The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas (red scrolls of magic .txt) 📕

stream, and described a half-circle, inclosing the house on three sides. The house itself was formerly an inn which proved unproductive to the innkeeper. It had been closed for seven or eight years, and was beginning to fall into decay. Before reaching it, the main road coming from Mâcon made a sharp turn.

Montbar examined the locality with the care of an engineer choosing his ground for a battlefield. He drew a pencil and a note-book from his pocket and made an accurate plan of the position. Then he returned to Mâcon.

Two hours later his groom departed, carrying the plan to Morgan, having informed his master that Antoine was the name of the postilion who was to take the coach from Mâcon to Belleville. The groom also gave him the four screw-rings and the two padlocks he had purchased.

Montbar ordered up a bottle of old Burgundy, and sent for Antoine.

Ten minutes later Antoine appeared. He was a fine, handsome fellow, twenty-five or six years of age, about Montbar’s height; a fact which the latter, in looking him over from head to foot, remarked with satisfaction. The postilion paused at the threshold, and, carrying his hand to his hat in a military salute, he said: “Did the citizen send for me?”

“Are you the man they call Antoine?” asked Montbar.

“At your service, and that of your company.”

“Well, you can serve me, friend. But close the door and come here.”

Antoine closed the door, came within two steps of Montbar, saluted again, and said: “Ready, master.”

“In the first place,” said Montbar, “if you have no objections, we’ll drink a glass of wine to the health of your mistress.”

“Oh! oh! My mistress!” cried Antoine. “Can fellows like me afford mistresses? They’re all very well for gentlemen such as you.”

“Come, you scamp!” said Montbar. “You can’t make me believe that, with your make-up, you’ve made a vow of chastity.”

“Oh! I don’t say I’m a monk in that particular. I may have a bit of a love-affair here and there along the high-road.”

“Yes, at every tavern; and that’s why we stop so often with our return horses to drink a drop or fill a pipe.”

“Confound it!” said Antoine, with an indescribable twist of the shoulders. “A fellow must have his fun.”

“Well, taste the wine, my lad. I’ll warrant it won’t make you weep.” And filling a glass, Montbar signed to the postilion to fill the other.

“A fine honor for me! To your health and that of your company!”

This was an habitual phrase of the worthy postilion, a sort of extension of politeness which did not need the presence of others to justify it in his eyes.

“Ha!” said he, after drinking and smacking his lips, “there’s vintage for you—and I have gulped it down at a swallow as if it were heel-taps!”

“That was a mistake, Antoine.”

“Yes, it was a mistake.”

“Luckily,” said Montbar, refilling his glass, “you can repair it.”

“No higher than my thumb, citizen,” said the facetious postilion, taking care that his thumb touched the rim of the glass.

“One minute,” said Montbar, just as Antoine was putting his glass to his lips.

“Just in time,” said the postilion; “it was on its way. What is it?”

“You wouldn’t let me drink to the health of your mistress, but I hope you won’t refuse to drink to mine.”

“Oh! that’s never refused, especially with such wine. To the health of your mistress and her company.”

Thereupon citizen Antoine swallowed the crimson liquor, tasting and relishing it this time.

“Hey!” exclaimed Montbar, “you’re in too much of a hurry, my friend.”

“Pooh!” retorted the postilion.

“Yes. Suppose I have several mistresses. If I don’t name the one we drink to what good will it do her?”

“Why, that’s true!”

“Sad; but you’ll have to try again, my friend.”

“Ha! Try again, of course! Can’t do things half-way with a man like you. The sin’s committed; we’ll drink again.” And Antoine held out his glass. Montbar filled it to the brim.

“Now,” said Antoine, eying the bottle, and making sure it was empty, “there must be no mistake. Her name?”

“To the beautiful Josephine!” said Montbar.

“To the beautiful Josephine!” repeated Antoine.

And he swallowed the Burgundy with increasing satisfaction. Then, after drinking, and wiping his lips on his sleeve, he said, as he set the glass on the table: “Hey! one moment, citizen.”

“What now?” exclaimed Montbar. “Anything wrong this time?”

“I should say so. We’ve made a great blunder but it’s too late now.”

“Why so?”

“The bottle is empty.”

“That one, yes; but not this one.”

So saying, Montbar took from the chimney corner another bottle, already uncorked.

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Antoine, a radiant smile lighting his face.

“Is there any remedy for it?” asked Montbar.

“There is,” replied Antoine, holding out his glass.

Montbar filled it as scrupulously full as he had the first three.

“Well,” said the postilion, holding the ruby liquid to the light and admiring its sparkle, “as I was saying, we drank to the health of the beautiful Josephine—”

“Yes,” said Montbar.

“But,” said Antoine, “there are a devilish lot of Josephines in France.”

“True. How many do you suppose there are, Antoine?”

“Perhaps a hundred thousand.”

“Granted. What then?”

“Well, out of that hundred thousand a tenth of them must be beautiful.”

“That’s a good many.”

“Say a twentieth.”

“All right.”

“That makes five thousand.”

“The devil! You’re strong in arithmetic!”

“I’m the son of a schoolmaster.”

“Well?”

“Well, to which of those five thousand did we drink, hey?”

“You’re right, Antoine. The family name must follow. To