."

"What is it?"

"There's talk of brigands robbing diligences; you'll be careful to put the holsters on the saddle."

"What for?"

"For pistols."

"No, no! Don't you go and shoot those fine young fellows."

"What! do you call robbers who pillage diligences fine young men?"

"A man's not a robber because he takes government money."

"Is that your opinion?"

"I should say so; besides, it's the opinion of a good many other people, too. As for me, if I were a judge, I'd never in the world condemn them."

"Perhaps you would drink to their health?"

"Of course, if the wine was good."

"I dare you to do it," said Montbar, emptying the last of the second bottle into Antoine's glass.

"You know the proverb?" said the postilion.

"What is it?"

"Never defy a fool to commit his folly. To the health of the Companions of Jehu."

"Amen!" responded Montbar.

"And the five louis?" asked Antoine, putting his glass on the table.

"There they are."

"Thank you; you shall have the holsters on your saddle; but take my advice and don't put pistols in 'em; or if you do, follow Pere Jerome's example--he's the conductor of the Geneva diligence--and put powder and no balls in 'em."

And with that philanthropic advice, the postilion took his leave, and went down the stairway singing a postilion's song in a vinous voice.

Montbar followed the song conscientiously through two verses, then, as the voice died away in the distance, he was obliged to forego the rest of the song, however interesting he may have found it.


CHAPTER XLII

THE CHAMBERY MAIL-COACH

The next day, at five in the afternoon, Antoine, anxious, no doubt, not to be late, was in the courtyard of the Hotel de la Poste, harnessing the three horses which were to relay the mail-coach.

Shortly after, the coach rumbled into the courtyard at a gallop, and was pulled up under the windows of a room close to the servants' stairway, which had seemed greatly to occupy Antoine's attention. If any one had paid attention to so slight a detail it might have been observed that the window-curtain was somewhat imprudently drawn aside to permit the occupant of the room to see the persons who got out of the coach. There were three men, who, with the haste of famished travellers, made their way toward the brilliantly lighted windows of the common room.

They had scarcely entered, when a smart postilion came down the kitchen staircase, shod simply with thin pumps over which he intended to