“Well, what happened to your friend?” “He was tried, condemned, and executed.” “What the devil are you telling us?” “God’s truth, general.” “What do you mean when you say, ‘He was tried, condemned, and guillotined’?” “Oh! not exactly that. Tried and condemned, but not guillotined. If he had been guillotined he would be more dangerously ill than he is now.” “Now, what are you gabbling about? What court tried and condemned him?” “That of the Companions of Jehu!” “And who are the Companions of Jehu?” “Goodness! Have you forgotten our friend Morgan already, the masked man who brought back the wine-merchant’s two hundred louis?” “No,” replied Bonaparte, “I have not forgotten him. I told you about the scamp’s audacity, didn’t I, Bourrienne?” “Yes, general,” said Bourrienne, “and I answered that, had I been in your place, I should have tried to find out who he was.” “And the general would know, had he left me alone. I was just going to spring at his throat and tear off his mask, when the general said, in that tone you know so well: ‘Friend Roland!’” “Come back to your Englishman, chatterbox!” cried the general. “Did Morgan murder him?” “No, not he himself, but his Companions.” “But you were speaking of a court and a trial just now.” “General, you are always the same,” said Roland, with their old school familiarity; “you want to know, and you don’t give me time to tell you.” “Get elected to the Five Hundred, and you can talk as much as you like.” “Good! In the Five Hundred I should have four hundred and ninety-nine colleagues who would want to talk as much as I, and who would take the words out of my mouth. I’d rather be interrupted by you than by a lawyer.” “Will you go on?” “I ask nothing better. Now imagine, general, there is a Chartreuse near Bourg--” “The Chartreuse of Seillon; I know it.” “What! You know the Chartreuse of Seillon?” demanded Roland. “Doesn’t the general know everything?” cried Bourrienne. “Well, about the Chartreuse; are there any monks there now?” “No; only ghosts--” “Are you, perchance, going to tell me a ghost-story?” “And a famous one at that!” “The devil! Bourrienne knows I love them. Go on.” “Well, we were told at home that the Chartreuse was haunted by ghosts. Of course, you understand that Sir John and I, or rather I and Sir John, wanted to clear our minds about it. So we each spent a night there.” “Where?” “Why, at the Chartreuse.” Bonaparte made an imperceptible sign of the cross with his thumb, a Corsican habit which he never lost. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “did you see any ghosts?” “One.” “And what did you do to it?” “Shot at it.” “And then?” “It walked away.” “And you allowed yourself to be baffled?” “Good! How well you know me! I followed it, and fired again. But as he knew his way among the ruins better than I, he escaped me.” “The devil!” “The next day it was Sir John’s turn; I mean our Englishman.” “Did he see your ghost?”