The Companions of Jehu

“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.”

Bonaparte looked at the stranger again. It was evident that Morgan was a pseudonym, assumed to hide his real name. Then, turning his eyes on the letter, he read:

January 3, 1800.

Whatever may be their apparent conduct, monsieur, men like you never inspire distrust. You have accepted an exalted post, and I thank you for so doing. You know, better than others, that force and power are needed to make the happiness of a great nation. Save France from her own madness, and you will fulfil the desire of my heart; restore her king, and future generations will bless your memory. If you doubt my gratitude, choose your own place, determine the future of your friends. As for my principles, I am a Frenchman, clement by nature, still more so by judgment. No! the conqueror of Lodi, Castiglione and Arcola, the conqueror of Italy and Egypt, cannot prefer an empty celebrity to fame. Lose no more precious time. We can secure the glory of France. I say we, because I have need of Bonaparte for that which he cannot achieve without me. General, the eyes of Europe are upon you, glory awaits you, and I am eager to restore my people to happiness.

LOUIS.

Bonaparte turned to the young man, who stood erect, motionless and silent as a statue.

“Do you know the contents of this letter?” he asked.

The young man bowed. “Yes, citizen First Consul.”

“It was sealed, however.”

“It was sent unsealed under cover to the person who intrusted it to me. And before doing so he made me read it, that I might know its full importance.”

“Can I know the name of the person who intrusted it to you?”

“Georges Cadoudal.”

Bonaparte started slightly.

“Do you know Georges Cadoudal?” he asked.

“He is my friend.”

“Why did he intrust it to you rather than to another?”

“Because he knew that in telling me to deliver the letter to you with my own hand it would be done.”

“You have certainly kept your promise, sir.”

“Not altogether yet, citizen First Consul.”

“How do you mean? Haven’t you delivered it to me?”

“Yes, but I promised to bring back an answer.”

“But if I tell you I will not give one.”

“You will have answered; not precisely as I could have wished, but it will be an answer.”

Bonaparte reflected for a few moments. Then shaking his shoulders to rid himself of his thoughts, he said: “They are fools.”

“Who, citizen?” asked Morgan.

“Those who write me such letters – fools, arch fools. Do they take me for a man who patterns his conduct by the past? Play Monk! What good would it do? Bring back another Charles II.? No, faith, it is not worth while. When a man has Toulon, the 13th Vendemiaire, Lodi, Castiglione, Arcola, Rivoli and the Pyramids behind him, he’s no Monk. He has the right to aspire to more than a duchy of Albemarle, and the command by land and sea of the forces of his Majesty King Louis XVIII.”

“For that reason you are asked to make your own conditions, citizen First Consul.”

Bonaparte started at the sound of that voice as if he had forgotten that any one was present.

“Not counting,” he went on, “that it is a ruined family, a dead branch of a rotten trunk. The Bourbons have so intermarried with one another that the race is depraved; Louis XIV. exhausted all its sap, all its vigor. – You know history, sir?” asked Bonaparte, turning to the young man.

“Yes, general,” he replied; “at least as well as a ci-devant can know it.”

“Well, you must have observed in history, especially in that of France, that each race has its point of departure, its culmination, and its decadence. Look at the direct line of the Capets; starting from Hugues Capet, they attained their highest grandeur in Philippe Auguste and Louis XI., and fell with Philippe V. and Charles IV. Take the Valois; starting with Philippe VI., they culminated in François I. and fell with Charles IX. and Henry III. See the Bourbons; starting with Henry IV., they have their culminating point in Louis XIV. and fall with Louis XV. and Louis XVI. – only they fall lower than the others; lower in debauchery with Louis XV., lower in misfortune with Louis XVI. You talk to me of the Stuarts, and show me the example of Monk. Will you tell me who succeeded Charles II.? James II. And who to James II.? William of Orange, a usurper. Would it not have been better, I ask you, if Monk had put the crown on his own head? Well, if I was fool enough to restore Louis XVIII. to the throne, like Charles II. he would have no children, and, like James II., his brother Charles X. would succeed him, and like him would be driven out by some William of Orange. No, no! God has not put the destiny of this great and glorious country we call France into my hands that I should cast it back to those who have gambled with it and lost it.”

“Permit me, general, to remark that I did not ask you for all this.”

“But I, I ask you – ”

“I think you are doing me the honor to take me for posterity.”

Bonaparte started, turned round, saw to whom he was speaking, and was silent.

“I only want,” said Morgan, with a dignity which surprised the man whom he addressed, “a yes or a no.”

“And why do you want that?”

“To know whether we must continue to war against you as an enemy, or fall at your feet as a savior.”

“War,” said Bonaparte, “war! Madmen, they who war with me! Do they not see that I am the elect of God?”

“Attila said the same thing.”

“Yes; but he was the elect of destruction; I, of the new era. The grass withered where he stepped; the harvest will ripen where I pass the plow. War? Tell me what has become of those who have made it against me? They lie upon the plains of Piedmont, of Lombardy and Cairo!”

“You forget the Vendée; the Vendée is still afoot.”

“Afoot, yes! but her leaders? Cathelineau, Lescure, La Rochejaquelin, d’Elbée, Bonchamps, Stoffiet, Charette?”

“You are speaking of men only; the men have been mown down, it is true; but the principle is still afoot, and for it are fighting Autichamp, Suzannet, Grignon, Frotté, Châtillon, Cadoudal. The younger may not be worth the elder, but if they die as their elders died, what more can you ask?”

“Let them beware! If I determine upon a campaign against the Vendée I shall send neither Santerre nor Rossignol!”

“The Convention sent Kléber, and the Directory, Hoche!”

“I shall not send; I shall go myself.”

“Nothing worse can happen to them than to be killed like Lescure, or shot like Charette.”

“It may happen that I pardon them.”

“Cato taught us how to escape the pardon of Cæsar.”

“Take care; you are quoting a Republican!”

“Cato was one of those men whose example can be followed, no matter to what party they belong.”

“And suppose I were to tell you that I hold the Vendée in the hollow of my hand?”

“You!”

“And that within three months, she will lay down her arms if I choose?”

The young man shook his head.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I hesitate to believe you.”

“If I affirm to you that what I say is true; if I prove it by telling you the means, or rather the men, by whom I shall bring this about?”

“If a man like General Bonaparte affirms a thing, I shall believe it; and if that thing is the pacification of the Vendée, I shall say in my turn: ‘Beware! Better the Vendée fighting than the Vendée conspiring. The Vendée fighting means the sword, the Vendée conspiring means the dagger.’”

“Oh! I know your dagger,” said Bonaparte. “Here it is.”

And he drew from a drawer the dagger he had taken from Roland and laid it on the table within reach of Morgan’s hand.

“But,” he added, “there is some distance between Bonaparte’s breast and an assassin’s dagger. Try.”

And he advanced to the young man with a flaming eye.

“I did not come here to assassinate you,” said the young man, coldly. “Later, if I consider your death indispensable to the cause, I shall do all in my power, and if I fail it will not be because you are Marius and I the Cimbrian. Have you anything else to say to me, citizen First Consul?” concluded the young man, bowing.