The Companions of Jehu

“What!” replied Madame de Montrevel; “would you have me send to the scaffold a man who had helped me, and who, instead of punishing Edouard, kissed him?”

“And yet,” said Amélie, trembling, “you recognized him, did you not?”

“Perfectly,” replied Madame de Montrevel. “He is the fair man with the black eyebrows who calls himself the Baron de Sainte-Hermine.”

Amélie gave a stifled cry. Then, making an effort to control herself, she said: “Is that the end of it for Sir John and you? Will you be called to testify again?”

“Probably not,” replied Madame de Montrevel.

“In any case,” observed Sir John, “as neither your mother nor I recognized any one, she will persist in that declaration.”

“Oh! most certainly,” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel. “God keep me from causing the death of that unhappy young man. I should never forgive myself. It is bad enough that Roland should have been the one to capture him and his companions.”

Amélie sighed, but nevertheless her face assumed a calmer expression. She looked gratefully at Sir John, and then went up to her room, where Charlotte was waiting for her. Charlotte had become more than a maid, she was now Amélie’s friend. Every day since the four young men had returned to the prison at Bourg she had gone there to see her father for an hour or so. During these visits nothing was talked of but the prisoners, whom the worthy jailer, royalist as he was, pitied with all his heart. Charlotte made him tell her everything, even to their slightest words, and later reported all to Amélie.

Matters stood thus when Madame de Montrevel and Sir John arrived at Noires-Fontaines. Before leaving Paris, the First Consul had informed Madame de Montrevel, both through Josephine and Roland, that he approved of her daughter’s marriage, and wished it to take place during his absence, and as soon as possible. Sir John had declared to her that his most ardent wishes were for this union, and that he only awaited Amélie’s commands to become the happiest of men. Matters having reached this point, Madame de Montrevel, on the morning of the day on which she and Sir John were to give their testimony, had arranged a private interview between her daughter and Sir John.

The interview lasted over an hour, and Sir John did not leave Amélie until the carriage came to the door which was to take Madame de Montrevel and himself to the court. We have seen that his deposition was all in the prisoners’ favor, and we have also seen how Amélie received him on his return.

That evening Madame de Montrevel had a long conversation with her daughter. To her mother’s pressing inquiries, Amélie merely replied that the state of her health was such that she desired a postponement of her marriage, and that she counted on Sir John’s delicacy to grant it.

The next day Madame de Montrevel was obliged to return to Paris, her position in Madame Bonaparte’s household not admitting of longer absence. The morning of her departure she urged Amélie to accompany her; but again the young girl dwelt upon the feebleness of her health. The sweetest and most reviving months in the year were just opening, and she begged to be allowed to spend then in the country, for they were sure, she said, to do her good.

Madame de Montrevel, always unable to deny Amélie anything, above all where it concerned her health, granted her request.

On her return to Paris, Madame de Montrevel travelled as before, with Sir John. Much to her surprise, during the two days’ journey he did not say anything to her about his marriage to Amélie. But Madame Bonaparte, as soon as she saw her friend, asked the usual question: “Well, when shall we marry Amélie and Sir John? You know how much the First Consul desires it.”

To which Madame de Montrevel replied: “It all depends on Sir John.”

This response furnished Madame Bonaparte with much food for reflection. Why should a man who had been so eager suddenly grow cold? Time alone could explain the mystery.

Time went by, and the trial of the prisoners began. They were confronted with all the travellers who had signed the various depositions, which, as we have seen, were in the possession of the minister of police. No one had recognized them, for no one had seen their faces uncovered. Moreover, the travellers asserted that none of their property, either money or jewels, had been taken. Jean Picot testified that the two hundred louis which had been taken from him by accident had been returned.

These preliminary inquiries lasted over two months. At the end of that time the accused, against whom there was no evidence connecting them with the pillage of the coaches, were under no accusation but that of their own admissions; that is to say, of being affiliated with the Breton and Vendéan insurrection. They were simply one of the armed bands roaming the Jura under the orders of M. de Teyssonnet.

The judges delayed the final trial as long as possible, hoping that some more direct testimony might be discovered. This hope was balked. No one had really suffered from the deeds imputed to these young men, except the Treasury, whose misfortunes concerned no one. The trial could not be delayed any longer.

The prisoners, on their side, had made the best of their time. By means, as we have seen, of an exchange of passports, Morgan had travelled sometimes as Ribier, and Ribier as Sainte-Hermine, and so with the others. The result was a confusion in the testimony of the innkeepers, which the entries in their books only served to increase. The arrival of travellers, noted on the registers an hour too early or an hour too late, furnished the prisoners with irrefutable alibis. The judges were morally convinced of their guilt; but their conviction was impossible against such testimony.

On the other hand, it must be said that public sympathy was wholly with the prisoners.

The trial began. The prison at Bourg adjoins the courtroom. The prisoners could be brought there through the interior passages. Large as the hall was, it was crowded on the opening day. The whole population of Bourg thronged about the doors, and persons came from Mâcon, Sons-le-Saulnier, Besançon, and Nantua, so great was the excitement caused by the stoppages, and so popular were the exploits of the Companions of Jehu.

The entrance of the four prisoners was greeted by a murmur in which there was nothing offensive. Public sentiment seemed equally divided between curiosity and sympathy. Their presence, it must be admitted, was well calculated to inspire both. Very handsome, dressed in the latest fashion of the day, self-possessed without insolence, smiling toward the audience, courteous to their judges, though at times a little sarcastic, their personal appearance was their best defence.

The oldest of the four was barely thirty. Questioned as to their names, Christian and family, their age, and places of birth, they answered as follows:

“Charles de Sainte-Hermine, born at Tours, department of the Indre-et-Loire, aged twenty-four.”

“Louis-André de Jayat, born at Bage-le-Château, department of the Ain, aged twenty-nine.”

“Raoul-Frederic-Auguste de Valensolle, born at Sainte-Colombe, department of the Rhone, aged twenty-seven.”

“Pierre-Hector de Ribier, born at Bollène, department of Vaucluse, aged twenty-six.”

Questioned as to their social condition and state, all four said they were of noble rank and royalists.

These fine young men, defending themselves against death on the scaffold, not against a soldier’s death before the guns – who asked the death they claimed to have merited as insurrectionists, but a death of honor – formed a splendid spectacle of youth, courage, and gallant bearing.

The judges saw plainly that on the accusation of being insurrectionists, the Vendée having submitted and Brittany being pacificated, they would have to be acquitted. That was not a result to satisfy the minister of police. Death awarded by a council of war would not have satisfied him; he had determined that these men should die the death of malefactors, a death of infamy.

The trial had now lasted three days without proceeding in the direction of the minister’s wishes. Charlotte, who could reach the courtroom through the prison, was there each day, and returned each night to Amélie with some fresh word of hope. On the fourth day, Amélie could bear the suspense no longer. She dressed herself in a costume similar to the one that Charlotte wore, except that the black lace of the head-dress was longer and thicker than is usual with the Bressan peasant woman. It formed a veil and completely hid her features.

Charlotte presented Amélie to her father as one of her friends who was anxious to see the trial. The good man did not recognize Mademoiselle de Montrevel, and in order to enable the young girls to see the prisoners well he placed them in the doorway of the porter’s room, which opened upon the passage leading to the courtroom. This passage was so narrow at this particular point that the four gendarmes who accompanied the prisoners changed the line of march. First came two officers, then the prisoners one by one, then the other two officers. The girls stood in the doorway.

When Amélie heard the doors open she was obliged to lean upon Charlotte’s shoulder for support, the earth seemed to give way under her feet and the wall at her back. She heard the sound of feet and the rattle of the gendarmes’ sabres, then the door of the prison opened.

First one gendarme appeared, then another, then Sainte-Hermine, walking first, as though he were still Morgan, the captain of the Companions of Jehu.

As he passed Amélie murmured: “Charles!”

The prisoner recognized the beloved voice, gave a faint cry, and felt a paper slip into his hand. He pressed that precious hand, murmured her name, and passed on.

The others who followed did not, or pretended not to, notice the two girls. As for the gendarmes, they had seen and heard nothing.

As soon as the party stepped into the light, Morgan unfolded the note and read as follows:

Do not be anxious, my beloved Charles; I am and ever will be your faithful Amélie, in life or death. I have told all to Lord Tanlay. He is the most generous man on earth; he has promised me to break off the marriage and to take the whole responsibility on himself. I love you.

Morgan kissed the note and put it in his breast. Then he glanced down the corridor and saw the two Bressan women leaning against the door. Amélie had risked all to see him once more. It is true, however, that at this last session of the court no additional witnesses were expected who could injure the accused, and in the absence of proof it was impossible to convict them.

The best lawyers in the department, those of Lyons and Besançon, had been retained by the prisoners for their defence. Each had spoken in turn, destroying bit by bit the indictment, as, in the tournaments of the Middle Ages, a strong and dexterous knight was wont to knock off, piece by piece, his adversary’s armor. Flattering applause had followed the more remarkable points of their arguments, in spite of the usher’s warnings and the admonitions of the judge.

Amélie, with clasped hands, was thanking God, who had so visibly manifested Himself in the prisoners’ favor. A dreadful weight was lifted from her tortured breast. She breathed with joy, and looked through tears of gratitude at the Christ which hung above the judge’s head.

The arguments were all made, and the case about to be closed. Suddenly an usher entered the courtroom, approached the judge, and whispered something in his ear.

“Gentlemen,” said the judge, “the court is adjourned for a time. Let the prisoners be taken out.”

There was a movement of feverish anxiety among the audience. What could have happened? What unexpected event was about to take place? Every one looked anxiously at his neighbor. Amélie’s heart was wrung by a presentiment. She pressed her hand to her breast; it was as though an ice-cold iron had pierced it to the springs of life.

The gendarmes rose. The prisoners did likewise, and were then marched back to their cells. One after the other they passed Amélie. The hands of the lovers touched each other; those of Amélie were as cold as death.

“Whatever happens, thank you,” said Charles, as he passed.

Amélie tried to answer, but the words died on her lips.

During this time the judge had risen and passed into the council-chamber. There he found a veiled woman, who had just descended from a carriage at the door of the courthouse, and had not spoken to any one on her way in.