Александр Дюма
The Companions of Jehu
And he went out. At the door he met Roland.
“Here is the commission, general,” said the young man, “and a pen.”
Bonaparte took the pen, and using the back of his aide-de-camp’s hat, he signed the commission. Roland gave him the pistols.
“Did you look; to them?” asked Bonaparte.
Roland smiled. “Don’t be uneasy,” said he; “I’ll answer for them.”
Bonaparte slipped the pistols in his belt, murmuring as he did so: “I wish I knew what she wrote her husband.”
“I can tell you, word for word, what she wrote, general,” said a voice close by.
“You, Bourrienne?”
“Yes. She wrote: ‘You did right not to come, my dear; all that is happening here convinces me that the invitation was only a snare. I will rejoin you shortly.’”
“You unsealed the letter?”
“General, Sextus Pompey gave a dinner on his galley to Antony and Lepidus. His freedman said to him: ‘Shall I make you emperor of the world?’ ‘How can you do it?’ ‘Easily. I will cut the cable of your galley, and Antony and Lepidus are prisoners.’ ‘You should have done so without telling me,’ replied Sextus. ‘Now I charge you on your life not to do it.’ I remembered those words, general: ‘You should have done so without telling me.’”
Bonaparte thought an instant; then he said: “You are mistaken; it was Octavius and not Antony who was on Sextus’ galley with Lepidus.” And he went on his way to the courtyard, confining his blame to the historical blunder.
Hardly had the general appeared on the portico than cries of “Vive Bonaparte!” echoed through the courtyard into the street, where they were taken up by the dragoons drawn up in line before the gate.
“That’s a good omen, general,” said Roland.
“Yes. Give Lefebvre his commission at once; and if he has no horse, let him take one of mine. Tell him to meet me in the court of the Tuileries.”
“His division is already there.”
“All the more reason.”
Glancing about him, Bonaparte saw Moreau and Beurnonville, who were waiting for him, their horses held by orderlies. He saluted them with a wave of his hand, already that of a master rather than that of a comrade. Then, perceiving General Debel out of uniform, he went down the steps and approached him.
“Why are you in civilian’s dress?” he asked.
“General, I was not notified. I chanced to be passing along the street, and, seeing the crowd before your house, I came in, fearing you might be in danger.”
“Go and put on your uniform quickly.”
“But I live the other side of Paris; it would take too long.” But, nevertheless, he made as if to retire.
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t be alarmed, general.”
Debel had noticed an artilleryman on horseback who was about his size.
“Friend,” said he, “I am General Debel. By order of General Bonaparte lend me your uniform and your horse, and I’ll give you furlough for the day. Here’s a louis to drink the health of the commander-in-chief. To-morrow, come to my house for your horse and uniform. I live in the Rue Cherche-Midi, No. 11.”
“Will nothing be done to me?”
“Yes, you shall be made a corporal.”
“Good!” said the artilleryman; and he quickly handed over his uniform and horse to General Debel.
In the meantime, Bonaparte heard talking above him. He raised his head and saw Joseph and Bernadotte at a window.
“Once more, general,” he said to Bernadotte, “will you come with me?”
“No,” said the latter, firmly. Then, lowering his tone, he continued: “You told me just now to take care.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I say to you, take care.”
“Of what?”
“You are going to the Tuileries?”
“Of course.”
“The Tuileries are very near the Place de la Révolution.”
“Pooh!” retorted Bonaparte, “the guillotine has been moved to the Barrière du Trône.”
“Never mind. The brewer Santerre still controls the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and Santerre is Moulins’ friend.”
“Santerre has been warned that at the first inimical movement he attempts I will have him shot. Will you come?”
“No.”
“As you please. You are separating your fortunes from mine; I do not separate mine from yours.” Then, calling to his orderly, he said: “My horse!”
They brought his horse. Seeing an artillery private near him, he said: “What are you doing among the epaulets?”
The artilleryman began to laugh.
“Don’t you recognize me, general?” he asked.
“Faith, it’s Debel! Where did you get that horse and the uniform?”
“From that artilleryman you see standing there in his shirt. It will cost you a corporal’s commission.”
“You are wrong, Debel,” said Bonaparte; “it will cost me two commissions, one for the corporal, and one for the general of division. Forward, march, gentlemen! We are going to the Tuileries.”
And, bending forward on his horse, as he usually did, his left hand holding a slack rein, his right resting on his hip, with bent head and dreamy eyes, he made his first steps along that incline, at once glorious and fatal, which was to lead him to a throne – and to St. Helena.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE
On entering the Rue de la Victoire, Bonaparte found Sebastiani’s dragoons drawn up in line of battle. He wished to address them, but they interrupted him at the first words, shouting: “We want no explanations. We know that you seek only the good of the Republic. Vive Bonaparte!”
The cortège followed the streets which led from the Rue de la Victoire to the Tuileries, amid the cries of “Vive Bonaparte!”
General Lefebvre, according to promise, was waiting at the palace gates. Bonaparte, on his arrival at the Tuileries, was hailed with the same cheers that had accompanied him. Once there, he raised his head and shook it. Perhaps this cry of “Vive Bonaparte!” did not satisfy him. Was he already dreaming of “Vive Napoleon?”
He advanced in front of the troop, surrounded by his staff, and read the decree of the Five Hundred, which transferred the sessions of the Legislature to Saint-Cloud and gave him the command of the armed forces.
Then, either from memory, or offhand – Bonaparte never admitted any one to such secrets – instead of the proclamation he had dictated to Bourrienne two days earlier, he pronounced these words:
“Soldiers – The Council of Ancients has given me the command of the city and the army.
“I have accepted it, to second the measures to be adopted for the good of the people.
“The Republic has been ill governed for two years. You have hoped for my return to put an end to many evils. You celebrated it with a unanimity which imposes obligations that I now fulfil. Fulfil yours, and second your general with the vigor, firmness and strength I have always found in you.
“Liberty, victory, and peace will restore the French Republic to the rank it occupied in Europe, which ineptitude and treason alone caused her to lose!”
The soldiers applauded frantically. It was a declaration of war against the Directory, and soldiers will always applaud a declaration of war.
The general dismounted, amid shouts and bravos, and entered the Tuileries. It was the second time he had crossed the threshold of this palace of the Valois, whose arches had so ill-sheltered the crown and head of the last Bourbon who had reigned there. Beside him walked citizen Roederer. Bonaparte started as he recognized him, and said:
“Ah! citizen Roederer, you were here on the morning of August 10.”
“Yes, general,” replied the future Count of the Empire.
“It was you who advised Louis XVI. to go before the National Assembly.”
“Yes.”
“Bad advice, citizen Roederer! I should not have followed it.”
“We advise men according to what we know of them. I would not give General Bonaparte the same advice I gave King Louis XVI. When a king has the fact of his flight to Varennes and the 20th of June behind him, it is difficult to save him.”
As Roederer said these words, they reached a window opening on the garden of the Tuileries. Bonaparte stopped, and, seizing Roederer by the arm, he said: “On the 20th of June I was there,” pointing with his finger to the terrace by the water, “behind the third linden. Through the open window I could see the poor king, with the red cap on his head. It was a piteous sight; I pitied him.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing, I could do nothing; I was only a lieutenant of artillery. But I longed to go in like the others, and whisper: ‘Sire, give me four cannon, and I’ll sweep the whole rabble out.’”
What would have happened if Lieutenant Bonaparte had followed his impulse, obtained what he wanted from Louis XVI., and swept the rabble out, that is to say the people of Paris? Had his cannon made a clean sweep on June 20th, would he have had to make another the 13th Vendemiaire for the benefit of the Convention?
While the ex-Syndic; who had grown grave, was outlining in his mind the opening pages of his future “History of the Consulate,” Bonaparte presented himself at the bar of the Council of the Ancients, followed by his staff, and by all those who chose to do likewise. When the tumult caused by this influx of people had subsided, the president read over the decree which invested Bonaparte with the military power. Then, after requesting him to take the oath, the president added:
“He who has never promised his country a victory which he did not win, cannot fail to keep religiously his new promise to serve her faithfully.”
Bonaparte stretched forth his hand and said solemnly:
“I swear it!”
All the generals repeated after him, each for himself:
“I swear it!”
The last one had scarcely finished, when Bonaparte recognized Barras’ secretary, that same Bollot of whom Barras had spoken that morning to his two colleagues. He had come there solely to give his patron an account of all that was happening there, but Bonaparte fancied he was sent on some secret mission by Barras. He resolved to spare him the first advance, and went straight to him, saying:
“Have you come on behalf of the Directors?” Then, without giving him time to answer, he continued: “What have they done with that France I left so brilliant? I left peace; I find war. I left victories; I find reverses. I left the millions of Italy, and I find spoliation and penury. What have become of the hundred thousand Frenchmen whom I knew by name? They are dead!”
It was not precisely to Barras’ secretary that these words should have been said; but Bonaparte wished to say them, needed to say them, and little he cared to whom he said them. Perhaps even, from his point of view, it was better to say them to some one who could not answer him. At that moment Sièyes rose.
“Citizens,” said he, “the Directors Moulins and Gohier ask to be admitted.”
“They are no longer Directors,” said Bonaparte, “for there is no longer a Directory.”
“But,” objected Sièyes, “they have not yet sent in their resignation.”
“Then admit them and let them give it,” retorted Bonaparte.
Moulins and Gohier entered. They were pale but calm. They knew they came to force a struggle, but behind their resistance may have loomed the Sinnamary. The exiles they sent there the 18th of Fructidor pointed the way.
“I see with satisfaction,” Bonaparte hastened to say, “that you have yielded to our wishes and those of your two colleagues.”
Gohier made a step forward and said firmly: “We yield neither to your wishes, nor to those of our two colleagues, who are no longer our colleagues, since they have resigned, but to the Law. It requires that the decree transferring the legislative body to Saint-Cloud shall be proclaimed without delay. We have come here to fulfil the duty which the law imposes on us, fully determined to defend it against all factious persons, whoever they may be, who attempt to attack it.”
“Your zeal does not astonish us,” replied Bonaparte; “and because you are a man who loves his country you will unite with us.”
“Unite with you! And why?”
“To save the Republic.”
“To save the Republic! There was a time, general, when you had the honor to be its prop. But to-day the glory of saving it is reserved for us.”
“You save it!” retorted Bonaparte. “How will you do that? With the means your Constitution gives you? Why, that Constitution is crumbling on all sides, and even if I did not topple it over, it could not last eight days.”
“Ah!” cried Moulins, “at last you avow your hostile intentions.”
“My intentions are not hostile!” shouted Bonaparte, striking the floor with the heel of his boot. “The Republic is in peril; it must be saved, and I shall do it.”
“You do it?” cried Gohier. “It seems to me it is for the Directory, not you, to say, ‘I shall do it!’”
“There is no longer a Directory.”
“I did indeed hear that you said so just a moment before we came in.”
“There is no longer a Directory, now that Sièyes and Ducos have resigned.”
“You are mistaken. So long as there are three Directors, the Directory still exists. Neither Moulins, Barras nor myself, have handed in our resignations.”
At that moment a paper was slipped in Bonaparte’s hand, and a voice said in his ear: “Read it.” He did so; then said aloud: “You, yourself, are mistaken. Barras has resigned, for here is his resignation. The law requires three Directors to make a Directory. You are but two, and, as you said just now, whoever resists the law is a rebel.” Then handing the paper to the president, he continued: “Add the citizen Barras’ resignation to that of citizens Sièyes and Ducos, and proclaim the fall of the Directory. I will announce it to my soldiers.”
Moulins and Gohier were confounded. Barras’ resignation sapped the foundations of all their plans. Bonaparte had nothing further to do at the Council of Ancients, but there still remained much to be done in the court of the Tuileries. He went down, followed by those who had accompanied him up. His soldiers no sooner caught sight, of him than they burst into shouts of “Vive Bonaparte!” more noisily and more eagerly than ever. He sprang into his saddle and made them a sign that he wished to speak to them. Ten thousand voices that had burst into cries were hushed in a moment. Silence fell as if by enchantment.
“Soldiers,” said Bonaparte, in a voice so loud that all could hear it, “your comrades in arms on the frontiers are denuded of the necessaries of life. The people are miserable. The authors of these evils are the factious men against whom I have assembled you to-day. I hope before long to lead you to victory; but first we must deprive those who would stand in the way of public order and general prosperity of their power to do harm.”
Whether it was weariness of the government of the Directory, or the fascination exercised by the magic being who called them to victory – so long forgotten in his absence – shouts of enthusiasm arose, and like a train of burning powder spread from the Tuileries to the Carrousel, from the Carrousel to the adjacent streets. Bonaparte profited by this movement. Turning to Moreau, he said:
“General, I will give you proof of the immense confidence I have in you. Bernadotte, whom I left at my house, and who refused to follow us, had the audacity to tell me that if he received orders from the Directory he should execute them against whosoever the agitators might be. General, I confide to you the guardianship of the Luxembourg. The tranquillity of Paris and the welfare of the Republic are in your hands.”
And without waiting for a reply he put his horse to a gallop, and rode off to the opposite end of the line.
Moreau, led by military ambition, had consented to play a part in this great drama; he was now forced to accept that which the author assigned him. On returning to the Louvre, Gohier and Moulins found nothing changed apparently. All the sentries were at their posts. They retired to one of the salons of the presidency to consult together. But they had scarcely begun their conference, when General Jubé, the commandant of the Luxembourg, received orders to join Bonaparte at the Tuileries with the guard of the Directory. Their places were filled by Moreau and a portion of the soldiers who had been electrified by Bonaparte. Nevertheless the two Directors drew up a message for the Council of the Five Hundred, in which they protested energetically against what had been done. When this was finished Gohier handed it to his secretary, and Moulins, half dead with exhaustion, returned to his apartments to take some food.
It was then about four o’clock in the afternoon. An instant later Gohier’s secretary returned in great perturbation.
“Well,” said Gohier, “why have you not gone?”
“Citizen president,” replied the young man, “we are prisoners in the palace.”
“Prisoners? What do you mean?”
“The guard has been changed, and General Jubé is no longer in command.”
“Who has replaced him?”
“I think some one said General Moreau.”
“Moreau? Impossible! And that coward, Barras, where is he?”
“He has started for his country-place at Grosbois.”
“Ah! I must see Moulins!” cried Gohier, rushing to the door. But at the entrance he found a sentry who barred the door. Gohier insisted.
“No one can pass,” said the sentry.
“What! not pass?”
“No.”
“But I am President Gohier!”
“No one can pass,” said the sentry; “that is the order.”
Gohier saw it would be useless to say more; force would be impossible. He returned to his own rooms.
In the meantime, General Moreau had gone to see Moulins; he wished to justify himself. Without listening to a word the ex-Director turned his back on him, and, as Moreau insisted, he said: “General, go into the ante-chamber. That is the place for jailers.”
Moreau bowed his head, and understood for the first time into what a fatal trap his honor had fallen.
At five o’clock, Bonaparte started to return to the Rue de la Victoire; all the generals and superior officers in Paris accompanied him. The blindest, those who had not understood the 13th Vendemiaire, those who had not yet understood the return from Egypt, now saw, blazing over the Tuileries, the star of his future, and as everybody could not be a planet, each sought to become a satellite.
The shouts of “Vive Bonaparte!” which came from the lower part of the Rue du Mont Blanc, and swept like a sonorous wave toward the Rue de la Victoire, told Josephine of her husband’s return. The impressionable Creole had awaited him anxiously. She sprang to meet him in such agitation that she was unable to utter a single word.
“Come, come!” said Bonaparte, becoming the kindly man he was in his own home, “calm yourself. We have done to-day all that could be done.”
“Is it all over?”
“Oh, no!” replied Bonaparte.
“Must it be done all over again to-morrow?”
“Yes, but to-morrow it will be merely a formality.”
That formality was rather rough; but every one knows of the events at Saint-Cloud. We will, therefore, dispense with relating them, and turn at once to the result, impatient as we are to get back to the real subject of our drama, from which the grand historical figure we have introduced diverted us for an instant.
One word more. The 20th Brumaire, at one o’clock in the morning, Bonaparte was appointed First Consul for ten years. He himself selected Cambacérès and Lebrun as his associates under the title of Second Consuls, being firmly resolved this time to concentrate in his own person, not only all the functions of the two consuls, but those of the ministers.
The 20th Brumaire he slept at the Luxembourg in president Gohier’s bed, the latter having been liberated with his colleague Moulins.
Roland was made governor of the Luxembourg.
CHAPTER XXV. AN IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION
Some time after this military revolution, which created a great stir in Europe, convulsing the Continent for a time, as a tempest convulses the ocean – some time after, we say, on the morning of the 30th Nivoise, better and more clearly known to our readers as the 20th of January, 1800, Roland, in looking over the voluminous correspondence which his new office entailed upon him, found, among fifty other letters asking for an audience, the following:
MONSIEUR THE GOVERNOR-I know your loyalty to your word, and you will see that I rely on it. I wish to speak to you for five minutes, during which I must remain masked.
I have a request to make to you. This request you will grant or deny. In either case, as I shall have entered the Palace of the Luxembourg in the interest o£ the First Consul, Bonaparte, and the royalist party to which I belong, I shall ask for your word of honor that I be allowed to leave it as freely as you allow me to enter. If to-morrow, at seven in the evening, I see a solitary light in the window over the clock, I shall know that Colonel Roland de Montrevel has pledged me his word of honor, and I shall boldly present myself at the little door of the left wing of the palace, opening on the garden. I shall strike three blows at intervals, after the manner of the free-masons.
In order that you may know to whom you engage or refuse your word, I sign a name which is known to you, that name having been, under circumstances you have probably not forgotten, pronounced before you.
MORGAN,
Chief of the Companions of Jehu.
Roland read the letter twice, thought it over for a few moments, then rose suddenly, and, entering the First Consul’s study, handed it to him silently. The latter read it without betraying the slightest emotion, or even surprise; then, with a laconism that was wholly Lacedæmonian, he said: “Place the light.”
Then he gave the letter back to Roland.
The next evening, at seven o’clock, the light shone in the window, and at five minutes past the hour, Roland in person was waiting at the little door of the garden. He had scarcely been there a moment when three blows were struck on the door after the manner of the free-masons; first two strokes and then one.
The door was opened immediately. A man wrapped in a cloak was sharply defined against the grayish atmosphere of the wintry night. As for Roland, he was completely hidden in shadow. Seeing no one, the man in the cloak remained motionless for a second.
“Come in,” said Roland.
“Ah! it is you, colonel!”
“How do you know it is I?” asked Roland.
“I recognize your voice.”
“My voice! But during those few moments we were together in the dining-room at Avignon I did not say a word.”
“Then I must have heard it elsewhere.”
Roland wondered where the Chief of the Companions of Jehu could have heard his voice, but the other said gayly: “Is the fact that I know your voice any reason why we should stand at the door?”
“No, indeed,” replied Roland; “take the lapel of my coat and follow me. I purposely forbade any lights being placed in the stairs and hall which lead to my room.”
“I am much obliged for the intention. But on your word I would cross the palace from one end to the other, though it were lighted à giorno, as the Italians say.”
“You have my word,” replied Roland, “so follow me without fear.”
Morgan needed no encouragement; he followed his guide fearlessly. At the head of the stairs Roland turned down a corridor equally dark, went twenty steps, opened a door, and entered his own room. Morgan followed him. The room was lighted by two wax candles only. Once there, Morgan took off his cloak and laid his pistols on the table.
“What are you doing?” asked Roland.
“Faith! with your permission,” replied Morgan, gayly, “I am making myself comfortable.”
“But those pistols you have just laid aside – ”
“Ah! did you think I brought them for you?”
“For whom then?”
“Why, that damned police! You can readily imagine that I am not disposed to let citizen Fouché lay hold of me, without burning the mustache of the first of his minions who lays hands on me.”
“But once here you feel you have nothing to fear?”
“The deuce!” exclaimed the young man; “I have your word.”
“Then why don’t you unmask?”
“Because my face only half belongs to me; the other half belongs to my companions. Who knows if one of us being recognized might not drag the others to the guillotine? For of course you know, colonel, we don’t hide from ourselves that that is the price of our game!”
“Then why risk it?”
“Ah! what a question. Why do you venture on the field of battle, where a bullet may plow through your breast or a cannon-ball lop off your head?”
“Permit me to say that that is different. On the battlefield I risk an honorable death.”
“Ah! do you suppose that on the day I get my head cut off by the revolutionary triangle I shall think myself dishonored? Not the least in the world. I am a soldier like you, only we can’t all serve our cause in the same way. Every religion has its heroes and its martyrs; happy the heroes in this world, and happy the martyrs in the next.”
The young man uttered these words with a conviction which moved, or rather astonished, Roland.
“But,” continued Morgan, abandoning his enthusiasm to revert to the gayety which seemed the distinctive trait of his character, “I did not come here to talk political philosophy. I came to ask you to let me speak to the First Consul.”
“What! speak to the First Consul?” exclaimed Roland.
“Of course. Read my letter over; did I not tell you that I had a request to make?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that request is to let me speak to General Bonaparte.”
“But permit me to say that as I did not expect that request – ”
“It surprises you; makes you uneasy even. My dear colonel, if you don’t believe my word, you can search me from head to foot, and you will find that those pistols are my only weapons. And I haven’t even got them, since there they are on your table. Better still, take one in each hand, post yourself between the First Consul and me, and blowout my brains at the first suspicious move I make. Will that suit you?”
“But will you assure me, if I disturb the First Consul and ask him to see you, that your communication is worth the trouble?”
“Oh! I’ll answer for that,” said Morgan. Then, in his joyous tones, he added: “I am for the moment the ambassador of a crowned, or rather discrowned, head, which makes it no less reverenced by noble hearts. Moreover, Monsieur Roland, I shall take up very little of your general’s time; the moment the conversation seems too long, he can dismiss me. And I assure you he will not have to say the word twice.”
Roland was silent and thoughtful for a moment.
“And it is to the First Consul only that you can make this communication?”
“To the First Consul only, as he alone can answer me.”
“Very well. Wait until I take his orders.”
Roland made a step toward the general’s room; then he paused and cast an uneasy look at a mass of papers piled on his table. Morgan intercepted this look.
“What!” he said, “you are afraid I shall read those papers in your absence? If you only knew how I detest reading! If my death-warrant lay on that table, I wouldn’t take the trouble to read it. I should consider that the clerk’s business. And every one to his own task. Monsieur Roland, my feet are cold, and I will sit here in your easy-chair and warm them. I shall not stir till you return.”
“Very good, monsieur,” said Roland, and he went to the First Consul.
Bonaparte was talking with General Hedouville, commanding the troops of the Vendée. Hearing the door open, he turned impatiently.
“I told Bourrienne I would not see any one.”
“So he told me as I came in, but I told him that I was not any one.”
“True. What do you want? Be quick.”
“He is in my room.”
“Who?”
“The man of Avignon.”
“Ah, ha! And what does he want?”
“To see you.”
“To see me?”
“Yes, you, general. Does that surprise you?”
“No. But what can he want to say to me?”
“He refused obstinately to tell me. But I dare answer for it that he is neither importunate nor a fool.”
“No, but he may be an assassin.”
Roland shook his head.
“Of course, since you introduce him – ”
“Moreover, he is willing that I should be present at the conference and stand between you and him.”
Bonaparte reflected an instant.
“Bring him in,” he said.
“You know, general, that except me – ”
“Yes, General Hedouville will be so kind as to wait a second. Our conversation is of a nature that is not exhausted in one interview. Go, Roland.”
Roland left the room, crossed Bourrienne’s office, reentered his own room, and found Morgan, as he had said, warming his feet.
“Come, the First Consul is waiting for you,” said the young man.
Morgan rose and followed Roland. When they entered Bonaparte’s study the latter was alone. He cast a rapid glance on the chief of the Companions of Jehu, and felt no doubt that he was the same man he had seen at Avignon.
Morgan had paused a few steps from the door, and was looking curiously at Bonaparte, convincing himself that he was the man he had seen at the table d’hôte the day he attempted the perilous restoration of the two hundred louis stolen by an oversight from Jean Picot.
“Come nearer,” said the First Consul.
Morgan bowed and made three steps forward. Bonaparte partly returned the bow with a slight motion of the head.
“You told my aide-de-camp, Colonel Roland, that you had a communication to make me.”
“Yes, citizen First Consul.”
“Does that communication require a private interview?”
“No, citizen First Consul, although it is of such importance – ”
“You would prefer to be alone.”
“Beyond doubt. But prudence – ”
“The most prudent thing in France, citizen Morgan, is courage.”
“My presence here, general, proves that I agree with you perfectly.”
Bonaparte turned to the young colonel.
“Leave us alone, Roland,” said he.
“But, general – ” objected Roland.
Bonaparte went up to him and said in a low voice: “I see what it is. You are curious to know what this mysterious cavalier of the highroad has to say to me. Don’t worry; you shall know.”
“That’s not it. But suppose, as you said just now, he is an assassin.”
“Didn’t you declare he was not. Come, don’t be a baby; leave us.”
Roland went out.
“Now that we are alone, sir,” said the First Consul, “speak!”
Morgan, without answering, drew a letter from his pocket and gave it to the general. Bonaparte examined it. It was addressed to him, and the seal bore the three fleurs-de-lis of France.
“Oh!” he said, “what is this, sir?”
“Read it, citizen First Consul.”
Bonaparte opened the letter and looked at the signature: “Louis,” he said.
“Louis,” repeated Morgan.
“What Louis?”
“Louis de Bourbon, I presume.”
“Monsieur le Comte de Provençe, brother of Louis XVI.”
“Consequently Louis XVIII., since his nephew, the Dauphin, is dead.”
