he said: "Here, this concerns you; it is unnecessary for me to see this
monsieur--since we are no longer citizens--M. de Valensolle is M. de
Barjols' second; you are mine. Arrange this affair between you. Only,"
added the young man, pressing the Englishman's hand and looking fixedly
at him, "see that it holds a chance of certain death for one of us.
Otherwise I shall complain that it has been bungled."

"Don't worry," said the Englishman, "I will act for you as for myself."

"Excellent! Go now, and when everything is arranged come back. I shall
not stir from here."

Sir John followed the innkeeper. Roland reseated himself, twirled his
chair back to its former position facing the table, took up his pen and
began to write.

When Sir John returned, Roland had written and sealed two letters and
was addressing a third. He signed to the Englishman to wait until he had
finished, that he might give him his full attention. Then, the address
finished, he sealed the letter, and turned around.

"Well," he asked, "is everything arranged?"

"Yes," said the Englishman, "it was an easy matter. You are dealing with
a true gentleman."

"So much the better!" exclaimed Roland, waiting.

"You will fight two hours hence by the fountain of Vaucluse--a charming
spot--with pistols, advancing to each other, each to fire as he pleases
and continuing to advance after his adversary's fire."

"By my faith! you are right, Sir John. That is, indeed, excellent. Did
you arrange that?"

"I and M. de Barjols' second, your adversary having renounced his rights
of the insulted party."

"Have you decided upon the weapons?"

"I offered my pistols. They were accepted on my word of honor that you
were as unfamiliar with them as was M. de Barjols. They are excellent
weapons. I can cut a bullet on a knife blade at twenty paces."

"Peste! You are a good shot, it would seem, my lord."

"Yes, I am said to be the best shot in England."

"That is a good thing to know. When I wish to be killed, Sir John, I'll
pick a quarrel with you."

"Oh! don't pick a quarrel with me," said the Englishman, "it would
grieve me too much to have to fight you."

"We will try, my lord, not to cause you such grief. So it is settled
then, in two hours."

"Yes, you told me you were in a hurry."

"Precisely. How far is it to this charming spot?"

"From here to Vaucluse?"

"Yes."

"Twelve miles."

"A matter of an hour and a half. We have no time to lose, so let us rid
ourselves of troublesome things in order to have nothing but pleasure
before us."

The Englishman looked at the young man in astonishment. Roland did not
seem to pay any attention to this look.

"Here are three letters," said he; "one for Madame de Montrevel, my
mother; one for Mlle. de Montrevel, my sister; one for the citizen,
Bonaparte, my general. If I am killed you will simply put them in the
post. Will that be too much trouble?"

"Should that misfortune occur, I will deliver your letters myself," said
the Englishman. "Where do your mother and sister live?"

"At Bourg, the capital of the Department of Ain."

"That is near here," observed the Englishman. "As for General Bonaparte,
I will go to Egypt if necessary. I should be extremely pleased to meet
General Bonaparte."

"If you take the trouble, as you say, my lord, of delivering my letters
yourself, you will not have to travel such a distance. Within three days
General Bonaparte will be in Paris."

"Oh!" said the Englishman, without betraying the least surprise, "do you
think so?"

"I am sure of it," replied Roland.

"Truly, he is a very extraordinary man, your General Bonaparte. Now,
have you any other recommendations to make to me, M. de Montrevel?"

"One only, my lord."

"Oh! as many as you please."

"No, thank you, one only, but that is very important."

"What is it?"

"If I am killed--but I doubt if I be so fortunate."

Sir John looked at Roland with that expression of wonder which he had
already awakened three or four times.

"If I am killed," resumed Roland; "for after all one must be prepared
for everything--"

"Yes, if you are killed, I understand."

"Listen well, my lord, for I place much stress on my directions being
carried out exactly in this matter."

"Every detail shall be observed," replied Sir John, "I am very
punctilious."

"Well, then, if I am killed," insisted Roland, laying his hand upon his
second's shoulder, to impress his directions more firmly on his memory,
"you must not permit any one to touch my body, which is to be placed in
a leaden coffin without removing the garments I am wearing; the coffin
you will have soldered in your presence, then inclosed in an oaken bier,
which must also be nailed up in your presence. Then you will send it to
my mother, unless you should prefer to throw it into the Rhone, which I
leave absolutely to your discretion, provided only that it be disposed
of in some way."

"It will be no more difficult," replied the Englishman, "to take the
coffin, since I am to deliver your letter."

"Decidedly, my lord," said Roland, laughing in his strange way. "You
are a capital fellow. Providence in person brought us together. Let us
start, my lord, let us start!"

They left Roland's room; Sir John's chamber was on the same floor.
Roland waited while the Englishman went in for his weapons. He returned
a few seconds later, carrying the box in his hand.

"Now, my lord," asked Roland, "how shall we reach Vaucluse? On horseback
or by carriage?"

"By carriage, if you are willing. It is much more convenient in case one
is wounded. Mine is waiting below."

"I thought you had given the order to have it unharnessed?"

"I did, but I sent for the postilion afterward and countermanded it."

They went downstairs.

"Tom! Tom!" called Sir John at the door, where a servant, in the severe
livery of an English groom, was waiting, "take care of this box."

"Am I going with you, my lord?" asked the servant.

"Yes!" replied Sir John.

Then showing Roland the steps of his carriage, which the servant
lowered, he said:

"Come, M. de Montrevel."

Roland entered the carriage and stretched himself out luxuriously.

"Upon my word!" said he. "It takes you English to understand travelling.
This carriage is as comfortable as a bed. I warrant you pad your coffins
before you are put in them!"

"Yes, that is a fact," said Sir John, "the English people
understand comfort, but the French people are much more curious and
amusing--postilion, to Vaucluse!"

CHAPTER IV. THE DUEL

The road was passable only from Avignon to l'Isle. They covered the nine
miles between the two places in an hour. During this hour Roland, as he
resolved to shorten the time for his travelling companion, was witty
and animated, and their approach to the duelling ground only served to
redouble his gayety. To one unacquainted with the object of this
drive, the menace of dire peril impending over this young man, with
his continuous flow of conversation and incessant laughter, would have
seemed incredible.

At the village of l'Isle they were obliged to leave the carriage.
Finding on inquiry that they were the first to arrive, they entered the
path which led to the fountain.

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Roland, "there ought to be a fine echo here." And he
gave one or two cries to which Echo replied with perfect amiability.

"By my faith!" said the young man, "this is a marvellous echo. I know
none save that of the Seinonnetta, at Milan, which can compare with it.
Listen, my lord."

And he began, with modulations which revealed an admirable voice and an
excellent method, to sing a Tyrolean song which seemed to bid defiance
to the human throat with its rebellious music. Sir John watched Roland,
and listened to him with an astonishment which he no longer took the
trouble to conceal. When the last note had died away among the cavities
of the mountain, he exclaimed:

"God bless me! but I think your liver is out of order."

Roland started and looked at him interrogatively. But seeing that Sir
John did not intend to say more, he asked:

"Good! What makes you think so?"

"You are too noisily gay not to be profoundly melancholy."

"And that anomaly astonishes you?"

"Nothing astonishes me, because I know that it has always its reason for
existing."

"True, and it's all in knowing the secret. Well, I'm going to enlighten
you."

"Oh! I don't want to force you."

"You're too polite to do that; still, you must admit you would be glad
to have your mind set at rest about me."

"Because I'm interested in you."

"Well, Sir John, I am going to tell you the secret of the enigma,
something I have never done with any one before. For all my seeming good
health, I am suffering from a horrible aneurism that causes me spasms of
weakness and faintness so frequent as to shame even a woman. I spend
my life taking the most ridiculous precautions, and yet Larrey warns me
that I am liable to die any moment, as the diseased artery in my breast
may burst at the least exertion. Judge for yourself how pleasant for
a soldier! You can understand that, once I understood my condition, I
determined incontinently to die with all the glory possible. Another
more fortunate than I would have succeeded a hundred times already.
But I'm bewitched; I am impervious alike to bullets and balls; even the
swords seem to fear to shatter themselves upon my skin. Yet I never miss
an opportunity; that you must see, after what occurred at dinner. Well,
we are going to fight. I'll expose myself like a maniac, giving my
adversary all the advantages, but it will avail me nothing. Though
he shoot at fifteen paces, or even ten or five, at his very pistol's
point, he will miss me, or his pistol will miss fire. And all this
wonderful luck that some fine day when I least expect it, I may die
pulling on my boots! But hush I here comes my adversary."

As he spoke the upper half of three people could be seen ascending the
same rough and rocky path that Roland and Sir John had followed, growing
larger as they approached. Roland counted them.

"Three!" he exclaimed. "Why three, when we are only two?"

"Ah! I had forgotten," replied the Englishman. "M. de Barjols, as much
in your interest as in his own, asked permission to bring a surgeon, one
of his friends."

"What for?" harshly demanded Roland, frowning.

"Why, in case either one of you was wounded. A man's life can often be
saved by bleeding him promptly."

"Sir John," exclaimed Roland, ferociously, "I don't understand these
delicacies in the matter of a duel. When men fight they fight to kill.
That they exchange all sorts of courtesies beforehand, as your ancestors
did at Fontenoy, is all right; but, once the swords are unsheathed or
the pistols loaded, one life must pay for the trouble they have taken
and the heart beats they have lost. I ask you, on your word of honor,
Sir John, to promise that, wounded or dying, M. de Barjols' surgeon
shall not be allowed to touch me."

"But suppose, M. Roland--"

"Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take me if I
fight at all."

The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face was
livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror. Sir John,
without understanding this strange dread, passed his word.

"Good!" exclaimed Roland. "This, you see, is one of the effects of my
charming malady. The mere thought of surgical instruments, a bistoury or
a lance, makes me dizzy. Didn't I grow very pale?"

"I did think for an instant you were going to faint."

"What a stunning climax!" exclaimed Roland with a laugh. "Our
adversaries arrive and you are dosing me with smelling salts like a
hysterical woman. Do you know what they, and you, first of all, would
have said? That I was afraid."

Meantime, the three new-comers having approached within earshot, Sir
John was unable to answer Roland. They bowed, and Roland, with a smile
that revealed his beautiful teeth, returned their greeting. Sir John
whispered in his ear:

"You are still a trifle pale. Go on toward the fountain; I will fetch
you when we are ready."

"Ah! that's the idea," said Roland. "I have always wanted to see that
famous fountain of Vaucluse, the Hippocrene of Petrarch. You know his
sonnet?

  "'Chiari, fresche e dolci acque
    Ove le belle membra
    Pose colei, che sola a me perdona.'

This opportunity lost, I may never have another. Where is your
fountain?"

"Not a hundred feet off. Follow the path; you'll find it at the turn of
the road, at the foot of that enormous bowlder you see."

"My lord," said Roland, "you are the best guide I know; thanks!"

And, with a friendly wave of the hand, he went off in the direction
of the fountain, humming the charming pastoral of Philippe Desportes
beneath his breath:

  "'Rosette, a little absence
    Has turned thine heart from me;
    I, knowing that inconstance,
    Have turned my heart from thee.
    No wayward beauty o'er me
    Such power shall obtain;
    We'll see, my fickle lassie,
    Who first will turn again.'"

Sir John turned as he heard the modulations of that fresh sweet voice,
whose higher notes had something at a feminine quality. His cold
methodical mind understood nothing of that nervous impulsive nature,
save that he had under his eyes one of the most amazing organisms one
could possibly meet.

The other two young men were waiting for him; the surgeon stood a little
apart. Sir John carried his box of pistols in his hands. Laying it upon
a table-shaped rock, he drew a little key from his pocket, apparently
fashioned by a goldsmith rather than a locksmith, and opened the box.
The weapons were magnificent, although of great simplicity. They
came from Manton's workshop, the grandfather of the man who is still
considered one of the best gunsmiths in London. He handed them to M.
de Barjols' second to examine. The latter tried the triggers and played
with the lock, examining to see if they were double-barrelled. They were
single-barrelled. M. de Barjols cast a glance at them but did not even
touch them.

"Our opponent does not know these weapons?" queried M. Valensolle.

"He has not even seen them," replied Sir John, "I give you my word of
honor."

"Oh!" exclaimed M. de Valensolle, "a simple denial suffices."

The conditions of the duel were gone over a second time to avoid
possible misunderstanding. Then, these conditions determined, the
pistols were loaded. They were then placed, loaded, in the box, the box
left in the surgeon's charge, and Sir John, with the key in his pocket,
went after Roland.

He found him chatting with a little shepherd boy who was herding three
goats on the steep rocky slope of the mountain, and throwing pebbles
into the fountain. Sir John opened his lips to tell Roland that all
was ready; but the latter, without giving the Englishman time to speak,
exclaimed:

"You don't know what this child has been telling me, my lord! A perfect
legend of the Rhine. He says that this pool, whose depth is unknown,
extends six or eight miles under the mountain, and a fairy, half woman
half serpent, dwells here. Calm summer nights she glides over the
surface of water calling to the shepherds of the mountains, showing
them, of course, nothing more than her head with its long locks and her
beautiful bare shoulders and arms. The fools, caught by this semblance
of a woman, draw nearer, beckoning to her to come to them, while she
on her side signs to them to go to her. The unwary spirits advance
unwittingly, giving no heed to their steps. Suddenly the earth fails
them, the fairy reaches out her arms, and plunges down into her dripping
palaces, to reappear the next day alone. Where the devil did these
idiots of shepherds get the tale that Virgil related in such noble verse
to Augustus and Mecænas?"

He remained pensive an instant, his eyes bent upon the azure depths,
then turning to Sir John:

"They say that, no matter how vigorous the swimmer, none has ever
returned from this abyss. Perhaps were I to try it, my lord, it might be
surer than M. de Barjols' bullet. However, it always remains as a last
resort; in the meantime let us try the bullet. Come, my lord, come."

Then turning to the Englishman, who listened, amazed by this mobility
of mind, he led him back to the others who awaited them. They in the
meantime had found a suitable place.

It was a little plateau, perched as it were on a rocky proclivity,
jutting from the mountain side, exposed to the setting sun, on which
stood a ruined castle where the shepherds were wont to seek shelter when
the mistral overtook them. A flat space, some hundred and fifty feet
long, and sixty wide, which might once have been the castle platform,
was now to be the scene of the drama which was fast approaching its
close.

"Here we are, gentlemen," said Sir John.

"We are ready, gentlemen," replied M. de Valensolle.

"Will the principals kindly listen to the conditions of the duel?" said
Sir John. Then addressing M. de Valensolle, he added: "Repeat them,
monsieur; you are French and I am a foreigner, you will explain them
more clearly than I."

"You belong to those foreigners, my lord, who teach us poor Provençals
the purity of our language; but since you so courteously make me
spokesman, I obey you." Then exchanging bows with Sir John, he
continued: "Gentlemen, it is agreed that you stand at forty paces, that
you advance toward each other, that each will fire at will, and wounded
or not will have the right to advance after your adversary's fire."

The two combatants bowed in sign of assent, and with one voice, and
almost at the same moment, they said:

"The pistols!"

Sir John drew the little key from his pocket and opened the box. Then
approaching M. de Barjols he offered it to him open. The latter wished
to yield the choice of weapons to his opponent; but with a wave of his
hand Roland refused, saying in a tone almost feminine in its sweetness:

"After you, M. de Barjols. Although you are the insulted party, you
have, I am told, renounced your advantages. The least I can do is to
yield you this one, if for that matter it is an advantage."

M. de Barjols no longer insisted. He took one of the two pistols at
random. Sir John offered the other to Roland, who took it, and, without
even examining its mechanism, cocked the trigger, then let it fall at
arm's-length at his side.

During this time M. de Valensolle had measured forty paces, staking a
cane as a point of departure.

"Will you measure after me?" he asked Sir John.

"Needless, sir," replied the latter: "M. de Montrevel and myself rely
entirely upon you."

M. de Valensolle staked a second cane at the fortieth pace.

"Gentlemen," said he, "when you are ready."

Roland's adversary was already at his post, hat and cloak removed.
The surgeon and the two seconds stood aside. The spot had been so well
chosen that neither had any advantage of sun or ground. Roland tossed
off hat and coat, stationed himself forty paces from M. de Barjols,
facing him. Both, one to right the other to the left, cast a glance at
the same horizon. The aspect harmonized with the terrible solemnity of
the scene about to take place.

Nothing was visible to Roland's right and to M. de Barjols' left, except
the mountain's swift incline and gigantic peak. But on the other side,
that is to say, to M. de Barjols' right and Roland's left, it was a far
different thing.

The horizon stretched illimitable. In the foreground, the plain, its
ruddy soil pierced on all sides by rocks, like a Titan graveyard with
its bones protruding through the earth. Then, sharply outlined in the
setting sun, was Avignon with its girdle of walls and its vast palace,
like a crouching lion, seeming to hold the panting city in its claws.
Beyond Avignon, a luminous sweep, like a river of molten gold, defined
the Rhone. Beyond the Rhone, a deep-hued azure vista, stretched the
chain of hills which separate Avignon from Nimes and d'Uzes. And far
off, the sun, at which one of these two men was probably looking for the
last time, sank slowly and majestically in an ocean of gold and purple.

For the rest these two men presented a singular contrast. One, with his
black hair, swarthy skin, slender limbs and sombre eyes, was the type of
the Southern race which counts among its ancestors Greeks, Romans, Arabs
and Spaniards. The other, with his rosy skin, large blue eyes, and hands
dimpled like a woman's, was the type of that race of temperate zones
which reckons Gauls, Germans and Normans among its forebears.

Had one wished to magnify the situation it were easy to believe this
something greater than single combat between two men. One might have
thought it was a duel of a people against another people, race against
race, the South against the North.

Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled Roland's
mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery.

Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten
seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this
magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols' voice aroused him from this
poetical stupor.

"When you are ready, sir," said he, "I am."

Roland started.

"Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir," said he. "You should not have
considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now."

Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze,
unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his opponent,
on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such a case, Roland
advanced straight toward M. de Barjols.

Sir John's face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed a profound
anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened rapidly. M. de
Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when Roland was but ten paces
from him.

The ball clipped one of Roland's curls, but did not touch him. The young
man turned toward his second:

"Well," said he, "what did I tell you?"

"Fire, monsieur, fire!" said the seconds.

M. de Barjols stood silent and motionless on the spot where he had
fired.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," replied Roland; "but you will, I hope, permit me
to be the judge of the time and manner of retaliating. Since I have felt
M. de Barjols' shot, I have a few words to say to him which I could not
say before." Then, turning to the young aristocrat, who was pale and
calm, he said: "Sir, perhaps I was somewhat too hasty in our discussion
this morning."

And he waited.

"It is for you to fire, sir," replied M. de Barjols.

"But," continued Roland, as if he had not heard, "you will understand
my impetuosity, and perhaps excuse it, when you hear that I am a soldier
and General Bonaparte's aide-de-camp."

"Fire, sir," replied the young nobleman.

"Say but one word of retraction, sir," resumed the young officer. "Say
that General Bonaparte's reputation for honor and delicacy is such that
a miserable Italian proverb, inspired by ill-natured losers, cannot
reflect discredit on him. Say that, and I throw this weapon away to
grasp your hand; for I recognize in you, sir, a brave man."

"I cannot accord that homage to his honor and delicacy until your
general has devoted the influence which his genius gives him over France
as Monk did--that is to say, to reinstate his legitimate sovereign upon
the throne."

"Ah!" cried Roland, with a smile, "that is asking too much of a
republican general."

"Then I maintain what I said," replied the young noble. "Fire! monsieur,
fire!" Then as Roland made no haste to obey this injunction, he shouted,
stamping his foot: "Heavens and earth! will you fire?"

At these words Roland made a movement as if he intended to fire in the
air.

"Ah!" exclaimed M. de Barjols. Then with a rapidity of gesture and
speech that prevented this, "Do not fire in the air, I beg, or I shall
insist that we begin again and that you fire first."

"On my honor!" cried Roland, turning as pale as if the blood had left
his body, "this is the first time I have done so much for any man. Go to
the devil! and if you don't want to live, then die!"

At the same time he lowered his arm and fired, without troubling to take
aim.

Alfred de Barjols put his hand to his breast, swayed back and forth,
turned around and fell face down upon the ground. Roland's bullet had
gone through his heart.

Sir John, seeing M. de Barjols fall, went straight to Roland and drew
him to the spot where he had thrown his hat and coat.

"That is the third," murmured Roland with a sigh; "but you are my
witness that this one would have it."

Then giving his smoking pistol to Sir John, he resumed his hat and coat.
During this time M. de Valensolle picked up the pistol which had escaped
from his friend's hand, and brought it, together with the box, to Sir
John.

"Well?" asked the Englishman, motioning toward Alfred de Barjols with
his eyes.

"He is dead," replied the second.

"Have I acted as a man of honor, sir?" asked Roland, wiping away the
sweat which suddenly inundated his brow at the announcement of his
opponent's death.

"Yes, monsieur," replied M. de Valensolle; "only, permit me to say this:
you possess the fatal hand."

Then bowing to Roland and his second with exquisite politeness, he
returned to his friend's body.

"And you, my lord," resumed Roland, "what do you say?"

"I say," replied Sir John, with a sort of forced admiration, "you
are one of those men who are made by the divine Shakespeare to say of
themselves:

                       "'Danger and I--
  We were two lions littered in one day,
  But I the elder.'"

CHAPTER V. ROLAND

The return was silent and mournful; it seemed that with the hopes of
death Roland's gayety had disappeared.

The catastrophe of which he had been the author played perhaps a part
in his taciturnity. But let us hasten to say that in battle, and more
especially during the last campaign against the Arabs, Roland had been
too frequently obliged to jump his horse over the bodies of his victims
to be so deeply impressed by the death of an unknown man.

His sadness was, due to some other cause; probably that which he
confided to Sir John. Disappointment over his own lost chance of death,
rather than that other's decease, occasioned this regret.

On their return to the Hotel du Palais-Royal, Sir John mounted to his
room with his pistols, the sight of which might have excited something
like remorse in Roland's breast. Then he rejoined the young officer and
returned the three letters which had been intrusted to him.

He found Roland leaning pensively on a table. Without saying a word the
Englishman laid the three letters before him. The young man cast his
eyes over the addresses, took the one destined for his mother, unsealed
it and read it over. As he read, great tears rolled down his cheeks. Sir
John gazed wonderingly at this new phase of Roland's character. He had
thought everything possible to this many-sided nature except those tears
which fell silently from his eyes.

Shaking his head and paying not the least attention to Sir John's
presence, Roland murmured:

"Poor mother! she would have wept. Perhaps it is better so. Mothers were
not made to weep for their children!"

He tore up the letters he had written to his mother, his sister, and
General Bonaparte, mechanically burning the fragments with the utmost
care. Then ringing for the chambermaid, he asked:

"When must my letters be in the post?"

"Half-past six," replied she. "You have only a few minutes more."

"Just wait then."

And taking a pen he wrote:

  My DEAR GENERAL--It is as I told you; I am living and he is
  dead. You must admit that this seems like a wager. Devotion
  to death.

  Your Paladin

  ROLAND.

Then he sealed the letter, addressed it to General Bonaparte, Rue de la
Victoire, Paris, and handed it to the chambermaid, bidding her lose no
time in posting it. Then only did he seem to notice Sir John, and held
out his hand to him.

"You have just rendered me a great service, my lord," he said. "One
of those services which bind men for all eternity. I am already your
friend; will you do me the honor to become mine?"

Sir John pressed the hand that Roland offered him.

"Oh!" said he, "I thank you heartily. I should never have dared ask this
honor; but you offer it and I accept."

Even the impassible Englishman felt his heart soften as he brushed away
the tear that trembled on his lashes. Then looking at Roland, he said:
"It is unfortunate that you are so hurried; I should have been pleased
and delighted to spend a day or two with you."

"Where were you going, my lord, when I met you?"

"Oh, I? Nowhere. I am travelling to get over being bored. I am
unfortunately often bored."

"So that you were going nowhere?"

"I was going everywhere."

"That is exactly the same thing," said the young officer, smiling.
"Well, will you do something for me?"

"Oh! very willingly, if it is possible."

"Perfectly possible; it depends only on you."

"What is it?"

"Had I been killed you were going to take me to my mother or throw me
into the Rhone."

"I should have taken you to your mother and not thrown you into the
Rhone."

"Well, instead of accompanying me dead, take me living. You will be all
the better received."

"Oh!"

"We will remain a fortnight at Bourg. It is my natal city, and one of
the dullest towns in France; but as your compatriots are pre-eminent for
originality, perhaps you will find amusement where others are bored. Are
we agreed?"

"I should like nothing better," exclaimed the Englishman; "but it seems
to me that it is hardly proper on my part."

"Oh! we are not in England, my lord, where etiquette holds absolute
sway. We have no longer king nor queen. We didn't cut off that poor
creature's head whom they called Marie Antoinette to install Her
Majesty, Etiquette, in her stead."

"I should like to go," said Sir John.

"You'll see, my mother is an excellent woman, and very distinguished
besides. My sister was sixteen when I left; she must be eighteen now.
She was pretty, and she ought to be beautiful. Then there is my brother
Edouard, a delightful youngster of twelve, who will let off fireworks
between your legs and chatter a gibberish of English with you. At the
end of the fortnight we will go to Paris together."

"I have just come from Paris," said the Englishman.

"But listen. You were willing to go to Egypt to see General Bonaparte.
Paris is not so far from here as Cairo. I'll present you, and,
introduced by me, you may rest assured that you will be well received.
You were speaking of Shakespeare just now--"

"Oh! I am always quoting him."

"Which proves that you like comedies and dramas."

"I do like them very much, that's true."

"Well, then, General Bonaparte is going to produce one in his own style
which will not be wanting in interest, I answer for it!"

"So that," said Sir John, still hesitating, "I may accept your offer
without seeming intrusive?"

"I should think so. You will delight us all, especially me."

"Then I accept."

"Bravo! Now, let's see, when will you start?"

"As soon as you wish. My coach was harnessed when you threw that
unfortunate plate at Barjols' head. However, as I should never have
known you but for that plate, I am glad you did throw it at him!"

"Shall we start this evening?"

"Instantly. I'll give orders for the postilion to send other horses, and
once they are here we will start."

Roland nodded acquiescence. Sir John went out to give his orders, and
returned presently, saying they had served two cutlets and a cold fowl
for them below. Roland took his valise and went down. The Englishman
placed his pistols in the coach box again. Both ate enough to enable
them to travel all night, and as nine o'clock was striking from the
Church of the Cordeliers they settled themselves in the carriage and
quitted Avignon, where their passage left a fresh trail of blood, Roland
with the careless indifference of his nature, Sir John Tanlay with
the impassibility of his nation. A quarter of an hour later both were
sleeping, or at least the silence which obtained induced the belief that
both had yielded to slumber.

We shall profit by this instant of repose to give our readers some
indispensable information concerning Roland and his family.

Roland was born the first of July, 1773, four years and a few days later
than Bonaparte, at whose side, or rather following him, he made his
appearance in this book. He was the son of M. Charles de Montrevel,
colonel of a regiment long garrisoned at Martinique, where he had
married a creole named Clotilde de la Clémencière. Three children were
born of this marriage, two boys and a girl: Louis, whose acquaintance we
have made under the name of Roland, Amélie, whose beauty he had praised
to Sir John, and Edouard.

Recalled to France in 1782, M. de Montrevel obtained admission for young
Louis de Montrevel (we shall see later how the name of Louis was changed
to Roland) to the Ecole Militaire in Paris.

It was there that Bonaparte knew the child, when, on M. de Keralio's
report, he was judged worthy of promotion from the Ecole de Brienne to
the Ecole Militaire. Louis was the youngest pupil. Though he was only
thirteen, he had already made himself remarked for that ungovernable and
quarrelsome nature of which we have seen him seventeen years later give
an example at the table d'hôte at Avignon.

Bonaparte, a child himself, had the good side of this character; that
is to say, without being quarrelsome, he was firm, obstinate, and
unconquerable. He recognized in the child some of his own qualities, and
this similarity of sentiments led him to pardon the boy's defects,
and attached him to him. On the other hand the child, conscious of a
supporter in the Corsican, relied upon him.

One day the child went to find his great friend, as he called Napoleon,
when the latter was absorbed in the solution of a mathematical problem.
He knew the importance the future artillery officer attached to this
science, which so far had won him his greatest, or rather his only
successes.

He stood beside him without speaking or moving. The young mathematician
felt the child's presence, and plunged deeper and deeper into his
mathematical calculations, whence he emerged victorious ten minutes
later. Then he turned to his young comrade with that inward satisfaction
of a man who issues victorious from any struggle, be it with science or
things material.

The child stood erect, pale, his teeth clinched, his arms rigid and his
fists closed.

"Oh! oh!" said young Bonaparte, "what is the matter now?"

"Valence, the governor's nephew, struck me."

"Ah!" said Bonaparte, laughing, "and you have come to me to strike him
back?"

The child shook his head.

"No," said he, "I have come to you because I want to fight him--"

"Fight Valence?"

"Yes."

"But Valence will beat you, child; he is four times as strong as you."

"Therefore I don't want to fight him as children do, but like men
fight."

"Pooh!"

"Does that surprise you?" asked the child.

"No," said Bonaparte; "what do you want to fight with?"

"With swords."

"But only the sergeants have swords, and they won't lend you one."

"Then we will do without swords."

"But what will you fight with?"

The child pointed to the compass with which the young mathematician had
made his equations.

"Oh! my child," said Bonaparte, "a compass makes a very bad wound."

"So much the better," replied Louis; "I can kill him."

"But suppose he kills you?"

"I'd rather that than bear his blow."

Bonaparte made no further objections; he loved courage, instinctively,
and his young comrade's pleased him.

"Well, so be it!" he replied; "I will tell Valence that you wish to
fight him, but not till to-morrow."

"Why to-morrow?"

"You will have the night to reflect."

"And from now till to-morrow," replied the child, "Valence will think me
a coward." Then shaking his head, "It is too long till to-morrow." And
he walked away.

"Where are you going?" Bonaparte asked him.

"To ask some one else to be my friend."

"So I am no longer your friend?"

"No, since you think I am a coward."

"Very well," said the young man rising.

"You will go?"

"I am going."

"At once?"

"At once."

"Ah!" exclaimed the child, "I beg your pardon; you are indeed my
friend." And he fell upon his neck weeping. They were the first tears he
had shed since he had received the blow.

Bonaparte went in search of Valence and gravely explained his mission to
him. Valence was a tall lad of seventeen, having already, like certain
precocious natures, a beard and mustache; he appeared at least twenty.
He was, moreover, a head taller than the boy he had insulted.

Valence replied that Louis had pulled his queue as if it were a
bell-cord (queues were then in vogue)--that he had warned him twice to
desist, but that Louis had repeated the prank the third time, whereupon,
considering him a mischievous youngster, he had treated him as such.

Valence's answer was reported to Louis, who retorted that pulling a
comrade's queue was only teasing him, whereas a blow was an insult.
Obstinacy endowed this child of thirteen with the logic of a man of
thirty.

The modern Popilius to Valence returned with his declaration of war. The
youth was greatly embarrassed; he could not fight with a child without
being ridiculous. If he fought and wounded him, it would be a horrible
thing; if he himself were wounded, he would never get over it so long as
he lived.

But Louis's unyielding obstinacy made the matter a serious one. A
council of the Grands (elder scholars) was called, as was usual in
serious cases. The Grands decided that one of their number could not
fight a child; but since this child persisted in considering himself
a young man, Valence must tell him before all his schoolmates that he
regretted having treated him as a child, and would henceforth regard him
as a young man.

Louis, who was waiting in his friend's room, was sent for. He was
introduced into the conclave assembled in the playground of the younger
pupils.

There Valence, to whom his comrades had dictated a speech carefully
debated among themselves to safeguard the honor of the Grands toward the
Petits, assured Louis that he deeply deplored the occurrence; that
he had treated him according to his age and not according to his
intelligence and courage, and begged him to excuse his impatience and to
shake hands in sign that all was forgotten.

But Louis shook his head.

"I heard my father, who is a colonel, say once," he replied, "that he
who receives a blow and does not fight is a coward. The first time I see
my father I shall ask him if he who strikes the blow and then apologizes
to avoid fighting is not more of a coward than he who received it."

The young fellows looked at each other. Still the general opinion was
against a duel which would resemble murder, and all, Bonaparte included,
were unanimously agreed that the child must be satisfied with what
Valence had said, for it represented their common opinion. Louis
retired, pale with anger, and sulked with his great friend, who, said
he, with imperturbable gravity, had sacrificed his honor.

The morrow, while the Grands were receiving their lesson in mathematics,
Louis slipped into the recitation-room, and while Valence was making a
demonstration on the blackboard, he approached him unperceived, climbed
on a stool to reach his face, and returned the slap he had received the
preceding day.

"There," said he, "now we are quits, and I have your apologies to boot;
as for me, I shan't make any, you may be quite sure of that."

The scandal was great. The act occurring in the professor's presence,
he was obliged to report it to the governor of the school, the Marquis
Tiburce Valence. The latter, knowing nothing of the events leading up
to the blow his nephew had received, sent for the delinquent and after
a terrible lecture informed him that he was no longer a member of the
school, and must be ready to return to his mother at Bourg that very
day. Louis replied that his things would be packed in ten minutes, and
he out of the school in fifteen. Of the blow he himself had received he
said not a word.

The reply seemed more than disrespectful to the Marquis Tiburce Valence.
He was much inclined to send the insolent boy to the dungeon for a week,
but reflected that he could not confine him and expel him at the same
time.

The child was placed in charge of an attendant, who was not to leave him
until he had put him in the coach for Mâcon; Madame de Montrevel was to
be notified to meet him at the end of the journey.

Bonaparte meeting the boy, followed by his keeper, asked an explanation
of the sort of constabulary guard attached to him.

"I'd tell you if you were still my friend," replied the child; "but you
are not. Why do you bother about what happens to me, whether good or
bad?"

Bonaparte made a sign to the attendant, who came to the door while Louis
was packing his little trunk. He learned then that the child had been
expelled. The step was serious; it would distress the entire family, and
perhaps ruin his young comrade's future.

With that rapidity of decision which was one of the distinctive
characteristics of his organization, he resolved to ask an audience
of the governor, meantime requesting the keeper not to hasten Louis's
departure.

Bonaparte was an excellent pupil, beloved in the school, and highly
esteemed by the Marquis Tiburce Valence. His request was immediately
complied with. Ushered into the governor's presence, he related
everything, and, without blaming Valence in the least, he sought to
exculpate Louis.

"Are you sure of what you are telling me, sir?" asked the governor.

"Question your nephew himself. I will abide by what he says."

Valence was sent for. He had already heard of Louis's expulsion, and
was on his way to tell his uncle what had happened. His account tallied
perfectly with what you Bonaparte had said.

"Very well," said the governor, "Louis shall not go, but you will. You
are old enough to leave school." Then ringing, "Bring me the list of the
vacant sub-lieutenancies," he said.

That same day an urgent request for a sub-lieutenancy was made to the
Ministry, and that same night Valence left to join his regiment. He went
to bid Louis farewell, embracing him half willingly, half unwillingly,
while Bonaparte held his hand. The child received the embrace
reluctantly.

"It's all right now," said he, "but if ever we meet with swords by our
sides--" A threatening gesture ended the sentence.

Valence left. Bonaparte received his own appointment as sub-lieutenant
October 10, 1785. His was one of fifty-eight commissions which Louis
XVI. signed for the Ecole Militaire. Eleven years later, November 15,
1796, Bonaparte, commander-in-chief of the army of Italy, at the Bridge
of Arcola, which was defended by two regiments of Croats and two pieces
of cannon, seeing his ranks disseminated by grapeshot and musket balls,
feeling that victory was slipping through his fingers, alarmed by the
hesitation of his bravest followers, wrenched the tri-color from the
rigid fingers of a dead color-bearer, and dashed toward the bridge,
shouting: "Soldiers! are you no longer the men of Lodi?" As he did so he
saw a young lieutenant spring past him who covered him with his body.

This was far from what Bonaparte wanted. He wished to cross first. Had
it been possible he would have gone alone.

Seizing the young man by the flap of his coat, he drew him back,
saying: "Citizen, you are only a lieutenant, I a commander-in-chief! The
precedence belongs to me."

"Too true," replied the other; and he followed Bonaparte instead of
preceding him.

That evening, learning that two Austrian divisions had been cut to
pieces, and seeing the two thousand prisoners he had taken, together
with the captured cannons and flags, Bonaparte recalled the young man
who had sprung in front of him when death alone seemed before him.

"Berthier," said he, "tell my aide-de-camp, Valence, to find that young
lieutenant of grenadiers with whom I had a controversy this morning at
the Bridge of Arcola."

"General," stammered Berthier, "Valence is wounded."

"Ah! I remember I have not seen him to-day. Wounded? Where? How? On the
battlefield?"

"No, general," said he, "he was dragged into a quarrel yesterday, and
received a sword thrust through his body."

Bonaparte frowned. "And yet they know very well I do not approve of
duels; a soldier's blood belongs not to himself, but to France. Give
Muiron the order then."

"He is killed, general."

"To Elliot, in that case."

"Killed also."

Bonaparte drew his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his
brow, which was bathed with sweat.

"To whom you will, then; but I want to see that lieutenant."

He dared not name any others, fearing to hear again that fatal "Killed!"

A quarter of an hour later the young lieutenant was ushered into his
tent, which was lighted faintly by a single lamp.

"Come nearer, lieutenant," said Bonaparte.

The young man made three steps and came within the circle of light.

"So you are the man who wished to cross the bridge before me?" continued
Bonaparte.

"It was done on a wager, general," gayly answered the young lieutenant,
whose voice made the general start.

"Did I make you lose it?"

"Maybe, yes; maybe, no."

"What was the wager?"

"That I should be promoted captain to-day."

"You have won it."

"Thank you, general."

The young man moved hastily forward as if to press Bonaparte's hand,
but checked himself almost immediately. The light had fallen full on his
face for an instant; that instant sufficed to make the general notice
the face as he had the voice. Neither the one nor the other was
unknown to him. He searched his memory for an instant, but finding it
rebellious, said: "I know you!"

"Possibly, general."

"I am certain; only I cannot recall your name."

"You managed that yours should not be forgotten, general."

"Who are you?"

"Ask Valence, general."

Bonaparte gave a cry of joy.

"Louis de Montrevel," he exclaimed, opening wide his arms. This time the
young lieutenant did not hesitate to fling himself into them.

"Very good," said Bonaparte; "you will serve eight days with the
regiment in your new rank, that they may accustom themselves to your
captain's epaulets, and then you will take my poor Muiron's place as
aide-de-camp. Go!"

"Once more!" cried the young man, opening his arms.

"Faith, yes!" said Bonaparte, joyfully. Then holding him close after
kissing him twice, "And so it was you who gave Valence that sword
thrust?"

"My word!" said the new captain and future aide-de-camp, "you were there
when I promised it to him. A soldier keeps his word."

Eight days later Captain Montrevel was doing duty as staff-officer
to the commander-in-chief, who changed his name of Louis, then in
ill-repute, to that of Roland. And the young man consoled himself
for ceasing to be a descendant of St. Louis by becoming the nephew of
Charlemagne.

Roland--no one would have dared to call Captain Montrevel Louis after
Bonaparte had baptized him Roland--made the campaign of Italy with his
general, and returned with him to Paris after the peace of Campo Formio.

When the Egyptian expedition was decided upon, Roland, who had been
summoned to his mother's side by the death of the Brigadier-General de
Montrevel, killed on the Rhine while his son was fighting on the Adige
and the Mincio, was among the first appointed by the commander-in-chief
to accompany him in the useless but poetical crusade which he was
planning. He left his mother, his sister Amélie, and his young brother
Edouard at Bourg, General de Montrevel's native town. They resided
some three-quarters of a mile out of the city, at Noires-Fontaines,
a charming house, called a château, which, together with the farm and
several hundred acres of land surrounding it, yielded an income of six
or eight thousand livres a year, and constituted the general's entire
fortune. Roland's departure on this adventurous expedition deeply
afflicted the poor widow. The death of the father seemed to presage that
of the son, and Madame de Montrevel, a sweet, gentle Creole, was far
from possessing the stern virtues of a Spartan or Lacedemonian mother.

Bonaparte, who loved his old comrade of the Ecole Militaire with all his
heart, granted him permission to rejoin him at the very last moment
at Toulon. But the fear of arriving too late prevented Roland from
profiting by this permission to its full extent. He left his mother,
promising her--a promise he was careful not to keep--that he would
not expose himself unnecessarily, and arrived at Marseilles eight days
before the fleet set sail.

Our intention is no more to give the history of the campaign of
Egypt than we did that of Italy. We shall only mention that which
is absolutely necessary to understand this story and the subsequent
development of Roland's character. The 19th of May, 1798, Bonaparte and
his entire staff set sail for the Orient; the 15th of June the Knights
of Malta gave up the keys of their citadel. The 2d of July the army
disembarked at Marabout, and the same day took Alexandria; the 25th,
Bonaparte entered Cairo, after defeating the Mamelukes at Chebreïss and
the Pyramids.

During this succession of marches and battles, Roland had been the
officer we know him, gay, courageous and witty, defying the scorching
heat of the day, the icy dew of the nights, dashing like a hero or a
fool among the Turkish sabres or the Bedouin bullets. During the forty
days of the voyage he had never left the interpreter Ventura; so that
with his admirable facility he had learned, if not to speak Arabic
fluently, at least to make himself understood in that language.
Therefore it often happened that, when the general did not wish to use
the native interpreter, Roland was charged with certain communications
to the Muftis, the Ulemas, and the Sheiks.

During the night of October 20th and 21st Cairo revolted. At five in the
morning the death of General Dupey, killed by a lance, was made known.
At eight, just as the revolt was supposedly quelled, an aide-de-camp of
the dead general rode up, announcing that the Bedouins from the plains
were attacking Bab-el-Nasr, or the Gate of Victory.

Bonaparte was breakfasting with his aide-de-camp Sulkowsky, so severely
wounded at Salahieh that he left his pallet of suffering with the
greatest difficulty only. Bonaparte, in his preoccupation forgetting the
young Pole's condition, said to him: "Sulkowsky, take fifteen Guides and
go see what that rabble wants."

Sulkowsky rose.

"General," interposed Roland, "give me the commission. Don't you see my
comrade can hardly stand?"

"True," said Bonaparte; "do you go!"

Roland went out and took the fifteen Guides and started. But the order
had been given to Sulkowsky, and Sulkowsky was determined to execute it.
He set forth with five or six men whom he found ready.

Whether by chance, or because he knew the streets of Cairo better than
Roland, he reached the Gate of Victory a few seconds before him. When
Roland arrived, he saw five or six dead men, and an officer being led
away by the Arabs, who, while massacring the soldiers mercilessly, will
sometimes spare the officers in hope of a ransom. Roland recognized
Sulkowsky; pointing him out with his sabre to his fifteen men, he
charged at a gallop.

Half an hour later, a Guide, returning alone to head-quarters, announced
the deaths of Sulkowsky, Roland and his twenty-one companions.

Bonaparte, as we have said, loved Roland as a brother, as a son, as he
loved Eugene. He wished to know all the details of the catastrophe, and
questioned the Guide. The man had seen an Arab cut off Sulkowsky's
head and fasten it to his saddle-bow. As for Roland, his horse had
been killed. He had disengaged himself from the stirrups and was seen
fighting for a moment on foot; but he had soon disappeared in a general
volley at close quarters.

Bonaparte sighed, shed a tear and murmured: "Another!" and apparently
thought no more about it. But he did inquire to what tribe belonged
these Bedouins, who had just killed two of the men he loved best. He was
told that they were an independent tribe whose village was situated some
thirty miles off. Bonaparte left them a month, that they might become
convinced of their impunity; then, the month elapsed, he ordered one of
his aides-de-camp, named Crosier, to surround the village, destroy
the huts, behead the men, put them in sacks, and bring the rest of the
population, that is to say, the women and children, to Cairo.

Crosier executed the order punctually; all the women and children who
could be captured were brought to Cairo, and also with them one living
Arab, gagged and bound to his horse's back.

"Why is this man still alive?" asked Bonaparte. "I ordered you to behead
every man who was able to bear arms."

"General," said Crosier, who also possessed a smattering of Arabian
words, "just as I was about to order his head cut off, I understood him
to offer to exchange a prisoner for his life. I thought there would be
time enough to cut off his head, and so brought him with me. If I am
mistaken, the ceremony can take place here as well as there; what is
postponed is not abandoned."

The interpreter Ventura was summoned to question the Bedouin. He replied
that he had saved the life of a French officer who had been grievously
wounded at the Gate of Victory, and that this officer, who spoke a
little Arabic, claimed to be one of General Bonaparte's aides-de-camp.
He had sent him to his brother who was a physician in a neighboring
tribe, of which this officer was a captive; and if they would promise
to spare his life, he would write to his brother to send the prisoner to
Cairo.

Perhaps this was a tale invented to gain time, but it might also be
true; nothing was lost by waiting.

The Arab was placed in safe keeping, a scribe was brought to write at
his dictation. He sealed the letter with his own seal, and an Arab
from Cairo was despatched to negotiate the exchange. If the emissary
succeeded, it meant the Bedouin's life and five hundred piastres to the
messenger.

Three days later he returned bringing Roland. Bonaparte had hoped for
but had not dared to expect this return.

This heart of iron, which had seemed insensible to grief, was now melted
with joy. He opened his arms to Roland, as on the day when he had found
him, and two tears, two pearls--the tears of Bonaparte were rare--fell
from his eyes.

But Roland, strange as it may seem, was sombre in the midst of the joy
caused by his return. He confirmed the Arab's tale, insisted upon his
liberation, but refused all personal details about his capture by the
Bedouins and the treatment he had received at the hands of the doctor.
As for Sulkowsky, he had been killed and beheaded before his eyes, so it
was useless to think more of him. Roland resumed his duties, but it was
noticeable his native courage had become temerity, and his longing for
glory, desire for death.

On the other hand, as often happens with those who brave fire and sword,
fire and sword miraculously spared him. Before, behind and around Roland
men fell; he remained erect, invulnerable as the demon of war. During
the campaign in Syria two emissaries were sent to demand the surrender
of Saint Jean d'Acre of Djezzar Pasha. Neither of the two returned; they
had been beheaded. It was necessary to send a third. Roland applied
for the duty, and so insistent was he, that he eventually obtained the
general's permission and returned in safety. He took part in each of the
nineteen assaults made upon the fortress; at each assault he was seen
entering the breach. He was one of the ten men who forced their way into
the Accursèd Tower; nine remained, but he returned without a scratch.
During the retreat, Bonaparte commanded his cavalry to lend their horses
to the wounded and sick. All endeavored to avoid the contagion of the
pest-ridden sick. To them Roland gave his horse from preference. Three
fell dead from the saddle; he mounted his horse after them, and reached
Cairo safe and sound. At Aboukir he flung himself into the mélée,
reached the Pasha by forcing his way through the guard of blacks who
surrounded him; seized him by the beard and received the fire of his two
pistols. One burned the wadding only, the other ball passed under his
arm, killing a guard behind him.

When Bonaparte resolved to return to France, Roland was the first to
whom the general announced his intention. Another had been overjoyed;
but he remained sombre and melancholy, saying: "I should prefer to
remain here, general. There is more chance of my being killed here."

But as it would have appeared ungrateful on his part to refuse to follow
the general, he returned with him. During the voyage he remained sad
and impenetrable, until the English fleet was sighted near Corsica.
Then only did he regain his wonted animation. Bonaparte told Admiral
Gantheaume that he would fight to the death, and gave orders to sink
the frigate sooner than haul down the flag. He passed, however, unseen
through the British fleet, and disembarked at Frejus, October 8, 1799.

All were impatient to be the first to set foot on French soil. Roland
was the last. Although the general paid no apparent attention to these
details, none escaped him. He sent Eugène, Berthier, Bourrienne, his
aides-de-camp and his suite by way of Gap and Draguignan, while he took
the road to Aix strictly incognito, accompanied only by Roland, to judge
for himself of the state of the Midi. Hoping that the joy of seeing his
family again would revive the love of life in his heart crushed by its
hidden sorrow, he informed Roland at Aix that they would part at Lyons,
and gave him three weeks' furlough to visit his mother and sister.

Roland replied: "Thank you, general. My sister and my mother will be
very happy to see me." Whereas formerly his words would have been:
"Thank you, general. I shall be very happy to see my mother and sister
again."

We know what occurred at Avignon; we have seen with what profound
contempt for danger, bitter disgust of life, Roland had provoked
that terrible duel. We heard the reason he gave Sir John for this
indifference to death. Was it true or false? Sir John at all events
was obliged to content himself with it, since Roland was evidently not
disposed to furnish any other.

And now, as we have said, they were sleeping or pretending to sleep as
they were drawn by two horses at full speed along the road of Avignon to
Orange.

CHAPTER VI. MORGAN

Our readers must permit us for an instant to abandon Roland and Sir
John, who, thanks to the physical and moral conditions in which we left
them, need inspire no anxiety, while we direct our attention seriously
to a personage who has so far made but a brief appearance in this
history, though he is destined to play an important part in it.

We are speaking of the man who, armed and masked, entered the room of
the table d'hôte at Avignon to return Jean Picot the two hundred louis
which had been stolen from him by mistake, stored as it had been with
the government money.

We speak of the highwayman, who called himself Morgan. He had ridden
into Avignon, masked, in broad daylight, entered the hotel of the
Palais-Egalité leaving his horse at the door. This horse had enjoyed
the same immunity in the pontifical and royalist town as his master; he
found it again at the horse post, unfastened its bridle, sprang into
the saddle, rode through the Porte d'Oulle, skirting the walls,
and disappeared at a gallop along the road to Lyons. Only about
three-quarters of a mile from Avignon, he drew his mantle closer about
him, to conceal his weapons from the passers, and removing his mask he
slipped it into one of the holsters of his saddle.

The persons whom he had left at Avignon who were curious to know if
this could be the terrible Morgan, the terror of the Midi, might have
convinced themselves with their own eyes, had they met him on the road
between Avignon and Bédarides, whether the bandit's appearance was as
terrifying as his renown. We do not hesitate to assert that the features
now revealed would have harmonized so little with the picture their
prejudiced imagination had conjured up that their amazement would have
been extreme.

The removal of the mask, by a hand of perfect whiteness and delicacy,
revealed the face of a young man of twenty-four or five years of age,
a face that, by its regularity of feature and gentle expression, had
something of the character of a woman's. One detail alone gave it or
rather would give it at certain moments a touch of singular firmness.
Beneath the beautiful fair hair waving on his brow and temples, as was
the fashion at that period, eyebrows, eyes and lashes were black as
ebony. The rest of the face was, as we have said, almost feminine. There
were two little ears of which only the tips could be seen beneath the
tufts of hair to which the Incroyables of the day had given the name of
"dog's-ears"; a straight, perfectly proportioned nose, a rather large
mouth, rosy and always smiling, and which, when smiling, revealed a
double row of brilliant teeth; a delicate refined chin faintly tinged
with blue, showing that, if the beard had not been carefully and
recently shaved, it would, protesting against the golden hair, have
followed the same color as the brows, lashes and eyes, that is to say, a
decided black. As for the unknown's figure, it was seen, when he entered
the dining-room, to be tall, well-formed and flexible, denoting, if not
great muscular strength, at least much suppleness and agility.

The manner he sat his horse showed him to be a practiced rider. With his
cloak thrown back over his shoulders, his mask hidden in the holster,
his hat pulled low over his eyes, the rider resumed his rapid pace,
checked for an instant, passed through Bédarides at a gallop, and
reaching the first houses in Orange, entered the gate of one which
closed immediately behind him. A servant in waiting sprang to the bit.
The rider dismounted quickly.

"Is your master here?" he asked the domestic.

"No, Monsieur the Baron," replied the man; "he was obliged to go away
last night, but he left word that if Monsieur should ask for him, to say
that he had gone in the interests of the Company."

"Very good, Baptiste. I have brought back his horse in good condition,
though somewhat tired. Rub him down with wine, and give him for two or
three days barley instead of oats. He has covered something like one
hundred miles since yesterday morning."

"Monsieur the Baron was satisfied with him?"

"Perfectly satisfied. Is the carriage ready?"

"Yes, Monsieur the Baron, all harnessed in the coach-house; the
postilion is drinking with Julien. Monsieur recommended that he should
be kept outside the house that he might not see him arrive."

"He thinks he is to take your master?"

"Yes, Monsieur the Baron. Here is my master's passport, which we used
to get the post-horses, and as my master has gone in the direction of
Bordeaux with Monsieur the Baron's passport, and as Monsieur the Baron
goes toward Geneva with my master's passport, the skein will probably
be so tangled that the police, clever as their fingers are, can't easily
unravel it."

"Unfasten the valise that is on the croup of my saddle, Baptiste, and
give it to me."

Baptiste obeyed dutifully, but the valise almost slipped from his hands.
"Ah!" said he laughing, "Monsieur the Baron did not warn me! The devil!
Monsieur the Baron has not wasted his time it seems."

"Just where you're mistaken, Baptiste! if I didn't waste all my time, I
at least lost a good deal, so I should like to be off again as soon as
possible."

"But Monsieur the Baron will breakfast?"

"I'll eat a bite, but quickly."

"Monsieur will not be delayed. It is now two, and breakfast has been
ready since ten this morning. Luckily it's a cold breakfast."

And Baptiste, in the absence of his master, did the honors of the house
to the visitor by showing him the way to the dining-room.

"Not necessary," said the visitor, "I know the way. Do you see to the
carriage; let it be close to the house with the door wide open when I
come out, so that the postilion can't see me. Here's the money to pay
him for the first relay."

And the stranger whom Baptiste had addressed as Baron handed him a
handful of notes.

"Why, Monsieur," said the servant, "you have given me enough to pay all
the way to Lyons!"

"Pay him as far as Valence, under pretext that I want to sleep, and keep
the rest for your trouble in settling the accounts."

"Shall I put the valise in the carriage-box?"

"I will do so myself."

And taking the valise from the servant's hands, without letting it be
seen that it weighed heavily, he turned toward the dining-room, while
Baptiste made his way toward the nearest inn, sorting his notes as he
went.

As the stranger had said, the way was familiar to him, for he passed
down a corridor, opened a first door without hesitation, then a second,
and found himself before a table elegantly served. A cold fowl, two
partridges, a ham, several kinds of cheese, a dessert of magnificent
fruit, and two decanters, the one containing a ruby-colored wine, and
the other a yellow-topaz, made a breakfast which, though evidently
intended for but one person, as only one place was set, might in case of
need have sufficed for three or four.

The young man's first act on entering the dining-room was to go straight
to a mirror, remove his hat, arrange his hair with a little comb which
he took from his pocket; after which he went to a porcelain basin with
a reservoir above it, took a towel which was there for the purpose,
and bathed his face and hands. Not until these ablutions were
completed--characteristic of a man of elegant habits--not until these
ablutions had been minutely performed did the stranger sit down to the
table.

A few minutes sufficed to satisfy his appetite, to which youth and
fatigue had, however, given magnificent proportions; and when Baptiste
came in to inform the solitary guest that the carriage was ready he
found him already afoot and waiting.

The stranger drew his hat low over his eyes, wrapped his coat about him,
took the valise under his arm, and, as Baptiste had taken pains to lower
the carriage-steps as close as possible to the door, he sprang into the
post-chaise without being seen by the postilion. Baptiste slammed the
door after him; then, addressing the man in the top-boots:

"Everything is paid to Valence, isn't it, relays and fees?" he asked.

"Everything; do you want a receipt?" replied the postilion, jokingly.

"No; but my master, the Marquise de Ribier, don't want to be disturbed
until he gets to Valence."

"All right," replied the postilion, in the same bantering tone, "the
citizen Marquis shan't be disturbed. Forward, hoop-la!" And he started
his horses, and cracked his whip with that noisy eloquence which says to
neighbors and passers-by: "'Ware here, 'ware there! I am driving a man
who pays well and who has the right to run over others."

Once in the carriage the pretended Marquis of Ribier opened the window,
lowered the blinds, raised the seat, put his valise in the hollow, sat
down on it, wrapped himself in his cloak, and, certain of not being
disturbed till he reached Valence, slept as he had breakfasted, that is
to say, with all the appetite of youth.

They went from Orange to Valence in eight hours. Our traveller awakened
shortly before entering the city. Raising one of the blinds cautiously,
he recognized the little suburb of Paillasse. It was dark, so he struck
his repeater and found it was eleven at night. Thinking it useless to go
to sleep again, he added up the cost of the relays to Lyons and counted
out the money. As the postilion at Valence passed the comrade who
replaced him, the traveller heard him say:

"It seems he's a ci-devant; but he was recommended from Orange, and, as
he pays twenty sous fees, you must treat him as you would a patriot."

"Very well," replied the other; "he shall be driven accordingly."

The traveller thought the time had come to intervene. He raised the
blind and said:

"And you'll only be doing me justice. A patriot? Deuce take it! I pride
myself upon being one, and of the first calibre, too! And the proof
is--Drink this to the health of the Republic." And he handed a
hundred-franc assignat to the postilion who had recommended him to his
comrade. Seeing the other looking eagerly at this strip of paper, he
continued: "And the same to you if you will repeat the recommendation
you've just received to the others."

"Oh! don't worry, citizen," said the postilion; "there'll be but one
order to Lyons--full speed!"

"And here is the money for the sixteen posts, including the double
post of entrance in advance. I pay twenty sous fees. Settle it among
yourselves."

The postilion dug his spurs into his horse and they were off at a
gallop. The carriage relayed at Lyons about four in the afternoon. While
the horses were being changed, a man clad like a porter, sitting with
his stretcher beside him on a stone post, rose, came to the carriage and
said something in a low tone to the young Companion of Jehu which seemed
to astonish the latter greatly.

"Are you quite sure?" he asked the porter.

"I tell you that I saw him with my own eyes!" replied the latter.

"Then I can give the news to our friends as a positive fact?"

"You can. Only hurry."

"Have they been notified at Servas?"

"Yes; you will find a horse ready between Servas and Sue."

The postilion came up; the young man exchanged a last glance with
the porter, who walked away as if charged with a letter of the utmost
importance.

"What road, citizen?" asked the postilion.

"To Bourg. I must reach Servas by nine this evening; I pay thirty sous
fees."

"Forty-two miles in five hours! That's tough. Well, after all, it can be
done."

"Will you do it."

"We can try."

And the postilion started at full gallop. Nine o'clock was striking as
they entered Servas.

"A crown of six livres if you'll drive me half-way to Sue without
stopping here to change horses!" cried the young man through the window
to the postilion.

"Done!" replied the latter.

And the carriage dashed past the post house without stopping.

Morgan stopped the carriage at a half mile beyond Servas, put his head
out of the window, made a trumpet of his hands, and gave the hoot of a
screech-owl. The imitation was so perfect that another owl answered from
a neighboring woods.

"Here we are," cried Morgan.

The postilion pulled up, saying: "If we're there, we needn't go
further."

The young man took his valise, opened the door, jumped out and stepped
up to the postilion.

"Here's the promised ecu."

The postilion took the coin and stuck it in his eye, as a fop of our
day holds his eye-glasses. Morgan divined that this pantomime had a
significance.

"Well," he asked, "what does that mean?"

"That means," said the postilion, "that, do what I will, I can't help
seeing with the other eye."

"I understand," said the young man, laughing; "and if I close the other
eye--"

"Damn it! I shan't see anything."

"Hey! you're a rogue who'd rather be blind than see with one eye! Well,
there's no disputing tastes. Here!"

And he gave him a second crown. The postilion stuck it up to his other
eye, wheeled the carriage round and took the road back to Servas.

The Companion of Jehu waited till he vanished in the darkness. Then
putting the hollow of a key to his lips, he drew a long trembling sound
from it like a boatswain's whistle.

A similar call answered him, and immediately a horseman came out of the
woods at full gallop. As he caught sight of him Morgan put on his mask.

"In whose name have you come?" asked the rider, whose face, hidden as it
was beneath the brim of an immense hat, could not be seen.

"In the name of the prophet Elisha," replied the young man with the
mask.

"Then you are he whom I am waiting for." And he dismounted.

"Are you prophet or disciple?" asked Morgan.

"Disciple," replied the new-comer.

"Where is your master?"

"You will find him at the Chartreuse of Seillon."

"Do you know how many Companions are there this evening?"

"Twelve."

"Very good; if you meet any others send them there."

He who had called himself a disciple bowed in sign of obedience,
assisted Morgan to fasten the valise to the croup of the saddle, and
respectfully held the bit while the young man mounted. Without even
waiting to thrust his other foot into the stirrup, Morgan spurred his
horse, which tore the bit from the groom's hand and started off at a
gallop.

On the right of the road stretched the forest of Seillon, like a shadowy
sea, its sombre billows undulating and moaning in the night wind. Half
a mile beyond Sue the rider turned his horse across country toward the
forest, which, as he rode on, seemed to advance toward him. The horse,
guided by an experienced hand, plunged fearlessly into the woods. Ten
minutes later he emerged on the other side.

A gloomy mass, isolated in the middle of a plain, rose about a hundred
feet from the forest. It was a building of massive architecture, shaded
by five or six venerable trees. The horseman paused before the portal,
over which were placed three statues in a triangle of the Virgin, our
Lord, and St. John the Baptist. The statue of the Virgin was at the apex
of the triangle.

The mysterious traveller had reached his goal, for this was the
Chartreuse of Seillon. This monastery, the twenty-second of its order,
was founded in 1178. In 1672 a modern edifice had been substituted for
the old building; vestiges of its ruins can be seen to this day. These
ruins consist externally of the above-mentioned portal with the three
statues, before which our mysterious traveller halted; internally, a
small chapel, entered from the right through the portal. A peasant, his
wife and two children are now living there, and the ancient monastery
has become a farm.

The monks were expelled from their convent in 1791; in 1792 the
Chartreuse and its dependencies were offered for sale as ecclesiastical
property. The dependencies consisted first of the park, adjoining the
buildings, and the noble forest which still bears the name of Seillon.
But at Bourg, a royalist and, above all, religious town, no one dared
risk his soul by purchasing property belonging to the worthy monks whom
all revered. The result was that the convent, the park and the forest
had become, under the title of state property, the property of the
republic; that is to say, they belonged to nobody, or were at the best
neglected. The republic having, for the last seven years, other things
to think of than pointing walls, cultivating an orchard and cutting
timber.

For seven years, therefore, the Chartreuse had been completely
abandoned, and if by chance curious eyes peered through the keyhole,
they caught glimpses of grass-grown courtyards, brambles in the orchard,
and brush in the forest, which, except for one road and two or three
paths that crossed it, had become almost impenetrable. The Correrie, a
species of pavilion belonging to the monastery and distant from it about
three-quarters of a mile, was mossgrown too in the tangle of the forest,
which, profiting by its liberty, grew at its own sweet will, and had
long since encircled it in a mantle of foliage which hid it from sight.

For the rest, the strangest rumors were current about these two
buildings. They were said to be haunted by guests invisible by day,
terrifying at night. The woodsmen and the belated peasants, who went to
the forest to exercise against the Republic the rights which the town of
Bourg had enjoyed in the days of the monks, pretended that, through the
cracks of the closed blinds, they had seen flames of fire dancing along
the corridors and stairways, and had distinctly heard the noise of
chains clanking over the cloister tilings and the pavement of the
courtyards. The strong-minded denied these things; but two very opposite
classes opposed the unbelievers, confirming the rumors, attributing
these terrifying noises and nocturnal lights to two different causes
according to their beliefs. The patriots declared that they were
the ghosts of the poor monks buried alive by cloister tyranny in the
In-pace, who were now returned to earth, dragging after them their
fetters to call down the vengeance of Heaven upon their persecutors.
The royalists said that they were the imps of the devil, who, finding
an empty convent, and fearing no further danger from holy water, were
boldly holding their revels where once they had not dared show a claw.
One fact, however, left everything uncertain. Not one of the believers
or unbelievers--whether he elected for the souls of the martyred monks
or for the Witches' Sabbath of Beelzebub--had ever had the courage to
venture among the shadows, and to seek during the solemn hours of night
confirmation of the truth, in order to tell on the morrow whether the
Chartreuse were haunted, and if haunted by whom.

But doubtless these tales, whether well founded or not, had no influence
over our mysterious horseman; for although, as we have said, nine
o'clock had chimed from the steeples of Bourg, and night had fallen,
he reined in his horse in front of the great portal of the deserted
monastery, and, without dismounting, drew a pistol from his holster,
striking three measured blows with the butt on the gate, after the
manner of the Freemasons. Then he listened. For an instant he doubted if
the meeting were really there; for though he looked closely and listened
attentively, he could perceive no light, nor could he hear a sound.
Still he fancied he heard a cautious step approaching the portal from
within. He knocked a second time with the same weapon and in the same
manner.

"Who knocks?" demanded a voice.

"He who comes from Elisha," replied the traveller.

"What king do the sons of Isaac obey?"

"Jehu."

"What house are they to exterminate?"

"That of Ahab."

"Are you prophet or disciple?"

"Prophet."

"Welcome then to the House of the Lord!" said the voice.

Instantly the iron bars which secured the massive portal swung back, the
bolts grated in their sockets, half of the gate opened silently, and the
horse and his rider passed beneath the sombre vault, which immediately
closed behind them.

The person who had opened the gate, so slow to open, so quick to close,
was attired in the long white robe of a Chartreuse monk, of which the
hood, falling over his face, completely concealed his features.

CHAPTER VII. THE CHARTREUSE OF SEILLON

Beyond doubt, like the first affiliated member met on the road to Sue by
the man who styled himself prophet, the monk who opened the gate was of
secondary rank in the fraternity; for, grasping the horse's bridle, he
held it while the rider dismounted, rendering the young man the service
of a groom.

Morgan got off, unfastened the valise, pulled the pistols from the
holsters, and placed them in his belt, next to those already there.
Addressing the monk in a tone of command, he said: "I thought I should
find the brothers assembled in council."

"They are assembled," replied the monk.

"Where?"

"At La Correrie. Suspicious persons have been seen prowling around the
Chartreuse these last few days, and orders have been issued to take the
greatest precautions."

The young man shrugged his shoulders as if he considered such
precautions useless, and, always in the same tone of command, said:
"Have some one take my horse to the stable and conduct me to the
council."

The monk summoned another brother, to whom he flung the bridle. He
lighted a torch at a lamp, in the little chapel which can still be
seen to the right of the great portal, and walked before the new-comer.
Crossing the cloister, he took a few steps in the garden, opened a door
leading into a sort of cistern, invited Morgan to enter, closed it as
carefully as he had the outer door, touched with his foot a stone which
seemed to be accidentally lying there, disclosed a ring and raised a
slab, which concealed a flight of steps leading down to a subterraneous
passage. This passage had a rounded roof and was wide enough to admit
two men walking abreast.

The two men proceeded thus for five or six minutes, when they reached
a grated door. The monk, drawing a key from his frock, opened it. Then,
when both had passed through and the door was locked again, he asked:
"By what name shall I announce you?"

"As Brother Morgan."

"Wait here; I will return in five minutes."

The young man made a sign with his head which showed that he was
familiar with these precautions and this distrust. Then he sat down upon
a tomb--they were in the mortuary vaults of the convent--and waited.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed before the monk reappeared.

"Follow me," said he; "the brothers are glad you have come. They feared
you had met with some mishap."

A few seconds later Morgan was admitted into the council chamber.

Twelve monks awaited him, their hoods drawn low over their eyes. But,
once the door had closed and the serving brother had disappeared, while
Morgan was removing his mask, the hoods were thrown back and each monk
exposed his face.

No brotherhood had ever been graced by a more brilliant assemblage of
handsome and joyous young men. Two or three only of these strange monks
had reached the age of forty. All hands were held out to Morgan and
several warm kisses were imprinted upon the new-comer's cheek.

"'Pon my word," said one who had welcomed him most tenderly, "you have
drawn a mighty thorn from my foot; we thought you dead, or, at any rate,
a prisoner."

"Dead, I grant you, Amiet; but prisoner, never! citizen--as they still
say sometimes, and I hope they'll not say it much longer. It must be
admitted that the whole affair was conducted on both sides with touching
amenity. As soon as the conductor saw us he shouted to the postilion to
stop; I even believe he added: 'I know what it is.' 'Then,' said I, 'if
you know what it is, my dear friend, our explanations needn't be long.'
'The government money?' he asked. 'Exactly,' I replied. Then as there
was a great commotion inside the carriage, I added: 'Wait! first come
down and assure these gentlemen, and especially the ladies, that we
are well-behaved folk and will not harm them--the ladies; you
understand--and nobody will even look at them unless they put their
heads out of the window.' One did risk it; my faith! but she was
charming. I threw her a kiss, and she gave a little cry and retired
into the carriage, for all the world like Galatea, and as there were
no willows about, I didn't pursue her. In the meantime the guard was
rummaging in his strong-box in all expedition, and to such good purpose,
indeed, that with the government money, in his hurry, he passed over two
hundred louis belonging to a poor wine merchant of Bordeaux."

"Ah, the devil!" exclaimed the brother called Amiet--an assumed
name, probably, like that of Morgan--"that is annoying! You know the
Directory, which is most imaginative, has organized some bands of
chauffeurs, who operate in our name, to make people believe that we rob
private individuals. In other words, that we are mere thieves."

"Wait an instant," resumed Morgan; "that is just what makes me late.
I heard something similar at Lyons. I was half-way to Valence when I
discovered this breach of etiquette. It was not difficult, for, as if
the good man had foreseen what happened, he had marked his bag 'Jean
Picot, Wine Merchant at Fronsac, Bordeaux.'"

"And you sent his money back to him?"

"I did better; I returned it to him."

"At Fronsac?"

"Ah! no, but at Avignon. I suspected that so careful a man would stop
at the first large town to inquire what chance he had to recover his two
hundred louis. I was not mistaken. I inquired at the inn if they knew
citizen Jean Picot. They replied that not only did they know him, but in
fact he was then dining at the table d'hôte. I went in. You can imagine
what they were talking about--the stoppage of the diligence. Conceive
the sensation my apparition caused. The god of antiquity descending from
the machine produced a no more unexpected finale than I. I asked which
one of the guests was called Jean Picot. The owner of this distinguished
and melodious name stood forth. I placed the two hundred louis
before him, with many apologies, in the name of the Company, for the
inconvenience its followers had occasioned him. I exchanged a friendly
glance with Barjols and a polite nod with the Abbé de Rians who were
present, and, with a profound bow to the assembled company, withdrew. It
was only a little thing, but it took me fifteen hours; hence the delay.
I thought it preferable to leaving a false conception of us in our wake.
Have I done well, my masters?"

The gathering burst into bravos.

"Only," said one of the participants, "I think you were somewhat
imprudent to return the money yourself to citizen Jean Picot."

"My dear colonel," replied the young man, "there's an Italian proverb
which says: 'Who wills, goes; who does not will, sends.' I willed--I
went."

"And there's a jolly buck who, if you ever have the misfortune to fall
into the hands of the Directory, will reward you by recognizing you; a
recognition which means cutting off your head!"

"Oh! I defy him to recognize me."

"What can prevent it?"

"Oh! You seem to think that I play such pranks with my face uncovered?
Truly, my dear colonel, you mistake me for some one else. It is well
enough to lay aside my mask among friends; but among strangers--no,
no! Are not these carnival times? I don't see why I shouldn't disguise
myself as Abellino or Karl Moor, when Messieurs Gohier, Sieyès, Roger
Ducos, Moulin and Barras are masquerading as kings of France."

"And you entered the city masked?"

"The city, the hotel, the dining-room. It is true that if my face was
covered, my belt was not, and, as you see, it is well garnished."

The young man tossed aside his coat, displaying his belt, which was
furnished with four pistols and a short hunting-knife. Then, with a
gayety which seemed characteristic of his careless nature, he added: "I
ought to look ferocious, oughtn't I? They may have taken me for the late
Mandrin, descending from the mountains of Savoy. By the bye, here are
the sixty thousand francs of Her Highness, the Directory." And the young
man disdainfully kicked the valise which he had placed on the ground,
which emitted a metallic sound indicating the presence of gold. Then he
mingled with the group of friends from whom he had been separated by the
natural distance between a narrator and his listeners.

One of the monks stooped and lifted the valise.

"Despise gold as much as you please, my dear Morgan, since that doesn't
prevent you from capturing it. But I know of some brave fellows who are
awaiting these sixty thousand francs, you so disdainfully kick aside,
with as much impatience and anxiety as a caravan, lost in the desert,
awaits the drop of water which is to save it from dying of thirst."

"Our friends of the Vendée, I suppose?" replied Morgan. "Much good may
it do them! Egotists, they are fighting. These gentlemen have chosen
the roses and left us the thorns. Come! don't they receive anything from
England?"

"Oh, yes," said one of the monks, gayly; "at Quiberon they got bullets
and grapeshot."

"I did not say from the English," retorted Morgan; "I said from
England."

"Not a penny."

"It seems to me, however," said one of those present, who apparently
possessed a more reflective head than his comrades, "it seems to me that
our princes might send a little gold to those who are shedding their
blood for the monarchy. Are they not afraid the Vendée may weary
some day or other of a devotion which up to this time has not, to my
knowledge, won her a word of thanks."

"The Vendée, dear friend," replied Morgan, "is a generous land which
will not weary, you may be sure. Besides, where is the merit of fidelity
unless it has to deal with ingratitude? From the instant devotion meets
recognition, it is no longer devotion. It becomes an exchange which
reaps its reward. Let us be always faithful, and always devoted,
gentlemen, praying Heaven that those whom we serve may remain
ungrateful, and then, believe me, we shall bear the better part in the
history of our civil wars."

Morgan had scarcely formulated this chivalric axiom, expressive of a
desire which had every chance of accomplishment, than three Masonic
blows resounded upon the door through which he had entered.

"Gentlemen," said the monk who seemed to fill the rôle of president,
"quick, your hoods and masks. We do not know who may be coming to us."

CHAPTER VIII. HOW THE MONEY OF THE DIRECTORY WAS USED

Every one hastened to obey. The monks lowered the hoods of their long
robes over their faces, Morgan replaced his mask.

"Enter!" said the superior.

The door opened and the serving-brother appeared.

"An emissary from General Georges Cadoudal asks to be admitted," said
he.

"Did he reply to the three passwords?"

"Perfectly."

"Then let him in."

The lay brother retired to the subterranean passage, and reappeared a
couple of minutes later leading a man easily recognized by his costume
as a peasant, and by his square head with its shock of red hair for a
Breton. He advanced in the centre of the circle without appearing in
the least intimidated, fixing his eyes on each of the monks in turn, and
waiting until one of these twelve granite statues should break silence.
The president was the first to speak to him.

"From whom do you come?" he asked him.

"He who sent me," replied the peasant, "ordered me to answer, if I were
asked that question, that I was sent by Jehu."

"Are you the bearer of a verbal or written message?"

"I am to reply to the questions which you ask me, and exchange a slip of
paper for some money."

"Very good; we will begin with the questions. What are our brothers in
the Vendée doing?"

"They have laid down their arms and are awaiting only a word from you to
take them up again."

"And why did they lay down their arms?"

"They received the order to do so from his Majesty Louis XVIII."

"There is talk of a proclamation written by the King's own hand. Have
they received it?"

"Here is a copy."

The peasant gave a paper to the person who was interrogating him. The
latter opened it and read:

  The war has absolutely no result save that of making the monarchy
  odious and threatening. Monarchs who return to their own through
  its bloody succor are never loved; these sanguinary measures must
  therefore be abandoned; confide in the empire of opinion which
  returns of itself to its saving principles. "God and the King,"
  will soon be the rallying cry of all Frenchmen. The scattered
  elements of royalism must be gathered into one formidable sheaf;
  militant Vendée must be abandoned to its unhappy fate and marched
  within a more pacific and less erratic path. The royalists of the
  West have fulfilled their duty; those of Paris, who have prepared
  everything for the approaching Restoration, must now be relied
  upon--

The president raised his head, and, seeking Morgan with a flash of the
eye which his hood could not entirely conceal, said: "Well, brother,
I think this is the fulfilment of your wish of a few moments ago.
The royalists of the Vendée and the Midi will have the merit of pure
devotion." Then, lowering his eyes to the proclamation, of which there
still remained a few lines to read, he continued:

  The Jews crucified their King, and since that time they have
  wandered over the face of the earth. The French guillotined
  theirs, and they shall be dispersed throughout the land.

  Given at Blankenbourg, this 25th of August, 1799, on the day
  of St. Louis and the sixth year of our reign.

  (Signed) LOUIS.

The young men looked at each other.

"'Quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat!'" said Morgan.

"Yes," said the president; "but when those whom Jupiter wishes to
destroy represent a principle, they must be sustained not only against
Jupiter but against themselves. Ajax, in the midst of the bolts and
lightning, clung to a rock, and, threatening Heaven with his clinched
hand, he cried, 'I will escape in spite of the gods!'" Then turning
toward Cadoudal's envoy, "And what answer did he who sent you make to
this proclamation?"

"About what you yourself have just answered. He told me to come and
inform myself whether you had decided to hold firm in spite of all, in
spite of the King himself."

"By Heavens! yes," said Morgan.

"We are determined," said the President.

"In that case," replied the peasant, "all is well. Here are the real
names of our new chiefs, and their assumed names. The general recommends
that you use only the latter as far as is possible in your despatches.
He observes that precaution when he, on his side, speaks of you."

"Have you the list?" asked the President.

"No; I might have been stopped, and the list taken. Write yourself; I
will dictate them to you."

The president seated himself at the table, took a pen, and wrote the
following names under the dictation of the Breton peasant:

"Georges Cadoudal, Jehu or Roundhead; Joseph Cadoudal, Judas Maccabeus;
Lahaye Saint-Hilaire, David; Burban-Malabry, Brave-la-Mort; Poulpiquez,
Royal-Carnage; Bonfils, Brise-Barrière; Dampherné, Piquevers; Duchayla,
La Couronne; Duparc, Le Terrible; La Roche, Mithridates; Puisaye, Jean
le Blond."

"And these are the successors of Charette, Stoffiet, Cathelineau,
Bonchamp, d'Elbée, la Rochejaquelin, and Lescure!" cried a voice.

The Breton turned toward him who had just spoken.

"If they get themselves killed like their predecessors," said he, "what
more can you ask of them?"

"Well answered," said Morgan, "so that--"

"So that, as soon as our general has your reply," answered the peasant,
"he will take up arms again."

"And suppose our reply had been in the negative?" asked another voice.

"So much the worse for you," replied the peasant; "in any case the
insurrection is fixed for October 20."

"Well," said the president, "thanks to us, the general will have the
wherewithal for his first month's pay. Where is your receipt?"

"Here," said the peasant, drawing a paper from his pocket on which were
written these words:

  Received from our brothers of the Midi and the East, to be
  employed for the good of the cause, the sum of....

  GEORGES CADOUDAL,
  General commanding the Royalist army of Brittany.

The sum was left blank.

"Do you know how to write?" asked the president.

"Enough to fill in the three or four missing words."

"Very well. Then write, 'one hundred thousand francs.'"

The Breton wrote; then extending the paper to the president, he said:
"Here is your receipt; where is the money?"

"Stoop and pick up the bag at your feet; it contains sixty thousand
francs." Then addressing one of the monks, he asked: "Montbard, where
are the remaining forty thousand?"

The monk thus interpellated opened a closet and brought forth a
bag somewhat smaller than the one Morgan had brought, but which,
nevertheless, contained the good round sum of forty thousand francs.

"Here is the full amount," said the monk.

"Now, my friend," said the president, "get something to eat and some
rest; to-morrow you will start."

"They are waiting for me yonder," said the Breton. "I will eat and sleep
on horseback. Farewell, gentlemen. Heaven keep you!" And he went toward
the door by which he had entered.

"Wait," said Morgan.

The messenger paused.

"News for news," said Morgan; "tell General Cadoudal that General
Bonaparte has left the army in Egypt, that he landed at Fréjus, day
before yesterday, and will be in Paris in three days. My news is fully
worth yours, don't you think so? What do you think of it?"

"Impossible!" exclaimed all the monks with one accord.

"Nevertheless nothing is more true, gentlemen. I have it from our friend
the Priest (Leprêtre), [Footnote: The name Leprêtre is a contraction
of the two words "le prêtre," meaning the priest; hence the name under
which this man died.] who saw him relay at Lyons one hour before me, and
recognized him."

"What has he come to France for?" demanded several voices.

"Faith," said Morgan, "we shall know some day. It is probable that he
has not returned to Paris to remain there incognito."

"Don't lose an instant in carrying this news to our brothers in the
West," said the president to the peasant. "A moment ago I wished to
detain you; now I say to you: 'Go!'"

The peasant bowed and withdrew. The president waited until the door was
closed.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the news which our brother Morgan has just
imparted to us is so grave that I wish to propose a special measure."

"What is it?" asked the Companions of Jehu with one voice.

"It is that one of us, chosen by lot, shall go to Paris and keep the
rest informed, with the cipher agreed upon, of all that happens there."

"Agreed!" they replied.

"In that case," resumed the president, "let us write our thirteen names,
each on a slip of paper. We put them in a hat. He whose name is first
drawn shall start immediately."

The young men, one and all, approached the table, and wrote their
names on squares of paper which they rolled and dropped into a hat. The
youngest was told to draw the lots. He drew one of the little rolls of
paper and handed it to the president, who unfolded it.

"Morgan!" said he.

"What are my instructions?" asked the young man.

"Remember," replied the president, with a solemnity to which the
cloistral arches lent a supreme grandeur, "that you bear the name and
title of Baron de Sainte-Hermine, that your father was guillotined on
the Place de la Révolution and that your brother was killed in Condé's
army. Noblesse oblige! Those are your instructions."

"And what else?" asked the young man.

"As to the rest," said the president, "we rely on your royalist
principles and your loyalty."

"Then, my friends, permit me to bid you farewell at once. I would like
to be on the road to Paris before dawn, and I must pay a visit before my
departure."

"Go!" said the president, opening his arms to Morgan. "I embrace you
in the name of the Brotherhood. To another I should say, 'Be brave,
persevering and active'; to you I say, 'Be prudent.'"

The young man received the fraternal embrace, smiled to his other
friends, shook hands with two or three of them, wrapped himself in his
mantle, pulled his hat over his eyes and departed.

CHAPTER IX. ROMEO AND JULIET

Under the possibility of immediate departure, Morgan's horse, after
being washed, rubbed down and dried, had been fed a double ration of
oats and been resaddled and bridled. The young man had only to ask for
it and spring upon its back. He was no sooner in the saddle than the
gate opened as if by magic; the horse neighed and darted out swiftly,
having forgotten its first trip, and ready for another.

At the gate of the Chartreuse, Morgan paused an instant, undecided
whether to turn to the right or left. He finally turned to the right,
followed the road which leads from Bourg to Seillon for a few moments,
wheeled rapidly a second time to the right, cut across country, plunged
into an angle of the forest which was on his way, reappeared before long
on the other side, reached the main road to Pont-d'Ain, followed it for
about a mile and a half, and halted near a group of houses now called
the Maison des Gardes. One of these houses bore for sign a cluster of
holly, which indicated one of those wayside halting places where the
pedestrians quench their thirst, and rest for an instant to recover
strength before continuing the long fatiguing voyage of life. Morgan
stopped at the door, drew a pistol from its holster and rapped with the
butt end as he had done at the Chartreuse. Only as, in all probability,
the good folks at the humble tavern were far from being conspirators,
the traveller was kept waiting longer than he had been at the monastery.
At last he heard the echo of the stable boy's clumsy sabots. The gate
creaked, but the worthy man who opened it no sooner perceived the
horseman with his drawn pistol than he instinctively tried to, close it
again.

"It is I, Patout," said the young man; "don't be afraid."

"Ah! sure enough," said the peasant, "it is really you, Monsieur
Charles. I'm not afraid now; but you know, as the curé used to tell
us, in the days when there was a good God, 'Caution is the mother of
safety.'"

"Yes, Patout, yes," said the young man, slipping a piece of silver into
the stable boy's hand, "but be easy; the good God will return, and M. le
Curé also."

"Oh, as for that," said the good man, "it is easy to see that there is
no one left on high by the way things go. Will this last much longer, M.
Charles?"

"Patout, I promise, in my honor, to do my best to be rid of all that
annoys you. I am no less impatient than you; so I'll ask you not to go
to bed, my good Patout."

"Ah! You know well, monsieur, that when you come I don't often go to
bed. As for the horse--Goodness! You change them every day? The time
before last it was a chestnut, the last time a dapple-gray, now a black
one."

"Yes, I'm somewhat capricious by nature. As to the horse, as you say,
my dear Patout, he wants nothing. You need only remove his bridle; leave
him saddled. Oh, wait; put this pistol back in the holsters and take
care of these other two for me." And the young man removed the two from
his belt and handed them to the hostler.

"Well," exclaimed the latter, laughing, "any more barkers?"

"You know, Patout, they say the roads are unsafe."

"Ah! I should think they weren't safe! We're up to our necks in regular
highway robberies, M. Charles. Why, no later than last week they stopped
and robbed the diligence between Geneva and Bourg!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Morgan; "and whom do they accuse of the robbery?"

"Oh, it's such a farce! Just fancy; they say it was the Companions of
Jesus. I don't believe a word of it, of course. Who are the Companions
of Jesus if not the twelve apostles?"

"Of course," said Morgan, with his eternally joyous smile, "I don't know
of any others."

"Well!" continued Patout, "to accuse the twelve apostles of robbing a
diligence, that's the limit. Oh! I tell you, M. Charles, we're living in
times when nobody respects anything."

And shaking his head like a misanthrope, disgusted, if not with life, at
least with men, Patout led the horse to the stable.

As for Morgan, he watched Patout till he saw him disappear down the
courtyard and enter the dark stable; then, skirting the hedge which
bordered the garden, he went toward a large clump of trees whose lofty
tops were silhouetted against the darkness of the night, with the
majesty of things immovable, the while their shadows fell upon a
charming little country house known in the neighborhood as the Château
des Noires-Fontaines. As Morgan reached the château wall, the hour
chimed from the belfry of the village of Montagnac. The young man
counted the strokes vibrating in the calm silent atmosphere of the
autumn night. It was eleven o'clock. Many things, as we have seen, had
happened during the last two hours.

Morgan advanced a few steps farther, examined the wall, apparently in
search of a familiar spot, then, having found it, inserted the tip of
his boot in a cleft between two stones. He sprang up like a man mounting
a horse, seized the top of the wall with the left hand, and with a
second spring seated himself astride the wall, from which, with the
rapidity of lightning, he lowered himself on the other side. All this
was done with such rapidity, such dexterity and agility, that any one
chancing to pass at that instant would have thought himself the puppet
of a vision. Morgan stopped, as on the other side of the wall, to
listen, while his eyes tried to pierce the darkness made deeper by the
foliage of poplars and aspens, and the heavy shadows of the little
wood. All was silent and solitary. Morgan ventured on his path. We
say ventured, because the young man, since nearing the Château des
Noires-Fontaines, revealed in all his movement a timidity and hesitation
so foreign to his character that it was evident that if he feared it was
not for himself alone.

He gained the edge of the wood, still moving cautiously. Coming to a
lawn, at the end of which was the little château, he paused. Then he
examined the front of the house. Only one of the twelve windows which
dotted the three floors was lighted. This was on the second floor at the
corner of the house. A little balcony, covered with virgin vines which
climbed the walls, twining themselves around the iron railing and
falling thence in festoons from the window, overhung the garden. On both
sides of the windows, close to the balcony, large-leafed trees met and
formed above the cornice a bower of verdure. A Venetian blind, which was
raised and lowered by cords, separated the balcony from the window, a
separation which disappeared at will. It was through the interstices of
this blind that Morgan had seen the light.

The young man's first impulse was to cross the lawn in a straight line;
but again, the fears of which we spoke restrained him. A path shaded
by lindens skirted the wall and led to the house. He turned aside and
entered its dark leafy covert. When he had reached the end of the path,
he crossed, like a frightened doe, the open space which led to the house
wall, and stood for a moment in the deep shadow of the house. Then, when
he had reached the spot he had calculated upon, he clapped his hands
three times.

At this call a shadow darted from the end of the apartment and clung,
lithe, graceful, almost transparent, to the window.

Morgan repeated the signal. The window was opened immediately, the blind
was raised, and a ravishing young girl, in a night dress, her fair hair
rippling over her shoulders, appeared in the frame of verdure.

The young man stretched out his arms to her, whose arms were stretched
out to him, and two names, or rather two cries from the heart, crossed
from one to the other.

"Charles!"

"Amélie!"

Then the young man sprang against the wall, caught at the vine shoots,
the jagged edges of the rock, the jutting cornice, and in an instant was
on the balcony.

What these two beautiful young beings said to each other was only a
murmur of love lost in an endless kiss. Then, by gentle effort, the
young man drew the girl with one hand to her chamber, while with the
other he loosened the cords of the blind, which fell noisily
behind them. The window closed behind the blind. Then the lamp was
extinguished, and the front of the Château des Noires-Fontaines was
again in darkness.

This darkness had lasted for about a quarter of an hour, when the
rolling of a carriage was heard along the road leading from the highway
of Pont-d'Ain to the entrance of the château. There the sound ceased; it
was evident that the carriage had stopped before the gates.

CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY OF ROLAND

The carriage which had stopped before the gate was that which brought
Roland back to his family, accompanied by Sir John.

The family was so far from expecting him that, as we have said, all the
lights in the house were extinguished, all the windows in darkness, even
Amélie's. The postilion had cracked his whip smartly for the last five
hundred yards, but the noise was insufficient to rouse these country
people from their first sleep. When the carriage had stopped, Roland
opened the door, sprang out without touching the steps, and tugged at
the bell-handle. Five minutes elapsed, and, after each peal, Roland
turned to the carriage, saying: "Don't be impatient, Sir John."

At last a window opened and a childish but firm voice cried out: "Who is
ringing that way?"

"Ah, is that you, little Edouard?" said Roland. "Make haste and let us
in."

The child leaped back with a shout of delight and disappeared. But at
the same time his voice was heard in the corridors, crying: "Mother!
wake up; it is Roland! Sister! wake up; it is the big brother!"

Then, clad only in his night robe and his little slippers, he ran down
the steps, crying: "Don't be impatient, Roland; here I am."

An instant later the key grated in the lock, and the bolts slipped
back in their sockets. A white figure appeared in the portico, and flew
rather than ran to the gate, which an instant later turned on its hinges
and swung open. The child sprang upon Roland's neck and hung there.

"Ah, brother! Brother!" he exclaimed, embracing the young man, laughing
and crying at the same time. "Ah, big brother Roland! How happy mother
will be; and Amélie, too! Every body is well. I am the sickest--ah!
except Michel, the gardener, you know, who has sprained his leg. But why
aren't you in uniform? Oh! how ugly you are in citizen's clothes! Have
you just come from Egypt? Did you bring me the silver-mounted pistols
and the beautiful curved sword? No? Then you are not nice, and I won't
kiss you any more. Oh, no, no! Don't be afraid! I love you just the
same!"

And the boy smothered the big brother with kisses while he showered
questions upon him. The Englishman, still seated in the carriage, looked
smilingly through the window at the scene.

In the midst of these fraternal embraces came the voice of a woman; the
voice of the mother.

"Where is he, my Roland, my darling son?" asked Madame de Montrevel,
in a voice fraught with such violent, joyous emotion that it was almost
painful. "Where is he? Can it be true that he has returned; really true
that he is not a prisoner, not dead? Is he really living?"

The child, at her voice, slipped from his brother's arms like an eel,
dropped upon his feet on the grass, and, as if moved by a spring,
bounded toward his mother.

"This way, mother; this way!" said he, dragging his mother, half dressed
as she was, toward Roland. When he saw his mother Roland could no longer
contain himself. He felt the sort of icicle that had petrified his
breast melt, and his heart beat like that of his fellowmen.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I was indeed ungrateful to God when life still
holds such joys for me."

And he fell sobbing upon Madame de Montrevel's neck without thinking of
Sir John, who felt his English phlegm disperse as he silently wiped away
the tears that flowed down his cheeks and moistened his lips. The
child, the mother, and Roland formed an adorable group of tenderness and
emotion.

Suddenly little Edouard, like a leaf tossed about by the wind, flew from
the group, exclaiming: "Sister Amélie! Why, where is she?" and he rushed
toward the house, repeating: "Sister Amélie, wake up! Get up! Hurry up!"

And then the child could be heard kicking and rapping against a door.
Silence followed. Then little Edouard shouted: "Help, mother! Help,
brother Roland! Sister Amélie is ill!"

Madame de Montrevel and her son flew toward the house. Sir John,
consummate tourist that he was, always carried a lancet and a smelling
bottle in his pocket. He jumped from the carriage and, obeying his first
impulse, hurried up the portico. There he paused, reflecting that he had
not been introduced, an all-important formality for an Englishman.

However, the fainting girl whom he sought came toward him at that
moment. The noise her brother had made at the door brought Amélie to the
landing; but, without doubt, the excitement which Roland's return had
occasioned was too much for her, for after descending a few steps in an
almost automatic manner, controlling herself by a violent effort, she
gave a sigh, and, like a flower that bends, a branch that droops, like
a scarf that floats, she fell, or rather lay, upon the stairs. It was at
that moment that the child cried out.

But at his exclamation Amélie recovered, if not her strength, at least
her will. She rose, and, stammering, "Be quiet, Edouard! Be quite, in
Heaven's name! I'm all right," she clung to the balustrade with one
hand, and leaning with the other on the child, she had continued to
descend. On the last step she met her mother and her brother. Then
with a violent, almost despairing movement, she threw both arms around
Roland's neck, exclaiming: "My brother! My brother!"

Roland, feeling the young girl's weight press heavily upon his shoulder,
exclaimed: "Air! Air! She is fainting!" and carried her out upon the
portico. It was this new group, so different from the first, which met
Sir John's eyes.

As soon as she felt the fresh air, Amélie revived and raised her head.
Just then the moon, in all her splendor, shook off a cloud which had
veiled her, and lighted Amélie's face, as pale as her own. Sir John gave
a cry of admiration. Never had he seen a marble statue so perfect as
this living marble before his eyes.

We must say that Amélie, seen thus, was marvelously beautiful. Clad in
a long cambric robe, which defined the outlines of her body, molded on
that of the Polyhymnia of antiquity, her pale face gently inclined upon
her brother's shoulder, her long golden hair floating around her snowy
shoulders, her arm thrown around her mother's neck, its rose-tinted
alabaster hand drooping upon the red shawl in which Madame de Montrevel
had wrapped herself; such was Roland's sister as she appeared to Sir
John.

At the Englishman's cry of admiration, Roland remembered that he was
there, and Madame de Montrevel perceived his presence. As for the child,
surprised to see this stranger in his mother's home, he ran hastily down
the steps of the portico, stopping on the third one, not that he
feared to go further, but in order to be on a level with the person he
proceeded to question.

"Who are you, sir!" he asked Sir John; "and what are you doing here?"

"My little Edouard," said Sir John, "I am your brother's friend, and I
have brought you the silver-mounted pistols and the Damascus blade which
he promised you."

"Where are they?" asked the child.

"Ah!" said Sir John, "they are in England, and it will take some time to
send for them. But your big brother will answer for me that I am a man
of my word."

"Yes, Edouard, yes," said Roland. "If Sir John promises them to you,
you will get them." Then turning to Madame de Montrevel and his sister,
"Excuse me, my mother; excuse me, Amélie; or rather, excuse yourselves
as best you can to Sir John, for you have made me abominably
ungrateful." Then grasping Sir John's hand, he continued: "Mother, Sir
John took occasion the first time he saw me to render me an inestimable
service. I know that you never forget such things. I trust, therefore,
that you will always remember that Sir John is one of our best friends;
and he will give you the proof of it by saying with me that he has
consented to be bored for a couple of weeks with us."

"Madame," said Sir John, "permit me, on the contrary, not to repeat my
friend Roland's words. I could wish to spend, not a fortnight, nor three
weeks, but a whole lifetime with you."

Madame de Montrevel came down the steps of the portico and offered her
hand to Sir John, who kissed it with a gallantry altogether French.

"My lord," said she, "this house is yours. The day you entered it has
been one of joy, the day you leave will be one of regret and sadness."

Sir John turned toward Amélie, who, confused by the disorder of her
dress before this stranger, was gathering the folds of her wrapper about
her neck.

"I speak to you in my name and in my daughter's, who is still too much
overcome by her brother's unexpected return to greet you herself as she
will do in a moment," continued Madame de Montrevel, coming to Amélie's
relief.

"My sister," said Roland, "will permit my friend Sir John to kiss her
hand, and he will, I am sure, accept that form of welcome."

Amélie stammered a few words, slowly lifted her arm, and held out her
hand to Sir John with a smile that was almost painful.

The Englishman took it, but, feeling how icy and trembling it was,
instead of carrying it to his lips he said: "Roland, your sister is
seriously indisposed. Let us think only of her health this evening. I am
something of a doctor, and if she will deign to permit me the favor of
feeling her pulse I shall be grateful."

But Amélie, as if she feared that the cause of her weakness might be
surmised, withdrew her hand hastily, exclaiming: "Oh, no! Sir John is
mistaken. Joy never causes illness. It is only joy at seeing my brother
again which caused this slight indisposition, and it has already passed
over." Then turning to Madame de Montrevel, she added with almost
feverish haste: "Mother, we are forgetting that these gentlemen have
made a long voyage, and have probably eaten nothing since Lyons. If
Roland has his usual good appetite he will not object to my leaving you
to do the honors of the house, while I attend to the unpoetical but much
appreciated details of the housekeeping."

Leaving her mother, as she said, to do the honors of the house, Amélie
went to waken the maids and the manservant, leaving on the mind of Sir
John that sort of fairy-like impression which the tourist on the Rhine
brings with him of the Lorelei on her rock, a lyre in her hand, the
liquid gold of her hair floating in the evening breezes.

In the meantime, Morgan had remounted his horse, returning at full
gallop to the Chartreuse. He drew rein before the portal, pulled out a
note-book, and pencilling a few lines on one of the leaves, rolled it up
and slipped it through the keyhole without taking time to dismount.

Then pressing in both his spurs, and bending low over the mane of the
noble animal, he disappeared in the forest, rapid and mysterious as
Faust on his way to the mountain of the witches' sabbath. The three
lines he had written were as follows:

  "Louis de Montrevel, General Bonaparte's aide-de-camp, arrived
  this evening at the Château des Noires-Fontaines. Be careful,
  Companions of Jehu!"

But, while warning his comrades to be cautious about Louis de Montrevel,
Morgan had drawn a cross above his name, which signified that no matter
what happened the body of the young officer must be considered as sacred
by them.

The Companions of Jehu had the right to protect a friend in that way
without being obliged to explain the motives which actuated them. Morgan
used that privilege to protect the brother of his love.

CHAPTER XI. CHÂTEAU DES NOIRES-FONTAINES

The Château of Noires-Fontaines, whither we have just conducted two of
the principal characters of our story, stood in one of the most charming
spots of the valley, where the city of Bourg is built. The park, of five
or six acres, covered with venerable oaks, was inclosed on three sides
by freestone walls, one of which opened in front through a handsome gate
of wrought-iron, fashioned in the style of Louis XV.; the fourth side
was bounded by the little river called the Reissouse, a pretty stream
that takes its rise at Journaud, among the foothills of the Jura, and
flowing gently from south to north, joins the Saône at the bridge of
Fleurville, opposite Pont-de-Vaux, the birthplace of Joubert, who, a
month before the period of which we are writing, was killed at the fatal
battle of Novi.

Beyond the Reissouse, and along its banks, lay, to the right and left
of the Château des Noires-Fontaines, the village of Montagnac and
Saint-Just, dominated further on by that of Ceyzeriat. Behind this
latter hamlet stretched the graceful outlines of the hills of the Jura,
above the summits of which could be distinguished the blue crests of the
mountains of Bugey, which seemed to be standing on tiptoe in order to
peer curiously over their younger sisters' shoulder at what was passing
in the valley of the Ain.

It was in full view of this ravishing landscape that Sir John awoke. For
the first time in his life, perhaps, the morose and taciturn Englishman
smiled at nature. He fancied himself in one of those beautiful valleys
of Thessaly celebrated by Virgil, beside the sweet slopes of Lignon sung
by Urfé, whose birthplace, in spite of what the biographers say,
was falling into ruins not three miles from the Château des
Noires-Fontaines. He was roused by three light raps at his door. It was
Roland who came to see how he had passed the night. He found him radiant
as the sun playing among the already yellow leaves of the chestnuts and
the lindens.

"Oh! oh! Sir John," cried Roland, "permit me to congratulate you. I
expected to find you as gloomy as the poor monks of the Chartreuse, with
their long white robes, who used to frighten me so much in my childhood;
though, to tell the truth, I was never easily frightened. Instead of
that I find you in the midst of this dreary October, as smiling as a
morn of May."

"My dear Roland," replied Sir John, "I am an orphan; I lost my mother
at my birth and my father when I was twelve years old. At an age when
children are usually sent to school, I was master of a fortune producing
a million a year; but I was alone in the world, with no one whom I loved
or who loved me. The tender joys of family life are completely unknown
to me. From twelve to eighteen I went to Cambridge, but my taciturn and
perhaps haughty character isolated me from my fellows. At eighteen I
began to travel. You who scour the world under the shadow of your flag;
that is to say, the shadow of your country, and are stirred by the
thrill of battle, and the pride of glory, cannot imagine what a
lamentable thing it is to roam through cities, provinces, nations, and
kingdoms simply to visit a church here, a castle there; to rise at four
in the morning at the summons of a pitiless guide, to see the sun rise
from Rigi or Etna; to pass like a phantom, already dead, through the
world of living shades called men; to know not where to rest; to know no
land in which to take root, no arm on which to lean, no heart in which
to pour your own! Well, last night, my dear Roland, suddenly, in an
instant, in a second, this void in my life was filled. I lived in you;
the joys I seek were yours. The family which I never had, I saw smiling
around you. As I looked at your mother I said to myself: 'My mother was
like that, I am sure.' Looking at your sister, I said: 'Had I a sister
I could not have wished her otherwise.' When I embraced your brother, I
thought that I, too, might have had a child of that age, and thus leave
something behind me in the world, whereas with the nature I know I
possess, I shall die as I have lived, sad, surly with others, a burden
to myself. Ah! you are happy, Roland! you have a family, you have fame,
you have youth, you have that which spoils nothing in a man--you have
beauty. You want no joys. You are not deprived of a single delight. I
repeat it, Roland, you are a happy man, most happy!"

"Good!" said Roland. "You forget my aneurism, my lord."

Sir John looked at Roland incredulously. Roland seemed to enjoy the most
perfect health.

"Your aneurism against my million, Roland," said Lord Tanlay, with a
feeling of profound sadness, "providing that with this aneurism you give
me this mother who weeps for joy on seeing you again; this sister who
faints with delight at your return; this child who clings upon your neck
like some fresh young fruit to a sturdy young tree; this château with
its dewy shade, its river with its verdant flowering banks, these blue
vistas dotted with pretty villages and white-capped belfries graceful
as swans. I would welcome your aneurism, Roland, and with death in
two years, in one, in six months; but six months of stirring, tender,
eventful and glorious life!"

Roland laughed in his usual nervous manner.

"Ah!" said he, "so this is the tourist, the superficial traveller,
the Wandering Jew of civilization, who pauses nowhere, gauges nothing,
judges everything by the sensation it produces in him. The tourist who,
without opening the doors of these abodes where dwell the fools we call
men, says: 'Behind these walls is happiness!' Well, my dear friend,
you see this charming river, don't you? These flowering meadows, these
pretty villages? It is the picture of peace, innocence and fraternity;
the cycle of Saturn, the golden age returned; it is Eden, Paradise!
Well, all that is peopled by beings who have flown at each other's
throats. The jungles of Calcutta, the sedges of Bengal are inhabited
by tigers and panthers not one whit more ferocious or cruel than the
denizens of these pretty villages, these dewy lawns, and these charming
shores. After lauding in funeral celebrations the good, the great, the
immortal Marat, whose body, thank God! they cast into the common sewer
like carrion that he was, and always had been; after performing these
funeral rites, to which each man brought an urn into which he shed
his tears, behold! our good Bressans, our gentle Bressans, these
poultry-fatteners, suddenly decided that the Republicans were all
murderers. So they murdered them by the tumbrelful to correct them of
that vile defect common to savage and civilized man--the killing his
kind. You doubt it? My dear fellow, on the road to Lons-le-Saulnier they
will show you, if you are curious, the spot where not six months ago
they organized a slaughter fit to turn the stomach of our most ferocious
troopers on the battlefield. Picture to yourself a tumbrel of prisoners
on their way to Lons-le-Saulnier. It was a staff-sided cart, one of
those immense wagons in which they take cattle to market. There were
some thirty men in this tumbrel, whose sole crime was foolish exaltation
of thought and threatening language. They were bound and gagged; heads
hanging, jolted by the bumping of the cart; their throats parched with
thirst, despair and terror; unfortunate beings who did not even have,
as in the times of Nero and Commodus, the fight in the arena, the
hand-to-hand struggle with death. Powerless, motionless, the lust of
massacre surprised them in their fetters, and battered them not only in
life but in death; their bodies, when their hearts had ceased to beat,
still resounded beneath the bludgeons which mangled their flesh and
crushed their bones; while women looked on in calm delight, lifting high
the children, who clapped their hands for joy. Old men who ought to have
been preparing for a Christian death helped, by their goading cries, to
render the death of these wretched beings more wretched still. And in
the midst of these old men, a little septuagenarian, dainty, powdered,
flicking his lace shirt frill if a speck of dust settled there, pinching
his Spanish tobacco from a golden snuff-box, with a diamond monogram,
eating his "amber sugarplums" from a Sevres bonbonnière, given him
by Madame du Barry, and adorned with the donor's portrait--this
septuagenarian--conceive the picture, my dear Sir John--dancing with his
pumps upon that mattress of human flesh, wearying his arm, enfeebled
by age, in striking repeatedly with his gold-headed cane those of the
bodies who seemed not dead enough to him, not properly mangled in that
cursed mortar! Faugh! My friend, I have seen Montebello, I have seen
Arcole, I have seen Rivoli, I have seen the Pyramids, and I believe I
could see nothing more terrible. Well, my mother's mere recital, last
night, after you had retired, of what has happened here, made my hair
stand on end. Faith! that explains my poor sister's spasms just as my
aneurism explains mine."

Sir John watched Roland, and listened with that strange wonderment
which his young friend's misanthropical outbursts always aroused. Roland
seemed to lurk in the niches of a conversation in order to fall upon
mankind whenever he found an opportunity. Perceiving the impression he
had made on Sir John's mind, he changed his tone, substituting bitter
raillery for his philanthropic wrath.

"It is true," said he, "that, apart from this excellent aristocrat who
finished what the butchers had begun, and dyed in blood the red heels
of his pumps, the people who performed these massacres belonged to the
lower classes, bourgeois and clowns, as our ancestors called those who
supported them. The nobles manage things much more daintily. For the
rest, you saw yourself what happened at Avignon. If you had been told
that, you would never have believed it, would you? Those gentlemen
pillagers of stage coaches pique themselves on their great delicacy.
They have two faces, not counting their mask. Sometimes they are