The Companions of Jehu

Then, placing the muzzle of his pistol to his mouth, he blew out his brains.

Confused and frantic cries followed the explosion, but ceased almost immediately as Valensolle came down the steps, holding in his hand a dagger with a straight and pointed blade. His pistols, which he did not seem inclined to use, were still in his belt.

He advanced to a sort of shed supported on three pillars, stopped at the first pillar, rested the hilt of his dagger upon it, and, with a last salutation to his friends, clasped the column with one arm till the blade had disappeared in his breast. For an instant he remained standing, then a mortal pallor overspread his face, his arm loosened its hold, and he fell to the ground, stone-dead.

The crowd was mute, paralyzed with horror.

It was now Ribier’s turn. He advanced to the gate, and, once there, aimed the two pistols he held at the gendarmes. He did not fire, but the gendarmes did. Three or four shots were heard, and Ribier fell, pierced by two balls.

Admiration seized upon the spectators at sight of these successive catastrophes. They saw that the young men were willing to die, but to die with honor, and as they willed, and also with the grace of the gladiators of antiquity. Silence therefore reigned when Morgan, now left alone, came smiling down the steps of the portico and held up his hand in sign that he wished to speak. Besides, what more could it want – this eager mob; watching for blood?

A greater sight had been given to it than it came to see. Four dead men had been promised to it; four heads were to be cut off; but here was variety in death, unexpected, picturesque. It was natural, therefore, that the crowd should keep silence when Morgan was seen to advance.

He held neither pistols nor daggers in his hands; they were in his belt. He passed the body of Valensolle, and placed himself between those of Jayat and Ribier.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us negotiate.”

The hush that followed was so great that those present seemed scarcely to breathe. Morgan said: “There lies a man who has blown out his brains [he pointed to Jayat]; here lies one who stabbed himself [he designated Valensolle]; a third who has been shot [he indicated Ribier]; you want to see the fourth guillotined. I understand that.”

A dreadful shudder passed through the crowd.

“Well,” continued Morgan, “I am willing to give you that satisfaction. I am ready, but I desire to go to the scaffold in my own way. No one shall touch me; if any one does come near me I shall blow out his brains – except that gentleman,” continued Morgan, pointing to the executioner. “This is his affair and mine only.”

The crowd apparently thought this request reasonable, for from all sides came the cry, “Yes, yes, yes.”

The officer saw that the quickest way to end the matter was to yield to Morgan’s demand.

“Will you promise me,” he asked, “that if your hands and feet are not bound you will not try to escape?”

“I give my word of honor,” replied Morgan.

“Then,” said the officer; “stand aside, and let us take up the bodies of your comrades.”

“That is but right,” said Morgan, and he turned aside to a wall about ten paces distant and leaned against it.

The gate opened. Three men dressed in black entered the courtyard and picked up the bodies one after the other. Ribier was not quite dead; he opened his eyes and seemed to look for Morgan.

“Here I am,” said the latter. “Rest easy, dear friend, I follow.”

Ribier closed his eyes without uttering a word.

When the three bodies had been removed, the officer of the gendarmerie addressed Morgan.

“Are you ready, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Morgan, bowing with exquisite politeness.

“Then come.”

“I come.”

And he took his place between a platoon of gendarmerie and a detachment of dragoons.

“Will you mount the cart, sir, or go on foot?” asked the captain.

“On foot, on foot, sir. I am anxious that all shall see it is my pleasure to be guillotined, and that I am not afraid.”

The sinister procession crossed the Place des Lisses and skirted the walls of the Hôtel Montbazon. The cart bearing the three bodies came first, then the dragoons, then Morgan walking alone in a clear space of some ten feet before and behind him, then the gendarmes. At the end of the wall they turned to the left.

Suddenly, through an opening that existed at that time between the wall and the market-place, Morgan saw the scaffold raising its two posts to heaven like two bloody arms.

“Faugh!” he exclaimed, “I have never seen a guillotine, and I had no idea it was so ugly.”

Then, without further remark, he drew his dagger and plunged it into his breast up to the hilt.

The captain of the gendarmerie saw the movement without being in time to prevent it. He spurred his horse toward Morgan, who, to his own amazement and that of every one else, remained standing. But Morgan, drawing a pistol from his belt and cocking it, exclaimed: “Stop! It was agreed that no one should touch me. I shall die alone, or three of us will die together.”

The captain reined back his horse.

“Forward!” said Morgan.

They reached the foot of the guillotine. Morgan drew out his dagger and struck again as deeply as before. A cry of rage rather than pain escaped him.

“My soul must be riveted to my body,” he said.

Then, as the assistants wished to help him mount the scaffold on which the executioner was awaiting him, he cried out: “No, I say again, let no one touch me.”

Then he mounted the three steps without staggering.

When he reached the platform, he drew out the dagger again and struck himself a third time. Then a frightful laugh burst from his lips; flinging the dagger, which he had wrenched from the third ineffectual wound, at the feet of the executioner, he exclaimed: “By my faith! I have done enough. It is your turn; do it if you can.”

A minute later the head of the intrepid young man fell upon the scaffold, and by a phenomenon of that unconquerable vitality which he possessed it rebounded and rolled forward beyond the timbers of the guillotine.

Go to Bourg, as I did, and they will tell you that, as the head rolled forward, it was heard to utter the name of Amélie.

The dead bodies were guillotined after the living one; so that the spectators, instead of losing anything by the events we have just related, enjoyed a double spectacle.

CHAPTER LIV. THE CONFESSION

Three days after the events we have just recited, a carriage covered with dust and drawn by two horses white with foam stopped about seven of the evening before the gate of the Château des Noires-Fontaines. To the great astonishment of the person who was in such haste to arrive, the gates were open, a crowd of peasants filled the courtyard, and men and women were kneeling on the portico. Then, his sense of hearing being rendered more acute by astonishment at what he had seen, he fancied he heard the ringing of a bell.

He opened the door of the chaise, sprang out, crossed the courtyard rapidly, went up the portico, and found the stairway leading to the first floor filled with people.

Up the stairs he ran as he had up the portico, and heard what seemed to him a murmured prayer from his sister’s bedroom. He went to the room. The door was open. Madame de Montrevel and little Edouard were kneeling beside Amélie’s pillow; Charlotte, Michel, and his son Jacques were close at hand. The curate of Sainte-Claire was administering the last sacraments; the dismal scene was lighted only by the light of the wax-tapers.

The reader has recognized Roland in the traveller whose carriage stopped at the gate. The bystanders made way for him; he entered the room with his head uncovered and knelt beside his mother.

The dying girl lay on her back, her hands clasped, her head raised on her pillows, her eyes fixed upon the sky, in a sort of ecstasy. She seemed unconscious of Roland’s arrival. It was as though her soul were floating between heaven and earth, while the body still belonged to this world.

Madame de Montrevel’s hand sought that of Roland, and finding it, the poor mother dropped her head on his shoulder, sobbing. The sobs passed unnoticed by the dying girl, even as her brother’s arrival had done. She lay there perfectly immovable. Only when the viaticum had been administered, when the priest’s voice promised her eternal blessedness, her marble lips appeared to live again, and she murmured in a feeble but intelligible voice: “Amen!”

Then the bell rang again; the choir-boy, who was carrying it, left the room first, followed by the two acolytes who bore the tapers, then the cross-bearer, and lastly the priest with the Host. All the strangers present followed the procession, and the family and household were left alone. The house, an instant before so full of sound and life, was silent, almost deserted.

The dying girl had not moved; her lips were closed, her hands clasped, her eyes raised to heaven. After a few minutes Roland stooped to his mother’s ear, and whispered: “Come out with me, mother, I must speak to you.” Madame de Montrevel rose. She pushed little Edouard toward the bed, and the child stood on tiptoe to kiss his sister on the forehead. Then the mother followed him, and, leaning over, with a sob she pressed a kiss upon the same spot. Roland, with dry eyes but a breaking heart – he would have given much for tears in which to drown his sorrow – kissed his sister as his mother and little brother had done. She seemed as insensible to this kiss as to the preceding ones.

Edouard left the room, followed by Madame de Montrevel and Roland. Just as they reached the door they stopped, quivering. They had heard the name of Roland, uttered in a low but distinct tone.

Roland turned. Amélie called him a second time.

“Did you call me, Amélie?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the dying girl.

“Alone, or with my mother?”

“Alone.”

That voice, devoid of emphasis, yet perfectly intelligible, had something glacial about it; it was like an echo from another world.

“Go, mother,” said Roland. “You see that she wishes to be alone with me.”

“O my God!” murmured Madame de Montrevel, “can there still be hope?”

Low as these words were, the dying girl heard them.

“No, mother,” she said. “God has permitted me to see my brother again; but to-night I go to Him.”

Madame de Montrevel groaned.

“Roland, Roland!” she said, “she is there already.”

Roland signed to her to leave them alone, and she went away with little Edouard. Roland closed the door, and returned to his sister’s bedside with unutterable emotion.

Her body was already stiffening in death; the breath from her lips would scarcely have dimmed a mirror; the eyes only, wide-open, were fixed and brilliant, as though the whole remaining life of the body, dead before its time, were centred, there. Roland had heard of this strange state called ecstasy, which is nothing else than catalepsy. He saw that Amélie was a victim of that preliminary death.

“I am here, sister,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I knew you would come,” she replied, still without moving, “and I waited for you.”

“How did you know that I was coming?” asked Roland.

“I saw you coming.”

Roland shuddered.

“Did you know why I was coming?” he asked.

“Yes; I prayed God so earnestly in my heart that He gave me strength to rise and write to you.”

“When was that?”

“Last night.”

“Where is the letter?”

“Under my pillow. Take it, and read it.”

Roland hesitated an instant. Was his sister delirious?

“Poor Amélie!” he murmured.

“Do not pity me,” she said, “I go to join him.”

“Whom?” asked Roland.

“Him whom I loved, and whom you killed.”

Roland uttered a cry. This was delirium; or else – what did his sister mean?

“Amélie,” said he, “I came to question you – ”

“About Lord Tanlay; yes, I know,” replied the young girl.

“You knew! How could you know?”

“Did I not tell you I saw you coming, and knew why you came?”

“Then answer me.”

“Do not turn me from God and from him, Roland. I have written it all; read my letter.”

Roland slipped his hand beneath the pillow, convinced that his sister was delirious.

To his great astonishment he felt a paper, which he drew out. It was a sealed letter; on it were written these words: “For Roland, who will come to-morrow.”

He went over to the night-light in order to read the letter, which was dated the night before at eleven o’clock in the evening.

My brother, we have each a terrible thing to forgive the other.

Roland looked at his sister; she was still motionless. He continued to read:

I loved Charles de Sainte-Hermine; I did more than love him, he was my lover.

“Oh!” muttered the young man between his teeth, “he shall die.”

“He is dead,” said Amélie.

The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words to which Amélie had replied too low even to hear them himself. His eyes went back to the letter.

There was no legal marriage possible between the sister of Roland de Montrevel and the leader of the Companions of Jehu: that was the terrible secret which I bore – and it crushed me.

One person alone had to know it, and I told him; that person was Sir John Tanlay.

May God forever bless that noble-hearted man, who promised to break off an impossible marriage, and who kept his word. Let his life be sacred to you, Roland; he has been my only friend in sorrow, and his tears have mingled with mine.

I loved Charles de Saint-Hermine; I was his mistress; that is the terrible thing you must forgive.

But, in exchange, you caused his death; that is the terrible thing I now forgive you.

Oh! come fast, Roland, for I cannot die till you are here.

To die is to see him again; to die is to be with him and never to leave him again. I am glad to die.

All was clearly and plainly written; there was no sign of delirium in the letter.

Roland read it through twice, and stood for an instant silent, motionless, palpitating, full of bitterness; then pity got the better of his anger. He went to Amélie, stretched his hand over her, and said: “Sister, I forgive you.”

A slight quiver shook the dying body.

“And now,” she said, “call my mother, that I may die in her arms.”

Roland opened the door and called Madame de Montrevel. She was waiting and came at once.

“Is there any change?” she asked, eagerly.

“No,” replied Roland, “only Amélie wishes to die in your arms.”

Madame de Montrevel fell upon her knees beside her daughter’s bed.

Then Amélie, as though an invisible hand had loosened the bonds that held her rigid body to the bed, rose slowly, parted the hands that were clasped upon her breast, and let one fall slowly into those of her mother.

“Mother,” she said, “you gave me life and you have taken it from me; I bless you. It was a mother’s act. There was no happiness possible for your daughter in this life.”

Then, letting her other hand fall into that of Roland, who was kneeling on the other side of the bed, she said: “We have forgiven each other, brother?”

“Yes, dear Amélie,” he replied, “and from the depths of our hearts, I hope.”

“I have still one last request to make.”

“What is it?”

“Do not forget that Lord Tanlay has been my best friend.”

“Fear nothing,” said Roland; “Lord Tanlay’s life is sacred to me.”

Amélie drew a long breath; then in a voice which showed her growing weakness, she said: “Farewell, mother; farewell, Roland; kiss Edouard for me.”

Then with a cry from her soul, in which there was more of joy than sadness, she said: “Here I am, Charles, here I am!”

She fell back upon her bed, withdrawing her two hands as she did so, and clasping them upon her breast again.

Roland and his mother rose and leaned over her. She had resumed her first position, except that her eyelids were closed and her breath extinguished. Amélie’s martyrdom was over, she was dead.

CHAPTER LV. INVULNERABLE

Amélie died during the night of Monday and Tuesday, that is to say, the 2d and 3d of June. On the evening of Thursday, the 5th of June, the Grand Opera at Paris was crowded for the second presentation of “Ossian, or the Bards.”

The great admiration which the First Consul professed for the poems of Macpherson was universally known; consequently the National Academy, as much in flattery as from literary choice, had brought out an opera, which, in spite of all exertions, did not appear until a month after General Bonaparte had left Paris to join the Army of the Reserves.

In the balcony to the left sat a lover of music who was noticeable for the deep attention he paid to the performance. During the interval between the acts, the door-keeper came to him and said in a low voice:

“Pardon me, sir, are you Sir John Tanlay?”

“I am.”

“In that case, my lord, a gentleman has a message to give you; he says it is of the utmost importance, and asks if you will speak to him in the corridor.”

“Oh!” said Sir John, “is he an officer?”

“He is in civilian’s dress, but he looks like an officer.”

“Very good,” replied Sir John; “I know who he is.”

He rose and followed the woman. Roland was waiting in the corridor. Lord Tanlay showed no surprise on seeing him, but the stern look on the young man’s face repressed the first impulse of his deep affection, which was to fling himself upon his friend’s breast.

“Here I am, sir,” said Sir John.

Roland bowed.

“I have just come from your hotel,” he said. “You have, it seems, taken the precaution to inform the porter of your whereabout every time you have gone out, so that persons who have business with you should know where to find you.”

“That is true, sir.”

“The precaution is a good one, especially for those who, like myself, come from a long distance and are hurried and have no time to spare.”

“Then,” said Sir John, “was it to see me that you left the army and came to Paris?”

“Solely for that honor, sir; and I trust that you will guess my motives, and spare me the necessity of explaining them.”

“From this moment I am at your service, sir,” replied Sir John.

“At what hour to-morrow can two of my friends wait upon you?”

“From seven in the morning until midnight; unless you prefer that it should be now.”

“No, my lord; I have but just arrived, and I must have time to find my friends and give them my instructions. If it will not inconvenience you, they will probably call upon you to-morrow between ten and eleven. I shall be very much obliged to you if the affair we have to settle could be arranged for the same day.”

“I believe that will be possible, sir; as I understand it to be your wish, the delay will not be from my side.”

“That is all I wished to know, my lord; pray do not let me detain you longer.”

Roland bowed, and Sir John returned the salutation. Then the young man left the theatre and Sir John returned to his seat in the balcony. The words had been exchanged in such perfectly well modulated voices, and with such an impassible expression of countenance on both sides, that no one would have supposed that a quarrel had arisen between the two men who had just greeted each other so courteously.

It happened to be the reception day of the minister of war. Roland returned to his hotel, removed the traces of his journey, jumped into a carriage, and a little before ten he was announced in the salon of the citizen Carnot.

Two purposes took him there: in the first place, he had a verbal communication to make to the minister of war from the First Consul; in the second place, he hoped to find there the two witnesses he was in need of to arrange his meeting with Sir John.

Everything happened as Roland had hoped. He gave the minister of war all the details of the crossing of the Mont Saint-Bernard and the situation of the army; and he himself found the two friends of whom he was in search. A few words sufficed to let them know what he wished; soldiers are particularly open to such confidences.

Roland spoke of a grave insult, the nature of which must remain a secret even to his seconds. He declared that he was the offended party, and claimed the choice of weapons and mode of fighting – advantages which belong to the challenger.

The young fellows agreed to present themselves to Sir John the following morning at the Hôtel Mirabeau, Rue de Richelieu, at nine o’clock, and make the necessary arrangements with Sir John’s seconds. After that they would join Roland at the Hôtel de Paris in the same street.

Roland returned to his room at eleven that evening, wrote for about an hour, then went to bed and to sleep.

At half-past nine the next morning his friends came to him. They had just left Sir John. He admitted all Roland’s contentions; declared that he would not discuss any of the arrangements; adding that if Roland regarded himself as the injured party, it was for him to dictate the conditions. To their remark that they had hoped to discuss such matters with two of his friends and not with himself, he replied that he knew no one in Paris intimately enough to ask their assistance in such a matter, and that he hoped, once on the ground, that one of Roland’s seconds would consent to act in his behalf. The two officers were agreed that Lord Tanlay had conducted himself with the utmost punctiliousness in every respect.

Roland declared that Sir John’s request for the services of one of his two seconds was not only just but suitable, and he authorized either one of them to act for Sir John and to take charge of his interests. All that remained for Roland to do was to dictate his conditions. They were as follows!

Pistols were chosen. When loaded the adversaries were to stand at five paces. At the third clap of the seconds’ hands they were to fire. It was, as we see, a duel to the death, in which, if either survived, he would be at the mercy of his opponent. Consequently the young officers made many objections; but Roland insisted, declaring that he alone could judge of the gravity of the insult offered him, and that no other reparation than this would satisfy him. They were obliged to yield to such obstinacy. But the friend who was to act as Sir John’s second refused to bind himself for his principal, declaring that unless Sir John ordered it he would refuse to be a party to such a murder.

“Don’t excite yourself, dear friend,” said Roland, “I know Sir John, and I think he will be more accommodating than you.”

The seconds returned to Sir John; they found him at his English breakfast of beefsteak, potatoes and tea. On seeing them he rose, invited them to share his repast, and, on their refusing, placed himself at their disposal. They began by assuring him that he could count upon one of them to act as his second. The one acting for Roland announced the conditions. At each stipulation Sir John bowed his head in token of assent and merely replied: “Very good!”

The one who had taken charge of his interests attempted to make some objections to a form of combat that, unless something impossible to foresee occurred, must end in the death of both parties; but Lord Tanlay begged him to make no objections.

“M. de Montrevel is a gallant man,” he said; “I do not wish to thwart him in anything; whatever he does is right.”

It only remained to settle the hour and the place of meeting. On these points Sir John again placed himself at Roland’s disposal. The two seconds left even more delighted with him after this interview than they had been after the first. Roland was waiting for them and listened to what had taken place.

“What did I tell you?” he asked.

They requested him to name the time and place. He selected seven o’clock in the evening in the Allée de la Muette. At that hour the Bois was almost deserted, but the light was still good enough (it will be remembered that this was in the month of June) for the two adversaries to fight with any weapon.

No one had spoken of the pistols. The young men proposed to get them at an armorer’s.

“No,” said Roland, “Sir John has an excellent pair of duelling pistols which I have already used. If he is not unwilling to fight with those pistols I should prefer them to all others.”

The young man who was now acting as Sir John’s second went to him with the three following questions: Whether the time and place suited him, and whether he would allow his pistols to be used.