style="font-size:15px;"> “And suppose our reply had been in the negative?” asked another voice.
“So much the worse for you,” replied the peasant; “in any case the insurrection is fixed for October 20.”
“Well,” said the president, “thanks to us, the general will have the wherewithal for his first month’s pay. Where is your receipt?”
“Here,” said the peasant, drawing a paper from his pocket on which were written these words:
Received from our brothers of the Midi and the East, to be employed for the good of the cause, the sum of…
GEORGES CADOUDAL,
General commanding the Royalist army of Brittany.
The sum was left blank.
“Do you know how to write?” asked the president.
“Enough to fill in the three or four missing words.”
“Very well. Then write, ‘one hundred thousand francs.’”
The Breton wrote; then extending the paper to the president, he said: “Here is your receipt; where is the money?”
“Stoop and pick up the bag at your feet; it contains sixty thousand francs.” Then addressing one of the monks, he asked: “Montbard, where are the remaining forty thousand?”
The monk thus interpellated opened a closet and brought forth a bag somewhat smaller than the one Morgan had brought, but which, nevertheless, contained the good round sum of forty thousand francs.
“Here is the full amount,” said the monk.
“Now, my friend,” said the president, “get something to eat and some rest; to-morrow you will start.”
“They are waiting for me yonder,” said the Breton. “I will eat and sleep on horseback. Farewell, gentlemen. Heaven keep you!” And he went toward the door by which he had entered.
“Wait,” said Morgan.
The messenger paused.
“News for news,” said Morgan; “tell General Cadoudal that General Bonaparte has left the army in Egypt, that he landed at Fréjus, day before yesterday, and will be in Paris in three days. My news is fully worth yours, don’t you think so? What do you think of it?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed all the monks with one accord.
“Nevertheless nothing is more true, gentlemen. I have it from our friend the Priest (Leprêtre),1 who saw him relay at Lyons one hour before me, and recognized him.”
“What has he come to France for?” demanded several voices.
“Faith,” said Morgan, “we shall know some day. It is probable that he has not returned to Paris to remain there incognito.”
“Don’t lose an instant in carrying this news to our brothers in the West,” said the president to the peasant. “A moment ago I wished to detain you; now I say to you: ‘Go!’”
The peasant bowed and withdrew. The president waited until the door was closed.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “the news which our brother Morgan has just imparted to us is so grave that I wish to propose a special measure.”
“What is it?” asked the Companions of Jehu with one voice.
“It is that one of us, chosen by lot, shall go to Paris and keep the rest informed, with the cipher agreed upon, of all that happens there.”
“Agreed!” they replied.
“In that case,” resumed the president, “let us write our thirteen names, each on a slip of paper. We put them in a hat. He whose name is first drawn shall start immediately.”
The young men, one and all, approached the table, and wrote their names on squares of paper which they rolled and dropped into a hat. The youngest was told to draw the lots. He drew one of the little rolls of paper and handed it to the president, who unfolded it.
“Morgan!” said he.
“What are my instructions?” asked the young man.
“Remember,” replied the president, with a solemnity to which the cloistral arches lent a supreme grandeur, “that you bear the name and title of Baron de Sainte-Hermine, that your father was guillotined on the Place de la Révolution and that your brother was killed in Condé’s army. Noblesse oblige! Those are your instructions.”
“And what else?” asked the young man.
“As to the rest,” said the president, “we rely on your royalist principles and your loyalty.”
“Then, my friends, permit me to bid you farewell at once. I would like to be on the road to Paris before dawn, and I must pay a visit before my departure.”
“Go!” said the president, opening his arms to Morgan. “I embrace you in the name of the Brotherhood. To another I should say, ‘Be brave, persevering and active’; to you I say, ‘Be prudent.’”
The young man received the fraternal embrace, smiled to his other friends, shook hands with two or three of them, wrapped himself in his mantle, pulled his hat over his eyes and departed.
CHAPTER IX. ROMEO AND JULIET
Under the possibility of immediate departure, Morgan’s horse, after being washed, rubbed down and dried, had been fed a double ration of oats and been resaddled and bridled. The young man had only to ask for it and spring upon its back. He was no sooner in the saddle than the gate opened as if by magic; the horse neighed and darted out swiftly, having forgotten its first trip, and ready for another.
At the gate of the Chartreuse, Morgan paused an instant, undecided whether to turn to the right or left. He finally turned to the right, followed the road which leads from Bourg to Seillon for a few moments, wheeled rapidly a second time to the right, cut across country, plunged into an angle of the forest which was on his way, reappeared before long on the other side, reached the main road to Pont-d’Ain, followed it for about a mile and a half, and halted near a group of houses now called the Maison des Gardes. One of these houses bore for sign a cluster of holly, which indicated one of those wayside halting places where the pedestrians quench their thirst, and rest for an instant to recover strength before continuing the long fatiguing voyage of life. Morgan stopped at the door, drew a pistol from its holster and rapped with the butt end as he had done at the Chartreuse. Only as, in all probability, the good folks at the humble tavern were far from being conspirators, the traveller was kept waiting longer than he had been at the monastery. At last he heard the echo of the stable boy’s clumsy sabots. The gate creaked, but the worthy man who opened it no sooner perceived the horseman with his drawn pistol than he instinctively tried to, close it again.
“It is I, Patout,” said the young man; “don’t be afraid.”
“Ah! sure enough,” said the peasant, “it is really you, Monsieur Charles. I’m not afraid now; but you know, as the curé used to tell us, in the days when there was a good God, ‘Caution is the mother of safety.’”
“Yes,
The name Leprêtre is a contraction of the two words “le prêtre,” meaning the priest; hence the name under which this man died.
