Александр Дюма
The Companions of Jehu
CHAPTER XXII. THE OUTLINE OF A DECREE
Lucien was evidently expected. Bonaparte had not mentioned his name once since entering the study; but in spite of this silence he had turned his head three or four times with increasing impatience toward the door, and when the young man appeared an exclamation of contentment escaped his lips.
Lucien, the general’s youngest brother, was born in 1775, making him now barely twenty-five years old. Since 1797, that is, at the age of twenty-two and a half, he had been a member of the Five Hundred, who, to honor Bonaparte, had made him their president. With the projects he had conceived nothing could have been more fortunate for Bonaparte.
Frank and loyal, republican to the core, Lucien believed that, in seconding his brother’s plans, he was serving the Republic better than the future First Consul. In his eyes, no one was better fitted to save it a second time than he who had saved it the first. It was with these sentiments in his heart that he now came to confer with his brother.
“Here you are,” said Bonaparte. “I have been waiting for you impatiently.”
“So I suspected. But I was obliged to wait until I could leave without being noticed.”
“Did you manage it?”
“Yes; Talma was relating a story about Marat and Dumouriez. Interesting as it was, I deprived myself of the pleasure, and here I am.”
“I have just heard a carriage driving away; the person who got in it couldn’t have seen you coming up my private stairs, could he?”
“The person who drove off was myself, the carriage was mine. If that is not seen every one will think I have left.”
Bonaparte breathed freer.
“Well,” said he, “let us hear how you have spent your day.”
“Oh! I haven’t wasted my time, you may be sure.”
“Are we to have a decree or the Council?”
“We drew it up to-day, and I have brought it to you – the rough draft at least – so that you can see if you want anything added or changed.”
“Let me see it,” cried Bonaparte. Taking the paper hastily from Lucien’s hand, he read:
Art. I. The legislative body is transferred to the commune of Saint-Cloud; the two branches of the Council will hold their sessions in the two wings of the palace.
“That’s the important article,” said Lucien. “I had it placed first, so that it might strike the people at once.”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Bonaparte, and he continued:
Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 20th Brumaire —
“No, no,” said Bonaparte, “to-morrow the 19th. Change the date, Bourrienne;” and he handed the paper to his secretary.
“You expect to be ready for the 18th?”
“I shall be. Fouché said day before yesterday, ‘Make haste, or I won’t answer for the result.’”
“The 19th Brumaire,” said Bourrienne, returning the paper to the general.
Bonaparte resumed:
Art. II. They will assemble there to-morrow, the 19th Brumaire, at noon. All deliberations are forbidden elsewhere and before the above date.
Bonaparte read the article a second time.
“Good,” said he; “there is no double meaning there.” And he continued:
Art. III. General Bonaparte is charged with the enforcement of this decree; he will take all necessary measures for the safety of the National Legislature.
A satirical smile flickered on the stony lips of the reader, but he continued almost immediately.
The general commanding the 17th military division, the guard of the Legislature, the stationary national guard the troops of the line within the boundaries of the Commune of Paris, and those in the constitutional arrondissement, and throughout the limits of the said 17th division, are placed directly under his orders, and are directed to regard him as their commanding officer.
“Bourrienne, add: ‘All citizens will lend him assistance when called upon.’ The bourgeois love to meddle in political matters, and when they really can help us in our projects we ought to grant them this satisfaction.”
Bourrienne obeyed; then he returned the paper to the general, who went on:
Art. IV. General Bonaparte is summoned before the Council to receive a copy of the present decree, and to make oath thereto. He will consult with the inspecting commissioners of both branches of the Council.
Art. V. The present decree shall be transmitted immediate, by messenger, to all the members of the Council of Five Hundred and to the Executive Directory. It shall be printed and posted, and promulgated throughout the communes of the Republic by special messengers.
Done at Paris this…
“The date is left blank,” said Lucien.
“Put ‘the 18th Brumaire,’ Bourrienne; the decree must take everybody by surprise. It must be issued at seven o’clock in the morning, and at the same hour or even earlier it must be posted on all the walls of Paris.”
“But suppose the Ancients won’t consent to issue it?” said Lucien.
“All the more reason to have it posted, ninny,” said Bonaparte. “We must act as if it had been issued.”
“Am I to correct this grammatical error in the last paragraph?” asked Bourrienne, laughing.
“Where?” demanded Lucien, in the tone of an aggrieved author.
“The word ‘immediate,’” replied Bourrienne. “You can’t say ‘transmitted immediate’; it ought to be ‘immediately.’”
“It’s not worth while,” said Bonaparte. “I shall act, you may be sure, as if it were ‘immediately.’” Then, after an instant’s reflection, he added: “As to what you said just now about their not being willing to pass it, there’s a very simple way to get it passed.”
“What is that.”
“To convoke the members of whom we are sure at six o’clock in the morning, and those of whom we are not sure at eight. Having only our own men, it will be devilishly hard to lose the majority.”
“But six o’clock for some, and eight for the others – ” objected Lucien.
“Employ two secretaries; one of them can make a mistake.” Then turning to Lucien, he said: “Write this.”
And walking up and down, he dictated without hesitating, like a man who has long thought over and carefully prepared what he dictates; stopping occasionally beside Bourrienne to see if the secretary’s pen were following his every word:
CITIZENS – The Council of the Ancients, the trustee of the nation’s wisdom, has issued the subjoined decree: it is authorized by articles 102 and 103 of the Constitution.
This decree enjoins me to take measures for the safety of the National Legislature, and its necessary and momentary removal.
Bourrienne looked at Bonaparte; instantaneous was the word the latter had intended to use, but as the general did not correct himself, Bourrienne left momentary.
Bonaparte continued to dictate:
The Legislature will find means to avoid the imminent danger into which the disorganization of all parts of the administration has brought us.
But it needs, at this crisis, the united support and confidence of patriots. Rally around it; it offers the only means of establishing the Republic on the bases of civil liberty, internal prosperity, victory and peace.
Bonaparte perused this proclamation, and nodded his head in sign of approval. Then he looked at his watch.
“Eleven o’clock,” he said; “there is still time.”
Then, seating himself in Bourrienne’s chair, he wrote a few words in the form of a note, sealed it, and wrote the address: “To the Citizen Barras.”
“Roland,” said he, when he had finished, “take a horse out of the stable, or a carriage in the street, and go to Barras’ house. I have asked him for an interview tomorrow at midnight. I want an answer.”
Roland left the room. A moment later the gallop of a horse resounded through the courtyard, disappearing in the direction of the Rue du Mont-Blanc.
“Now, Bourrienne,” said Bonaparte, after listening to the sound, “to-morrow at midnight, whether I am in the house or not, you will take my carriage and go in my stead to Barras.”
“In your stead, general?”
“Yes. He will do nothing all day, expecting me to accept him on my side at night. At midnight you will go to him, and say that I have such a bad headache I have had to go to bed, but that I will be with him at seven o’clock in the morning without fail. He will believe you, or he won’t believe you; but at any rate it will be too late for him to act against us. By seven in the morning I shall have ten thousand men under my command.”
“Very good, general. Have you any other orders for me?”
“No, not this evening,” replied Bonaparte. “Be here early to-morrow.”
“And I?” asked Lucien.
“See Sièyes; he has the Ancients in the hollow of his hand. Make all your arrangements with him. I don’t wish him to be seen here, nor to be seen myself at his house. If by any chance we fail, he is a man to repudiate. After tomorrow I wish to be master of my own actions, and to have no ties with any one.”
“Do you think you will need me to-morrow?”
“Come back at night and report what happens.”
“Are you going back to the salon?”
“No. I shall wait for Josephine in her own room. Bourrienne, tell her, as you pass through, to get rid of the people as soon as possible.”
Then, saluting Bourrienne and his brother with a wave of the hand, he left his study by a private corridor, and went to Josephine’s room. There, lighted by a single alabaster lamp, which made the conspirator’s brow seem paler than ever, Bonaparte listened to the noise of the carriages, as one after the other they rolled away. At last the sounds ceased, and five minutes later the door opened to admit Josephine.
She was alone, and held a double-branched candlestick in her hand. Her face, lighted by the double flame, expressed the keenest anxiety.
“Well,” Bonaparte inquired, “what ails you?”
“I am afraid!” said Josephine.
“Of what? Those fools of the Directory, or the lawyers of the two Councils? Come, come! I have Sièyes with me in the Ancients, and Lucien in the Five Hundred.”
“Then all goes well?”
“Wonderfully so!”
“You sent me word that you were waiting for me here, and I feared you had some bad news to tell me.”
“Pooh! If I had bad news, do you think I would tell you?”
“How reassuring that is!”
“Well, don’t be uneasy, for I have nothing but good news. Only, I have given you a part in the conspiracy.”
“What is it?”
“Sit down and write to Gohier.”
“That we won’t dine with him?”
“On the contrary, ask him to come and breakfast with us. Between those who like each other as we do there can’t be too much intercourse.”
Josephine sat down at a little rosewood writing desk “Dictate,” said she; “I will write.”
“Goodness! for them to recognize my style! Nonsense; you know better than I how to write one of those charming notes there is no resisting.”
Josephine smiled at the compliment, turned her forehead to Bonaparte, who kissed it lovingly, and wrote the following note, which we have copied from the original:
To the Citizen Gohier, President of the Executive Directory of the French Republic —
“Is that right?” she asked.
“Perfectly! As he won’t wear this title of President much longer, we won’t cavil at it.”
“Don’t you mean to make him something?”
“I’ll make him anything he pleases, if he does exactly what I want. Now go on, my dear.”
Josephine picked up her pen again and wrote:
Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with us to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very interesting things to tell you.
Adieu, my dear Gohier! With the sincerest friendship,
Yours, LA PAGERIE-BONAPARTE.
“I wrote to-morrow,” exclaimed Josephine. “Shall I date it the 17th Brumaire?”
“You won’t be wrong,” said Bonaparte; “there’s midnight striking.”
In fact, another day had fallen into the gulf of time; the clock chimed twelve. Bonaparte listened gravely and dreamily. Twenty-four hours only separated him from the solemn day for which he had been scheming for a month, and of which he had dreamed for years.
Let us do now what he would so gladly have done, and spring over those twenty-four hours intervening to the day which history has not yet judged, and see what happened in various parts of Paris, where the events we are about to relate produced an overwhelming sensation.
CHAPTER XXIII. ALEA JACTA EST
At seven in the morning, Fouché, minister of police, entered the bedroom of Gohier, president of the Directory.
“Oh, ho!” said Gohier, when he saw him. “What has happened now, monsieur le ministre, to give me the pleasure of seeing you so early?”
“Don’t you know about the decree?” asked Fouché.
“What decree?” asked honest Gohier.
“The decree of the Council of the Ancients.”
“When was it issued?”
“Last night.”
“So the Council of the Ancients assembles at night now?”
“When matters are urgent, yes.”
“And what does the decree say.”
“It transfers the legislative sessions to Saint-Cloud.”
Gohier felt the blow. He realized the advantage which Bonaparte’s daring genius might obtain by this isolation.
“And since when,” he asked Fouché, “is the minister of police transformed into a messenger of the Council of the Ancients?”
“That’s where you are mistaken, citizen president,” replied the ex-Conventional. “I am more than ever minister of police this morning, for I have come to inform you of an act which may have the most serious consequences.”
Not being as yet sure of how the conspiracy of the Rue de la Victoire would turn out, Fouché was not averse to keeping open a door for retreat at the Luxembourg. But Gohier, honest as he was, knew the man too well to be his dupe.
“You should have informed me of this decree yesterday, and not this morning; for in making the communication now you are scarcely in advance of the official communication I shall probably receive in a few moments.”
As he spoke, an usher opened the door and informed the president that a messenger from the Inspectors of the Council of the Ancients was there, and asked to make him a communication.
“Let him come in,” said Gohier.
The messenger entered and handed the president a letter. He broke the seal hastily and read:
CITIZEN PRESIDENT – The Inspecting Commission hasten to inform you of a decree removing the residence of the legislative body to Saint-Cloud.
The decree will be forwarded to you; but measures for public safety are at present occupying our attention.
We invite you to meet the Commission of the Ancients. You will find Sièyes and Ducos already there.
Fraternal greetings
BARILLON,
FARGUES,
CORNET,
“Very good,” said Gohier, dismissing the messenger with a wave of his hand.
The messenger went out. Gohier turned to Fouché.
“Ah!” said he, “the plot is well laid; they inform me of the decree, but they do not send it to me. Happily you are here to tell me the terms of it.”
“But,” said Fouché, “I don’t know them.”
“What! do you the minister of police, mean to tell me that you know nothing about this extraordinary session of the Council of the Ancients, when it has been put on record by a decree?”
“Of course I knew it took place, but I was unable to be present.”
“And you had no secretary, no amanuensis to send, who could give you an account, word for word, of this session, when in all probability this session will dispose of the fate of France! Ah, citizen Fouché, you are either a very deep, or a very shallow minister of police!”
“Have you any orders to give me, citizen president?” asked Fouché.
“None, citizen minister,” replied the president. “If the Directory judges it advisable to issue any orders, it will be to men whom it esteems worthy of its confidence. You may return to those who sent you,” he added, turning his back upon the minister.
Fouché went, and Gohier immediately rang his bell. An usher entered.
“Go to Barras, Sièyes, Ducos, and Moulins, and request them to come to me at once. Ah! And at the same time ask Madame Gohier to come into my study, and to bring with her Madame Bonaparte’s letter inviting us to breakfast with her.”
Five minutes later Madame Gohier entered, fully dressed, with the note in her hand. The invitation was for eight o’clock. It was then half-past seven, and it would take at least twenty minutes to drive from the Luxembourg to the Rue de la Victoire.
“Here it is, my dear,” said Madame Gohier, handing the letter to her husband. “It says eight o’clock.”
“Yes,” replied Gohier, “I was not in doubt about the hour, but about the day.”
Taking the note from his wife’s hand, he read it over:
Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with me to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very interesting things to tell you.
“Ah,” said Gohier, “there can be no mistake.”
“Well, my dear, are we going?” asked Madame Gohier.
“You are, but not I. An event has just happened about which the citizen Bonaparte is probably well-informed, which will detain my colleagues and myself at the Luxembourg.”
“A serious event?”
“Possibly.”
“Then I shall stay with you.”
“No, indeed; you would not be of any service here. Go to Madame Bonaparte’s. I may be mistaken, but, should anything extraordinary happen, which appears to you alarming, send me word some way or other. Anything will do; I shall understand half a word.”
“Very good, my dear; I will go. The hope of being useful to you is sufficient.”
“Do go!”
Just then the usher entered, and said:
“General Moulins is at my heels; citizen Barras is in his bath, and will soon be here; citizens Sièyes and Ducos went out at five o’clock this morning, and have not yet returned.”
“They are the two traitors!” said Gohier; “Barras is only their dupe.” Then kissing his wife, he added: “Now, go.”
As she turned round, Madame Gohier came face to face with General Moulins. He, for his character was naturally impetuous, seemed furious.
“Pardon me, citizeness,” he said. Then, rushing into Gohier’s study, he cried: “Do you know what has happened, president?”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
“The legislative body has been transferred to Saint-Cloud; the execution of the decree has been intrusted to General Bonaparte, and the troops are placed under his orders.”
“Ha! The cat’s out of the bag!” exclaimed Gohier.
“Well, we must combine, and fight them.”
“Have you heard that Sièyes and Ducos are not in the palace?”
“By Heavens! they are at the Tuileries! But Barras is in his bath; let us go to Barras. The Directory can issue decrees if there is a majority. We are three, and, I repeat it, we must make a struggle!”
“Then let us send word to Barras to come to us as soon as he is out of his bath.”
“No; let us go to him before he leaves it.”
The two Directors left the room, and hurried toward Barras’ apartment. They found him actually in his bath, but they insisted on entering.
“Well?” asked Barras as soon as he saw them.
“Have you heard?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
They told him what they themselves knew.
“Ah!” cried Barras, “that explains everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, that is why he didn’t come last night.”
“Who?”
“Why, Bonaparte.”
“Did you expect him last evening?”
“He sent me word by one of his aides-de-camp that he would call on me at eleven o’clock last evening.”
“And he didn’t come?”
“No. He sent Bourrienne in his carriage to tell me that a violent headache had obliged him to go to bed; but that he would be here early this morning.”
The Directors looked at each other.
“The whole thing is plain,” said they.
“I have sent Bollot, my secretary, a very intelligent fellow, to find out what he can,” continued Barras.
He rang and a servant entered.
“As soon as citizen Bollot returns,” said Barras, “ask him to come here.”
“He is just getting out of his carriage.”
“Send him up! Send him up!”
But Bollot was already at the door.
“Well?” cried the three Directors.
“Well, General Bonaparte, in full uniform, accompanied by Generals Beurnonville, Macdonald and Moreau, are on their way to the Tuileries, where ten thousand troops are awaiting them.”
“Moreau! Moreau with him!” exclaimed Gohier.
“On his right!”
“I always told you that Moreau was a sneak, and nothing else!” cried Moulins, with military roughness.
“Are you still determined to resist, Barras?” asked Gohier.
“Yes,” replied Barras.
“Then dress yourself and join us in the council-room.”
“Go,” said Barras, “I follow you.”
The two Directors hastened to the council-room. After waiting ten minutes Moulins said: “We should have waited for Barras; if Moreau is a sneak, Barras is a knave.”
Two hours later they were still waiting for Barras.
Talleyrand and Bruix had been admitted to Barras’ bathroom just after Gohier and Moulins had left it, and in talking with them Barras forgot his appointment.
We will now see what was happening in the Rue de la Victoire.
At seven o’clock, contrary to his usual custom, Bonaparte was up and waiting in full uniform in his bedroom. Roland entered. Bonaparte was perfectly calm; they were on the eve of a battle.
“Has no one come yet, Roland?” he asked.
“No, general,” replied the young man, “but I heard the roll of a carriage just now.”
“So did I,” replied Bonaparte.
At that minute a servant announced: “The citizen Joseph Bonaparte, and the citizen General Bernadotte.”
Roland questioned Bonaparte with a glance; was he to go or stay? He was to stay. Roland took his stand at the corner of a bookcase like a sentinel at his post.
“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Bonaparte, seeing that Bernadotte was still attired in civilian’s clothes, “you seem to have a positive horror of the uniform, general!”
“Why the devil should I be in uniform at seven in the morning,” asked Bernadotte, “when I am not in active service?”
“You will be soon.”
“But I am retired.”
“Yes, but I recall you to active service.”
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“In the name of the Directory?”
“Is there still a Directory?”
“Still a Directory? What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see the troops drawn up in the streets leading to the Tuileries as you came here?”
“I saw them, and I was surprised.”
“Those soldiers are mine.”
“Excuse me,” said Bernadotte; “I thought they belonged to France.”
“Oh, to France or to me; is it not all one?”
“I was not aware of that,” replied Bernadotte, coldly.
“Though you doubt it now, you will be certain of it tonight. Come, Bernadotte, this is the vital moment; decide!”
“General,” replied Bernadotte, “I am fortunate enough to be at this moment a simple citizen; let me remain a simple citizen.”
“Bernadotte, take care! He that is not for me is against me.”
“General, pay attention to your words! You said just now, ‘Take care.’ If that is a threat, you know very well that I do not fear them.”
Bonaparte came up to him, and took him by both hands.
“Oh, yes, I know that; that is why I must have you with me. I not only esteem you, Bernadotte, but I love you. I leave you with Joseph; he is your brother-in-law. Between brothers, devil take it, there should be no quarrelling.”
“Where are you going?”
“In your character of Spartan you are a rigid observer of the laws, are you not? Well, here is a decree issued by the Council of Five Hundred last night, which confers upon me the immediate command of the troops in Paris. So I was right,” he added, “when I told you that the soldiers you met were mine, inasmuch as they are under my orders.”
And he placed in Bernadotte’s hands the copy of the decree which had been sent to him at six o’clock that morning. Bernadotte read it through from the first line to the last.
“To this,” said he, “I have nothing to object. Secure the safety of the National Legislature, and all good citizens will be with you.”
“Then be with me now.”
“Permit me, general, to wait twenty-four hours to see how you fulfil that mandate.”
“Devil of a man!” cried Bonaparte. “Have your own way.” Then, taking him by the arm, he dragged him a few steps apart from Joseph, and continued, “Bernadotte, I want to play above-board with you.”
“Why so,” retorted the latter, “since I am not on your side?”
“Never mind. You are watching the game, and I want the lookers-on to see that I am not cheating.”
“Do you bind me to secrecy?”
“No.”
“That is well, for in that case I should have refused to listen to your confidences.”
“Oh! my confidences are not long! Your Directory is detested, your Constitution is worn-out; you must make a clean sweep of both, and turn the government in another direction. You don’t answer me.”
“I am waiting to hear what you have to say.”
“All I have to say is, Go put on your uniform. I can’t wait any longer for you. Join me at the Tuileries among our comrades.”
Bernadotte shook his head.
“You think you can count on Moreau, Beurnonville, and Lefebvre,” resumed Bonaparte. “Just look out of that window. Who do you see there, and there? Moreau and Beurnonville. As for Lefebvre, I do not see him, but I am certain I shall not go a hundred steps before meeting him. Now will you decide?”
“General,” replied Bernadotte, “I am not a man to be swayed by example, least of all when that example is bad. Moreau, Beurnonville, and Lefebvre may do as they wish. I shall do as I ought!”
“So you definitively refuse to accompany me to the Tuileries?”
“I do not wish to take part in a rebellion.”
“A rebellion! A rebellion! Against whom? Against a parcel of imbeciles who are pettifogging from morning till night in their hovels.”
“These imbeciles, general, are for the moment the representatives of the law. The Constitution protects them; they are sacred to me.”
“At least promise me one thing, iron rod that you are.”
“What is it?”
“To keep quiet.”
“I will keep quiet as a citizen, but – ”
“But what? Come, I made a clean breast of it to you; do you do likewise.”
“But if the Directory orders me to act, I shall march against the agitators, whoever they may be.”
“Ah! So you think I am ambitious?” asked Bonaparte.
“I suspect as much,” retorted Bernadotte, smiling.
“Faith,” said Bonaparte, “you don’t know me. I have had enough of politics, and what I want is peace. Ah, my dear fellow! Malmaison and fifty thousand a year, and I’d willingly resign all the rest. You don’t believe me. Well, I invite you to come and see me there, three months hence, and if you like pastorals, we’ll do one together. Now, au revoir! I leave you with Joseph, and, in spite of your refusal, I shall expect you at the Tuileries. Hark! Our friends are becoming impatient.”
They were shouting: “Vive Bonaparte!”
Bernadotte paled slightly. Bonaparte noticed this pallor.
“Ah, ha,” he muttered. “Jealous! I was mistaken; he is not a Spartan, he is an Athenian!”
As Bonaparte had said, his friends were growing impatient. During the hour that had elapsed since the decree had been posted, the salon, the anterooms, and the courtyard had been crowded. The first person Bonaparte met at the head of the staircase was his compatriot, Colonel Sebastiani, then commanding the 9th Dragoons.
“Ah! is that you, Sebastiani?” said Bonaparte. “Where are your men?”
“In line along the Rue de la Victoire, general.”
“Well disposed?”
“Enthusiastic! I distributed among them ten thousand cartridges which I had in store.”
“Yes; but you had no right to draw those cartridges out without an order from the commandant of Paris. Do you know that you have burned your vessels, Sebastiani?”
“Then take me into yours, general. I have faith in your fortunes.”
“You mistake me for Cæsar, Sebastiani!”
“Faith! I might make worse mistakes. Besides, down below in the courtyard there are forty officers or more, of all classes, without pay, whom the Directory has left in the most complete destitution for the last year. You are their only hope, general; they are ready to die for you.”
“That’s right. Go to your regiment, and take leave of it.”
“Take leave of it? What do you mean, general?”
“I exchange it for a brigade. Go, go!”
Sebastiani did not wait to be told twice. Bonaparte continued his way. At the foot of the stairs he met Lefebvre.
“Here I am, general!” said Lefebvre.
“You? And where is the 17th military division?”
“I am waiting for my appointment to bring it into action.”
“Haven’t you received your appointment?”
“From the Directory, yes. But as I am not a traitor, I have just sent in my resignation, so that they may know I am not to be counted on.”
“And you have come for me to appoint you, so that I may count on you, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
“Quick, Roland, a blank commission; fill in the general’s name, so that I shall only have to put my name to it. I’ll sign it on the pommel of my saddle.”
“That’s the true sort,” said Lefebvre.
“Roland.”
The young man, who had already started obediently, came back to the general.
“Fetch me that pair of double-barrelled pistols on my mantel-piece at the same time,” said Bonaparte, in a low tone. “One never knows what may happen.”
“Yes, general,” said Roland; “besides, I shan’t leave you.”
“Unless I send you to be killed elsewhere.”
“True,” replied the young man, hastening away to fulfil his double errand.
Bonaparte was continuing on his way when he noticed a shadow in the corridor. He recognized Josephine, and ran to her.
“Good God!” cried she, “is there so much danger?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I overheard the order you gave Roland.”
“Serves you right for listening at doors. How about Gohier?”
“He hasn’t come.”
“Nor his wife?”
“She is here.”
Bonaparte pushed Josephine aside with his hand and entered the salon. He found Madame Gohier alone and very pale.
“What!” said he, without any preamble, “isn’t the President coming?”
“He was unable to do so, general,” replied Madame Gohier.
Bonaparte repressed a movement of impatience. “He absolutely must come,” said he. “Write him that I await him, and I will have the note sent.”
“Thank you, general,” replied Madame Gohier; “my servants are here, and they can attend to that.”
“Write, my dear friend, write,” said Josephine, offering her paper and pen and ink.
Bonaparte stood so that he could see over her shoulder what she wrote. Madame Gohier looked fixedly at him, and he drew back with a bow. She wrote the note, folded it, and looked about her for the sealing-wax; but, whether by accident or intention, there was none. Sealing the note with a wafer, she rang the bell. A servant came.
“Give this note to Comtois,” said Madame Gohier, “and bid him take it to the Luxembourg at once.”
Bonaparte followed the servant, or rather the letter, with his eyes until the door closed. Then, turning to Madame Gohier, he said: “I regret that I am unable to breakfast with you. But if the President has business to attend to, so have I. You must breakfast with my wife. Good appetite to you both.”
