With a rapidity and good nature that did honor to his courtesy, he went close to the candelabra, which were burning on the chimney-piece. The waistcoat and trousers seemed to be of the same stuff; but what was that stuff? The most experienced connoisseur1 would have been puzzled.
The trousers were tight-fitting as usual, of a light tint2 between buff and flesh color; the only remarkable3 thing about them was the absence of the seam, and the closeness with which they clung to the leg. The waistcoat, on the other hand, had two characteristic signs which attracted attention; it had been pierced by three balls, which had the holes gaping4, and these were stained a carmine5, so like blood, that it might easily have been mistaken for it. On the left side was painted a bloody6 heart, the distinguishing sign of the Vendéans. Morgan examined the two articles with the closest attention, but without result.
“If I were not in such a hurry,” said he, “I should like to look into the matter for myself. But you heard for yourself; in all probability, some news has reached the committee; government money probably. You can announce it to Cadoudal; only we shall have to take it first. Ordinarily, I command these expeditions; if I delay, some one may take my place. So tell me what your waistcoat and trousers are made of.”
“My dear Morgan,” replied the Vendéan, “perhaps you have heard that my brother was captured near Bressure, and shot by the Blues7?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“The Blues were retreating; they left the body at the corner of the hedge. We were pursuing them so closely that we arrived just after them. I found the body of my brother still warm. In one of his wounds a sprig was stuck with these words: ‘Shot as a brigand8 by me, Claude Flageolet, corporal of the Third Battalion9 of Paris.’ I took my brother’s body, and had the skin removed from his breast. I vowed10 that this skin, pierced with three holes, should eternally cry vengeance11 before my eyes. I made it my battle waistcoat.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Morgan, with a certain astonishment12, in which, for the first time, was mingled13 something akin14 to terror—“Ah! then that waistcoat is made of your brother’s skin? And the trousers?”
“Oh!” replied the Vendéan, “the trousers, that’s another matter. They are made of the skin of Claude Flageolet, corporal of the Third Battalion of Paris.”
At that moment the voice again called out, in the same order, the names of Morgan, Montbar, Adler and d’Assas.
Morgan rushed out of the study, crossed the dancing-hall from end to end, and made his way to a little salon15 on the other side of the dressing-room. His three companions, Montbar, Adler and d’Assas, were there already. With them was a young man in the government livery of a bearer of despatches, namely a green and gold coat. His boots were dusty, and he wore a visored cap and carried the despatch-box, the essential accoutrements of a cabinet courier.
One of Cassini’s maps, on which could be followed the whole lay of the land, was spread on the table.
Before saying why this courier was there, and with what object the map was unfolded, let us cast a glance at the three new personages whose names had echoed through the ballroom16, and who are destined17 to play an important part in the rest of this history.
The reader already knows Morgan, the Achilles and the Paris of this strange association; Morgan, with his blue eyes, his black hair, his tall, well-built figure, graceful18, easy, active bearing; his eye, which was never without animation19; his mouth, with its fresh lips and white teeth, that was never without a smile; his remarkable countenance20, composed of mingling21 elements that seemed so foreign to each other—strength and tenderness, gentleness and energy; and, through it all, that bewildering expression of gayety that was at times alarming when one remembered that this man was perpetually rubbing shoulders with death, and the most terrifying of all deaths—that of the scaffold.
As for d’Assas, he was a man from thirty-five to thirty-eight years of age, with bushy hair that was turning gray, and mustaches as black as ebony. His eyes were of that wonderful shade of Indian eyes, verging22 on maroon23. He was formerly24 a captain of dragoons, admirably built for struggle, whether physical or moral, his muscles indicating strength, and his face, obstinacy25. For the rest, a noble bearing, great elegance26 of manners, scented27 like a dandy, carrying, either from caprice or luxury, a bottle of English smelling-salts, or a silver-gilt vinaigrette containing the most subtle perfumes.
Montbar and Adler, whose real names were unknown, like those of d’Assas and Morgan, were commonly called by the Company “the inseparables.” Imagine Damon and Pythias, Euryalus and Nisus, Orestes and Pylades at twenty-two—one joyous28, loquacious29, noisy, the other melancholy30, silent, dreamy; sharing all things, dangers, money, mistresses; one the complement31 of the other; each rushing to all extremes, but forgetting self when in peril32 to watch over the other, like the Spartan33 youths on the sacred legions—and you will form an idea of Montbar and Adler.
It is needless to say that all three were Companions of Jehu. They had been convoked34, as Morgan suspected, on business of the Company.
On entering the room, Morgan went straight to the pretended bearer of despatches and shook hands with him.
“Ah! the dear friend,” said the latter, with a stiff movement, showing that the best rider cannot do a hundred and fifty miles on post-hacks with impunity35. “You are taking it easy, you Parisians. Hannibal at Capua slept on rushes and thorns compared to you. I only glanced at the ballroom in passing, as becomes a poor cabinet courier bearing despatches from General Masséna to the citizen First Consul36; but it seemed to me you were a fine lot of victims! Only, my poor friends, you will h............