Although the two sentiments which we have just indicated were the
dominant ones, they did not manifest themselves to an equal degree
in all present. The shades were graduated according to the sex, age,
character, we may almost say, the social positions of the hearers. The
wine merchant, Jean Picot, the principal personage in the late event,
recognizing at first sight by his dress, weapons, mask, one of the
men who had stopped the coach on the preceding day, was at first sight
stupefied, then little by little, as he grasped the purport of this
mysterious brigand’s visit to him, he had passed from stupefaction to
joy, through the intermediate phases separating these two emotions. His
bag of gold was beside him, yet he seemingly dared not touch it; perhaps
he feared that the instant his hand went forth toward it, it would melt
like the dream-gold which vanishes during that period of progressive
lucidity which separates profound slumber from thorough awakening.
The stout gentleman of the diligence and his wife had displayed, like
their travelling companions, the most absolute and complete terror.
Seated to the left of Jean Picot, when the bandit approached the wine
merchant, the husband, in the vain hope of maintaining a respectable
distance between himself and the Companion of Jehu, pushed his chair
back against that of his wife, who, yielding to the pressure, in turn
endeavored to push back hers. But as the next chair was occupied by
citizen Alfred de Barjols, who had no reason to fear these men whom
he had just praised so highly, the chair of the stout man’s wife
encountered an obstacle in the immovability of the young noble; so,
as at Marengo, eight or nine months later, when the general in command
judged it time to resume the offensive, the retrograde movement was
arrested.
As for him--we are speaking of the citizen Alfred de Barjols--his
attitude, like that of the abbé who had given the Biblical explanation
about Jehu, King of Israel, and his mission from Elisha, his attitude,
we say, was that of a man who not only experiences no fear, but who even
expects the event in question, however unexpected it may be. His lips
wore a smile as he watched the masked man, and had the guests not been
so preoccupied with the two principal actors in this scene, they might
have remarked the almost imperceptible sign exchanged between the eyes
of the bandit and the young noble, and transmitted instantly by the
latter to the abbé.
The two travellers whom we introduced to the table d’hôte, and who as
we have said sat apart at the end of the table, preserved an attitude
conformable to their respective characters. The younger of the two had
instinctively put his hand to his side, as if to seek an absent weapon,
and had risen with a spring, as if to rush at the masked man’s throat,
in which purpose he had certainly not failed had he been alone; but
the elder, who seemed to possess not only the habit but the right of
command, contented himself by regrasping his coat, and saying, in an
imperious, almost harsh tone: “Sit down, Roland!” And the young man had
resumed his seat.
But one of the guests had remained, in appearance at least, the most
impassible during this scene. He was a man between thirty-three and
thirty-four years of age, with blond hair, red beard, a calm, handsome
face, with large blue eyes, a fair skin, refined and intelligent lips,
and very tall, whose foreign accent betrayed one born in that island of
which the government was at that time waging bitter war against France.
As far as could be judged by the few words which had escaped him, he
spoke the French language with rare purity, despite the accent we have
just mentioned. At the first word he uttered, in which that English
accent revealed itself, the elder of the two travellers started. Turning
to his companion, he asked with a glance, to which the other seemed
accustomed, how it was that an Englishman should be in France when the
uncompromising war between the two nations had naturally exiled all
Englishmen from France, as it had all Frenchmen from England. No doubt
the explanation seemed impossible to Roland, for he had replied with his
eyes, and a shrug of the shoulders: “I find it quite as extraordinary
as you; but if you, mathematician as you are, can’t solve the problem,
don’t ask me!”
It was evident to the two young men that the fair man with the
Anglo-Saxon accent was the traveller whose comfortable carriage awaited
him harnessed in the courtyard, and that this traveller hailed from
London, or, at least, from some part of Great Britain.
As to his remarks, they, as we have stated, were infrequent, so laconic,
in reality, that they were mere exclamations rather than speech. But
each time an explanation had been asked concerning the state of France,
the Englishman openly drew out a note-book and requested those about
him, the wine merchant, the abbé, or the young noble to repeat their
remarks; to which each had complied with an amiability equal to the
courteous tone of the request. He had noted down the most important,
extraordinary and, picturesque features of the robbery of the diligence,
the state of Vendée, and the details about the Companions of Jehu,
thanking each informant by voice and gesture with the stiffness peculiar
to our insular cousins, replacing his note-book enriched each time by a
new item in a side pocket of his overcoat.
Finally, like a spectator enjoying an unexpected scene, he had given a
cry of satisfaction at sight of the masked man, had listened with all
his ears, gazed with all his eyes, not losing him from sight until the
door closed behind him. Then drawing his note-book hastily from his
pocket--
“Ah, sir,” he said to his neighbor, who was no other than the abbé,
“will you be so kind, should my memory fail me, as to repeat what that
gentleman who has just gone out said?”
He began to write immediately, and the abbé’s memory agreeing with
his, he had the satisfaction of transcribing literally and verbatim the
speech made by the Companion of Jehu to citizen Jean Picot. Then, this
conversation written down, he exclaimed with an accent that lent a
singular stamp of originality to his words:
“Of a truth! it is only in France that such things can happen; France
is the most curious country in the world. I am delighted, gentlemen, to
travel in France and become acquainted with Frenchmen.”
The last sentence was said with such courtesy that nothing remained save
to thank the speaker from whose serious mouth it issued, though he was
a descendant of the conquerors of Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt. It was
the younger of the two travellers who acknowledged this politeness in
that heedless and rather caustic manner which seemed habitual to him.
“‘Pon my word! I am exactly like you, my lord--I say my lord, because I
presume you are English.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gentleman, “I have that honor.”
“Well! as I was saying,” continued the young man, “I am delighted to
travel in France and see what I am seeing. One must live under the
government of citizens Gohier, Moulins, Roger Ducos, Sièyes and Barras
to witness such roguery. I dare wager than when the tale is told, fifty
years hence, of the highwayman who rode into a city of thirty thousand
inhabitants in broad day, masked and armed with two pistols and a sword
at his belt, to return the two hundred louis which he had stolen the day
previous to the honest merchant who was then deploring their loss, and
when it is added that this occurred at a table d’hôte where twenty or
twenty-five people were seated, and that this model bandit was allowed
to depart without one of those twenty or twenty-five people daring to
molest him; I dare wager, I repeat, that whoever has the audacity to
tell the story will be branded as an infamous liar.”
And the young man, throwing himself back in his chair, burst into
laughter, so aggressive, so nervous, that every one gazed at him in
wonderment, while his companion’s eyes expressed an almost paternal
anxiety.
“Sir,” said citizen Alfred de Barjols, who, moved like the others by
this singular outburst, more sad, or rather dolorous, than gay, had
waited for its last echo to subside. “Sir, permit me to point out to you
that the man whom you have just seen is not a highwayman.”
“Bah! Frankly, what is he then?”
“He is in all probability a young man of as good a family as yours or
mine.”
“Count Horn, whom the Regent ordered broken on the wheel at the Place
de Grève, was also a man of good family, and the proof is that all the
nobility of Paris sent their carriages to his execution.”
“Count Horn, if I remember rightly, murdered a Jew to steal a note
of hand which he was unable to meet. No one would dare assert that a
Companion of Jehu had ever so much as harmed the hair of an infant.”
“Well, be it so. We will admit that the Company was founded upon a
philanthropic basis, to re-establish the balance of fortunes, redress
the whims of chance and reform the abuses of society. Though he may be
a robber, after the fashion of Karl Moor, your friend Morgan--was it not
Morgan that this honest citizen called himself?”
“Yes,” said the Englishman.
“Well, your friend Morgan is none the less a thief.”
Citizen Alfred de Barjols turned very pale.
“Citizen Morgan is not my friend,” replied the young aristocrat; “but if
he were I should feel honored by his friendship.”
“No doubt,” replied Roland, laughing. “As Voltaire says: ‘The friendship
of a great man is a blessing from the gods.’”
“Roland, Roland!” observed his comrade in a low tone.
“Oh! general,” replied the latter, letting his companion’s rank escape
him, perhaps intentionally, “I implore you, let me continue this
discussion, which interests me in the highest degree.”
His friend shrugged his shoulders.
“But, citizen,” continued the young man with strange persistence, “I
stand in need of correction. I left France two years ago, and during my
absence so many things have changed, such as dress, morals, and accents,
that even the language may have changed also. In the language of the day
in France what do you call stopping coaches and taking the money which
they contain?”
“Sir,” said the young noble, in the tone of a man determined to sustain
his argument to its end, “I call that war. Here is your companion whom
you have just called general; he as a military man will tell you that,
apart from the pleasure of killing and being killed, the generals of
all ages have never done anything else than what the citizen Morgan is
doing?”
“What!” exclaimed the young man, whose eyes flashed fire. “You dare to
compare--”
“Permit the gentleman to develop his theory, Roland,” said the dark
traveller, whose eyes, unlike those of his companion, which dilated as
they flamed, were veiled by long black lashes, thus concealing all that
was passing in his mind.
“Ah!” said the young man in his curt tone, “you see that you, yourself,
are becoming interested in the discussion.” Then, turning to the young
noble, whom he seemed to have selected for his antagonist, he said:
“Continue, sir, continue; the general permits it.”
The young noble flushed as visibly as he had paled a moment before.
Between clinched teeth, his elbow on the table, his chin on his clinched
hand, as if to draw as close to his adversary as possible, he said with
a Provençal accent, which grew more pronounced as the discussion waxed
hotter: “Since _the general_ permits”--emphasizing the two words--“I
shall have the honor to tell him and you, too, citizen, that I believe
I have read in Plutarch that Alexander the Great, when he started for
India, took with him but eighteen or twenty talents in gold, something
like one hundred or one hundred and twenty thousand francs. Now, do
you suppose that with these eighteen or twenty talents alone he fed his
army, won the battle of Granicus, subdued Asia Minor, conquered Tyre,
Gaza, Syria and Egypt, built Alexandria, penetrated to Lybia, had
himself declared Son of Jupiter by the oracle of Ammon, penetrated
as far as the Hyphases, and, when his soldiers refused to follow him
further, returned to Babylon, where he surpassed in luxury, debauchery
and self-indulgence the most debauched and voluptuous of the kings
of Asia? Did Macedonia furnish his supplies? Do you believe that King
Philip, most indigent of the kings of poverty-stricken Greece, honored
the drafts his son drew upon him? Not so. Alexander did as citizen
Morgan is doing; only, instead of stopping the coaches on the highroads,
he pillaged cities, held kings for ransom, levied contributions from
the conquered countries. Let us turn to Hannibal. You know how he left
Carthage, don’t you? He did not have even the eighteen or twenty talents
of his predecessor; and as he needed money, he seized and sacked the
city of Saguntum in the midst of peace, in defiance of the fealty of
treaties. After that he was rich and could begin his campaign. Forgive
me if this time I no longer quote Plutarch, but Cornelius Nepos. I will
spare you the details of his descent from the Pyrenees, how he crossed
the Alps and the three battles which he won, seizing each time the
treasures of the vanquished, and turn to the five or six years he spent
in Campania. Do you believe that he and his army paid the Capuans for
their subsistence, and that the bankers of Carthage, with whom he had
quarrelled, supplied him with funds? No; war fed war--the Morgan system,
citizen. Let us pass on to Cæsar. Ah, Cæsar! That’s another story. He
left for Spain with some thirty millions of debt, and returned with
practically the same. He started for Gaul, where he spent ten years with
our ancestors. During these ten years he sent over one hundred millions
to Rome, repassed the Alps, crossed the Rubicon, marched straight to the
Capitol, forced the gates of the Temple of Saturn, where the treasury
was, seized sufficient for his private needs--and not for those of the
Republic--three thousand pounds of gold in ingots; and died (he whom
creditors twenty years earlier refused to allow to leave his little
house in the Suburra) leaving two or three thousand sesterces per head
to the citizens, ten or twelve millions to Calpurnia, and thirty or
forty millions to Octavius; always the Morgan system, save that Morgan,
I am sure, would die sooner than subvert to his personal needs either
the silver of the Gauls or the gold of the capital. Now let us spring
over eighteen centuries and come to the General Buonaparté.” And the
young aristocrat, after the fashion of the enemies of the Conqueror of
Italy, affected to emphasize the _u_, which Bonaparte had eliminated
from his name, and the _e_, from which he had removed the accent.
This affectation seemed to irritate Roland intensely. He made a movement
as if to spring forward, but his companion stopped him.
“Let be,” said he, “let be, Roland. I am quite sure that citizen Barjols
will not say the General Buonaparté, as he calls him, is a thief.”
“No, I will not say it; but there is an Italian proverb which says it
for me.”
“What is the proverb?” demanded the general in his companion’s stead,
fixing his calm, limpid eye upon the young noble.
“I give it in all its simplicity: ‘Francesi non sono tutti ladroni, ma
buona parte’; which means: ‘All Frenchmen are not thieves, but--”
“A good part are?” concluded Roland.
“Yes, ‘Buonaparté,’” replied Alfred de Barjols.
Scarcely had these insolent words left the young aristocrat’s lips than
the plate with which Roland was playing flew from his hands and struck
De Barjols full in the face. The women screamed, the men rose to their
feet. Roland burst into that nervous laugh which was habitual with him,
and threw himself back in his chair. The young aristocrat remained calm,
although the blood was trickling from his brow to his cheek.
At this moment the conductor entered with the usual formula:
“Come! citizen travellers, take your places.”
The travellers, anxious to leave the scene of the quarrel, rushed to the
door.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Alfred de Barjols to Roland, “you do not go by
diligence, I hope?”
“No, sir, I travel by post; but you need have no fear; I shall not
depart.”
“Nor I,” said the Englishman. “Have them unharness my horses; I shall
remain.”
“I must go,” sighed the dark young man whom Roland had addressed as
general. “You know it is necessary, my friend; my presence yonder is
absolutely imperative. But I swear that I would not leave you if I could
possibly avoid it.”
In saying these words his voice betrayed an emotion of which, judging
from its usual harsh, metallic ring, it had seemed incapable. Roland, on
the contrary, seemed overjoyed. His belligerent nature seemed to expand
at the approach of a danger to which he had perhaps not given rise, but
which he at least had not endeavored to avoid.
“Good! general,” he said. “We were to part at Lyons, since you have had
the kindness to grant me a month’s furlough to visit my family at Bourg.
It is merely some hundred and sixty miles or so less than we intended,
that is all. I shall rejoin you in Paris. But you know if you need a
devoted arm, and a man who never sulks, think of me!”
“You may rest easy on that score, Roland,” exclaimed the general.
Then, looking attentively at the two adversaries, he added with an
indescribable note of tenderness: “Above all, Roland, do not let
yourself be killed; but if it is a possible thing don’t kill your
adversary. Everything considered, he is a gallant man, and the day will
come when I shall need such men at my side.”
“I shall do my best, general; don’t be alarmed.” At this moment the
landlord appeared upon the thresh-hold of the door.
“The post-chaise is ready,” said he.
The general took his hat and his cane, which he had laid upon the chair.
Roland, on the contrary, followed him bareheaded, that all might see
plainly he did not intend to leave with his friend. Alfred de Barjols,
therefore, offered no opposition to his leaving the room. Besides, it
was easy to see that his adversary was of those who seek rather than
avoid quarrels.
“Just the same,” said the general, seating himself in the carriage to
which Roland had escorted him, “my heart is heavy at leaving you thus,
Roland, without a friend to act as your second.”
“Good! Don’t worry about that, general; seconds are never lacking. There
are and always will be enough men who are curious to see how one man can
kill another.”
“Au revoir, Roland. Observe, I do not say farewell, but au revoir!”
“Yes, my dear general,” replied the young man, in a voice that revealed
some emotion, “I understand, and I thank you.”
“Promise that you will send me word as soon as the affair is over, or
that you will get some one to write if you are disabled.”
“Oh, don’t worry, general. You will have a letter from me personally
in less than four days,” replied Roland, adding, in a tone of profound
bitterness: “Have you not perceived that I am protected by a fatality
which prevents me from dying?”
“Roland!” exclaimed the general in a severe tone, “Again!”
“Nothing, nothing,” said the young man, shaking his head and assuming
an expression of careless gayety which must have been habitual with him
before the occurrence of that unknown misfortune which oppressed his
youth with this longing for death.
“Very well. By the way, try to find out one thing.”
“What is that, general?”
“How it happens that at a time when we are at war with England an
Englishman stalks about France as freely and as easily as if he were at
home.”
“Good; I will find out.”
“How?”
“I do not know; but when I promise you to find out I shall do so, though
I have to ask it of himself.”
“Reckless fellow! Don’t get yourself involved in another affair in that
direction.”
“In any case, it would not be a duel. It would be a battle, as he is a
national enemy.”
“Well, once more--till I see you again. Embrace me.”
Roland flung himself with passionate gratitude upon the neck of the
personage who had just given him this permission.
“Oh, general!” he exclaimed, “how happy I should be--if I were not so
unhappy!”
The general looked at him with profound affection, then asked: “One day
you will tell me what this sorrow is, will you not, Roland?”
Roland laughed that sorrowful laugh which had already escaped his lips
once or twice.
“Oh! my word, no,” said he, “you would ridicule me too much.”
The general stared at him as one would contemplate a madman.
“After all,” he murmured, “one must accept men as they come.”
“Especially when they are not what they seem to be.”
“You must mistake me for OEdipe since you pose me with these enigmas,
Roland.”
“Ah! If you guess this one, general, I will herald you king of Thebes!
But, with all my follies, I forgot that your time is precious and that I
am detaining you needlessly with my nonsense.”
“That is so! Have you any commissions for Paris?”
“Yes, three; my regards to Bourrienne, my respects to your brother
Lucien, and my most tender homage to Madame Bonaparte.”
“I will deliver them.”
“Where shall I find you in Paris?”
“At my house in the Rue de la Victoire, perhaps.”
“Perhaps--”
“Who knows? Perhaps at Luxembourg!” Then throwing himself back as if
he regretted having said so much, even to a man he regarded as his
best friend, he shouted to the postilion, “Road to Orange! As fast as
possible.”
The postilion, who was only waiting for the order, whipped up his
horses; the carriage departed rapidly, rumbling like a roll of thunder,
and disappeared through the Porte d’Oulle.