“Fetch me that pair of double-barrelled pistols on my mantel-piece at the same time,” said Bonaparte, in a low tone. “One never knows what may happen.” “Yes, general,” said Roland; “besides, I shan’t leave you.” “Unless I send you to be killed elsewhere.” “True,” replied the young man, hastening away to fulfil his double errand. Bonaparte was continuing on his way when he noticed a shadow in the corridor. He recognized Josephine, and ran to her. “Good God!” cried she, “is there so much danger?” “What makes you think that?” “I overheard the order you gave Roland.” “Serves you right for listening at doors. How about Gohier?” “He hasn’t come.” “Nor his wife?” “She is here.” Bonaparte pushed Josephine aside with his hand and entered the salon. He found Madame Gohier alone and very pale. “What!” said he, without any preamble, “isn’t the President coming?” “He was unable to do so, general,” replied Madame Gohier. Bonaparte repressed a movement of impatience. “He absolutely must come,” said he. “Write him that I await him, and I will have the note sent.” “Thank you, general,” replied Madame Gohier; “my servants are here, and they can attend to that.” “Write, my dear friend, write,” said Josephine, offering her paper and pen and ink. Bonaparte stood so that he could see over her shoulder what she wrote. Madame Gohier looked fixedly at him, and he drew back with a bow. She wrote the note, folded it, and looked about her for the sealing-wax; but, whether by accident or intention, there was none. Sealing the note with a wafer, she rang the bell. A servant came. “Give this note to Comtois,” said Madame Gohier, “and bid him take it to the Luxembourg at once.” Bonaparte followed the servant, or rather the letter, with his eyes until the door closed. Then, turning to Madame Gohier, he said: “I regret that I am unable to breakfast with you. But if the President has business to attend to, so have I. You must breakfast with my wife. Good appetite to you both.” And he went out. At the door he met Roland. “Here is the commission, general,” said the young man, “and a pen.” Bonaparte took the pen, and using the back of his aide-de-camp’s hat, he signed the commission. Roland gave him the pistols. “Did you look; to them?” asked Bonaparte. Roland smiled. “Don’t be uneasy,” said he; “I’ll answer for them.” Bonaparte slipped the pistols in his belt, murmuring as he did so: “I wish I knew what she wrote her husband.” “I can tell you, word for word, what she wrote, general,” said a voice close by. “You, Bourrienne?” “Yes. She wrote: ‘You did right not to come, my dear; all that is happening here convinces me that the invitation was only a snare. I will rejoin you shortly.’” “You unsealed the letter?”