The Companions of Jehu. Dumas Alexandre

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style="font-size:15px;">      “It’s all right now,” said he, “but if ever we meet with swords by our sides – ” A threatening gesture ended the sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “General,” stammered Berthier, “Valence is wounded.”

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

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

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

      “He is killed, general.”

      “To Elliot, in that case.”

      “Killed also.”

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

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

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

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

      “Come nearer, lieutenant,” said Bonaparte.

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

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

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

      “Did I make you lose it?”

      “Maybe, yes; maybe, no.”

      “What was the wager?”

      “That I should be promoted captain to-day.”

      “You have won it.”

      “Thank you, general.”

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

      “Possibly, general.”

      “I am certain; only I cannot recall your name.”

      “You managed that yours should not be forgotten, general.”

      “Who are you?”

      “Ask Valence, general.”

      Bonaparte gave a cry of joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Our intention is no more to give the history of the campaign of Egypt than we did that of Italy. We shall only mention that which is absolutely necessary to understand this story and the subsequent development of Roland’s character. The 19th of May, 1798, Bonaparte and his entire staff set sail for the Orient; the 15th of June the Knights of Malta

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