pretended monks returned through the underground passage, which they
closed, carefully concealing the ring as before. They crossed the
garden, skirted the cloister, re-entered the Chartreuse, and disappeared
silently through different doors.
The younger of the two monks who had received the traveller remained
with him, and showed him to his room, after which he bowed and withdrew.
The guest of the Companions of Jehu noted with pleasure that he did not
lock the door behind him. He went to the window, which opened from
within, had no bars, and was almost on a level with the garden. The
Companions of Jehu had evidently trusted him and had taken no
precautions against him. He drew the curtains of his bed, threw himself
upon it all dressed as he was, and slept. At noon he was awakened by the
opening of the door. The young monk entered.
"It is noon, brother," said he: "but if you are weary and wish to sleep
longer the council will wait."
The messenger sprang from the bed, took a brush and comb from his
valise, brushed his hair, combed his moustache, glanced over his attire,
and signed to the monk that he was ready to follow him. He was led to
the hall where he had supped. Four young men awaited him, all of whom
were unmasked.
It was evident from their attire, the care which they had bestowed upon
their toilet, and the refined courtesy of their greeting, that they
belonged all four to the aristocracy, either by birth or fortune.
Had the messenger not detected this of himself, he had not been left
long in doubt.
"Monsieur," said Morgan, "I have the honor of presenting to you the four
chiefs of the society, Monsieur de Valensolle, Monsieur de Jayat,
Monsieur de Ribier, and myself, the Comte de Sainte-Hermine. Monsieur de
Valensolle, Monsieur de Jayat, Monsieur de Ribier, I have the honor of
presenting to you Monsieur Coster de Saint-Victor, a messenger from
General Georges Cadoudal."
The five young men bowed and exchanged the customary greetings.
"Gentlemen," said Coster de Saint-Victor, "it is by no means surprising
that Monsieur Morgan should know my name, or that he should not hesitate
to tell me your names, since we fought in the same ranks on the 13th
Vendémiaire. That is why we were companions before we were friends. As
Monsieur le Comte de Sainte-Hermine has said, I come from General
Cadoudal, with whom I serve in Brittany. Here is the letter which
accredits me to you."
At these words Coster drew from his pocket a letter bearing a seal
stamped with the fleur-de-lis, and handed it to the Comte de
Sainte-Hermine. The latter broke the seal and read aloud:
MY DEAR MORGAN--You will remember that at our meeting in the Rue
des Postes, you were the first to offer, in case I should carry on
the war alone, and without help either from home or abroad, to be
my cashier. All our defenders have died with arms in their hands or
have been shot. Stofflet and Charette have been shot, D'Autichamp
has submitted to the Republic; I stand alone, unshaken in my faith,
unassailable in my Morbihan.
An army of two or three thousand men will suffice to keep the
field; but I must furnish arms, food, and ammunition for them, as
they ask no pay. The English have sent us nothing since Quiberon.
If you will furnish the money, we will furnish the blood. God
forbid that you should think that I mean by this that you would be
sparing of yours when occasion offers. No, your devotion is so
much greater than ours that ours grows pale before it. If we, who
are fighting here, should be taken, we would only be shot, whereas
you, in like circumstances, would die upon the scaffold. You write
me that you have a considerable sum at my disposal. If I could be
sure of receiving thirty-five or forty thousand francs every month
that would suffice.
I send you our common friend, Coster de Saint-Victor; his name
alone will tell you that you may have perfect confidence in him. I
have given him the little catechism that will enable him to reach
you. Give him the first forty thousand francs if you have them,
and keep the rest for us; it will be safer in your hands than in
mine. If you are persecuted beyond measure yonder, cross France
and join me.
Far and near, I love and thank you.
GEORGES CADOUDAL,
General-in-chief of the Army of Brittany.
P.S.--They tell me, my dear Morgan, that you have a young brother
of nineteen or twenty. If you do not think me unworthy to teach
him his first lessons in warfare, send him to me; he shall be my
aide-de-camp.
Morgan stopped reading and looked questioningly at his companions. Each
one nodded affirmatively.
"Will you intrust me with the reply, gentlemen?" asked Morgan.
The question was received with a unanimous "Yes." Whereupon Morgan took
up his pen, and wrote while Monsieur de Valensolle, Monsieur de Jayat,
Monsieur de Ribier, and Coster de Saint-Victor were talking in an
embrasure of the window. Five minutes later he called Coster de
Saint-Victor and his three companions and read them the following
letter:
MY DEAR GENERAL--We have received your kind and noble letter by
your brave and excellent messenger. We have about a hundred and
fifty thousand francs in hand, and are therefore prepared to do as
you request. Our new associate, to whom I have on my own authority
given the name of Alcibiades, will start this evening, taking with
him the first forty thousand francs.
Every month you will be able to procure the forty thousand francs
at the same bank. In case of our death or dispersion, the money
will be divided and buried in as many different places as we have
times forty thousand francs. Subjoined you will find a list of the
names of those who will know what the sums are and where they will
be deposited.
Brother Alcibiades came just in time to be present at an
execution; he has seen how we punish a traitor.
I thank you, my dear general, for your very kind offer to my
brother, but I intend to keep him out of danger until he may be
called upon to take my place. My elder brother was shot,
bequeathing to me the duty of avenging his death. I shall probably
die upon the scaffold, and I shall die bequeathing a similar duty
to my brother. He in his turn will enter the road that we have
trodden; and he will contribute to the good cause as we have done,
or will die as we shall. No less powerful a motive could induce
me, while asking your friendship for him, to deprive him of your
immediate protection.
Send us again, as soon as you can spare him, our beloved brother
Alcibiades; we shall be doubly glad to send you the message by
such a messenger.
MORGAN.
The letter was approved by all, folded, sealed, and then given to Coster
de Saint-Victor.
At midnight the great portal of the Chartreuse opened to permit two
horsemen to pass out. One, the bearer of the letter to Cadoudal,
together with the desired sum, took the road to Mâcon. The other,
carrying the corpse of Lucien de Fargas, was on his way to the Place de
la Prefecture at Bourg.
In the breast of the corpse was the knife with which he had been killed;
and attached to the handle by a thread was the letter which the
condemned man had written just before his death.
CHAPTER IX
THE COMTE DE FARGAS
It is now necessary that our readers should learn who was the
unfortunate young man whose body had been placed upon the Place de la
Prefecture, and also who the young woman was who had alighted at the
Hôtel des Grottes de Ceyzeriat in the same square.
They were the last remaining scions of an old family of Provence. Their
father, formerly a colonel and Chevalier de Saint-Louis, was born in the
same town as Barras, with whom he had been intimate in his youth;
namely, Fos-Emphoux. An uncle who had died at Avignon, making him his
heir, had left him a house in that city. Thither he went in 1787, with
his children, Lucien and Diane. Lucien at that time was twelve and Diane
eight. That was the time of early revolutionary ardor, hopeful or
fearful, as one was either a patriot or a royalist.
To those who are acquainted with Avignon, there were then in that city,
as there are now and always have been, two cities in one--the Roman city
and the French city.
There was the papal city, with its magnificent papal palace, its hundred
churches, each more splendid than the other, and its innumerable bells,
always ready to sound the tocsin of incendiarism or the knell of murder.
The French city, with its Rhone, its silk manufactories, and its
crossroads going from north to south, from east to west, from Lyons to
Marseilles, from Nîmes to Turin--the French city, the accursed city,
longing for a king, jealous of its liberties, shuddering beneath the
yoke of vassalage, a vassalage with the clergy for its lord.
The clergy--not the clergy as it has been from all times in the Gallican
church, and such as we see it to-day, pious, tolerantly austere in its
duties, living in the world to console and edify it, without mingling in
its passions and its joys; but the clergy such as cupidity and intrigue
had made it, with its court abbés, rivalling the Roman abbé's, idle,
elegant, licentious, kings of fashion, autocrats of the salon,
frequenters of houses of ill-fame. Do you want a type of these abbés?
Take the Abbé Maury, proud as a duke, insolent as a lackey, son of a
shoemaker, more aristocratic than the son of a great lord.
We have said, Avignon, Roman city; let us add, Avignon, city of hatreds.
The heart of the child, born elsewhere free from the taint of hate, came
into the world in the midst of hereditary hatred, bequeathed from father
to son, and from son to son in turn, a diabolical inheritance for his
children. In such a city every one was forced to make definite choice,
and act a part in accordance with the importance of his position.
The Comte de Fargas had been a royalist before coming to Avignon. When
he settled there, in order to meet his equals he was forced to become a
fanatic. From that time he was looked upon as one of the royalist
leaders and one of the standard-bearers of religion.
The time of which we are speaking was, as we have said, the year '87,
the dawn of our independence. And so, at the first cry of liberty which
was uttered in France, the French city rose full of joy and hope. The
moment had come for her to contest aloud the concession made by a young
queen under age, of a city, a province, and half a million souls, in
order to atone for her crimes. By what right had she sold these souls
forever to a foreign master?
All France hastened to the Champ de Mars, to meet in the fraternal
embrace of the Federation. All Paris had labored to prepare that immense
piece of ground; where sixty-seven years after the time of this
fraternal embrace it was to invite all Europe to the Universal
Exposition--the triumph of peace and industry over war. Avignon alone
was excluded from this great love-feast; Avignon alone had no part in
this universal communion. Was not Avignon, then, a part of France?
Avignon named deputies who went to the papal legate and gave him
twenty-four hours in which to leave the city. During the night the Roman
party, with the Comte de Fargas at its head, by way of revenge, amused
itself by hanging a manikin wearing the tri-colored cockade.
It is possible to direct the course of the Rhone, to canal the Durance,
to dam up the fierce torrents which, on the melting of the winter's
snow, precipitate themselves in liquid avalanches from the peaks of Mont
Ventoux; but this terrible living flood, this human torrent which rushed
through the steep incline of the streets of Avignon, when once loosed,
once launched on its way, heaven itself put forth no hand to stay its
course.
At sight of the manikin with the national colors dangling at the end of
a cord, the French city rose upon its very foundations with shrieks of
rage. The Comte de Fargas, who knew his Avignonese, retired, on the
night of this clever expedition which he had led, to the house of one of
his friends in the valley of the Vaucluse. Four of his retainers, who
were rightly suspected of having taken part in this expedition, were
torn from his home and strung up in the manikin's stead. In order to
accomplish this they seized ropes forcibly from a worthy man named
Lescuyer, who was afterward falsely accused by the royalists of having
volunteered to furnish them. This occurred on the 11th of June, 1790.
The French city as a unit wrote to the National Assembly and gave itself
to France, and with itself its Rhone, its commerce, the Midi, and the
half of Provence. The National Assembly, was in one of its reactionary
moods; it did not wish to quarrel with the pope, and it temporized with
the king; the matter was therefore postponed.
From that moment the patriotic movement in Avignon became a revolt, and
the pope was empowered to punish and repress. Pope Pius VI. ordered the
annulment of all that had been done in the Comtat-Venaissin, and the
reestablishment of the privileges of the nobles and the clergy, and
also that of the Inquisition in all its rigor. The Comte de Fargas
returned triumphantly to Avignon, and not only no longer concealed the
fact that he had strung up the manikin with the tri-colored cockade, but
even boasted of it. No one dared to say anything. The pontifical decrees
were posted.
One man, one only, dared, in open day, in the sight of all, to go
straight to the wall on which the decree was affixed and tear it down.
His name was Lescuyer. He was the man who had already been accused of
furnishing ropes to hang the royalists. It will be remembered that he
had been wrongfully accused. He was not a young man, and he therefore
had not been swayed by the passions of youth. No, he was almost an old
man, and not even a native of the country. He was a Frenchman of
Picardy, impulsive and reflective at the same time. He was a notary, who
had long been established at Avignon. This act of his was a crime at
which all Roman Avignon trembled--a crime so great that the Virgin wept
over it.
You see, Avignon is already Italy; it must have its miracles at any
cost, and if Heaven would not provide them, some one would be found to
invent them. This particular miracle occurred in the church of the
Cordeliers. The crowd flocked thither.
A report was started at the same time which brought the excitement to a
climax. A large chest, tightly sealed, had been carried through the
city. This chest had excited the curiosity of the people of Avignon.
What did it contain? Two hours later it was no longer one chest, but
eighteen, which had been seen going in the direction of the Rhone. As
for their contents, a porter had revealed that they were the treasures
of the Mont-de-Piété which the French party were carrying with them in
their departure from Avignon. The treasures of the Mont-de-Piété--that
is to say, the possessions of the poor! The more wretched a city the
richer its pawnshops. Few cities could boast such wealth in their
pawnshops as could Avignon. This was no longer a matter of political
opinion, it was a theft, an infamous theft. Whites and Blues, or, in
other words, royalists and patriots, rushed to the church of the
Cordeliers, not to see the miracle, but to shout that the municipality
should answer to them for this crime.
Monsieur de Fargas was naturally at the head of those who shouted the
loudest.
CHAPTER X
THE TROUILLASSE TOWER
Now Lescuyer, the man of the ropes, the patriot who had torn down the
decrees of the Holy Father, the quondam Picard notary, was secretary to
the municipality. His name was thrown to the crowds as not only having
participated in the crimes already mentioned, but as having signed the
order to the keeper at the Mont-de-Piété to allow the property to be
taken away.
Four men were sent out to seize Lescuyer and to bring him to the church.
They found him in the street on his way to the municipality. The four
men threw themselves upon him, and amid ferocious cries they dragged him
to the church.
In the church, Lescuyer realized from the flaming eyes fixed upon him,
the outstretched hands which menaced him, and the cries demanding his
death, that he was in one of those circles of hell forgotten by Dante.
His only idea was that this hatred was inspired because of the ropes
which had been taken forcibly from his shop, and the destruction of the
pontifical decrees.
He ascended the pulpit, thinking to convert it into a tribunal of
justice, and in the voice of a man who is not only not ashamed of what
he has done, but who would repeat it, he began: "Citizens, I believed
the Revolution necessary, and I have acted accordingly."
The Whites knew that if Lescuyer, whose death they desired, should
explain, Lescuyer was saved. That was not what they wanted. Obeying a
sign from the Comte de Fargas, they threw themselves upon him, tore him
from the pulpit, and thrust him into the midst of the howling mob, which
dragged him toward the altar, uttering that terrible cry, which combines
the hiss of the serpent and the roar of the tiger--that murderous "_Zou!
zou! zou!_" peculiar to the populace of Avignon.
Lescuyer knew that sinister cry. He tried to take refuge at the foot of
the altar. He fell there. A laborer, armed with a club, dealt him such a
blow on the head that the weapon was broken in two.
Then they flung themselves upon the poor body, and with that awful
mixture of ferocity and gayety peculiar to Southern people, the men sang
as they danced upon his body, while the women, that he might the more
fitly atone for the blasphemies which he had uttered against the pope,
cut off his lips, or rather scalloped them with their scissors. Then
from the midst of that terrible group came a cry, or rather a
death-rattle. It said: "In the name of Heaven, in the name of the
Virgin, in the name of humanity, kill me at once!"
This groan was heard and understood. With one accord the crowd drew
back. They left the wretched, mangled, bleeding man to taste his
death-agony. It lasted five hours, during which, amid bursts of
laughter, jeers, insults and mockeries, the poor body lay quivering on
the steps of the altar. That is how they kill at Avignon.
Stay, and you will see that there is still another way.
While Lescuyer was undergoing his mortal agony, it occurred to one of
the French party to go to the Mont-de-Piété (a thing they might well
have done at first), to see if the story of the theft were true. He
found everything in order there; not the smallest article had been
removed.
It was therefore not as an accomplice of theft, but as a patriot, that
Lescuyer had been murdered.
There was at that time a man in Avignon who ruled the destinies of that
party which in times of revolution is neither white nor blue, but
blood-hued. All these terrible leaders of the South have acquired such
fatal celebrity that it suffices to name them for every one, even the
least educated, to recognize them. This was the famous Jourdan. Braggart
and liar, he had made the common people believe that it was he who had
cut off the head of the governor of the Bastille; and so they called him
"Jourdan Coupe-Tête." This was not his real name; it was Mathieu Jouve.
He was not a Provençal; he came from Puy-en-Velay. He had once been a
muleteer on the steep heights which surrounded his native town;
afterward he became a soldier, without seeing war (war might have
perhaps humanized him), then an innkeeper at Paris. At Avignon he dealt
in madder.
He assembled three hundred men, took possession of the gates of the
city, left half his troops there, and with the rest marched upon the
church of the Cordeliers, preceded by two pieces of artillery. He set
the battery up in front of the church and fired at random. The assassins
dispersed like a flock of frightened birds, some escaping through the
windows, others by way of the sacristy, leaving several dead upon the
church steps. Jourdan and his men stepped over these corpses and entered
the sacred precincts.
There was nothing there save the statue of the Virgin and the
unfortunate Lescuyer. He was still breathing, and when they asked him
who had assassinated him, he gave the name, not of those who had dealt
the blows, but of the man who had given the order to strike.
It was the Comte de Fargas.
Jourdan and his men were careful not to despatch the dying man, for his
agony was a most potent means of exciting the people. They took this
remnant of pulsating life, which was three-fourths dead, and carried it
along, bleeding, panting, with the death-rattle in its throat. They
shouted: "Fargas! Fargas! We must have Fargas!"
Every one fled at the sight, shutting doors and windows. At the end of
an hour Jourdan and his men were masters of the city. Lescuyer died, and
no one knew when he drew his last breath; but it mattered little, for
they no longer needed his agony.
Jourdan took advantage of the terror he had inspired; and in order to
assure the victory to his party, he arrested, or had arrested, eighty
persons, assassins or alleged assassins, of Lescuyer, and, in
consequence, accomplices of Fargas. As for the latter, he was not
arrested as yet; but they were sure that he would be, since all the
gates of the city were carefully guarded and the Comte de Fargas was
known to everybody.
Of the eighty persons arrested, more than thirty had not even set foot
within the church; but when chance affords such an excellent opportunity
of ridding one's self of enemies, it should be accepted. These eighty
persons were thrust into the Trouillasse Tower.
This was the tower in which the Inquisition was wont to put its victims
to the torture. The greasy soot from the funereal pyre which consumed
human flesh can still be seen to this very day along the walls, and also
all the implements of torture, which have been carefully preserved--the
caldron, the oven, the wooden horses, the chains, the oubliettes, yes,
even to the old bones--nothing is wanting.
It was in this tower, built by Clement IV., that they confined the
eighty prisoners. When they were safely lodged there, their captors were
much embarrassed.
Who should try them? There were no legally appointed courts save those
of the pope. Should they kill these wretches as they had killed
Lescuyer? As we have said, there was at least a third of them, possibly
half, who not only had taken no part in the assassination, but who had
not even set foot in the church. To make an end of them was the only
safe way; the slaughter would pass under the head of reprisals.
But executioners were needed to kill these eighty people.
A sort of tribunal organized by Jourdan sat in one of the halls of the
palace. They had a clerk named Raphel; a president, half Italian, half
French, an orator in the popular dialect, named Barbe Savournin de la
Roua; then there were three or four poor devils, a baker, a
charcoal-burner (their names have been lost, because they were of low
estate). These were the ones who exclaimed: "We must kill them all! If
any escape they will bear witness against us."
Executioners were wanting; there were scarcely twenty men in the
courtyard, all belonging to the lowest classes in Avignon--a wig-maker,
a women's-shoemaker, a cobbler, a mason, a carpenter, all with weapons
caught up at haphazard. One had a sword, another a bayonet, this one a
bar of iron, that one a piece of wood that had been hardened in the
fire. They were all shivering in a fine October rain. It would be
difficult to make assassins of such creatures. Nonsense! is there
anything difficult for the devil? There is a moment in such events when
Providence seems to abandon its followers; then it is Satan's turn.
Satan in person entered this cold and muddy court disguised in the
appearance, form and face of an apothecary of the neighborhood, named
Mende. He set up a table, lighted by two lanterns. Upon it he placed
glasses, pitchers, jugs, and bottles. What was the infernal beverage
that was contained in these mysterious receptacles? No one knows; but
its effect is well-known. All those who drank of that diabolical liquor
were seized with a sudden fever that raged through their veins--the lust
of blood and murder. After that they needed only to be shown the door,
and they hurled themselves into the cells.
The massacre lasted all night. All night cries, shrieks and moans echoed
through the darkness. They killed them all, men and women. It took a
long time, for, as we have said, the executioners were drunk and poorly
armed. However, the task was finished after a time. As soon as the
victims were killed they were thrown, dead and wounded together, into
the pit of the Trouillasse Tower, a distance of some sixty feet down.
The men were thrown first, and then the women. At nine o'clock in the
morning, after the massacre had lasted twelve hours, a voice cried out
from the depths of the sepulchre: "For God's sake, come and finish me!"
One man, the armorer Bouffier, leaned over the hole; the others did not
dare.
"Who called?" they asked him.
"It was Lami," he replied, drawing back.
"Well," asked the assassins, "what do you see down there?"
"A queer marmalade," he replied; "all pell-mell, men and women, priests
and pretty girls. It is enough to make one die of laughing."
At that moment cries of grief and shouts of triumph made themselves
heard, and the name of Fargas was repeated by a thousand voices. It was
indeed the count whom they were bringing to Jourdan Coupe-Tête. He had
just been found hidden in a cask in the Hôtel Palais-Royal. He was half
naked, and covered with such immense quantities of blood that they did
not know but what he would fall dead when they loosened their grip.
CHAPTER XI
BROTHER AND SISTER
The executioners, who might have been thought weary, were only drunk.
Even as the sight of wine seemingly gives strength to a drunkard, so
does the sight of blood revive the forces of the assassin. All these
cut-throats, who were lying in the courtyard half asleep, opened their
eyes and jumped to their feet at the name of Fargas.
He, far from being dead, had received only some slight wounds. But when
he found himself in the presence of these fiends, believing his death
to be inevitable, and having but the one idea of making it as swift and
painless as possible, he threw himself upon the man who was nearest to
him, and bit him so savagely in the cheek that the man thought of
nothing but putting an end to the horrible pain. He instinctively thrust
out his hand, and his knife, coming in contact with the count's breast,
was buried into it up to the hilt. The count fell dead without a cry.
Then they did to his corpse what they had been cheated of doing with the
living man. Each man flung himself upon it, struggling to secure a bit
of his flesh. When men reach such a point there is little difference
between them and the South Sea Islanders who live on human flesh.
They lighted a pile of wood and threw Fargas's body upon it; and as if
no new god or goddess could be glorified without human sacrifice, the
Liberty of the pontifical city had on the same day its patriot martyr in
the person of Lescuyer and its royalist martyr in Fargas.
While these things were taking place at Avignon, the two children,
ignorant of these dire events, were living in a little house which was
called the Three Cypresses, because of three trees which stood in front
of it. Their father had gone in the morning to Avignon, as he often did,
and he had been stopped at one of the gates as he was on his way back to
them.
The first night passed without occasioning them much uneasiness. As he
had a house in the city as well as one in the country, the Comte de
Fargas often stopped a day or two at Avignon, for business, it might be,
or for pleasure.
Lucien preferred to live in the country, of which he was very fond. He
and his sister were alone there except for the cook and one other
servant. He was passionately attached to Diane, who was three years
younger than himself. She returned his affection with the ardor of
Southern natures, which can neither love nor hate by halves.
The young people were brought up together and were never parted.
Although of different sexes they had had the same masters and had
pursued the same studies; with the result that at ten Diane showed
slight resemblances to a boy, and Lucien at thirteen gave evidence of
girlish traits.
As their country-seat was not more than two miles distant from Avignon,
the tradesfolk brought them word on the second day of the murders which
had been committed. The two children were much alarmed on their father's
account. Lucien gave orders to saddle his horse; but Diane would not let
him go alone. She had a horse like her brother's and was quite as good
an equestrian as he; she therefore saddled her horse herself, and they
set off at a gallop for the city.
They had only just arrived and had begun to make inquiries, when they
learned that their father had been arrested and hurried to the papal
palace, where a tribunal was sitting in justice upon the royalists. As
soon as they heard this, Diane set off at a sharp gallop and hastened up
the slope that led to the old fortress. Lucien followed her at a short
distance. They reached the courtyard almost at the same time, and
perceived the smoking remnants of the fagots which had consumed their
father's body. Several of the assassins recognized them and cried out:
"Death to the wolf's cubs!"
At the same time they endeavored to seize their bridles in order to
force the orphans to dismount. One of the men who had carried his hand
to the bridle of Diane's horse received a stinging blow across the face
from her riding-whip. This was only an act of legitimate defence, but it
exasperated the assassins, who redoubled their cries and threats. But
just then Jourdan Coupe-Tête came forward. Whether from satiety or from
a tardy sense of justice a ray of humanity shone in upon his heart.
"Yesterday," he said, "in the heat of the struggle and the desire for
vengeance, we may possibly have mistaken the innocent for the guilty;
but to-day we cannot permit such an error. The Comte de Fargas was
guilty of insulting France and of murdering human beings. He hung the
national colors on an infamous gibbet and he incited the murder of
Lescuyer. The Comte de Fargas deserved death and you meted it out to
him. It is well. France and humanity are avenged! But his children have
never participated in an act of barbarity or injustice, and they are
innocent. Let them go in peace therefore, that they may not be able to
say of the patriots, as we can say of the royalists, that we are
assassins."
Diane did not wish to flee, and to her mind to go without wreaking
vengeance was equivalent to fleeing; but she and her brother could do
nothing by themselves. Lucien took the bridle of her horse and led her
away.
When the two orphans reached home they burst into tears and threw
themselves into each other's arms; they had no one left in the world to
love except themselves.
Their mutual love was a holy and fraternal thing to see. Thus they grew
up together until Lucien was twenty-one and Diane eighteen.
The Thermidorean reaction occurred at this time. Their name was a pledge
of their political creed. They went to no one; but others sought them
out. Lucien listened coldly to the propositions which were made to him,
and demanded time for reflection. Diane seized upon them eagerly, and
signified that she would undertake to convince her brother. Indeed, no
sooner were they alone than she confronted him with the great question
"Noblesse oblige."
Lucien had been educated as a royalist and a Christian. He had to avenge
his father, and his sister exerted great influence over him. He
therefore gave his word. From that moment, that is to say toward the end
of 1796, he became a member of the Company of Jehu, called _Du Midi_.
We know the rest.
It would be difficult to describe the violence of Diane's emotions from
the time of her brother's arrest until he was transferred to the
department of the Ain. She then took all the money of which she could
dispose and started in a post-chaise for Nantua.
We know that she arrived too late, and that at Nantua she learned of her
brother's abduction and the burning of the registry, and that, thanks to
the judge's acumen, she was made cognizant of the motive of the two
exploits. She reached the Hôtel des Grottes de Ceyzeriat that same day
about noon, and upon her arrival she hastened at once to present herself
at the prefecture, where she related what had occurred at Nantua, which
was still unknown at Bourg.
This was by no means the first time that word of the prowess of the
Companions of Jehu had reached the prefect's ear.
Bourg was a royalist town. Most of its inhabitants sympathized with the
young outlaws. Frequently, when giving orders that one of their number
be watched or arrested, the prefect had been conscious of an invisible
net, drawing around him, and although he could not see clearly, he felt
the source of some hidden resistance which paralyzed his authority. But
this time the accusation was definite and precise; armed men had taken
their accomplice by force from prison; they had, again by force,
compelled the registry clerk to give them the paper which compromised
the names of four of their accomplices in the Midi. These men, finally,
had been seen on their way to Bourg, after the perpetration of their
double crime.
He summoned the commander of the gendarmerie, the president of the
court, and the police commissioner to appear before himself and Diane;
he made Diane repeat her exhaustive accusation against these formidable
unknown persons; he declared that within three days he proposed to have
definite information; and he asked Diane to spend those three days at
Bourg. Diane divined how great an interest the prefect would necessarily
take in the apprehension of those whom she was seeking. She returned at
nightfall to the hotel, worn out with fatigue, and dying of hunger, for
she had scarcely eaten anything since she had left Avignon.
She supped and retired, sleeping that deep sleep of youth which conquers
grief.
The next morning a great uproar beneath her windows aroused her. She
rose and peered through her blinds, but she could discern naught save an
immense crowd surging in every direction; but something in the nature of
a presentiment told her that a fresh trial awaited her.
She put on her dressing-gown, and without waiting to smooth her hair,
which had become disordered during her slumber, she opened the casement
and looked over the balcony.
But no sooner had she cast a glance at the street, than she rushed from
her room with a loud cry, darted down the stairs, and threw herself, mad
with grief, dishevelled and ghastly pale, upon the body which was lying
in the centre of the group, crying: "My brother! my brother!"
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH THE READER WILL MEET SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES
We must now ask our readers to follow us to Milan, where, as we have
said, Bonaparte, who no longer called himself _Buonaparte_, had his
headquarters.
The same day, and at the very hour when Diane de Fargas recovered her
brother in so pitiful and tragic a manner, three men came out of the
barracks of the Army of Italy, while three others issued from the
adjacent barracks, which were occupied by the Army of the Rhine. General
Bonaparte had demanded a reinforcement after his first victories, and
two thousand men had been detached from Moreau's army, and sent, under
command of Bernadotte, to the Army of Italy.
The six men made their way toward the eastern gate, walking in two
separate groups, each at a little distance from the other. This was the
gate behind which occurred the numerous duels which resulted from
personal rivalry of valor, and the differences of opinion between the
soldiers from the North and those who had always fought in the South.
An army is always modelled upon the characteristics of its general. His
peculiarities extend to his officers, and from them they spread to the
soldiers. The division of the Rhine, which had come South under
Bernadotte's command, was formed upon Moreau's model.
The royalist faction looked longingly toward Moreau and Pichegru. The
latter had been all ready to yield, but he had wearied of the indecision
of the Prince de Condé. Nor had he been willing to introduce the enemy
into France without having determined beforehand the conditions which
should circumscribe the rights of the prince whom he was admitting, as
well as those of the people who were to receive him. Nothing had
actually taken place between himself and the Prince de Condé except a
correspondence which had borne no fruit. He had, moreover, resolved to
bring about this revolution, not through his military influence, but
through that of the high position which his fellow-citizens had bestowed
upon him in making him president of the Five Hundred.
Moreau's Republicanism could not be shaken. Careless, moderate,
unemotional, with no taste for politics beyond his capacity, he held
himself in reserve, sufficiently nattered by the praise which his
friends and the royalists had bestowed upon his masterly retreat from
the Danube, which they likened to that of Xenophon.
His army, therefore, was like him, cold, phlegmatic and submissive to
his discipline. The Army of Italy, on the contrary, was composed of our
Southern revolutionists--brave hearts who were as impulsive in their
opinions as in their courage.
Having been the centre for more than a year and a half of the glory
which the French arms were reaping before the eyes of all Europe, the
attention of that continent was fixed upon them. It could pride itself,
not upon masterly retreats, but upon victories. Instead of being
forgotten by the government, as were the armies of the Rhine and the
Sambre-et-Meuse, generals, officers and soldiers were overwhelmed with
praise and honors, gorged with money and sated with pleasure. Serving
first under General Bonaparte--that is to say, under the star which had
been shedding a light so brilliant that it had dazzled all Europe--then
under Generals Masséna, Joubert, and Augereau, who set the example of
the most ardent republicanism, they were, by order of Bonaparte, kept
informed of the events which were transpiring at Paris (through the
medium of the journals which the general circulated among them), that is
to say, of a reaction which threatened to equal that of Vendémiaire. To
these men--who did not form their opinions by discussion, but who
received them ready-made--the Directory, the heir and successor of the
Convention, was still the revolutionary government to whom their
services were devoted, as in 1792. They asked but one thing, now that
they had conquered the Austrians and thought that they had nothing more
to do in Italy, and that was to cross the Alps again, in order to put
the aristocrats in Paris to the sword.
These two groups on their way to the Eastern gate presented a fair
sample of the two armies.
One--which, as its uniform denoted, belonged to that tireless infantry
which, starting from the foot of the Bastille, had made the tour of the
world--consisted of Sergeant-major Faraud, who had married the Goddess
of Reason, and his two inseparable companions, Groseiller and Vincent,
who had both attained to the rank of sergeant.
The other group belonged to the cavalry, and was composed of the
chasseur Falou--who, it will be remembered, had been appointed
quartermaster-general by Pichegru--and two of his comrades, one a
quartermaster, the other a brigadier.
Falou, who belonged to the Army of the Rhine, had not advanced a step
since his promotion by Pichegru.
Faraud, it is true, had remained in the same rank which he had received
at the lines of Weissembourg--the rank which stops so many poor fellows
whose education will not permit of their taking the examination
necessary for a commission. But he had been twice mentioned in the order
of the day of the Army of Italy, and Bonaparte had ordered him brought
before him, and had said to him: "Faraud, you are a fine fellow."
The result was that Faraud was as well satisfied with these two orders
of the day, and Bonaparte's words, as though he had been promoted to the
rank of a sub-lieutenancy.
Now, Quartermaster-general Falou and Sergeant-major Faraud had had a few
words on the previous evening, which had seemed sufficient to them to
warrant this promenade to the Eastern gate--in other words, to use the
terms employed under such circumstances, the two friends were about to
refresh themselves with a sword-thrust or two.
And, in fact, as soon as they were outside the gate, the seconds of both
parties began to look for a suitable spot where each would have the
advantage of sun and ground. When this was found, the seconds notified
the principals, who at once followed them, apparently satisfied by their
choice, and promptly prepared to utilize these advantages by throwing
aside their foraging caps, coats and waistcoats. Then each turned back
the right sleeve as far as the elbow.
Faraud had a flaming heart and the words, "The Goddess of Reason,"
tattooed upon his arm.
Falou, less concentrated in his affections, had this Epicurean device,
"Long live wine! Long live love!"
The fight was to be conducted with the infantry swords known as
_briquets_. Each received his weapon from one of his seconds and fell
upon his adversary.
"What the devil can one do with such a kitchen knife as this," growled
chasseur Falou, who was accustomed to the long cavalry sabre and who
handled the short sword as if it had been a pen. "This is only fit to
cut cabbages and to scrape carrots."
"It will serve also," said Faraud with that peculiar movement of the
neck which we have already noticed in him, "it will serve also, for
those who are not afraid to come to close quarters, to shave an enemy's
mustache."
And making a feint to thrust at his adversary's thigh, he thrust at the
other's head and was successfully parried.
"Oh!" said Falou, "very good, sergeant, the mustaches are according to
orders. It is forbidden to cut them off in our regiment, and, above all,
to let any one else cut them off. Those who permit such a thing are
usually punished. Punished for it," he repeated, watching his chance,
"punished for it by a touch on the wrist." And with such rapidity that
his opponent had no time to parry, Falou made the thrust which is known
by the portion of the body at which it is aimed. The blood spurted from
Faraud's arm on the instant, but, furious at being wounded, he cried:
"It is nothing. It is nothing. Let us go on!"
And he stood on guard.
But the seconds sprang between the combatants, declaring that honor was
satisfied.
Thereupon Faraud threw down his weapon and held out his arm. One of the
seconds drew a handkerchief from his pocket and, with a dexterity that
proved he was no novice at the art, bound up the wound. He was in the
midst of this operation, when a group of eight or ten horsemen appeared
from behind a clump of trees not twenty yards distant.
"The deuce! The commander-in-chief!" said Falou.
The soldiers looked for some way of escaping the notice of their chief;
but he had already seen them, and was urging his horse toward them with
whip and spur. They stood motionless, saluting with one hand, and with
the other at their side. The blood was streaming from Faraud's arm.
CHAPTER XIII
CITIZENS AND MESSIEURS
Bonaparte drew rein four paces from them, making a motion to his staff
to stop where they were. Immovable upon his horse, which was less
impassive than he, stooping slightly from the heat and the malady from
which he was suffering, his piercing eyes half hidden by the drooping
upper lid, and darting flashes through the lashes, he resembled a bronze
statue.
"So you are fighting a duel here," he said, in his incisive voice, "when
you know that I do not approve of duels. The blood of Frenchmen belongs
to France and should be shed for France alone." Then, looking from one
to the other, and finally letting his glance rest upon Faraud, "How does
it happen that a fine fellow like you, Faraud--"
Bonaparte at this time made it a matter of principle to retain in his
memory the faces of the men who distinguished themselves, so that he
could upon necessity call them by name.
Faraud started with delight when he heard the general mention his name,
and raised himself on tiptoe. Bonaparte saw the movement, and, smiling
inwardly, he continued: "How does it happen that a fine fellow like you,
who has been twice mentioned in the order of the day, once at Lodi and
again at Rivoli, should disobey my orders thus? As for your opponent,
whom I do not know--"
The commander-in-chief purposely emphasized these words. Falou frowned,
for the words pierced him like a needle in the side.
"I beg your pardon, general," he said; "the reason you do not know me is
because you are too young; because you were not with the Army of the
Rhine at the battle of Dawendorff, and at Froeschwiller, as well as the
recapture of the lines of Weissembourg. If you had been there--"
"I was at Toulon," said Bonaparte, dryly: "and if you drove the
Prussians out of France at Weissembourg, I did as much for the English
at Toulon, which was fully as important."
"That is true," said Falou; "and we even put your name on the order of
the day. I was wrong to say that you were too young; I acknowledge it
and beg your pardon. But I was right in saying that you were not there,
since you yourself admit that you were at Toulon."
"Go on," said Bonaparte; "have you anything more to say?"
"Yes, general," replied Falou.
"Then say it," replied Bonaparte; "but as we are Republicans, be good
enough to call me citizen-general when you address me."
"Bravo!" cried Faraud; and his seconds, Groseiller and Vincent, nodded
approvingly.
Falou's seconds did not betray either their approval or disapproval.
"Well, citizen-general!" said Falou, with that familiarity of speech
which the principle of equality had introduced into the army, "if you
had been at Dawendorff, faith! you would have seen me save General
Abatucci's life during a charge of cavalry, and he is as good as any
man."
"Ah!" said Bonaparte, "thanks! I believe that Abatucci is a sort of
cousin of mine."
Falou picked up his cavalry sabre and showed it to Bonaparte. He was
much astonished to find a general's sword in the possession of a
quartermaster-general.
"It was on that occasion that General Pichegru, who is as good as any
man"--and he emphasized this characterization--"seeing the state to
which my poor sabre had been reduced, made me a present of his, which is
not altogether according to orders, as you see."
"Go on," said Bonaparte; "for I see that you have something more to tell
me."
"I have this to tell you also, general. If you had been at
Froeschwiller, on the day that General Hoche offered six hundred francs
on the Prussian cannon, you would have seen me capture one of those
cannon, and also have seen me made quartermaster for it."
"And did you receive those six hundred francs?"
Falou shook his head.
"We gave them up to the widows and children of the poor fellows who died
on the day of Dawendorff, and I took only my pay, which was in one of
the Prince de Condé's chests."
"Brave, disinterested fellow! Go on," said the general; "I like to see
such men as you, who have no journalists to sound their praises or to
decry them, pronouncing their own panegyrics."
"And then," continued Falou, "had you been at the storming of the lines
of Weissembourg, you would have known that when three Prussians attacked
me I killed two. True, I did not parry in time to escape a blow from the
third, of which this is the scar--you see where I mean--to which I
replied with a thrust with the point that sent my man to rejoin his two
comrades. I was made quartermaster-general for that."
"And is this all true?" asked Bonaparte.
"Oh! as for that," said Faraud, drawing near, and bringing his bandaged
hand to the salute, "if the quartermaster needs a witness, I can testify
that he has told nothing but the truth, and that he has said too little
rather than too much. It is well known in the Army of the Rhine."
"Well," said Bonaparte, looking benevolently at the two men who had just
been exchanging blows, and of whom one was now sounding the other's
praises, "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, citizen Falou. I
trust that you will do as well in the Army of Italy as you have in the
Army of the Rhine. But how does it happen that two such fine fellows as
you should be enemies?"
"We, citizen-general?" exclaimed Falou. "We are not enemies."
"Why the deuce were you fighting then, if you are not enemies?"
"Oh!" said Faraud, with his customary twist of the neck, "we were just
fighting for the sake of fighting."
"But suppose that I tell you I wish to know why you fought?"
Faraud looked at Falou as if to ask his permission.
"Since the citizen-general wants to know, I see no reason why we should
conceal it," said the latter.
"Well, we fought--we fought--because he called me monsieur."
"And what do you want to be called?"
"Citizen, by Heaven!" replied Faraud. "We paid dearly enough for that
title to want to keep it. I am not an aristocrat like those messieurs of
the Army of the Rhine."
"You hear, citizen-general," said Falou, tapping impatiently with his
foot and laying his hand on the hilt of his sabre; "he calls us
aristocrats."
"He was wrong, and so were you when you called him monsieur," replied
the commander-in-chief. "We are all citizens of the same country,
children of the same family, sons of the same mother. We are fighting
for the Republic; and the moment when kings recognize it is not the time
for good men like you to deny it. To what division do you belong?" he
continued, addressing Quartermaster Falou.
"To the Bernadotte division," replied Falou.
"Bernadotte," repeated Bonaparte--"Bernadotte, a volunteer, who was only
a sergeant-major in '89; a gallant soldier, who was promoted on the
battlefield by Kléber to the rank of brigadier-general, who was made a
general of division after the victories of Fleurus and Juliers, and who
took Maestricht and Altdorf! Bernadotte encouraging aristocrats in his
army! I thought he was a Jacobin. And you, Faraud, to what corps do you
belong?"
"To that of citizen-general Augereau. No one can accuse him of being an
aristocrat. He is like you, citizen-general. And so, when we heard these
men of the Sambre-et-Meuse calling us monsieur, we said to each other,
'A cut of the sabre for each monsieur! Is it agreed?' 'Agreed!' And
since then we have stood up here perhaps a dozen times, our division
against that of Bernadotte. To-day it is my turn to pay the piper.
To-morrow it will be a monsieur."
"To-morrow it will be no one," said Bonaparte, imperiously. "I will have
no duelling in the army. I have said it, and I repeat it."
"But--" murmured Faraud.
"I will talk of this with Bernadotte. In the meantime you will please
preserve intact the Republican traditions; and whether you belong to the
Sambre-et-Meuse, or to the Army of Italy, you will address each other as
citizen. You will each of you pass twenty-four hours in the guard-house
as an example. And now shake hands and go away arm in arm like good
citizens."
The two soldiers stepped up to each other and exchanged a frank and
manly grasp of the hand. Then Faraud threw his vest over his left
shoulder and passed his arm through that of Falou.
The seconds did the same, and all six entered the city by the Eastern
gate, and went quietly toward the barracks.
General Bonaparte looked after them with a smile, murmuring: "Brave
hearts! Cæsar crossed the Rubicon with men like that; but it is not yet
time to do as Cæsar did." Then he cried: "Murat!"
A young man of twenty-four, with black hair and mustache, and a quick,
intelligent eye, dashed forward on his horse, and sprang instantly to
the general's side.
"Murat," he said, "you will start at once for Vicenza, where Augereau is
at present. You will bring him to me at the Palace Serbelloni. You will
tell him that the ground-floor is unoccupied, and that he can have it."
"The deuce!" murmured those who had seen but had not heard; "it looks as
though General Bonaparte were out of humor."
CHAPTER XIV
THE CAUSE OF CITIZEN-GENERAL BONAPARTE'S ILL-HUMOR
Bonaparte returned to the Palace Serbelloni. He was indeed in a bad
humor.
While he was hardly at the beginning of his career, had hardly reached
the dawn of his vast renown, calumny was already persecuting him with
her endeavors to rob him of the merit of his incredible victories, which
were comparable only to those of Alexander, Hannibal, or Cæsar. Men said
that Carnot laid out his military plans, and that his pretended military
genius merely followed step by step the written directions of the
Directory. They also said that he knew nothing of the matter of
administration, and that Berthier, his chief of staff, attended to
everything.
He saw the struggle which was taking place in Paris against the
partisans of royalty, then represented by the Clichy Club, as they had
been represented two years earlier by the Section Le Peletier.
Bonaparte's two brothers, in their private correspondence, urged him to
take a stand between the royalists, that is to say the counter-revolution,
and the Directory, which still stood for the Republic, greatly diverted
no doubt from its original starting-point and its original aim, but the
only standard nevertheless around which republicans could rally.
In the majority of the two councils ill-will against him was patent.
Party leaders were incessantly wounding his self-esteem by their
speeches and their writings. They belittled his glory, and decried the
merits of the admirable army with which he had conquered five others.
He had attempted to enter civil affairs. He had been ambitious to become
one of the five directors in the stead of the one who had resigned.
If he had succeeded in that attempt he was confident that he would in
the end have been sole director. But they had objected to his
age--twenty-eight--as an obstacle, since he would have to be at least
thirty to become a director. He had therefore withdrawn, not daring to
ask an exception in his favor, and thus violate that constitution for
the maintenance of which he had fought on the 13th Vendémiaire.
The directors, moreover, were far from desiring him for a colleague. The
members of this body did not disguise the jealousy with which
Bonaparte's genius inspired them, nor did they hesitate to proclaim that
they were offended at his haughty manner and assumption of independence.
It grieved him to think that they styled him a furious demagogue, and
called him the "Man of the 13th Vendémiaire," whereas, on the 13th
Vendémiaire, he had been only the "Man of the Revolution," in other
words, of the public interests.
His instinctive inclination was, if not toward the Revolution, at least
against the royalists. He was therefore pleased to note the republican
spirit of the Revolution and to encourage it. His first success at
Toulon had been against the royalists, his victory on the 13th
Vendémiaire had also been against royalist forces. What were the five
armies which he had defeated? Armies which supported the cause of the
Bourbons; in other words, royalist armies.
But that which, at this period of all others, when he was wavering
between the safe rôle of Monk and the dangerous rôle of Cæsar, made him
fling high the banner of the Republic, was his innate presentiment of
his future grandeur. Even more than that, it was the proud feeling which
he shared with Cæsar that he would rather be the first man in a country
town than the second in Rome.
Indeed, no matter how exalted a rank the king might confer upon him,
even though it be that of Constable of France, that king would still be
above him, casting a shadow upon his brow. Mounting with the aid of a
king, he would never be more than an upstart; mounting by his own
unaided efforts, he would be no upstart--he would stand upon his own
feet.
Under the Republic, on the contrary, he was already head and shoulders
above the other men, and he could but continue to grow taller and
taller. Perhaps his glance, piercing though it was, had not yet extended
to the vast horizon which the Empire revealed to him; but there was in a
republic an audacity of action and a breadth of enterprise which suited
the audacity of his genius and the breadth of his ambition.
As sometimes happens with men who are destined to greatness, and who
perform impossible deeds--not because they are predestined to them, but
because some one had prophesied that they would do them, and they
thereafter regard themselves as favorites of Providence--the most
insignificant facts, when presented in certain lights, often led to
momentous resolves with Bonaparte. The duel which he had just witnessed,
and the soldiers' quarrel respecting the words monsieur and citizen, had
brought before him the whole question that was then agitating France.
Faraud, in naming his general, Augereau, as an inflexible exponent of
democracy, had indicated to Bonaparte the agent he was seeking to second
him in his secret plans.
More than once Bonaparte had reflected upon the danger of a Parisian
revolt which would either overthrow the Directory, or oppress it as the
Convention had been oppressed, and which would lead to a
counter-revolution, or, in other words, the victory of the royalists,
and to the accession of some prince of the house of Bourbon. In that
case Bonaparte had fully determined to cross the Alps with twenty-five
thousand men, and march upon Paris by way of Lyons. Carnot, with his
sharp nose, had no doubt scented his design, for he sent him the
following letter:
People ascribe to you a thousand projects, each one more absurd
than the other. They cannot believe that a man who has achieved so
much can be content to remain a simple citizen.
The Directory also wrote him:
We have noticed, citizen-general, with the utmost satisfaction, the
proofs of attachment which you are constantly giving to the cause
of liberty and the Constitution of the Year III. You can count upon
the most complete reciprocity on our part. We accept with pleasure
all the offers that you have made to come at the first appeal to
the succor of the Republic. They are only another proof of your
sincere love for your country. You may rest assured that we shall
make use of them only to the interests of its tranquillity, its
happiness, and its glory.
This letter was in the handwriting of La Reveillière-Lepaux, and was
signed by Barras, Rewbell, and La Reveillière. The other two, Carnot and
Barthélemy, either knew nothing about it, or refused to sign it.
But as chance would have it, Bonaparte was better informed concerning
the situation of the directors than were the directors themselves. A
certain Comte Delaunay d'Entraigues--a royalist agent well-known in the
Revolution--happened to be in Venice when the city was besieged by the
French. He was considered the moving factor in all the machinations
which were on foot against France, and particularly against the Army of
Italy. He was a man of sure judgment. He realized the peril of the
Republic of Venice and tried to escape; but the French troops occupied
the mainland, and he and his papers were taken. When he was brought
before Bonaparte as an emigré, the latter treated him with all the
consideration which he habitually showed toward them. He had all his
papers returned to him except three, and, upon his giving his parole,
the general gave him the entire city of Milan for a prison.
One fine morning it was learned that the Comte Delaunay d'Entraigues,
abusing the confidence which the general had reposed in him, had left
Milan and escaped to Switzerland.
But one of the three papers left in Bonaparte's hands, was, under the
circumstances, of the greatest importance. It was an exact recital of
what had taken place between Fauche-Borel and Pichegru at their first
interview at Dawendorff, which has been described in a previous volume,
when Fauche-Borel presented himself to Pichegru under the name and garb
of citizen Fenouillot, commercial dealer in the wines of Champagne.
The famous Comte de Montgaillard, of whom we have, I think, already said
a few words, was intrusted with further communications from the Prince
de Condé to Pichegru; and this paper, written by the Comte Delaunay
d'Entraigues at the dictation of the Comte de Montgaillard himself,
contained the successive offers which the Prince de Condé had made to
the general in command of the Army of the Rhine.
The Prince de Condé, who was vested with all the authority of Louis
XVIII., with the exception of the right of bestowing the blue ribbon,
had offered Pichegru, if he would give up the town of Huningue and
return to France at the head of the Austrians and emigrés, to make him
Marshal of France and governor of Alsace. He offered to give him:
First. The red ribbon.
Second. The Château of Chambord, with its park and its twelve cannon
taken from the Austrians.
Third. A million in ready money.
Fourth. Two hundred thousand francs' income, of which a hundred
thousand, in case he should marry, would revert to his wife, and fifty
thousand to each of his children until the family should become extinct.
Fifth. A hotel in Paris.
Sixth. And lastly, the town of Arbois, General Pichegru's native place,
should be re-christened Pichegru, and should be exempt from all taxes
for twenty-five years.
Pichegru had flatly refused to give up Huningue.
"I will never enter into a conspiracy," he said. "I do not wish to
become a third edition of La Fayette and Dumouriez. My resources are as
sure as they are great. They have roots, not only in the army but in
Paris, in the departments and in the generals who are my colleagues, and
who think as I do. I ask nothing for myself. When I have succeeded I
shall take my reward. But I am not ambitious. You may make your minds
easy on that score at once. But to induce my soldiers to shout 'Long
live the King!' they must each have a full glass in their right hand and
six livres in the left.
"I will cross the Rhine, and enter France with the white flag; I will
march upon Paris; and, for the benefit of his Majesty Louis XVIII., I
will overturn whatever government may be there when I arrive.
"But my soldiers must receive their pay every day, at least until we
have made our fifth day's march upon French soil.
"They will give me credit for the rest."
The negotiations had fallen through on account of the Prince de Condé's
obstinacy in insisting that Pichegru should proclaim the king on the
other side of the Rhine, and give up the town of Huningue.
Although he possessed this precious document, Bonaparte had refused to
use it. It would have cost him too much to betray a general of
Pichegru's renown, whose military talent he admired and who had been his
master at Brienne.
But he was reckoning none the less on what Pichegru could accomplish as
a member of the Council of the Ancients, when, on that very morning,
just as he was about to make a military reconnoissance in the
neighborhood of Milan, he had received a letter from his brother Joseph,
telling him that not only had Pichegru been elected a member of the Five
Hundred, but that by unanimous choice he had been made their president.
He was therefore doubly armed with his former popularity with his
soldiers and his new civic power.
Hence Bonaparte's sudden decision to send a messenger to Augereau
informing him that he wished to see him.
The duel which he had witnessed and the cause which had led to it had
not been without their weight in the scale of his ambition. But the two
combatants little dreamed that they had largely contributed toward
making Augereau a marshal of France, Murat a prince, and Bonaparte an
emperor.
Nor would aught of this have come to pass, had not the 18th Fructidor,
like the 13th Vendémiaire, destroyed the hopes of the royalists.
CHAPTER XV
AUGEREAU
On the next day, while Bonaparte was dictating his letters to
Bourrienne, Marmont, one of his favorite aides-de-camp, who was
discreetly looking out of the window, announced that he could
distinguish at the end of the avenue the waving plume of Murat and the
somewhat massive form of Augereau.
Murat was then, as we have said, a handsome young man of twenty-three or
four. He was the son of an innkeeper of Labastide, near Cahors; and his
father being also postmaster, Murat, at an early age, learned how to
manage horses, and in time became an excellent horseman. Then through I
know not what caprice of his father's (who probably wanted to have a
prelate in the family), he had been sent to a seminary, where, if we may
judge from the letters which are lying before us, his studies did not
extend so far as to give him a proper knowledge of orthography.
Luckily, or unluckily for him, the Revolution opened the doors of the
seminaries. Young Joachim took flight and enlisted in the Constitutional
Guard of Louis XVI., where he distinguished himself by his extreme
opinions, his duels, and his courage.
Dismissed, like Bonaparte, by that same Aubry who in the Five Hundred
continued to wage such severe war upon patriots, he met Bonaparte,
became intimate with him, hastened to place himself under his orders on
the 13th Vendémiaire, and followed him to Italy as aide-de-camp.
Augereau, whom the reader will remember having met at Strasbourg, where
he gave young Eugene de Beauharnais fencing-lessons, was seventeen years
older than Murat, and had already, when we renew our acquaintance with
him, reached his fortieth year. After having stagnated for fifteen years
in the lower grades, he had been transferred from the Army of the Rhine
to the Army of the Pyrenees, under Dugommier.
It was in that army that he won successively the grades of
lieutenant-colonel, colonel, and brigadier-general, in which last
capacity he defeated the Spaniards on the banks of the Fluvia in such
brilliant fashion that he was at once elevated to the rank of general of
division.
We have spoken of the peace with Spain, and have given expression to our
opinion upon that peace, which made a neutral sovereign, if not an ally,
of one of the nearest relatives of Louis XVI., whose head had just
fallen by order of the Convention.
After the peace was signed, Augereau joined the Army of Italy under
Schérer, and contributed largely to the victory of Loano. At last
Bonaparte appeared, and then began the immortal campaign of '96.
Like all the older generals, Augereau deeply deplored the fact, which
fairly aroused his scorn, that a young man of twenty-five should be
given command of the most important army of France. But when he had
marched under the young general's orders; when he had contributed his
share toward the taking of the pass of Millesimo; when, as a result of a
manœuvre suggested by his young colleague, he had beaten the Austrians
at Dego, and had captured the redoubts of Montellesimo without knowing
to what end they had been taken--then he appreciated the power of the
genius which had conceived the clever scheme of separating the
Sardinians from the imperial troops, thereby assuring the success of the
campaign.
He went directly to Bonaparte, confessed his former predispositions, and
apologized manfully, and, like the ambitious man he was, while realizing
his lack of training, which must indubitably operate against him, he
asked Bonaparte to allow him to share in the rewards which the latter
distributed to his young lieutenants.
The fact that Augereau, one of the bravest of the generals of the Army
of Italy, had, on the day succeeding this interview, carried the
intrenched camp of Ceva, and penetrated into Alba and Casale, made it
all the easier for Bonaparte to grant this request. Finally, meeting the
enemy at the bridge of Lodi, which bristled with cannon and was defended
by a terrible fire, he rushed upon the bridge at the head of his
grenadiers, took thousands of prisoners, released Masséna from a
difficult position, and took Castiglione, which was one day converted
into a duchy for him. At last came the famous day of Arcola, which was
to crown for him a campaign which he had made glorious by so many daring
exploits. There, as at Lodi, the bridge had to be crossed. Three times
he led his soldiers to the middle of the bridge, and three times they
were repulsed by a storm of grape-shot and canister. Finally, perceiving
that his ensign had fallen, he seized the flag, and with head down, not
knowing whether he was followed or not, he crossed the bridge and found
himself in the midst of the enemy's artillery and bayonets. But this
time his soldiers, who adored him, followed. The guns were captured and
turned against the enemy.
The victory, one of the most glorious of the campaign, was so justly
recognized as being entirely due to his valor, that the government
presented him with the flag which he had used to arouse the ardor of his
soldiers.
Like Bonaparte, he also reflected that he owed everything to the
Republic, and that the Republic alone could give him all to which his
ambition aspired. Under a king, as he well knew, he would not have risen
above the grade of sergeant. The son of a mason and a fruit-seller, a
common soldier and a fencing master at the outset of his career, he had
become a general of division, and at the first opportunity he might,
thanks to his own courage, become commander-in-chief; like Bonaparte,
although he was not endowed with his genius; like Hoche, although he did
not possess his integrity; or like Moreau, although he had not his
learning.
He had just given proof of his cupidity, which had injured him somewhat
with those pure Republicans who sent their gold epaulets to the Republic
to be melted up, and wore woollen ones in their stead, until gold should
be plentiful.
He had allowed his soldiers three hours' pillage in the town of Lago,
which had risen against him. He did not take active part in the pillage,
it is true, but he bought at a ridiculously low figure all the articles
of value which his soldiers had brought away. He had with him an army
wagon, which was said to contain property worth a million; and
"Augereau's wagon" was known throughout the army.
Having been notified by Marmont, Bonaparte was expecting him.
Murat entered first and announced Augereau. Bonaparte thanked Murat with
a gesture, and intimated that he and Marmont should leave them alone.
Bourrienne also rose to go, but Bonaparte detained him by a movement of
the hand; he had no secrets from his secretary.
Augereau entered. Bonaparte held out his hand to him, and motioned to
him to sit down. Augereau sat down, put his sword between his legs, his
hat on its hilt, his arms on the hat, and asked: "Well, general, what is
it?"
"It is," said Bonaparte, "that I want to congratulate you upon the fine
spirit of your army corps. I stumbled upon a duel yesterday, when one of
your soldiers was fighting a comrade from Moreau's division, because the
latter had called him monsieur."
"Ah!" said Augereau. "The fact is that I have some rascals who will not
listen to reason on that score. This is not the first duel that has been
fought for that very reason. Therefore, before leaving Vicenza this
morning, I published an order of the day forbidding any man of my
division to make use, either verbally or in writing, of the word
monsieur, under penalty of being degraded from his rank, or if he were a
common soldier, depriving him of the right to serve in the armies of the
Republic."
"Then, having taken this precaution," said Bonaparte, looking fixedly at
Augereau, "you do not think, do you, that there will be anything to
prevent your leaving your division for a month or two?"
"Ah, ha!" exclaimed Augereau; "and why should I leave my division?"
"Because you have asked my permission to go to Paris on personal matters
of business."
"And a little on your affairs, also, eh?" said Augereau.
"I thought," said Bonaparte dryly, "that you knew no distinction in our
affairs?"
"No, no," said Augereau, "and you should be pleased that I am modest
enough to be satisfied always with second place."
"Have you not the second place in the Army of Italy?" asked Bonaparte.
"To be sure; but I did a little something toward that myself, and
circumstances may not always be so favorable."
"You see," said Bonaparte, "that when you are no longer useful in Italy,
or when opportunities are few, I find occasion for you to be useful in
France."
"Why? Tell me. Are you sending me to the assistance of the Republic?"
"Yes, unfortunately, the Republic is in poor hands just now; but poor as
they are, it still lives."
"And the Directory?"
"Is divided," replied Bonaparte. "Carnot and Barthélemy incline toward
royalty, and they have with them, it must be confessed, the majority of
the councils. But Barras, Rewbell, and La Reveillière-Lepaux stand firm
for the Republic and the Constitution of the Year III., and they have us
behind them."
"I thought," said Augereau, "that they had thrown themselves into
Hoche's arms."
"Yes; but it will not do to leave them there. There must be no arms in
the country that are longer than ours; and ours must reach beyond the
Alps, and if necessary bring about another 13th Vendémiaire at Paris."
"Well, why do you not go yourself?" asked Augereau.
"Because if I went it would be to overthrow the Directory and not to
sustain it. And I have not done enough yet to play the part of Cæsar."
"And you send me to play the part of your lieutenant. Well! that
satisfies me. What is there to be done?"
"Make an end of the enemies of France, who were only half wiped out on
the 13th Vendémiaire. As long as Barras pursues a Republican course,
second him to the best of your ability and courage; if he hesitates,
resist him; if he betrays, collar him as you would the meanest citizen.
If you fail, I shall be in Paris within the week with twenty-five
thousand soldiers."
"Well," said Augereau, "I will try not to fail. When shall I start?"
"As soon as I have written the letter which you are to take to Barras."
Then, turning to Bourrienne, he said: "Write."
Bourrienne had paper and pen in readiness, and Bonaparte dictated as
follows:
CITIZEN-DIRECTOR--I send you Augereau, my right arm. For everybody
else he is in Paris on a furlough, having some business to attend
to; for you he is the director who keeps pace with us. He brings
you his sword, and he is instructed to say to you that, in case of
need, you may draw upon the budget in Italy to the extent of one,
two, or even three millions.
It is, above all, in civil wars that money becomes the vital
nerve.
I hope in the course of a week to hear that the councils are
purified, and that the Clichy Club no longer exists.
Health and fraternity, BONAPARTE.
P.S.--What is all this we hear about robberies of diligences along
the highroads of the Midi by Chouans, under the name of Companions
of Jehu? Put your hand on four or five of the rascals and make an
example of them.
Bonaparte, according to his habit, read over the letter, and then signed
it with a new pen, which did not make his writing any more legible; then
Bourrienne sealed it and gave it to the messenger.
"Tell them to give Augereau twenty-five thousand francs from my
cash-box, Bourrienne," said Bonaparte. And to Augereau he added: "When
you are out of funds, citizen-general, send to me for more."
CHAPTER XVI
THE CITIZEN-DIRECTORS
It was time for the citizen-general Bonaparte to turn his eyes toward
the citizen-directors. There had been an open rupture, as we have said,
among the five elect of the Luxembourg. Carnot and Barthélemy had drawn
completely apart from their colleagues, Barras, Rewbell, and La
Reveillière-Lepaux.
The result was that the ministry could not continue as it was, some of
the ministers being creatures of Barras, Rewbell, and La
Reveillière-Lepaux, while others followed Carnot and Barthélemy.
There were seven ministers: Cochon, Minister of Police; Bénézech,
Minister of the Interior; Truguet, Minister of Marine; Charles
Delacroix, Minister of Foreign Affairs; Ramel, Minister of Finance;
Merlin, Minister of Justice, and Pétiet, Minister of War.
Cochon, Pétiet, and Bénézech were tainted with royalism. Truguet was
haughty and violent and determined to have his own way. Delacroix was
not equal to his post. In the opinion of the majority of the
directors--Barras, Rewbell, and La Reveillière-Lepaux--Merlin and Ramel
alone should be retained.
The opposition, on the other hand, demanded the removal of four
ministers--Merlin, Ramel, Truguet, and Delacroix.
Barras yielded up Truguet and Delacroix; but he cut off three others who
were members of the Five Hundred, and whose loss would greatly trouble
the two Chambers. These were, as we have said, Cochon, Pétiet, and
Bénézech.
* * * * *
We hope that Madame de Staël's salon has not been forgotten. It was
there, it will be remembered, that the future author of "Corinne" formed
a coterie of opinion, almost as influential as that of the Luxembourg or
the Clichy Club.
Now, Madame de Staël, who had made one minister under the monarchy, was
haunted with the desire to make another under the Directory.
The life of her candidate had been an eventful one, interesting because
of its many changes. He was forty-three years old, a member of one of
the foremost families of France, born lame like _Mephistopheles_, whom
he resembled somewhat in face and mind--a resemblance which increased
when he found his _Faust_. Destined for the Church because of his
infirmity, although the eldest of his family, he had been created Bishop
of Autun at the early age of twenty-five. Then came the Revolution. Our
bishop adopted all its principles, was elected a member of the
Constituent Assembly, suggested the abolition of ecclesiastical tithes,
celebrated mass on the Champ de Mars on the day of the Federation,
blessed the flags, admitted the new constitution of the clergy, and
consecrated bishops who took the oath, which led to his excommunication
by Pope Pius VI.
Sent to London by Louis XVI., to assist the French ambassador, Monsieur
de Chauvelin, he received an order to withdraw from the cabinet of Saint
James in 1794; and at the same time he learned from Paris that he had
been accused by Robespierre.
This double proscription proved fortunate for him; he was ruined, and
went to America, where he accumulated another fortune in commerce. He
returned to Paris some three months before the time of which we are
writing.
His name was Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord.
Madame de Staël, a woman of great intellect, had been attracted by the
man's charming wit; she knew the depths that lay beneath her new
friend's assumed frivolity. She introduced him to Benjamin Constant, who
was her _cicisbeo_ at the time, and Benjamin put him in communication
with Barras.
Barras was enchanted with our prelate. After being presented by Madame
de Staël to Benjamin Constant, and by Benjamin Constant in turn to
Barras, he induced Barras to present him to Rewbell and La
Reveillière-Lepaux. He won them as he won everybody else, and it was
agreed that he should be made Minister of Foreign Affairs in Bénezéch's
stead.
The members of the Directory held a meeting to elect by secret ballot
the members of the various ministries who should succeed those who were
retiring. Carnot and Barthélemy, not ignorant of the agreement between
their three colleagues, imagined that they could successfully oppose
them. But they realized their mistake when they perceived that the three
were unanimous in their choice of those who were to go, those who were
to remain, and those who were to come in.
Cochon, Pétiet, and Bénézech were dismissed; Ramel and Merlin were
retained. Monsieur de Talleyrand was appointed Minister of Foreign
Affairs; Pléville-Lepel, Minister of Marine; François de Neufchâteau
went to the Department of the Interior, and Lenoir-Laroche to the Police
Department.
They also nominated Hoche, Minister of War; but he was only
twenty-eight, and the requisite age was thirty.
It was this selection that had disturbed Bonaparte in his headquarters
at Milan. The secret session had terminated with a violent altercation
between Barras and Carnot. Carnot reproached Barras for his luxurious
mode of life and his dissolute habits. Barras accused Carnot of
defection to the royalist factions. From accusations they passed to the
vilest insults.
"You are only a vile rascal!" Barras said to Carnot. "You have sold the
Republic, and now you wish to cut the throats of those who defend it.
Wretch, brigand!" he continued, rising and shaking his fist in the
other's face; "there is not a citizen who would not be justified in
spitting in your face."
"Very good," replied Carnot; "I will answer your insults between now and
to-morrow."
The next day passed, but Barras was not visited by Carnot's seconds. The
affair had no further consequence.
The appointment of this ministry, in which the two councils had not been
consulted, caused a great sensation among the representatives. They
resolved at once to organize for a struggle. One of the advantages of
counter-revolutions is that they furnish historians with documents which
they would not otherwise be able to obtain.
And indeed, when the Bourbons returned in 1814, each one tried to outdo
the rest in proving that he had conspired against the Republic or the
Empire--that is to say, that he had helped to betray his country.
Their object was to claim the reward of treason; and thus it was that we
became acquainted with all the conspiracies which precipitated Louis
XVI. from his throne; conspiracies of which the people had but a vague
notion under the Republic and the Empire, because proofs were lacking.
But in 1814 these proofs were no longer lacking. Each man presented the
proofs of his treason with his right hand and held out the left for
reward.
It is therefore to that epoch of moral degradation and self-accusation
that we must turn for the official details of those struggles in which
the guilty were sometimes looked upon as victims, and the administrators
of justice as oppressors. For the rest, the reader must have perceived
that in the work we are now offering to the public gaze, we appear
rather as a romantic historian than as a historical novelist. We believe
that we have sufficiently proven our imagination, to be permitted on
this occasion to prove our exactitude, while preserving at the same time
the element of poetical fancy which will make the perusal of this work
easier and more attractive than that of history despoiled of its
embellishments.
We have, therefore, had recourse to one of those counter-revolutionary
revelations to determine how far the Directory was threatened, and how
urgent was the _coup d'état_ which was decided upon.
We have seen how, passing Bonaparte, the three directors had turned to
Hoche, and how this movement in favor of the man who had pacified the
Vendée had alarmed the commander of the Army of Italy. It was Barras who
had turned to Hoche.
Hoche was preparing an expedition to Ireland, and he had resolved to
detach twenty-five thousand men from the Army of the Sambre-et-Meuse,
and to take them to Brest. These twenty-five thousand men could pause as
they crossed France, in the neighborhood of Paris, and in a day's march
could be at the disposal of the Directory.
Their approach drove the denizens of the Rue de Clichy to the last
extremity. The principle of a national guard had been established by the
Constitution. They, knowing that this national guard would contain the
same elements as the Sections, hastened to join the organization.
Pichegru was chosen president and selected to draw up a plan. He
presented a plan inspired by all the cleverness of which his genius,
combined with his hatred, rendered him capable.
Pichegru was equally bitter against the royalists, because they had not
chosen to profit by his devotion to the royalist cause, and against the
republicans, because they had punished him for his causeless devotion.
He had gone so far as to desire a revolution of which he would be the
prime organizer and which would benefit him alone. At that time his
reputation very justly equalled that of his illustrious rivals,
Bonaparte, Moreau, and Hoche.
If he had succeeded, Pichegru would have created himself dictator, and,
once dictator, he would have opened the way for the return of the
Bourbons, from whom he would perhaps have asked nothing but a pension
for his father and brother, and a house with a vast library for himself
and Rose. The reader will remember who Rose was. It was she to whom he
had sent, out of his savings in the Army of the Rhine, an umbrella which
little Charles had carried to her.
The same little Charles, who knew him so well, has since said of him:
"An empire would have been too small for his genius; a farm would have
been too large for his indolence!"
It would take too long to describe Pichegru's scheme for the
organization of the national guard; but, once organized, it would have
been entirely in his hands. Led by him, and Bonaparte absent, it might
have occasioned the downfall of the directors.
A book published by the Chevalier Delarue, in 1821, takes us with him
into the club in the Rue de Clichy. The house where the club met
belonged to Gilbert des Molières.
All the counter-revolutionary projects, which prove that the 18th
Fructidor was not a simple abuse of power and a brutal caprice, emanated
from this house.
The Clichians found themselves at a disadvantage by the passage of
Hoche's troops and his alliance with Barras. They immediately assembled
at their usual meeting-place, formed groups around Pichegru and inquired
as to his means of resistance.
Surprised like Pompey, he had no real means at hand. His sole resource
lay in the passions of the various Sections. They discussed the projects
of the Directory, and concluded, from the change in the ministry and the
advance of the troops, that the directors were planning a _coup d'état_
against the Corps Legislatif.
They proposed the most violent measures. They wanted to suspend the
Directory. They wished to bring charges against its individual members.
They even went so far as to suggest that they be outlawed.
But they lacked the strength necessary to achieve this result. They had
only the twelve hundred grenadiers who composed the guard of the Corps
Legislatif--a part of the regiment of dragoons commanded by Colonel
Malo. They finally proposed, in their desperation, to send a squad of
grenadiers into each district of the capital to rally round them the
citizens who had taken up arms on the 13th Vendémiaire.
This time it was the Corps Legislatif, which, unlike the Convention,
roused Paris against the government. They talked much without reaching
any decision--as is always the case with those who lack strength.
Pichegru, when consulted, declared that he would be unable to maintain
any resistance with the slender force at his disposal. The confusion was
at its height when a message came from the Directory with information
concerning the march of the troops. It said that Hoche's troops, on
their way from Namur to Brest to embark for Ireland, would stop at
Paris.
Then arose cries and shouts to the effect that the Constitution of the
Year III. forbade troops to approach within a radius of thirty-six miles
of Paris. The messenger from the Directory intimated that he had a reply
to that objection.
"The commissioner in charge was ignorant of this article of the
Constitution. His ignorance was the real cause of this infraction of the
laws. The Directory furthermore affirmed that the troops had received
orders to retrace their steps at once."
They were obliged to content themselves with this explanation in default
of others; but it satisfied no one, and the excitement that it had
caused spread from the two councils and the Clichy Club throughout
Paris, where each citizen prepared himself for events no less exciting
than those which had occurred on the 13th Vendémiaire.
CHAPTER XVII
MADEMOISELLE DE SAINTE-AMOUR'S SICK-HEADACHE
The directors were lodged at the Luxembourg, each according to his
tastes and habits rather than his needs.
Barras, the man of action and display, the great lord, the Indian nabob,
had taken the whole of the wing which now forms the picture-gallery and
its appurtenances. Rewbell and La Reveillière-Lepaux shared the other
wing. Carnot had taken the whole ground floor for himself and his
brother, and had cut off an immense room for his maps from the rest of
the apartment. Barthélemy, who had come last, and who was coldly
received by his colleagues because he had shared in the
counter-revolution, had contented himself with what was left.
On the evening before the stormy meeting at the Clichy Club had taken
place, Barras had returned to his rooms in a bad temper. He had invited
no one, intending to pass the evening with Mademoiselle de Sainte-Amour,
who had replied to his note, sent two hours earlier, by a charming
letter saying that, as ever, she would be delighted to see him.
But when he presented himself at the door at nine o'clock, Suzette
answered his ring, coming on tiptoe, and entreating him with hand and
voice to be silent, as her mistress had been attacked by one of those
violent sick-headaches, for which the faculty had as yet found no
remedy, since their cause lay, not in the patient's constitution, but
rather in her mind.
The director followed Suzette, walking as cautiously as if he had a
bandage over his eyes, and were engaged in a game of blind man's buff.
As he passed the door of the boudoir, which was shut, he cast a
suspicious glance at it before entering the sleeping apartment, with
which we are familiar, and which was lighted only by an alabaster lamp
in which perfumed oil was burning, and which was suspended from the
ceiling.
There was nothing to be said. Mademoiselle de Sainte-Amour was lying
upon her bed of rosewood inlaid with Sèvres porcelain. She was wearing a
little lace cap especially reserved for days of great suffering, and
spoke in the plaintive voice of one to whom speech is an effort.
"Ah! my dear general!" she said, "how good you are to come; and how I
longed to see you."
"Was it not understood that I was to spend the evening with you?"
replied Barras.
"Yes, and although I was suffering from this odious headache, I said
nothing about it. I wanted so much to see you. When one is suffering,
the presence of those one loves is more than ever appreciated."
She languidly withdrew a warm, moist hand from beneath the coverings,
and extended it to Barras, who kissed it gallantly, and then seated
himself upon the foot of the bed. The pain made the invalid moan.
"Ah!" said Barras, "this is a severe headache, is it not?"
"Yes and no," replied Aurélie; "with a little rest it would pass off.
Ah! if I could only sleep!"
The words were accompanied with a sigh that might have made the god of
sleep himself envious of the beautiful courtesan.
It is probable that within a week after they were driven from Paradise,
Eve played this little comedy of the sick-headache for Adam, which has
lasted for six thousand years and which has always been attended with
the same success. Men joke about it; women laugh over it; but whenever
it is needed the headache hastens to the aid of whoever summons it, and
succeeds in getting rid of all importunates.
Barras sat with the beautiful invalid for ten minutes, until she thought
that she could decently shut her eyes, half sadly, half smilingly, and
permit her breast to rise and fall with that gentle and regular
breathing which indicates that while the soul may still be awake the
body has already embarked upon the calm ocean of sleep.
Barras laid the hand which he had been holding gently down upon the lace
coverlet, deposited a paternal kiss upon the sleeper's white forehead,
and bade Suzette tell her mistress that his manifold occupations would
possibly prevent him from returning within the next three or four days.
Then he left the room on tiptoe as he had entered it. As he passed the
boudoir, he longed to push the door open, for something told him that
the cause of the fair Aurélie's headache was concealed there. Suzette
followed him to the outer door, which she took the precaution to
double-lock after him.
When Barras returned to the Luxembourg, his valet informed him that a
lady was awaiting him. Barras asked the usual question: "Young or old?"
"She must be young, sir," replied the valet; "but I have not been able
to see her face because of her veil."
"How is she dressed?"
"Like a woman in good society, in black satin. She looks like a widow."
"Did you bring her in?"
"I put her in the pink boudoir. If monseigneur should not care to
receive her, nothing is easier than to show her out without passing
through the cabinet. Will you receive her here, or will you go to the
pink boudoir?"
"I will go there," said Barras.
Then, remembering that he might be about to meet a woman of rank, and
that the proprieties must be observed even in the Luxembourg, he said
to the valet: "Announce me."
The valet went first, opened the door of the boudoir, and said:
"Citizen-director Barras."
He drew back at once to give place to him whom he had announced. Barras
entered with that grand air which he had derived from the aristocratic
world to which he belonged, and to which, in spite of three years of
Revolution and two of Directory, he still belonged.
In one of the corners of the room a couch had been built into the wall.
A lady was standing there, dressed all in black, as the valet had said,
and whose bearing indicated to Barras at a glance that she did not
belong to the frail sisterhood.
Putting his hat on the table, he walked toward her, saying:
"You wished to see me, madame, and I am here."
The young woman, with a superb gesture, raised her veil, and disclosed a
face of remarkable beauty.
Beauty is the most powerful of all fairies and the most potent
introducer. Barras paused a moment as if dazzled.
"Ah! madame," he said, "how fortunate I am, for I intended remaining out
a portion of the night, and only a fortuitous circumstance brought me
back to the Luxembourg, where such good fortune awaits me! Be good
enough to sit down, madame, and tell me to what I owe the pleasure of
your visit."
And he made a movement to take her hand and to lead her to the couch
from which she had risen when he was announced.
But she, keeping her hands beneath the folds of her long veil, replied:
"Pardon, sir; I will remain standing, as befits a suppliant."
"A suppliant! You, madame? A lady like you does not beg, she commands,
or at least she demands."
"Well, sir, I demand! In the name of the town which gave birth to us
both; in the name of my father, who was your friend; in the name of
outraged humanity and in the name of outraged justice, I come to demand
vengeance!"
"The word is a hard one to fall from the lips of one so young," said
Barras.
"Sir, I am the daughter of the Comte de Fargas, who was assassinated at
Avignon by the Republicans, and a sister of the Vicomte de Fargas, who
has just been assassinated at Bourg-in-Bresse by the Companions of
Jehu."
"Those men again," muttered Barras. "Are you sure, mademoiselle?"
The young girl held out her hand and gave Barras the dagger and the
paper.
"What is that?" asked Barras.
"The proof of what I have told you. My brother's body was found three
days ago on the Place de la Prefecture, at Bourg, with this dagger in
his heart and this paper tied to the hilt of the dagger."
Barras at first examined the weapon with interest. It was forged from a
single piece of steel, in the form of a cross, like the ancient daggers
of Saint Vehme. The only thing which distinguished it from them was the
inscription, "Companions of Jehu," which was engraved upon the blade.
"But," said Barras, "this dagger alone merely raises a presumption. It
might have been stolen or forged purposely to lead the officers of
justice astray."
"Yes," returned the young girl; "but here is something which should
place them on the right track. Read this postscript, written in my
brother's own handwriting and signed with his own name."
Barras read:
I die because I have broken a sacred oath; consequently I admit
that I deserve death. If you wish to give my body Christian burial,
it will be placed to-morrow night in the market-place at Bourg. The
dagger which will be found buried in my breast will indicate that I
do not die the victim of a cowardly assassination, but of a just
vengeance.
VICOMTE DE FARGAS.
"And this postscript was addressed to you, mademoiselle?" asked Barras.
"Yes, sir."
"And you are sure that it is in your brother's writing?"
"It is his writing."
"What does he mean by writing that he 'does not die the victim of a
cowardly assassination, but of a just vengeance'?"
"My brother was himself a Companion of Jehu. When arrested he broke his
oath and betrayed his comrades." Then she added, with a strange laugh,
"I ought to have joined in his stead."
"Wait," said Barras; "there should be a report of this among my papers."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MISSION OF MADEMOISELLE DE FARGAS
Barras, leaving Mademoiselle de Fargas alone for a moment, went to his
study; and in a receptacle prepared for his private correspondence he
found a letter from the prosecutor of the Republic at Avignon, which
gave him an account of the whole affair up to the departure of the
Vicomte de Fargas for Nantua.
He gave it to Mademoiselle de Fargas to read. She went through it from
end to end, and found that it confirmed what she had heard before she
left Avignon.
"Then," she said to Barras, "you have received no news for two days?"
"No," replied the latter.
"That does not speak very well for your police; fortunately, in this
instance, I can supply their place."
And she told Barras how she had followed her brother to Nantua; how she
had arrived there just in time to learn that he had been abducted from
the prison; how the registry had been burned, and how the documents
relating to the prosecution had been destroyed; and, finally, how, on
awaking the next morning, she had found the body, pierced with a dagger
belonging to the Companions of Jehu, on the Place de la Prefecture at
Bourg.
Everything which happened in the Midi and the East was so impregnated
with mystery that the cleverest agents of the police vainly sought to
fathom it. Barras hoped at first that his beautiful visitor could give
him information which was not generally known; but her sojourn, both at
Nantua and Bourg, while it had brought her in touch with the scene of
events and placed their results before her eyes, had taught her nothing
new.
All that Barras knew and could tell her was that these events bore a
close resemblance to the occurrences in Brittany and the Vendée.
The Directory was perfectly cognizant of the fact that these dread
robbers of diligences did not carry on their work for their own benefit,
but turned the government money over to Charette, Stofflet, the Abbé
Bernier, and Georges Cadoudal.
Charette and Stofflet had been captured and shot, and the Abbé Bernier
had submitted. But, breaking his parole, instead of going to England, he
had remained concealed in his own country. So that a year and a half
after the pacification the Directory had felt sufficiently secure to
recall Hoche and send him to the Army of the Sambre-et-Meuse. Then had
come the report of a new insurrection; and by repeated blows the
Directory had learned that four new leaders had appeared in the
country--Prestier, D'Autichamp, Suzannette, and Grognon. As for
Cadoudal, he had never parleyed or laid down his arms; he had never
ceased endeavoring to prevent Brittany from recognizing the Republican
government.
Barras had seemed for a moment to come to a resolution; but, like all
chance ideas, which at first seem impossible, it apparently needed time
to ripen before leaving the mind which had conceived it. From time to
time he glanced at the proud young girl, then at the dagger, which he
still held in his hand, and then at the Vicomte de Fargas's farewell
letter, which he had laid upon the table. Diane grew weary of the
silence.
"I have demanded vengeance at your hands," she said, "and you have not
answered me."
"What do you mean by vengeance?" asked Barras.
"I mean the death of those who killed my brother."
"Tell me their names," returned Barras; "we are as desirous as you are
that they should expiate their crimes. Once captured, their punishment
will not be slow to follow."
"If I knew their names," replied Diane, "I should not have come to you;
I should have used this dagger on them myself."
Barras looked at her.
The calm voice with which she had uttered these words was abundant proof
that her ignorance had alone deterred her from taking the law into her
own hands.
"Well," said Barras, "you can search for them and we will do the same."
"I search?" resumed Diane. "Is that my business? Am I the government? Am
I the police? Is it my duty to provide for the safety of citizens? They
arrested my brother and put him in prison. The prison which belongs to
the government must answer to me for my brother. The prison opens and
betrays its prisoner; the government must answer to me for that.
Therefore, since you are the head of the government, I come to you and
say: 'My brother! my brother! my brother!'"
"Mademoiselle," replied Barras, "we live in troublous times, when even
the keenest eye can scarcely see, when the stoutest heart hesitates,
though it does not weaken, when the strongest arm bends and falters. In
the East and the Midi we have the Companions who assassinate, in the
West we have the Vendéans and the Bretons who fight. We have
three-quarters of Paris conspiring, two-thirds of our chambers in
opposition to us, and two of our colleagues betraying us. In the midst
of this universal strife you ask that the great machine, which, in
watching over its own safety, protects the saving principles which will
transform Europe, to close all its eyes and concentrate them upon one
point--the Place de la Prefecture where you found the lifeless body of
your brother. It is too much to ask of us, mademoiselle; we are simply
mortal, and you must not expect us to accomplish the work of gods. You
loved your brother?"
"I adored him."
"You wish to avenge him?"
"I would give my life for that of his murderer."
"And if you were shown a means of discovering that murderer, whatever
the means, would you adopt it?"
Diane hesitated a moment. Then she said vehemently: "Whatever it might
be I would adopt it."
"Well, listen to me," said Barras. "Help us and we will help you."
"What am I to do?"
"You are young and beautiful--very beautiful."
"That is not the point," said Diane, without lowering her eyes.
"On the contrary," said Barras, "it is right to the point. In this great
struggle which we call life, woman has been given her beauty, not as a
simple gift from Heaven to rejoice the eyes of her lover and her
husband, but as a means of attack and defence. The Companions of Jehu
have no secret from Cadoudal. He is their real head, since they are
working for him. He knows all their names from first to last."
"Well," said Diane, "what then?"
"Why," said Barras, "it is very simple. Go to the Vendée or Brittany and
join Cadoudal. Wherever he may be, present yourself to him as a victim
of your devotion to the royalist cause, which you really are. Cadoudal
cannot see you without falling in love with you. With his love he will
give you his confidence. Resolute as you are, and with your brother's
memory in your heart, you need grant nothing save what it pleases you to
grant. Then you will discover the names of these men for whom we are
searching in vain. Tell us the names--that is all we ask of you--and
your vengeance shall be satisfied. Now, if your influence over the
fanatic should go far enough to induce him to submit to the government,
I need hardly tell you that the government would put no bounds--"
Diane extended her hand.
"Take care, sir," she said, "one word more and you will insult me. I ask
twenty-four hours for reflection."
"Take as much time as you wish," said Barras, "you will always find me
at your service."
"To-morrow, here, at nine o'clock in the evening," replied Diane.
And taking her dagger from Barras's hand, and her brother's letter from
the table, she placed them both in her breast, bowed to Barras, and left
the room.
The next day, at the same hour, Mademoiselle Diane de Fargas was again
announced to the director. Barras passed quickly into the pink boudoir
and found her awaiting him.
"Well, my beautiful Nemesis?" he asked.
"I have decided," she replied; "but you understand I need a safe-conduct
which will be recognized by the Republican authorities. In the life I am
about to take up, it is possible that I may be taken with arms in my
hands making war upon the Republic. You shoot women and children; it is
a war of extermination. But that is a matter between God and yourselves.
I may be taken, but I do not want to be shot before my vengeance is
accomplished."
"I have foreseen your request, mademoiselle, and have prepared not only
a passport, which will assure you full liberty of movement, but a
safe-conduct, which, in extreme need, would force your enemies to become
your defenders. I advise you, however, to conceal them both,
particularly the latter, from the eyes of the Vendéans and the Chouans.
A week ago, wearied of seeing this hydra of civil war springing up
continually with new heads, we sent an order to General Hedouville to
give no quarter. Consequently, as in the glorious prime of the Republic,
when the Convention gained victories by decrees, we have sent down one
of the old "drowning-agents" of the Loire, a man who knows the country,
named François Goulin, with a new guillotine. The guillotine will be for
the Chouans if they are taken, or for the generals of our armies if they
allow themselves to be beaten. Citizen Goulin is taking General
Hedouville a reinforcement of six thousand men. The Vendéans and the
Bretons have no fear of musketry; they march up to it crying, 'Long live
the king! long live religion!' and singing hymns. We will see how they
meet the guillotine! You will meet, or, rather, you will overtake, these
six thousand men who are marching with citizen Goulin from Angers to
Rennes. If you are at all afraid, put yourself under their protection
until you reach the Vendée, and learn definitely where Cadoudal is, when
you will join him."
"Very well, sir," said Diane, "I thank you."
"When will you start?" asked Barras.
"My carriage and my post-horses are waiting at the door of the
Luxembourg."
"Permit me to ask you a delicate question, but one which it is my duty
to ask you."
"What is it, sir?"
"Do you need any money?"
"I have six thousand francs in gold in my strong-box, and twenty
thousand more in paper money. You see that I can make war on my own
account."
Barras held out his hand to Mademoiselle de Fargas, who pretended not to
notice this act of courtesy.
She made an irreproachable courtesy and retired.
"There is a charming viper," said Barras; "but I should not like to be
the one to warm it!"
CHAPTER XIX
THE TRAVELLERS
As Mademoiselle de Fargas had told Barras, a carriage was waiting for
her at the door of the Luxembourg. She entered it, saying to the
postilion: "The road to Orléans."
The postilion gathered up the reins, the little bells tinkled, and the
carriage sped down the road toward the barrier of Fontainebleau.
As Paris was threatened with disturbances in the near future, all the
barriers were carefully guarded, and the gendarmes were ordered to
examine carefully any one entering or leaving the city.
Whoever failed to have upon his passport either the signature of the new
minister of police, Sothin, or the guarantee of one of the three
directors, Barras, Rewbell, or La Reveillière, was obliged to explain at
length his reason for entering or leaving Paris.
Mademoiselle de Fargas was stopped at the barrier like every one else;
she was forced to descend from her carriage and enter the office of the
police commissioner, who, without noticing that she was young and
beautiful, asked for her passport with the same unbending dignity as
though she had been old and ugly. Mademoiselle de Fargas took the
requisite paper from her satchel and handed it to the official. He read
it aloud:
Citizeness Marie Rotrou, post-mistress at Vitré (Ille-et-Vilaine).
(Signed) BARRAS.
The passport was in proper form; the commissioner returned it to her
with a bow that was intended for the signature of Barras rather than the
humble post-mistress. The latter bowed slightly, and retired without
noticing a handsome young man of twenty-six who was about to present
his passport when she entered, and had drawn back his outstretched arm,
with a courtesy which denoted his gentle birth, to allow the beautiful
traveller to pass first.
But he followed her immediately. The magistrate took the passport with
the customary gravity which characterized the performance of his
important duties, and read:
Citizen Sebastien Argentan, tax-collector at Dinan (Côtes-du-Nord).
The passport was signed not only by Barras, but by his two colleagues,
and there was therefore even less to criticise about it than there had
been about that of Mademoiselle Rotrou's, which was signed by Barras
alone.
Receiving his passport, together with a gracious bow from the official,
M. Sebastien Argentan mounted a post-horse and trotted slowly away,
while the postilion, whose duty it was to precede him and see that his
relays were duly ordered, set off at a gallop. All night long the
tax-collector rode beside a closed post-chaise, in which he was far from
suspecting slept the beautiful girl to whom he had yielded his place.
Day came, and one of the windows was opened to admit the fresh morning
air; a pretty head, which had not yet shaken off all traces of sleep,
looked out to see the state of the weather, and to his great
astonishment he recognized the post-mistress of Vitré travelling by post
in a handsome carriage. But he remembered that her passport was signed
by Barras, which would explain much in the way of luxury, particularly
where a woman was in question.
The tax-gatherer bowed politely to the post-mistress, who, remembering
that she had seen him on the previous evening, returned his greeting
graciously.
Although he thought the young woman charming, he was too well-bred to
approach the carriage, or to speak to her. He urged his horse to a
gallop, and, as if the mutual salutation had satisfied his ambition, he
disappeared around the first turn of the road.
But he had guessed that his travelling companion, whose destination he
knew (having heard her passport read), would breakfast at Etampes. He
therefore stopped there himself, arriving half an hour before her.
He ordered the ordinary inn breakfast, to be served in the common
dining-room; namely, two chops, half a cold chicken, a little ham; some
fruit, and a cup of coffee.
Scarcely had he attacked the chops when the travelling-carriage of
Mademoiselle de Fargas drew up before the inn, which was also a
post-house. The traveller asked for a private room, crossed the common
hall, bowed to her former acquaintance, who had risen on perceiving her,
and went upstairs. The question which agitated Monsieur d'Argentan, who
wished to make his journey as pleasant as possible, was whether
Mademoiselle Rotrou was to eat in her own room or in the public
dining-room.
A moment later the question was answered. The maid who had accompanied
the traveller upstairs, came down and laid a white cloth on a table, and
set a cover thereon. Eggs, fruit, and a cup of chocolate formed the
frugal repast of the young woman, who came down just as M. d'Argentan
was finishing his breakfast.
The young man noted with pleasure, that while her toilet was simple, it
was arranged with sufficient care to indicate that coquetry was not
entirely extinct in the heart of the pretty post-mistress. He probably
thought that he could overtake her by hard riding, for he, in his turn,
declared that he was in need of rest, and desired to be shown to a room.
He threw himself on a bed and slept two hours.
In the meantime, Mademoiselle Rotrou, who had slept the whole night, got
into her carriage again and resumed her journey. About five o'clock she
perceived before her the church steeple of Orléans, and at the same time
she heard behind her the gallop of a horse, which, together with the
sound of bells, told her that the traveller had overtaken her. The two
young people were now acquaintances. They bowed politely, and M.
d'Argentan thought that he now had the right to approach the carriage
door and ask after the health of the fair occupant. It was easy to see,
in spite of the pallor of her complexion, that she was not
over-fatigued. He congratulated her politely upon the fact, and
confessed that his own manner of travelling, however easy the horse's
gait, would not permit him to make the entire journey without a break.
He added that if he could only find an opportunity to purchase a
carriage, he might continue his journey in that agreeable fashion. This
was asking Mademoiselle Rotrou in a roundabout way if she would consent
to share her carriage and the expense of it with him.
Mademoiselle Rotrou ignored his hint, and spoke of the weather, which
was fine, and of the probability that she herself would be obliged to
break her journey for a day or two, either at Tours or at Angers; to
which the traveller on horseback made no reply whatever, secretly
resolving to stop wherever she did.
It would have been discourteous to remain longer beside the carriage
after this overture and its rejection. Monsieur d'Argentan therefore set
off at a gallop, telling Mademoiselle Rotrou that he would order her
relay at Orléans.
Any other than the proud Diane de Fargas, any one whose heart was not
incased in steel, would have noticed the refinement, the courtesy and
the beauty of the traveller. But whether she was destined to remain
forever indifferent, or whether her heart needed to be more violently
appealed to, certain it is that none of all that which would have caught
another woman's eye attracted her glance.
Entirely absorbed in her hatred, and wholly unable to dismiss the object
of her journey from her mind, even while she smiled she pressed the
dagger to her side, as if remorseful for that smile; that dagger which,
as we said, opened the way for her brother's soul to precede hers to
heaven.
Looking along the road, to see if she were indeed alone, and discerning
no one as far as eye could reach, she drew from her pocket the last note
her brother had written her, and read and re-read it, as one will
impatiently and yet persistently taste of a bitter root. Then she fell
back in a doze, and remained thus until the carriage stopped for fresh
horses.
She looked about her. The horses were ready, as Monsieur d'Argentan had
promised her they would be; but when she inquired after him, she was
told that he had gone on ahead.
They stopped five minutes to change horses, then they took the road to
Blois.
At the first turn, the young lady saw her handsome courier, riding
slowly, as if waiting for her; but this indiscretion, if indiscretion it
were, was so inexcusable that it was excused.
Mademoiselle Rotrou soon overtook the rider. It was she this time who
spoke first, to thank him for the courtesy he had shown her.
"For my part," replied the young man, "I thank my lucky star for leading
me by the same route as yourself to the police commissioner, and there
permitting me to yield you my place, and thereby to learn from your
passport where you were going. As chance wills it, my road is the same
as yours; for while you are going to Vitré, I am going some twenty miles
beyond, to Dinan. If you are not to remain in the neighborhood, at least
I shall have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a charming
person, and of accompanying her at least nine-tenths of the way. On the
other hand, if you do remain, as my business requires me to travel to
and fro through the departments of the Manche, Nord, and
Ille-et-Vilaine, I shall ask permission, when chance recalls me to
Vitré, to bring myself to mind, unless that reminder be disagreeable to
you."
"I do not know myself how long I shall remain at Vitré" she replied,
graciously rather than curtly. "In reward for services rendered by my
father, I have been appointed, as you see, post-mistress at Vitré. But I
do not think that I shall fill the position myself. I was ruined by the
Revolution, and I shall be obliged in some way to take advantage of the
favor which the government has bestowed upon me. I think I shall either
sell or rent the position, and thus draw an income from it without being
obliged to exert myself personally."
D'Argentan bowed low over his horse, as if this confidence were
sufficient for him and he were grateful for it to one who was, after
all, under no obligation to bestow it.
It afforded an opening for all those topics of conversation on neutral
ground which verge upon the private territory of the heart, but do not
form a part of it.
Of what better topic could they converse, going, the one to Vitré, the
other to Dinan, than of the Chouans, who were desolating the three or
four departments which formed the old province of Brittany?
Mademoiselle Rotrou expressed great fear of falling into the hands of
men who were called "brigands." But instead of sharing this fear or
adding to it, M. d'Argentan declared that he should be the happiest man
in the world if such a thing should befall his companion, for he had
been a fellow-student with Cadoudal at Rennes, and this would give him
an opportunity of finding out whether the famous leader of the Chouans
was as stanch in his friendships as he was credited with being.
Mademoiselle Rotrou grew dreamy, and allowed the conversation to drop;
then, after a pause, she uttered a weary sigh, and said: "I am indeed
more fatigued than I thought. I believe I shall stop at Angers, if only
for the night."
CHAPTER XX
"THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART"
Monsieur d'Argentan felt a twofold satisfaction when he heard that
Mademoiselle Rotrou intended to stop at Angers. A man had to be as
finished a rider as was Monsieur d'Argentan to take a ride like that
which he had just taken, from Paris to Angers--even supposing that he
had not come a greater distance than Paris--without a halt. He therefore
resolved to stop at Angers also, both to seek the needed rest and to
improve his acquaintance with his new friend.
Monsieur d'Argentan, notwithstanding the fact that his passport
indicated a provincial residence, was so perfect a specimen of
refinement that the Parisian stood revealed in him, and not only of
Paris, but of the aristocratic quarters of Paris.
His astonishment, therefore, had been great, although he had not
betrayed it, when, after exchanging a few words with so beautiful a
creature, who was travelling alone under a passport signed by Barras
(which was in itself a significant fact), he found that the conversation
did not bring them into more intimate relations, and that the
acquaintance went no further.
When he left the police commissioner's office and had ridden on ahead,
knowing that he was going in the same direction as the traveller whose
passport he had heard read aloud, though he did not know how she was
travelling, he had promised himself that he would make the journey in
her company. But when in the morning he had been overtaken by a
luxurious travelling-carriage, and found that it contained the nest of
the charming bird of passage whom he had left behind, he had repeated
the promise to himself, doubly resolved to keep it.
But, as we have seen, Mademoiselle de Fargas, while responding civilly
to his advances, had not permitted him to put the toe of his boot upon
the step of the carriage into which he had had the idea of introducing
his whole body.
Angers and a night's rest, therefore, came in very comfortably to remove
a little of his fatigue, and to permit him, if it were possible, to
advance a step further in the intimacy of this unapproachable
post-mistress, before the journey should end.
They reached Angers about five o'clock in the evening. About three miles
out from the town, the rider approached the carriage, and, bowing to his
saddle-bow, he said: "Would it be indiscreet to ask if you are hungry?"
Diane, who divined her travelling-companion's aim, made a motion of the
lips which resembled a smile.
"Yes, sir, it would be indiscreet," she replied.
"Indeed, and why?"