Александр Дюма
The Companions of Jehu
CHAPTER XIX. THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE RUE DE LA VICTOIRE
While they are bearing Sir John Tanlay’s body to the Château des Noires-Fontaines; while Roland is hurrying in the same direction; while the peasant, despatched by him, is hastening to Bourg to notify Dr. Milliet of the catastrophe which necessitated his immediate presence at Madame de Montrevel’s home, let us jump over the distance which separates Bourg from Paris, and the time which elapsed between the 16th of October and the 7th of November; that is to say, between the 24th of Vendemiaire and the 16th Brumaire, and repair to that little house in the Rue de la Victoire rendered historically famous by the conspiracy of the 18th Brumaire, which issued from it fully armed.
It is the same house which stands there to-day on the right of the street at No. 60, apparently astonished to present to the eye, after so many successive changes of government, the consular fasces which may still be seen on the panels of its double oaken doors.
Let us follow the long, narrow alley of lindens that leads from the gate on the street to the door of the house; let us enter the antechamber, take the hall to the right, ascend the twenty steps that lead to a study hung with green paper, and furnished with curtains, easy chairs and couches of the same color. The walls are covered with geographical charts and plans of cities. Bookcases of maple are ranged on either side of the fireplace, which they inclose. The chairs, sofas, tables and desks are piled with books; there is scarcely any room on the chairs to sit down, or on the desks and tables to write.
In the midst of this encumbering mass of reports, letters, pamphlets and books, a man had cleared a space for himself where he was now seated, clutching his hair impatiently from time to time, as he endeavored to decipher a page of notes, compared to which the hieroglyphics on the obelisk of Luxor, would have been transparently intelligible. Just as the secretary’s impatience was approaching desperation, the door opened and a young officer wearing an aide’s uniform entered.
The secretary raised his head, and a lively expression of satisfaction crossed his face.
“Oh! my dear Roland,” said he; “you here at last! I am delighted to see you, for three reasons. First, because I am wearying for you; second, because the general is impatient for your return, and keeps up a hullaballoo about it; and third, because you can help me to read this, with which I have been struggling for the last ten minutes. But first of all, kiss me.”
And the secretary and the aide-de-camp embraced each other.
“Well,” said the latter, “let us see this word that is troubling you so, my dear Bourrienne!”
“Ah! my dear fellow, what writing! I get a white hair for every page I decipher, and this is my third to-day! Here, read it if you can.”
Roland took the sheet from the secretary, and fixing his eyes on the spot indicated, read quite fluently: “Paragraph XI. The Nile, from Assouan to a distance of twelve miles north of Cairo, flows in a single stream” – “Well,” said he, interrupting himself, “that’s all plain sailing. What did you mean? The general, on the contrary, took pains when he wrote that.”
“Go on, go on,” said Bourrienne.
The young man resumed: “‘From that point, which is called’ – ah! Ah!”
“There you are! Now what do you say to that?”
Roland repeated: “‘Which is called’ – The devil! ‘Which is called – ‘”
“Yes, ‘Which is called’ – after that?”
“What will you give me, Bourrienne,” cried Roland, “if I guess it?”
“The first colonel’s commission I find signed in blank.”
“By my faith, no! I don’t want to leave the general; I’d rather have a good father than five hundred naughty children. I’ll give you the three words for nothing.”
“What! are there three words there?”
“They don’t look as if they were quite three, I admit. Now listen, and make obeisance to me: ‘From the point called Ventre della Vacca.’”
“Ha! Ventre de la Vache! Confound it! He’s illegible enough in French, but if he takes it into his head to go off in Italian, and that Corsican patois to boot! I thought I only ran the risk of going crazy, but then I should become stupid, too. Well, you’ve got it,” and he read the whole sentence consecutively: “‘The Nile, from Assouan to a distance of twelve miles north of Cairo, flows in a single stream; from that point, which is called Ventre de la Vache, it forms the branches of the Rosetta and the Damietta.’ Thank you, Roland,” and he began to write the end of the paragraph, of which the first lines were already committed to paper.
“Tell me,” said Roland; “is he still got his hobby, the dear general, of colonizing Egypt?”
“Yes; and then, as a sort of offset, a little governing in France; we will colonize from a distance.”
“Well, my dear Bourrienne, suppose you post me a little on matters in this country, so that I won’t seem to have just arrived from Timbuctoo.”
“In the first place, did you come back of your own accord, or were you recalled?”
“Recalled? I should think so!”
“By whom?”
“The general himself.”
“Special despatch?”
“Written by himself; see!”
The young man drew a paper from his pocket containing two lines, not signed, in the same handwriting as that which Bourrienne had before him. These two lines said: “‘Start. Be in Paris 16th Brumaire. I need you.”
“Yes,” said Bourrienne, “I think it will be on the eighteenth.”
“What will be on the eighteenth?”
“On my word, Roland, you ask more than I know. That man, as you are aware, is not communicative. What will take place on the 18th Brumaire? I don’t know as yet; but I’ll answer for it that something will happen.”
“Oh! you must have a suspicion!”
“I think he means to make himself Director in place of Sièyes, or perhaps president in Gohier’s stead.”
“Good! How about the Constitution of the year III.?”
“The Constitution of the year III. What about that?”
“Why, yes, a man must be forty years old to be a Director; and the general lacks just ten of them.”
“The deuce! so much the worse for the Constitution. They must violate it.”
“It is rather young yet, Bourrienne; they don’t, as a rule, violate children of seven.”
“My dear fellow, in Barras’ hands everything grows old rapidly. The little girl of seven is already an old prostitute.”
Roland shook his head.
“Well, what is it?” asked Bourrienne.
“Why, I don’t believe the general will make himself a simple Director with four colleagues. Just imagine it – five kings of France! It wouldn’t be a Directory any longer, but a four-in-hand.”
“Anyway, up to the present, that is all he has allowed any one to perceive; but you know, my dear friend, if we want to know the general’s secrets we must guess them.”
“Faith! I’m too lazy to take the trouble, Bourrienne. Besides, I’m a regular Janissary – what is to be, will be. Why the devil should I bother to form an opinion and battle for it. It’s quite wearisome enough to have to live.” And the young man enforced his favorite aphorism with a long yawn; then he added: “Do you think there will be any sword play?”
“Probably.”
“Then there will be a chance of getting killed; that’s all I want. Where is the general?”
“With Madame Bonaparte. He went to her about fifteen minutes ago. Have you let him know you are here?”
“No, I wanted to see you first. But I hear his step now.”
Just then the door was opened abruptly, and the same historical personage whom we saw playing a silent part incognito at Avignon appeared on the threshold, in the picturesque uniform of the general-in-chief of the army of Egypt, except that, being in his own house, he was bare-headed. Roland thought his eyes were more hollow and his skin more leaden than usual. But the moment he saw the young man, Bonaparte’s gloomy, or rather meditative, eye emitted a flash of joy.
“Ah, here you are, Roland!” he said. “True as steel! Called, you come. Welcome, my dear fellow.” And he offered Roland his hand. Then he asked, with an imperceptible smile, “What were you doing with Bourrienne?”
“Waiting for you, general.”
“And in the meantime gossiping like two old women.”
“I admit it, general. I was showing him my order to be here on the 16th Brumaire.”
“Did I write the 16th or the 17th?”
“Oh! the 16th, general. The 17th would have been too late.”
“Why too late?”
“Why, hang it, Bourrienne says there are to be great doings here on the 18th.”
“Capital,” muttered Bourrienne; “the scatter-brain will earn me a wigging.”
“Ah! So he told you I had planned great doings for the 18th?” Then, approaching Bourrienne, Bonaparte pinched his ear, and said, “Tell-tale!” Then to Roland he added: “Well, it is so, my dear fellow, we have made great plans for the 18th. My wife and I dine with President Gohier; an excellent man, who was very polite to Josephine during my absence. You are to dine with us, Roland.”
Roland looked at Bonaparte. “Was it for that you brought me here, general?” he asked, laughing.
“For that, and something else, too, perhaps. Bourrienne, write – ”
Bourrienne hastily seized his pen.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, general.”
“‘My dear President, I write to let you know that my wife and I, with one of my aides-de-camp, will dine with you the day after to-morrow. This is merely to say that we shall be quite satisfied with a family dinner.’”
“What next?”
“How do you mean?”
“Shall I put, ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity’?”
“Or death,” added Roland.
“No,” said Bonaparte; “give me the pen.”
He took the pen from Bourrienne’s hands and wrote, “Ever yours, Bonaparte.” Then, pushing away the paper, he added: “Address it, Bourrienne, and send an orderly with it.”
Bourrienne wrote the address, sealed it, and rang the bell. An officer on duty entered.
“Send an orderly with that,” said Bourrienne.
“There is an answer,” added Bonaparte.
The officer closed the door.
“Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte, pointing to Roland, “look at your friend.”
“Well, general, I am looking at him.”
“Do you know what he did at Avignon?”
“I hope he didn’t make a pope.”
“No, he threw a plate at a man’s head.”
“Oh, that was hasty!”
“That’s not all.”
“That I can well imagine.”
“He fought a duel with that man.”
“And, most naturally, he killed him.”
“Exactly. Do you know why he did it?”
“No.”
The general shrugged his shoulders, and said: “Because the man said that I was a thief.” Then looking at Roland with an indefinable expression of raillery and affection, he added: “Ninny!” Then suddenly he burst out: “Oh! by the way, and the Englishman?”
“Exactly, the Englishman, general. I was just going to speak to you about him.”
“Is he still in France?”
“Yes, and for awhile even I thought he would remain here till the last trumpet blew its blast through the valley of Jehosaphat.”
“Did you miss killing him?”
“Oh! no, not I. We are the best friends in the world. General, he is a capital fellow, and so original to boot that I’m going to ask a bit of a favor for him.”
“The devil! For an Englishman?” said Bonaparte, shaking his head. “I don’t like the English.”
“Good! As a people, but individually – ”
“Well, what happened to your friend?”
“He was tried, condemned, and executed.”
“What the devil are you telling us?”
“God’s truth, general.”
“What do you mean when you say, ‘He was tried, condemned, and guillotined’?”
“Oh! not exactly that. Tried and condemned, but not guillotined. If he had been guillotined he would be more dangerously ill than he is now.”
“Now, what are you gabbling about? What court tried and condemned him?”
“That of the Companions of Jehu!”
“And who are the Companions of Jehu?”
“Goodness! Have you forgotten our friend Morgan already, the masked man who brought back the wine-merchant’s two hundred louis?”
“No,” replied Bonaparte, “I have not forgotten him. I told you about the scamp’s audacity, didn’t I, Bourrienne?”
“Yes, general,” said Bourrienne, “and I answered that, had I been in your place, I should have tried to find out who he was.”
“And the general would know, had he left me alone. I was just going to spring at his throat and tear off his mask, when the general said, in that tone you know so well: ‘Friend Roland!’”
“Come back to your Englishman, chatterbox!” cried the general. “Did Morgan murder him?”
“No, not he himself, but his Companions.”
“But you were speaking of a court and a trial just now.”
“General, you are always the same,” said Roland, with their old school familiarity; “you want to know, and you don’t give me time to tell you.”
“Get elected to the Five Hundred, and you can talk as much as you like.”
“Good! In the Five Hundred I should have four hundred and ninety-nine colleagues who would want to talk as much as I, and who would take the words out of my mouth. I’d rather be interrupted by you than by a lawyer.”
“Will you go on?”
“I ask nothing better. Now imagine, general, there is a Chartreuse near Bourg – ”
“The Chartreuse of Seillon; I know it.”
“What! You know the Chartreuse of Seillon?” demanded Roland.
“Doesn’t the general know everything?” cried Bourrienne.
“Well, about the Chartreuse; are there any monks there now?”
“No; only ghosts – ”
“Are you, perchance, going to tell me a ghost-story?”
“And a famous one at that!”
“The devil! Bourrienne knows I love them. Go on.”
“Well, we were told at home that the Chartreuse was haunted by ghosts. Of course, you understand that Sir John and I, or rather I and Sir John, wanted to clear our minds about it. So we each spent a night there.”
“Where?”
“Why, at the Chartreuse.”
Bonaparte made an imperceptible sign of the cross with his thumb, a Corsican habit which he never lost.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “did you see any ghosts?”
“One.”
“And what did you do to it?”
“Shot at it.”
“And then?”
“It walked away.”
“And you allowed yourself to be baffled?”
“Good! How well you know me! I followed it, and fired again. But as he knew his way among the ruins better than I, he escaped me.”
“The devil!”
“The next day it was Sir John’s turn; I mean our Englishman.”
“Did he see your ghost?”
“He saw something better. He saw twelve monks enter the church, who tried him for trying to find out their secrets, condemned him to death, and who, on my word of honor, stabbed him.”
“Didn’t he defend himself?”
“Like a lion. He killed two.”
“Is he dead?”
“Almost, but I hope he will recover. Just imagine, general; he was found by the road, and brought home with a dagger in his breast, like a prop in a vineyard.”
“Why, it’s like a scene of the Sainte-Vehme, neither more nor less.”
“And on the blade of the dagger, that there might be no doubt as to who did the deed, were graven the words: ‘Companions of Jehu.’”
“Why, it isn’t possible that such things can happen in France, in the last year of the eighteenth century. It might do for Germany in the Middle Ages, in the days of the Henrys and the Ottos.”
“Not possible, general? But here is the dagger. What do you say to that? Attractive, isn’t it?”
And the young man drew from under his coat a dagger made entirely of steel, blade and handle. The handle was shaped like a cross, and on the blade, sure enough, were engraved the words, “Companions of Jehu.”
Bonaparte examined the weapon carefully.
“And you say they planted that plaything in your Englishman’s breast?”
“Up to the hilt.”
“And he’s not dead?”
“Not yet, at any rate.”
“Have you been listening, Bourrienne?”
“With the greatest interest.”
“You must remind me of this, Roland.”
“When, general?”
“When? – when I am master. Come and say good-day to Josephine. Come, Bourrienne, you will dine with us, and be careful what you say, you two, for Moreau is coming to dinner. Ah! I will keep the dagger as a curiosity.”
He went out first, followed by Roland, who was, soon after, followed by Bourrienne. On the stairs they met the orderly who had taken the note to Gohier.
“Well?” asked the general.
“Here is the President’s answer.”
“Give it to me.”
Bonaparte broke the seal, and read:
The President Gohier is enchanted the good fortune promised him by General Bonaparte. He will expect him to dinner the day after to-morrow, the 18th Brumaire, with his charming wife, and the aide-de-camp, whoever he may be. Dinner will be served at five o’clock.
If the hour does not suit General Bonaparte, will he kindly make known the one he would prefer.
The President, GOHIER.
16th Brumaire, year VII.
With an indescribable smile, Bonaparte put the letter in his pocket. Then turning to Roland, he asked: “Do you know President Gohier?”
“No, general.”
“Ah! you’ll see; he’s an excellent man.”
These words were pronounced in a tone no less indescribable than the smile.
CHAPTER XX. THE GUESTS OF GENERAL BONAPARTE
Josephine, in spite of her thirty-four years, or possibly because of them (that enchanting age when woman hovers between her passing youth and her corning age), Josephine, always beautiful, more graceful than ever, was still the charming woman we all know. An imprudent remark of Junot’s, at the time of her husband’s return, had produced a slight coolness between them. But three days had sufficed to restore to the enchantress her full power over the victor of Rivoli and the Pyramids.
She was doing the honors of her salon, when Roland entered the room. Always incapable, like the true Creole she was, of controlling her emotions, she gave a cry of joy, and held out her hand to him. She knew that Roland was devoted to her husband; she knew his reckless bravery, knew that if the young man had twenty lives he would willingly have given them all for Bonaparte. Roland eagerly took the hand she offered him, and kissed it respectfully. Josephine had known Roland’s mother in Martinique; and she never failed, whenever she saw Roland, to speak to him of his maternal grandfather, M. de la Clémencière, in whose magnificent garden as a child she was wont to gather those wonderful fruits which are unknown in our colder climates.
A subject of conversation was therefore ready at hand. She inquired tenderly after Madame de Montrevel’s health, and that of her daughter and little Edouard. Then, the information given, she said: “My dear Roland, I must now pay attention to my other guests; but try to remain after the other guests, or else let me see you alone to-morrow. I want to talk to you about him” (she glanced at Bonaparte) “and have a thousand things to tell you.” Then, pressing the young man’s hand with a sigh, she added, “No matter what happens, you will never leave him, will you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Roland, amazed.
“I know what I mean,” said Josephine, “and when you have talked ten minutes with Bonaparte you will, I am sure, understand me. In the meantime watch, and listen, and keep silence.”
Roland bowed and drew aside, resolved, as Josephine had advised, to play the part of observer.
But what was there to observe? Three principal groups occupied the salon. The first, gathered around Madame Bonaparte, the only woman present, was more a flux and reflux than a group. The second, surrounding Talma, was composed of Arnault, Parseval-Grandmaison, Monge, Berthollet, and two or three other members of the Institute. The third, which Bonaparte had just joined, counted in its circle Talleyrand, Barras, Lucien, Admiral Bruix,2 Roederer, Regnaud de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Fouché, Réal, and two or three generals, among whom was Lefebvre.
In the first group they talked of fashions, music, the theatre; in the second, literature, science, dramatic art; in the third, they talked of everything except that which was uppermost in their minds. Doubtless this reserve was not in keeping with Bonaparte’s own feeling at the moment; for after sharing in this commonplace conversation for a short time, he took the former bishop of Autun by the arm and led him into the embrasure of the window.
“Well?” he asked.
Talleyrand looked at Bonaparte with that air which belonged to no one but him.
“What did I tell you of Sièyes, general?”
“You told me to secure the support of those who regarded the friends of the Republic as Jacobins, and to rely, upon it that Sièyes was at their head.”
“I was not mistaken.”
“Then he will yield?”
“Better, he has yielded.”
“The man who wanted to shoot me at Fréjus for having landed without being quarantined!”
“Oh, no; not for that.”
“But what then?”
“For not having looked at him or spoken to him at Gohier’s dinner.”
“I must confess that I did it on purpose. I cannot endure that unfrocked monk.”
Bonaparte perceived, too late, that the speech he had just made was like the sword of the archangel, double-edged; if Sièyes was unfrocked, Talleyrand was unmitred. He cast a rapid glance at his companion’s face; the ex-bishop of Autun was smiling his sweetest smile.
“Then I can count upon him?”
“I will answer for him.”
“And Cambacérès and Lebrun, have you seen them?”
“I took Sièyes in hand as the most recalcitrant. Bruix saw the other two.”
The admiral, from the midst of the group, had never taken his eyes off of the general and the diplomatist. He suspected that their conversation had a special importance. Bonaparte made him a sign to join them. A less able man would have done so at once, but Bruix avoided such a mistake. He walked about the room with affected indifference, and then, as if he had just perceived Talleyrand and Bonaparte talking together, he went up to them.
“Bruix is a very able man!” said Bonaparte, who judged men as much by little as by great things.
“And above all very cautious, general!” said Talleyrand.
“Yes. We will need a corkscrew to pull anything out of him.”
“Oh, no; on the contrary, now that he has joined us, he, will broach the question frankly.”
And, indeed, no sooner had Bruix joined them than he began in words as clear as they were concise: “I have seen them; they waver!”
“They waver! Cambacérès and Lebrun waver? Lebrun I can understand – a sort of man of letters, a moderate, a Puritan; but Cambacérès – ”
“But it is so.”
“But didn’t you tell them that I intended to make them each a consul?”
“I didn’t get as far as that,” replied Bruix, laughing.
“And why not?” inquired Bonaparte.
“Because this is the first word you have told me about your intentions, Citizen General.”
“True,” said Bonaparte, biting his lips.
“Am I to repair the omission?” asked Bruix.
“No, no,” exclaimed Bonaparte hastily; “they might think I needed them. I won’t have any quibbling. They must decide to-day without any other conditions than those you have offered them; to-morrow it will be too late. I feel strong enough to stand alone; and I now have Sièyes and Barras.”
“Barras?” repeated the two negotiators astonished.
“Yes, Barras, who treated me like a little corporal, and wouldn’t send me back to Italy, because, he said, I had made my fortune there, and it was useless to return. Well, Barras – ”
“Barras?”
“Nothing.” Then, changing his mind, “Faith! I may as well tell you. Do you know what Barras said at dinner yesterday before me? That it was impossible to go on any longer with the Constitution of the year III. He admitted the necessity of a dictatorship; said he had decided to abandon the reins of government, and retire; adding that he himself was looked upon as worn-out, and that the Republic needed new men. Now, guess to whom he thinks of transferring his power. I give it you, as Madame de Sévigné says, in a hundred, thousand, ten thousand. No other than General Hedouville, a worthy man, but I have only to look him in the face to make him lower his eyes. My glance must have been blasting! As the result, Barras came to my bedside at eight o’clock, to excuse himself as best he could for the nonsense he talked the night before, and admitted that I alone could save the Republic, and placed himself at my disposal, to do what I wished, assume any rôle I might assign him, begging me to promise that if I had any plan in my head I would count on him – yes, on him; and he would be true to the crack of doom.”
“And yet,” said Talleyrand, unable to resist a play upon words, “doom is not a word with which to conjure liberty.”
Bonaparte glanced at the ex-bishop.
“Yes, I know that Barras is your friend, the friend of Fouché and Réal; but he is not mine, and I shall prove it to him. Go back to Lebrun and Cambacérès, Bruix, and let them make their own bargain.” Then, looking at his watch and frowning, he added: “It seems to me that Moreau keeps us waiting.”
So saying, he turned to the group which surrounded Talma. The two diplomatists watched him. Then Admiral Bruix asked in a low voice: “What do you say, my dear Maurice, to such sentiments toward the man who picked him out, a mere lieutenant, at the siege of Toulon, who trusted him to defend the Convention on the 13th Vendémiaire, and who named him, when only twenty-six, General-in-Chief of the Army in Italy?”
“I say, my dear admiral,” replied M. de Talleyrand, with his pallid mocking smile, “that some services are so great that ingratitude alone can repay them.”
At that moment the door opened and General Moreau was announced. At this announcement, which was more than a piece of news – it was a surprise to most of those present – every eye was turned toward the door. Moreau appeared.
At this period three men were in the eyes of France. Moreau was one of these three men. The two others were Bonaparte and Pichegru. Each had become a sort of symbol. Since the 18th Fructidor, Pichegru had become the symbol of monarchy; Moreau, since he had been christened Fabius, was the symbol of the Republic; Bonaparte, symbol of war, dominated them both by the adventurous aspect of his genius.
Moreau was at that time in the full strength of his age; we would say the full strength of his genius, if decision were not one of the characteristics of genius. But no one was ever more undecided than the famous cunctator. He was thirty-six years old, tall, with a sweet, calm, firm countenance, and must have resembled Xenophon.
Bonaparte had never seen him, nor had he, on his side, ever seen Bonaparte. While the one was battling on the Adige and the Mincio, the other fought beside the Danube and the Rhine. Bonaparte came forward to greet him, saying: “You are welcome, general!”
“General,” replied Moreau, smiling courteously, while all present made a circle around them to see how this new Cæsar would meet the new Pompey, “you come from Egypt, victorious, while I come, defeated, from Italy.”
“A defeat which was not yours, and for which you are not responsible, general. It was Joubert’s fault. If he had rejoined the Army of Italy as soon as he had been made commander-in-chief, it is more than probable that the Russians and Austrians, with the troops they then had, could not have resisted him. But he remained in Paris for his honeymoon! Poor Joubert paid with his life for that fatal month which gave the enemy time to gather its reinforcements. The surrender of Mantua gave them fifteen thousand men on the eve of the battle. It was impossible that our poor army should not have been overwhelmed by such united forces.”
“Alas! yes,” said Moreau; “it is always the greater number which defeats the smaller.”
“A great truth, general,” exclaimed Bonaparte; “an indisputable truth.”
“And yet,” said Arnault, joining in the conversation, “you yourself, general, have defeated large armies with little ones.”
“If you were Marius, instead of the author of ‘Marius,’ you would not say that, my dear poet. Even when I beat great armies with little ones – listen to this, you young men who obey to-day, and will command to-morrow – it was always the larger number which defeated the lesser.”
“I don’t understand,” said Arnault and Lefebvre together.
But Moreau made a sign with his head to show that he understood. Bonaparte continued: “Follow my theory, for it contains the whole art of war. When with lesser forces I faced a large army, I gathered mine together, with great rapidity, fell like a thunderbolt on a wing of the great army, and overthrew it; then I profited by the disorder into which this manoeuvre never failed to throw the enemy to attack again, always with my whole army, on the other side. I beat them, in this way, in detail; and the victory which resulted was always, as you see, the triumph of the many over the few.”
As the able general concluded his definition of his own genius, the door opened and the servant announced that dinner was served.
“General,” said Bonaparte, leading Moreau to Josephine, “take in my wife. Gentlemen, follow them.”
On this invitation all present moved from the salon to the dining-room.
After dinner, on pretence of showing him a magnificent sabre he had brought from Egypt, Bonaparte took Moreau into his study. There the two rivals remained closeted more than an hour. What passed between them? What compact was signed? What promises were made? No one has ever known. Only, when Bonaparte returned to the salon alone, and Lucien asked him: “Well, what of Moreau?” he answered: “Just as I foresaw; he prefers military power to political power. I have promised him the command of an army.” Bonaparte smiled as he pronounced these words; then added, “In the meantime – ”
“In the meantime?” questioned Lucien.
“He will have that of the Luxembourg. I am not sorry to make him the jailer of the Directors, before I make him the conqueror of the Austrians.”
The next day the following appeared in the “Moniteur”:
PARIS, 17th Brumaire. Bonaparte has presented Moreau with a magnificent Damascus sword set with precious stones which he brought from Egypt, the value of which is estimated at twelve thousand francs.
