The Companions of Jehu

And he fixed his burning eyes upon Bernadotte, who, this time, lowered his under the flame of this genius.

“What I should have done,” repeated Bonaparte, and, like Ajax, he seemed to threaten Heaven with his clinched fist; “if I had taken Saint-Jean-d’Acre, I should have found the treasures of the pasha in the city and three thousand stands of arms. With that I should have raised and armed all Syria, so maddened by the ferocity of Djezzar that each time I attacked him the population prayed to God for his overthrow. I should have marched upon Damascus and Aleppo; I should have swelled my army with the malcontents. Advancing into the country, I should, step by step, have proclaimed the abolition of slavery, and the annihilation of the tyrannical government of the pashas. I should have overthrown the Turkish empire, and founded a great empire at Constantinople, which would have fixed my place in history higher than Constantine and Mohammed II. Perhaps I should have returned to Paris by way of Adrianople and Vienna, after annihilating the house of Austria. Well, my dear general, that is the project which that little hovel of a Saint-Jean-d’Acre rendered abortive!”

And he so far forgot to whom he was speaking, as he followed the shadows of his vanished dream, that he called Bernadotte “my dear general.” The latter, almost appalled by the magnitude of the project which Bonaparte had unfolded to him, made a step backward.

“Yes,” said Bernadotte, “I perceive what you want, for you have just betrayed yourself. Orient or Occident, a throne! A throne? So be it; why not? Count upon me to help you conquer it, but elsewhere than in France. I am a Republican, and I will die a Republican.”

Bonaparte shook his head as if to disperse the thoughts which held him in the clouds.

“I, too, am a Republican,” said he, “but see what has come of your Republic!”

“What matter!” cried Bernadotte. “It is not to a word or a form that I am faithful, but to the principle. Let the Directors but yield me the power, and I would know how to defend the Republic against her internal enemies, even as I defended her from her foreign enemies.”

As he said these words, Bernadotte raised his eyes, and his glance encountered that of Bonaparte. Two naked blades clashing together never sent forth lightning more vivid, more terrible.

Josephine had watched the two men for some time past with anxious attention. She saw the dual glance teeming with reciprocal menace. She rose hastily and went to Bernadotte.

“General,” said she.

Bernadotte bowed.

“You are intimate with Gohier, are you not?” she continued.

“He is one of my best friends, madame,” said Bernadotte.

“Well, we dine with him the day after to-morrow, the 18th Brumaire; dine there yourself and bring Madame Bernadotte. I should be so glad to know her better.”

“Madame,” said Bernadotte, “in the days of the Greeks you would have been one of the three graces; in the Middle Ages you would have been a fairy; to-day you are the most adorable woman I know.”

And making three steps backward, and bowing, he contrived to retire politely without including Bonaparte in his bow. Josephine followed him with her eyes until he had left the room. Then, turning to her husband, she said: “Well, it seems that it was not as successful with Bernadotte as with Moreau, was it?”

“Bold, adventurous, disinterested, sincere republican, inaccessible to seduction, he is a human obstacle. We must make our way around him, since we cannot overthrow him.”

And leaving the salon without taking leave of any one, he went to his study, whither Roland and Bourrienne followed. They had hardly been there a quarter of an hour when the handle of the lock turned softly, the door opened, and Lucien appeared.

CHAPTER XXII. THE OUTLINE OF A DECREE

Lucien was evidently expected. Bonaparte had not mentioned his name once since entering the study; but in spite of this silence he had turned his head three or four times with increasing impatience toward the door, and when the young man appeared an exclamation of contentment escaped his lips.

Lucien, the general’s youngest brother, was born in 1775, making him now barely twenty-five years old. Since 1797, that is, at the age of twenty-two and a half, he had been a member of the Five Hundred, who, to honor Bonaparte, had made him their president. With the projects he had conceived nothing could have been more fortunate for Bonaparte.

Frank and loyal, republican to the core, Lucien believed that, in seconding his brother’s plans, he was serving the Republic better than the future First Consul. In his eyes, no one was better fitted to save it a second time than he who had saved it the first. It was with these sentiments in his heart that he now came to confer with his brother.

“Here you are,” said Bonaparte. “I have been waiting for you impatiently.”

“So I suspected. But I was obliged to wait until I could leave without being noticed.”

“Did you manage it?”

“Yes; Talma was relating a story about Marat and Dumouriez. Interesting as it was, I deprived myself of the pleasure, and here I am.”

“I have just heard a carriage driving away; the person who got in it couldn’t have seen you coming up my private stairs, could he?”

“The person who drove off was myself, the carriage was mine. If that is not seen every one will think I have left.”

Bonaparte breathed freer.

“Well,” said he, “let us hear how you have spent your day.”

“Oh! I haven’t wasted my time, you may be sure.”

“Are we to have a decree or the Council?”

“We drew it up to-day, and I have brought it to you – the rough draft at least – so that you can see if you want anything added or changed.”

“Let me see it,” cried Bonaparte. Taking the paper hastily from Lucien’s hand, he read:

Art. I. The legislative body is transferred to the commune of Saint-Cloud; the two branches of the Council will hold their sessions in the two wings of the palace.

“That’s the important article,” said Lucien. “I had it placed first, so that it might strike the people at once.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Bonaparte, and he continued:

Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 20th Brumaire —

“No, no,” said Bonaparte, “to-morrow the 19th. Change the date, Bourrienne;” and he handed the paper to his secretary.

“You expect to be ready for the 18th?”

“I shall be. Fouché said day before yesterday, ‘Make haste, or I won’t answer for the result.’”

“The 19th Brumaire,” said Bourrienne, returning the paper to the general.

Bonaparte resumed:

Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 19th Brumaire, at noon. All deliberations are forbidden elsewhere and before the above date.

Bonaparte read the article a second time.

“Good,” said he; “there is no double meaning there.” And he continued:

Art. III. General Bonaparte is charged with the enforcement of this decree; he will take all necessary measures for the safety of the National Legislature.

A satirical smile flickered on the stony lips of the reader, but he continued almost immediately.

The general commanding the 17th military division, the guard of the Legislature, the stationary national guard the troops of the line within the boundaries of the Commune of Paris, and those in the constitutional arrondissement, and throughout the limits of the said 17th division, are placed directly under his orders, and are directed to regard him as their commanding officer.

“Bourrienne, add: ‘All citizens will lend him assistance when called upon.’ The bourgeois love to meddle in political matters, and when they really can help us in our projects we ought to grant them this satisfaction.”

Bourrienne obeyed; then he returned the paper to the general, who went on:

Art. IV. General Bonaparte is summoned before the Council to receive a copy of the present decree, and to make oath thereto. He will consult with the inspecting commissioners of both branches of the Council.

Art. V. The present decree shall be transmitted immediate, by messenger, to all the members of the Council of Five Hundred and to the Executive Directory. It shall be printed and posted, and promulgated throughout the communes of the Republic by special messengers.

Done at Paris this…

“The date is left blank,” said Lucien.

“Put ‘the 18th Brumaire,’ Bourrienne; the decree must take everybody by surprise. It must be issued at seven o’clock in the morning, and at the same hour or even earlier it must be posted on all the walls of Paris.”

“But suppose the Ancients won’t consent to issue it?” said Lucien.

“All the more reason to have it posted, ninny,” said Bonaparte. “We must act as if it had been issued.”

“Am I to correct this grammatical error in the last paragraph?” asked Bourrienne, laughing.

“Where?” demanded Lucien, in the tone of an aggrieved author.

“The word ‘immediate,’” replied Bourrienne. “You can’t say ‘transmitted immediate’; it ought to be ‘immediately.’”

“It’s not worth while,” said Bonaparte. “I shall act, you may be sure, as if it were ‘immediately.’” Then, after an instant’s reflection, he added: “As to what you said just now about their not being willing to pass it, there’s a very simple way to get it passed.”

“What is that.”

“To convoke the members of whom we are sure at six o’clock in the morning, and those of whom we are not sure at eight. Having only our own men, it will be devilishly hard to lose the majority.”

“But six o’clock for some, and eight for the others – ” objected Lucien.

“Employ two secretaries; one of them can make a mistake.” Then turning to Lucien, he said: “Write this.”

And walking up and down, he dictated without hesitating, like a man who has long thought over and carefully prepared what he dictates; stopping occasionally beside Bourrienne to see if the secretary’s pen were following his every word:

CITIZENS – The Council of the Ancients, the trustee of the nation’s wisdom, has issued the subjoined decree: it is authorized by articles 102 and 103 of the Constitution.

This decree enjoins me to take measures for the safety of the National Legislature, and its necessary and momentary removal.

Bourrienne looked at Bonaparte; instantaneous was the word the latter had intended to use, but as the general did not correct himself, Bourrienne left momentary.

Bonaparte continued to dictate:

The Legislature will find means to avoid the imminent danger into which the disorganization of all parts of the administration has brought us.

But it needs, at this crisis, the united support and confidence of patriots. Rally around it; it offers the only means of establishing the Republic on the bases of civil liberty, internal prosperity, victory and peace.

Bonaparte perused this proclamation, and nodded his head in sign of approval. Then he looked at his watch.

“Eleven o’clock,” he said; “there is still time.”

Then, seating himself in Bourrienne’s chair, he wrote a few words in the form of a note, sealed it, and wrote the address: “To the Citizen Barras.”

“Roland,” said he, when he had finished, “take a horse out of the stable, or a carriage in the street, and go to Barras’ house. I have asked him for an interview tomorrow at midnight. I want an answer.”

Roland left the room. A moment later the gallop of a horse resounded through the courtyard, disappearing in the direction of the Rue du Mont-Blanc.

“Now, Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte, after listening to the sound, “to-morrow at midnight, whether I am in the house or not, you will take my carriage and go in my stead to Barras.”

“In your stead, general?”

“Yes. He will do nothing all day, expecting me to accept him on my side at night. At midnight you will go to him, and say that I have such a bad headache I have had to go to bed, but that I will be with him at seven o’clock in the morning without fail. He will believe you, or he won’t believe you; but at any rate it will be too late for him to act against us. By seven in the morning I shall have ten thousand men under my command.”

“Very good, general. Have you any other orders for me?”

“No, not this evening,” replied Bonaparte. “Be here early to-morrow.”

“And I?” asked Lucien.

“See Sièyes; he has the Ancients in the hollow of his hand. Make all your arrangements with him. I don’t wish him to be seen here, nor to be seen myself at his house. If by any chance we fail, he is a man to repudiate. After tomorrow I wish to be master of my own actions, and to have no ties with any one.”

“Do you think you will need me to-morrow?”

“Come back at night and report what happens.”

“Are you going back to the salon?”

“No. I shall wait for Josephine in her own room. Bourrienne, tell her, as you pass through, to get rid of the people as soon as possible.”

Then, saluting Bourrienne and his brother with a wave of the hand, he left his study by a private corridor, and went to Josephine’s room. There, lighted by a single alabaster lamp, which made the conspirator’s brow seem paler than ever, Bonaparte listened to the noise of the carriages, as one after the other they rolled away. At last the sounds ceased, and five minutes later the door opened to admit Josephine.

She was alone, and held a double-branched candlestick in her hand. Her face, lighted by the double flame, expressed the keenest anxiety.

“Well,” Bonaparte inquired, “what ails you?”

“I am afraid!” said Josephine.

“Of what? Those fools of the Directory, or the lawyers of the two Councils? Come, come! I have Sièyes with me in the Ancients, and Lucien in the Five Hundred.”

“Then all goes well?”

“Wonderfully so!”

“You sent me word that you were waiting for me here, and I feared you had some bad news to tell me.”

“Pooh! If I had bad news, do you think I would tell you?”

“How reassuring that is!”

“Well, don’t be uneasy, for I have nothing but good news. Only, I have given you a part in the conspiracy.”

“What is it?”

“Sit down and write to Gohier.”

“That we won’t dine with him?”

“On the contrary, ask him to come and breakfast with us. Between those who like each other as we do there can’t be too much intercourse.”

Josephine sat down at a little rosewood writing desk “Dictate,” said she; “I will write.”

“Goodness! for them to recognize my style! Nonsense; you know better than I how to write one of those charming notes there is no resisting.”

Josephine smiled at the compliment, turned her forehead to Bonaparte, who kissed it lovingly, and wrote the following note, which we have copied from the original:

To the Citizen Gohier, President of the Executive Directory of the French Republic —

“Is that right?” she asked.

“Perfectly! As he won’t wear this title of President much longer, we won’t cavil at it.”

“Don’t you mean to make him something?”

“I’ll make him anything he pleases, if he does exactly what I want. Now go on, my dear.”

Josephine picked up her pen again and wrote:

Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with us to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very interesting things to tell you.

Adieu, my dear Gohier! With the sincerest friendship,

Yours, LA PAGERIE-BONAPARTE.

“I wrote to-morrow,” exclaimed Josephine. “Shall I date it the 17th Brumaire?”

“You won’t be wrong,” said Bonaparte; “there’s midnight striking.”

In fact, another day had fallen into the gulf of time; the clock chimed twelve. Bonaparte listened gravely and dreamily. Twenty-four hours only separated him from the solemn day for which he had been scheming for a month, and of which he had dreamed for years.

Let us do now what he would so gladly have done, and spring over those twenty-four hours intervening to the day which history has not yet judged, and see what happened in various parts of Paris, where the events we are about to relate produced an overwhelming sensation.

CHAPTER XXIII. ALEA JACTA EST

At seven in the morning, Fouché, minister of police, entered the bedroom of Gohier, president of the Directory.

“Oh, ho!” said Gohier, when he saw him. “What has happened now, monsieur le ministre, to give me the pleasure of seeing you so early?”

“Don’t you know about the decree?” asked Fouché.

“What decree?” asked honest Gohier.

“The decree of the Council of the Ancients.”

“When was it issued?”

“Last night.”

“So the Council of the Ancients assembles at night now?”

“When matters are urgent, yes.”

“And what does the decree say.”

“It transfers the legislative sessions to Saint-Cloud.”

Gohier felt the blow. He realized the advantage which Bonaparte’s daring genius might obtain by this isolation.

“And since when,” he asked Fouché, “is the minister of police transformed into a messenger of the Council of the Ancients?”

“That’s where you are mistaken, citizen president,” replied the ex-Conventional. “I am more than ever minister of police this morning, for I have come to inform you of an act which may have the most serious consequences.”

Not being as yet sure of how the conspiracy of the Rue de la Victoire would turn out, Fouché was not averse to keeping open a door for retreat at the Luxembourg. But Gohier, honest as he was, knew the man too well to be his dupe.

“You should have informed me of this decree yesterday, and not this morning; for in making the communication now you are scarcely in advance of the official communication I shall probably receive in a few moments.”

As he spoke, an usher opened the door and informed the president that a messenger from the Inspectors of the Council of the Ancients was there, and asked to make him a communication.

“Let him come in,” said Gohier.

The messenger entered and handed the president a letter. He broke the seal hastily and read:

CITIZEN PRESIDENT – The Inspecting Commission hasten to inform you of a decree removing the residence of the legislative body to Saint-Cloud.

The decree will be forwarded to you; but measures for public safety are at present occupying our attention.

We invite you to meet the Commission of the Ancients. You will find Sièyes and Ducos already there.

Fraternal greetings

BARILLON,

FARGUES,

CORNET,

“Very good,” said Gohier, dismissing the messenger with a wave of his hand.

The messenger went out. Gohier turned to Fouché.

“Ah!” said he, “the plot is well laid; they inform me of the decree, but they do not send it to me. Happily you are here to tell me the terms of it.”

“But,” said Fouché, “I don’t know them.”

“What! do you the minister of police, mean to tell me that you know nothing about this extraordinary session of the Council of the Ancients, when it has been put on record by a decree?”

“Of course I knew it took place, but I was unable to be present.”

“And you had no secretary, no amanuensis to send, who could give you an account, word for word, of this session, when in all probability this session will dispose of the fate of France! Ah, citizen Fouché, you are either a very deep, or a very shallow minister of police!”

“Have you any orders to give me, citizen president?” asked Fouché.

“None, citizen minister,” replied the president. “If the Directory judges it advisable to issue any orders, it will be to men whom it esteems worthy of its confidence. You may return to those who sent you,” he added, turning his back upon the minister.

Fouché went, and Gohier immediately rang his bell. An usher entered.

“Go to Barras, Sièyes, Ducos, and Moulins, and request them to come to me at once. Ah! And at the same time ask Madame Gohier to come into my study, and to bring with her Madame Bonaparte’s letter inviting us to breakfast with her.”

Five minutes later Madame Gohier entered, fully dressed, with the note in her hand. The invitation was for eight o’clock. It was then half-past seven, and it would take at least twenty minutes to drive from the Luxembourg to the Rue de la Victoire.

“Here it is, my dear,” said Madame Gohier, handing the letter to her husband. “It says eight o’clock.”

“Yes,” replied Gohier, “I was not in doubt about the hour, but about the day.”

Taking the note from his wife’s hand, he read it over:

Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with me to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very interesting things to tell you.

“Ah,” said Gohier, “there can be no mistake.”

“Well, my dear, are we going?” asked Madame Gohier.

“You are, but not I. An event has just happened about which the citizen Bonaparte is probably well-informed, which will detain my colleagues and myself at the Luxembourg.”

“A serious event?”

“Possibly.”

“Then I shall stay with you.”

“No, indeed; you would not be of any service here. Go to Madame Bonaparte’s. I may be mistaken, but, should anything extraordinary happen, which appears to you alarming, send me word some way or other. Anything will do; I shall understand half a word.”

“Very good, my dear; I will go. The hope of being useful to you is sufficient.”

“Do go!”

Just then the usher entered, and said:

“General Moulins is at my heels; citizen Barras is in his bath, and will soon be here; citizens Sièyes and Ducos went out at five o’clock this morning, and have not yet returned.”

“They are the two traitors!” said Gohier; “Barras is only their dupe.” Then kissing his wife, he added: “Now, go.”

As she turned round, Madame Gohier came face to face with General Moulins. He, for his character was naturally impetuous, seemed furious.

“Pardon me, citizeness,” he said. Then, rushing into Gohier’s study, he cried: “Do you know what has happened, president?”

“No, but I have my suspicions.”

“The legislative body has been transferred to Saint-Cloud; the execution of the decree has been intrusted to General Bonaparte, and the troops are placed under his orders.”

“Ha! The cat’s out of the bag!” exclaimed Gohier.

“Well, we must combine, and fight them.”

“Have you heard that Sièyes and Ducos are not in the palace?”

“By Heavens! they are at the Tuileries! But Barras is in his bath; let us go to Barras. The Directory can issue decrees if there is a majority. We are three, and, I repeat it, we must make a struggle!”

“Then let us send word to Barras to come to us as soon as he is out of his bath.”

“No; let us go to him before he leaves it.”

The two Directors left the room, and hurried toward Barras’ apartment. They found him actually in his bath, but they insisted on entering.

“Well?” asked Barras as soon as he saw them.

“Have you heard?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

They told him what they themselves knew.

“Ah!” cried Barras, “that explains everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, that is why he didn’t come last night.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bonaparte.”

“Did you expect him last evening?”

“He sent me word by one of his aides-de-camp that he would call on me at eleven o’clock last evening.”

“And he didn’t come?”

“No. He sent Bourrienne in his carriage to tell me that a violent headache had obliged him to go to bed; but that he would be here early this morning.”

The Directors looked at each other.

“The whole thing is plain,” said they.

“I have sent Bollot, my secretary, a very intelligent fellow, to find out what he can,” continued Barras.

He rang and a servant entered.

“As soon as citizen Bollot returns,” said Barras, “ask him to come here.”

“He is just getting out of his carriage.”

“Send him up! Send him up!”

But Bollot was already at the door.

“Well?” cried the three Directors.

“Well, General Bonaparte, in full uniform, accompanied by Generals Beurnonville, Macdonald and Moreau, are on their way to the Tuileries, where ten thousand troops are awaiting them.”

“Moreau! Moreau with him!” exclaimed Gohier.

“On his right!”

“I always told you that Moreau was a sneak, and nothing else!” cried Moulins, with military roughness.

“Are you still determined to resist, Barras?” asked Gohier.

“Yes,” replied Barras.

“Then dress yourself and join us in the council-room.”

“Go,” said Barras, “I follow you.”

The two Directors hastened to the council-room. After waiting ten minutes Moulins said: “We should have waited for Barras; if Moreau is a sneak, Barras is a knave.”