The Companions of Jehu
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Shortly after, the coach rumbled into the courtyard at a gallop, and was pulled up under the windows of a room close to the servants’ stairway, which had seemed greatly to occupy Antoine’s attention. If any one had paid attention to so slight a detail it might have been observed that the window-curtain was somewhat imprudently drawn aside to permit the occupant of the room to see the persons who got out of the coach. There were three men, who, with the haste of famished travellers, made their way toward the brilliantly lighted windows of the common room.
They had scarcely entered, when a smart postilion came down the kitchen staircase, shod simply with thin pumps over which he intended to pull his heavy riding-boots, These he received from Antoine, slipping five louis into his hand at the same time, and turned for the man to throw his riding cape over his shoulders, a protection rendered necessary by the severity of the weather.
This completed, Antoine returned hastily to the stables and hid in the darkest corner. As for the man who had taken his place, reassured no doubt by the high collar of the cape that concealed half of his face, he went straight to the horses which stood ready harnessed, slipped his pistols into the holsters, and, profitting by the moment when the other horses were being led into the stable by their postilion, he took a gimlet, which might in case of need serve as a dagger, from his pocket, and screwed the four rings into the woodwork of the coach, one into each door, and the other two into the body of the coach. After which he put the horses to with a rapidity and skill which bespoke in him a man familiar from childhood with all the details of an art pushed to extremes in our day by that honorable class of society which we call “gentlemen riders.”
That done, he waited, quieting his restless horses by voice and whip, judiciously combined, or used in turn.
Everyone knows the rapidity with which the meals of the unhappy beings condemned to travel by mail are hurried through. The half-hour was not up, when the voice of the conductor was heard, calling:
“Come, citizen travellers, take your places.”
Montbar placed himself close to the carriage door and recognized Roland and the colonel of the 7th Chasseurs, perfectly, in spite of their disguise, as they jumped into the coach, paying no attention whatever to the postilion.
The latter closed the door upon them, slipped the padlock through the two rings and turned the key. Then, walking around the coach, he pretended to drop his whip before the other door, and, in stooping for it, slipped the second padlock through the rings, deftly turned the key as he straightened up, and, assured that the two officers were securely locked in, he sprang upon his horse, grumbling at the conductor who had left him to do his work. In fact the conductor was still squabbling with the landlord over his bill when the third traveller got into his place in the coupé.
“Are you coming this evening, to-night, or to-morrow morning, Père François?” cried the pretended postilion, imitating Antoine as best he could.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” answered the conductor; then, looking around him: “Why, where are the travellers?” he asked.
“Here,” replied the two officers from the interior and the agent from the coupé.
“Is the door properly closed?” persisted Père François.
“I’ll answer for that,” said Montbar.
“Then off you go, baggage!” cried the conductor, as he climbed into the coupé and closed the door behind him.
The postilion did not wait to be told twice; he started his horses, digging his spurs into the belly of the one he rode and lashing the others vigorously. The mail-coach dashed forward at a gallop.
Montbar drove as if he had never done anything else in his life; as he crossed the town the windows rattled and the houses shook; never did real postilion crack his whip with greater science.
As he left Mâcon he saw a little troop of horse; they were the twelve chasseurs told off to follow the coach without seeming to escort it. The colonel passed his head through the window and made a sign to the sergeant who commanded them.
Montbar did not seem to notice anything; but after going some four or five hundred yards, he turned his head, while executing a symphony with his whip, and saw that the escort had started.
“Wait, my babes!” said Montbar, “I’ll make you see the country.” And he dug in his spurs and brought down his whip. The horses seemed to have wings, and the coach flew over the cobblestones like the chariot of thunder rumbling past. The conductor became alarmed.
“Hey, Master Antoine,” cried he, “are you drunk?”
“Drunk? fine drinking!” replied Montbar; “I dined on a beetroot salad.”
“Damn him! If he goes like that,” cried Roland, thrusting his head through the window, “the escort can’t keep up.”
“You hear what he says!” shrieked the conductor.
“No,” replied Montbar, “I don’t.”
“Well, he says that if you keep this up the escort can’t follow.”
“Is there an escort?” asked Montbar.
“Of course; we’re carrying government money.”
“That’s different; you ought to have said so at first.”
But instead of slacking his pace the coach was whirled along as before; if there was any change, it was for greater velocity than before.
“Antoine, if there’s an accident, I’ll shoot you through the head,” shouted the conductor.
“Run along!” exclaimed Montbar; “everybody knows those pistols haven’t any balls in them.”
“Possibly not; but mine have!” cried the police agent.
“That remains to be seen,” replied Montbar, keeping on his way at the same pace without heed to these remonstrances.
On they went with the speed of lightning through the village of Varennes, then through that of La Crêche and the little town of Chapelle-de-Guinchay; only half a mile further and they would reach the Maison-Blanche. The horses were dripping, and tossed the foam from their mouths as they neighed with excitement.
Montbar glanced behind him; more than a mile back the sparks were flying from the escort’s horses. Before him was the mountainous declivity. Down it he dashed, gathering the reins to master his horses when the time came.
The conductor had ceased expostulating, for he saw that the hand which guided the horses was firm and capable. But from time to time the colonel thrust his head through the window to look for his men.
Half-way down the slope Montbar had his horses under control, without, however, seeming to check their course. Then he began to sing, at the top of his voice, the “Réveil du Peuple,” the song of the royalists, just as the “Marseillaise” was the song of the Jacobins.
“What’s that rogue about?” cried Roland, putting his head through the window. “Tell him to hold his tongue, conductor, or I’ll put a ball through his loins.”
Perhaps the conductor might have repeated Roland’s threat to Montbar, but he suddenly saw a black line blocking the road. “Halt, conductor!” thundered a voice the next moment.
“Postilion, drive over the bellies of those bandits!” shouted the police agent.
“Drive on yourself!” said Montbar. “Do you suppose I’m going over the stomachs of friends? Who-o-ah!”
The mail coach stopped as if by magic.
“Go on! go on!” cried Roland and the colonel, aware that the escort was too far behind to help them.
“Ha! You villain of a postilion,” cried the police agent, springing out of the coupé, and pointing his pistol at Montbar, “you shall pay for this.”
The words were scarcely uttered when Montbar, forestalling him, fired, and the agent rolled, mortally wounded, under the wheels of the coach. His fingers, convulsed by death, touched the trigger and the pistol went off, but the ball touched no one.
“Conductor,” shouted the two officers, “by all the powers of heaven, open, open, open quickly!”
“Gentlemen,” said Morgan, advancing, “we are not attacking your persons, we merely want the government money. Conductor! that fifty thousand francs, and quickly too!”
Two shots from the interior made answer for the officers, who, after vainly shaking the doors, were still more fruitlessly attempting to force themselves through the windows. No doubt one of their shots took effect, for a cry of rage was heard and a flash illuminated the road. The colonel gave a sigh, and fell back against Roland. He was killed outright.
Roland fired again, but no one replied to him. His pistols were both discharged; locked in as he was he could not use his sabre, and he howled with rage.
Meantime the conductor was forced, with a pistol at his throat, to give up the money. Two men took the bags containing the fifty thousand francs, and fastened them on Montbar’s horse, which his groom had brought ready saddled and bridled, as if to a meet. Montbar kicked off his heavy boots and sprang into the saddle.
“My compliments to the First Consul, Monsieur de Montrevel!” cried Morgan. Then, turning to his companions, he cried: “Scatter which way you will, you know the rendezvous for to-morrow night.”
“Yes, yes,” replied ten or a dozen voices.
And the band dispersed like a flock of birds, disappearing down the valley into the shadow of the trees that lined the banks of the little river and surrounded the Maison-Blanche.
At that moment the gallop of horses was heard, and the escort, alarmed by the pistol shots, appeared on the crest of the hill and came down the slope like an avalanche. But it came too late; it found only the conductor sitting dazed by the roadside, the bodies of the colonel and of Fouché’s agent, and Roland a prisoner, roaring like a lion gnawing at the bars of its cage.
CHAPTER XLIII. LORD GRENVILLE’S REPLY
While the events we have just recorded were transpiring, and occupying the minds and newspapers of the provinces, other events, of very different import, were maturing in Paris, which were destined to occupy the minds and newspapers of the whole world.
Lord Tanlay had returned, bringing the reply of his uncle, Lord Grenville. This reply consisted of a letter addressed to M. de Talleyrand, inclosing a memorandum for the First Consul. The letter was couched in the following terms:
DOWNING STREET, February 14, 1800
Sir – I have received and placed before the King the letter which you transmitted to me through my nephew, Lord Tanlay. His Majesty, seeing no reason to depart from the long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign states, directs me to forward you in his name the official reply which is herewith inclosed.
I have the honor to be, with the highest esteem, your very humble and obedient servant, GRENVILLE.
The letter was dry; the memorandum curt. Moreover, the First Consul’s letter to King George was autographic, and King George, not “departing from the long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign States,” replied by a simple memorandum written by a secretary.
True, the memorandum was signed “Grenville.” It was a long recrimination against France; against the spirit of disorder, which disturbed the nation; against the fears which that spirit of disorder inspired in all Europe; and on the necessity imposed on the sovereigns of Europe, for the sake of their own safety, to repress it. In short, the memorandum was virtually a continuation of the war.
The reading of such a dictum made Bonaparte’s eyes flash with the flame which, in him, preceded his great decisions, as lightning precedes thunder.
“So, sir,” said he, turning to Lord Tanlay, “this is all you have obtained?”
“Yes, citizen First Consul.”
“Then you did not repeat verbally to your uncle all that I charged you to say to him?”
“I did not omit a syllable.”
“Did you tell him that you had lived in France three years, that you had seen her, had studied her; that she was strong, powerful, prosperous and desirous of peace while prepared for war?”
“I told him all that.”
“Did you add that the war which England is making against France is a senseless war; that the spirit of disorder of which they speak, and which, at the worst, is only the effervescence of freedom too long restrained, which it were wiser to confine to France by means of a general peace; that that peace is the sole cordon sanitaire which can prevent it from crossing our frontiers; and that if the volcano of war is lighted in France, France will spread like lava over foreign lands. Italy is delivered, says the King of England; but from whom? From her liberators. Italy is delivered, but why? Because I conquered Egypt from the Delta to the third Cataract; Italy is delivered because I was no longer in Italy. But – I am here: in a month I can be in Italy. What do I need to win her back from the Alps to the Adriatic? A single battle. Do you know what Masséna is doing in defending Genoa? Waiting for me. Ha! the sovereigns of Europe need war to protect their crowns? Well, my lord, I tell you that I will shake Europe until their crowns tremble on their heads. Want war, do they? Just wait – Bourrienne! Bourrienne!”
The door between the First Consul’s study and the secretary’s office opened precipitately, and Bourrienne rushed in, his face terrified, as though he thought Bonaparte were calling for help. But when he saw him highly excited, crumpling the diplomatic memorandum in one hand and striking with the other on his desk, while Lord Tanlay was standing calm, erect and silent near him, he understood immediately that England’s answer had irritated the First Consul.
“Did you call me, general?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the First Consul, “sit down there and write.”
Then in a harsh, jerky voice, without seeking his words, which, on the contrary, seemed to crowd through the portal of his brain, he dictated the following proclamation:
SOLDIERS! – In promising peace to the French people, I was your mouthpiece; I know your power. You are the same men who conquered the Rhine, Holland and Italy, and granted peace beneath the walls of astounded Vienna.
Soldiers, it is no longer our own frontiers that you have to defend; it is the enemy’s country you must now invade.
Soldiers, when the time comes, I shall be among you, and astounded Europe shall remember that you belong to the race of heroes!
Bourrienne raised his head, expectant, after writing the last words.
“Well, that’s all,” said Bonaparte.
“Shall I add the sacramental words: ‘Vive la République!’?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because we have issued no proclamation during the last four months, and something may be changed in the ordinary formulas.”
“The proclamation will do as it is,” said Bonaparte, “add nothing to it.”
Taking a pen, he dashed rather than wrote his signature at the bottom of the paper, then handing it to Bourrienne, he said: “See that it appears in the ‘Moniteur’ to-morrow.”
Bourrienne left the room, carrying the proclamation with him.
Bonaparte, left alone with Lord Tanlay, walked up and down the room for a moment, as though he had forgotten the Englishman’s presence; then he stopped suddenly before him.
“My lord,” he asked, “do you think you obtained from your uncle all that another man might have obtained in your place?”
“More, citizen First Consul.”
“More! more! Pray, what have you obtained?”
“I think that the citizen First Consul did not read the royal memorandum with all the attention it deserves.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Bonaparte, “I know it by heart.”
“Then the citizen First Consul cannot have weighed the meaning and the wording of a certain paragraph.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it; and if the citizen First Consul will permit me to read him the paragraph to which I allude – ”
Bonaparte relaxed his hold upon the crumpled note, and handed it to Lord Tanlay, saying: “Read it.”
Sir John cast his eyes over the document, with which he seemed to be familiar, paused at the tenth paragraph, and read:
The best and surest means for peace and security, and for their continuance, would be the restoration of that line of princes who for so many centuries have preserved to the French nation its internal prosperity and the respect and consideration of foreign countries. Such an event would have removed, and at any time will remove, the obstacles which are now in the way of negotiations and peace; it would guarantee to France the tranquil possession of her former territory, and procure for all the other nations of Europe, through a like tranquillity and peace, that security which they are now obliged to seek by other means.
“Well,” said Bonaparte, impatiently, “I have read all that, and perfectly understood it. Be Monk, labor for another man, and your victories, your renown, your genius will be forgiven you; humble yourself, and you shall be allowed to remain great!”
“Citizen First Consul,” said Lord Tanlay, “no one knows better than I the difference between you and Monk, and how far you surpass him in genius and renown.”
“Then why do you read me that?”
“I only read that paragraph,” replied Sir John, “to lead you to give to the one following its due significance.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Bonaparte, with repressed impatience.
Sir John continued:
But, however desirable such an event may be for France and for the world, it is not to this means alone that his Majesty restricts the possibility of a safe and sure pacification.
Sir John emphasized the last words.
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Bonaparte, stepping hastily to Sir John’s side.
The Englishman continued:
His Majesty does not presume to prescribe to France her form of government, nor the hands into which she may place the necessary authority to conduct the affairs of a great and powerful nation.
“Read that again, sir,” said Bonaparte, eagerly.
“Read it yourself,” replied Sir John.
He handed him the note, and Bonaparte re-read it.
“Was it you, sir,” he asked, “who added that paragraph?”
“I certainly insisted on it.”
Bonaparte reflected.
“You are right,” he said; “a great step has been taken; the return of the Bourbons is no longer a condition sine quâ non. I am accepted, not only as a military, but also as a political power.” Then, holding out his hand to Sir John, he added: “Have you anything to ask of me, sir?”
“The only thing I seek has been asked of you by my friend Roland.”
“And I answered, sir, that I shall be pleased to see you the husband of his sister. If I were richer, or if you were less so, I would offer to dower her” – Sir John made a motion – “but as I know your fortune will suffice for two,” added Bonaparte, smiling, “or even more, I leave you the joy of giving not only happiness, but also wealth to the woman you love. Bourrienne!” he called.
Bourrienne appeared.
“I have sent it, general,” he said.
“Very good,” replied the First Consul; “but that is not what I called you for.”
“I await your orders.”
“At whatever hour of the day or night Lord Tanlay presents himself, I shall be happy to receive him without delay; you hear me, my dear Bourrienne? You hear me, my lord?”
Lord Tanlay bowed his thanks.
“And now,” said Bonaparte, “I presume you are in a hurry to be off to the Château des Noires-Fontaines. I won’t detain you, but there is one condition I impose.”
“And that is, general?”
“If I need you for another mission – ”
“That is not a condition, citizen First Consul; it is a favor.”
Lord Tanlay bowed and withdrew.
Bourrienne prepared to follow him, but Bonaparte called him back. “Is there a carriage below?” he asked.
Bourrienne looked into the courtyard. “Yes, general.”
“Then get ready and come with me.”
“I am ready, general; I have only my hat and overcoat to get, and they are in the office.”
“Then let us go,” said Bonaparte.
He took up his hat and coat, went down the private staircase, and signed to the carriage to come up. Notwithstanding Bourrienne’s haste, he got down after him. A footman opened the door; Bonaparte sprang in.
“Where are we going, general?” asked Bourrienne.
“To the Tuileries,” replied Bonaparte.
Bourrienne, amazed, repeated the order, and looked at the First Consul as if to seek an explanation; but the latter was plunged in thought, and the secretary, who at this time was still the friend, thought it best not to disturb him.
The horses started at gallop – Bonaparte’s usual mode of progression – and took the way to the Tuileries.
The Tuileries, inhabited by Louis XVI. after the days of the 5th and 6th of October, and occupied successively by the Convention and the Council of Five Hundred, had remained empty and devastated since the 18th Brumaire. Since that day Bonaparte had more than once cast his eyes on that ancient palace of royalty; but he knew the importance of not arousing any suspicion that a future king might dwell in the palace of the abolished monarchy.
Bonaparte had brought back from Italy a magnificent bust of Junius Brutus; there was no suitable place for it at the Luxembourg, and toward the end of November, Bonaparte had sent for the Republican, David, and ordered him to place the bust in the gallery of the Tuileries. Who could suppose that David, the friend of Marat, was preparing the dwelling of a future emperor by placing the bust of Cæsar’s murderer in the gallery of the Tuileries? No one did suppose, nor even suspect it.
When Bonaparte went to see if the bust were properly placed, he noticed the havoc committed in the palace of Catherine of Medicis. The Tuileries were no longer the abode of kings, it is true, but they were a national palace, and the nation could not allow one of its palaces to become dilapidated. Bonaparte sent for citizen Lecomte, the architect, and ordered him to clean the Tuileries. The word might be taken in both senses – moral and physical.
The architect was requested to send in an estimate of the cost of the cleaning. It amounted to five hundred thousand francs. Bonaparte asked if for that sum, the Tuileries could be converted into a suitable “palace for the government.” The architect replied that the sum named would suffice not only to restore the Tuileries to their former condition, but to make them habitable.
A habitable palace, that was all Bonaparte wanted. How should he, a Republican, need regal luxury? The “palace of the government” ought to be severely plain, decorated with marbles and statues only. But what ought those statues to be? It was the First Consul’s duty to select them.
Accordingly, Bonaparte chose them from the three great ages and the three great nations: from the Greeks, from the Romans, from France and her rivals. From the Greeks he chose Alexander and Demosthenes; the genius of conquest and the genius of eloquence. From the Romans he chose Scipio, Cicero, Cato, Brutus and Cæsar, placing the great victim side by side with the murderer, as great almost as himself. From the modern world he chose Gustavus Adolphus, Turenne, the great Condé, Duguay-Trouin, Marlborough, Prince Eugene, and the Maréchal de Saxe; and, finally, the great Frederick and George Washington – false philosophy upon a throne, and true wisdom founding a free state.
To these he added warlike heroes – Dampierre, Dugommier, Joubert – to prove that, while he did not fear the memory of a Bourbon in the great Condé, neither was he jealous of his brothers-in-arms, the victims of a cause already no longer his.
Matters were in this state at the period of which we are now speaking; that is, the last of February, 1800. The Tuileries had been cleaned, the busts were in their niches, the statues were on their pedestals; and only a favorable occasion was wanting.
That occasion came when the news of Washington’s death was received. The founder of the liberty of the United States had ceased to breathe on the 14th of December, 1799.
It was that event of which Bonaparte was thinking, when Bourrienne saw by the expression of his face that he must be left entirely to the reflections which absorbed him.
The carriage stopped before the Tuileries. Bonaparte sprang out with the same haste with which he had entered it; went rapidly up the stairs, and through the apartments, examining more particularly those which had been inhabited by Louis XVI. and Marie-Antoinette. In the private study of Louis XVI. he stopped short.
“Here’s where we will live, Bourrienne,” he said, suddenly, as if the latter had followed him through the mental labyrinth in which he wandered, following the thread of Ariadne which we call thought. “Yes, we will lodge here; the Third Consul can have the Pavilion of Flora, and Cambacérès will remain at the Chancellerie.”