The Eagle of the Empire: A Story of Waterloo, Cyrus Townsend Brady [best thriller books to read .txt] 📗

NAME="chap07"> CHAPTER VII A RESCUE AND A SIEGE

The woman stared at him in wild amazement. That she was free temporarily at least, could not be gainsaid. Her captors had not seen fit to bind her and she now stood absolutely untouched by anyone. The shooting, the fighting, had confused her. She had only seen Marteau as an accomplice and friend of her assailants, she had no clew to his apparent change of heart. She did not know whether she had merely exchanged masters or what had happened. Smiling ironically at her bewilderment, which he somehow resented in his heart, Marteau proceeded to further explanation.

"You are free, mademoiselle," he repeated emphatically, bowing before her.

"But I thought——"

"Did you think that I could be allied with such cowardly thieves and vagabonds as those?"

"But you said——"

"It was simply a ruse. Could you imagine that one of my family, that I, should fail in respect and devotion to one of yours, to you? I determined to free you the instant I saw you."

"And will you not complete your good work?" broke out the man tied to the chair in harsh and foreign but sufficiently comprehensible French, "by straightway releasing me, young sir?"

"But who is this?"

"This is Sir Gervaise Yeovil," answered Mademoiselle Laure, "my attorney, an English officer-of-the-law, of Lord Castlereagh's suite, who came with me from Chatillon to get certain papers and——"

"Why all this bother and explanation?" burst out Sir Gervaise. "Tell him to cut these lashes and release me from this cursed bondage," he added in English.

"That is quite another matter, sir," said Marteau gravely. "I regret that you are an enemy and that I can not——"

"But we are not enemies, Monsieur," cried one of the officers, who had just succeeded in working a gag out of his mouth. "We are Russian officers of the Imperial Guard and since you have deserted the cause of the Corsican you will——"

"Deserted!" thundered Marteau, his pale face flaming. "That was as much a ruse as the other."

"What, then, do you mean by wearing a Russian coat over your uniform and——"

"He is a spy. He shall be hanged," said the other, also freeing himself of his gag.

"Indeed," laughed Marteau. "And do you gentlemen ask me to release you in order that you may hang me?"

"I won't hang you," burst out the Englishman. "On the contrary, I'll give you fifty pounds if you'll cut these cords and——"

Marteau shook his head.

"Countess," bellowed Yeovil angrily, "there's a knife on the table yonder, pray do you——"

The young woman made a swift step in that direction, but the Frenchman was too quick for her.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, I beg that the first use you make of your new life be not to aid my enemies."

"Your enemies, Marteau?"

"The enemies of France, then."

"Not my uncle's France," said the girl.

"But your father's, and I had hoped yours."

"No, no."

"In any event, these gentlemen must remain bound for the time being. No harm shall come to you from me," continued Marteau, addressing the two officers. "But as for these hounds——" He stepped over to the two Cossacks, who lay mute. He bent over them with such a look of rage, ruthless determination and evil purpose in his face as startled the woman into action.

"Monsieur!" she cried, stepping over to him and striving to interpose between him and the two men. "Marteau, what would you do?"

"My sister—dead in the cottage yonder after—after——" he choked out. He stopped, his fingers twitching. "My old father! If I served them right I would pitch them into yonder fireplace or torture them, the dogs, the cowards!"

"My friend," said the young Countess gently, laying her hand on his arm.

Marteau threw up his hands, that touch recalled him to his senses.

"I will let them alone for the present," he said. "Meanwhile——" He seized the dead man and dragged the body out of sight behind the tables.

"Will monsieur give a thought to me?" came another voice from the dim recesses of a far corner.

"And who are you?" asked Marteau, lifting the light and staring.

"A Frenchman, sir. They knocked me on the head and left me for dead, but if monsieur would assist me I——"

Marteau stepped over to him, bent down and lifted him up. He was a stout, hardy looking peasant boy, pale cheeked, with blood clotted around his forehead from a blow that he had received. Feverish fire sparkled in his eyes.

"If monsieur wishes help to put these brutes out of the way command me," he said passionately.

"We will do nothing with them at present," answered Marteau.

"Quick, Laure, the knife," whispered the Englishman.

The Frenchman heard him, however, and wheeled around.

"Mademoiselle," he cried, "on your honor I charge you not to abuse the liberty I have secured for you and that I allow you."

"But, my friends——"

"If you had depended on your friends you would even now be——" he paused—"as my sister," he added with terrific intensity.

"Your pleasure shall be mine," said the young woman.

"If I could have a drink of wine!" said the young peasant, sinking down into a chair.

"There is a flask which they did not get in the pocket of one of the officers yonder," said the young Frenchwoman, looking sympathetically at the poor exhausted lad.

Marteau quickly recovered it, in spite of the protestations of the officer, who looked his indignation at this little betrayal by the woman. He gave some of it to the peasant and then offered it to mademoiselle and, upon her declining it, took a long drink himself. He was weak and trembling with all he had gone through.

"Now, what's to be our further course?" asked the countess.

"I don't know yet. I——"

But the answer was never finished. Shots, cries, the sound of galloping horses came faintly through the open door.

"My men returning!" cried the Russian officer triumphantly. "Our turn will come now, sir."

Two courses were open. To run or to fight. Duty said go; love said stay. Duty was stronger. After a moment's hesitation Marteau dashed for the door. He was too late. The returning Russian cavalry was already entering the courtyard. Fate had decided against him. He could not go now. He thought with the swiftness of a veteran. He sprang back into the hall, threw the great iron-bound door into its place, turned the massive key in its lock, thanking God that key and lock were still intact, dropped the heavy bars at top and bottom that further secured it, just as the first horseman thundered upon the door.

In his rapid passage through the house the young Frenchman had noticed that all the windows were shuttered and barred, that only the front door appeared to have been opened. He was familiar with the ch�teau. He knew how carefully its openings had been secured and how often his father had inspected them, to keep out brigands, the waifs and strays, the wanderers, the low men of the countryside. For the moment he was safe with his prisoners, one man and a boy guarding a score of men and one woman, and holding a ch�teau against a hundred and fifty soldiers! Fortunately, there would be no cannon with that troop of cavalry, there were no cannon in that wagon train, so that they could not batter down the ch�teau over his head. What his ultimate fate would be he could not tell. Could he hold that castle indefinitely? If not, what? How he was to get away and reach Napoleon with his vital news he could not see. There must be some way, however. Well, whatever was to be would be, and meanwhile he could only wait developments and hold on.

The troopers outside were very much astonished to find the heavy door closed and the two sentries dead on the terrace. They dismounted from their horses at the foot of the terrace and crowded about the door, upon which they beat with their pistols, at the same time shouting the names and titles of the officers within. Inside the great hall Marteau had once more taken command. In all this excitement Laure d'Aumenier had stood like a stone, apparently indifferent to the appeals of the four bound men on the floor and the Englishman in the chair that she cut the ropes with which they were bound, while the French officer was busy at the door. Perhaps that young peasant might have prevented her, but as a matter of fact, she made no attempt to answer their pleas. She stood waiting and watching. Just as Marteau re�ntered the room the chief Russian officer shouted out a command. From where he lay on the floor his voice did not carry well and there was too much tumult outside for anyone to hear. In a second Marteau was over him.

"If you open your mouth again, monsieur," he said fiercely, "I shall have to choose between gagging and killing you, and I incline to the latter. And these other gentlemen may take notice. You, what are you named?"

"Pierre Lebois, sir," answered the peasant.

"Can you fire a gun?"

"Give me a chance," answered the young fellow. "I've got people dead, yonder, to avenge."

The brigands had left the swords and pistols of the officers on chairs, tables and the floor. There were eight pistols. Marteau gathered them up. The English baronet yielded one other, a huge, heavy, old-fashioned weapon.

"There are loopholes in the shutters yonder," said the officer. "Do you take that one, I will take the other. They will get away from the door in a moment and as soon as you can see them fire."

"Mademoiselle," said the Russian officer desperately, "I shall have to report to the commander of the guard and he to the Czar that you gave aid and comfort to our enemies."

"But what can I do?" asked the young woman. "Monsieur Marteau could certainly shoot me if I attempted——"

"Assuredly," said Marteau, smiling at her in a way anything but fierce.

It was that implicit trust in her that restrained her and saved him. As a girl the young countess had been intensely fond of Jean Marteau. He certainly appeared well in his present role before her. In the revulsion of feeling in finding him not a bully, not a traitor, but a devoted friend and servitor, he advanced higher in her estimation than ever before. Besides, the young woman was by no means so thoroughgoing a loyalist as her old uncle, for instance.

"I can see them now, monsieur," said the young peasant from the peep-hole in the shutter.

Indeed, the men outside had broken away from the door, groups were running to and fro seeking lights and some other entrance. Taking aim at the nearest Marteau pulled the trigger and Pierre followed his example. The noise of the explosions was succeeded by a scream of anguish, one man was severely wounded and another killed. Something mysterious had happened while they had been off on the wild goose chase apparently, the Russians decided. The ch�teau had been seized, their officers had been made way with, it was held by the enemy.

"They can't be anything more than wandering peasants," cried an imperious voice in Russian outside. "I thought you had made thorough work with them all, Scoref," continued the speaker. "Your Cossacks must have failed to complete the job."

"It will be the first time," answered Scoref, the hetman of the raiders. "Look, the village burns!"

"Well, what's to be done now?" said the first voice.

"I don't know, Baron," was the answer. "Besieging castles is more in your line than in mine."

"Shall we fire again, monsieur?" asked Pierre within.

"No," was the answer. "Remember we've only got eight shots and we must wait."

"Let us have lights," cried the commander of the squadron. "Here, take one of those wagons and——"

In a few moments a bright fire was blazing in the courtyard.

"The shots came from those windows," continued the Russian. "Keep out of the way and—— Isn't that a window open up there?"

"It is, it is!" came the answer from a dozen throats.

All the talk being in Russian was, of course, not understood by the two Frenchmen.

"One of you climb up there," continued the Russian. "You see the spout, and the coping, that buttress? Ten roubles to the man who does it."

A soldier sprang forward. Those within could hear his heavy body rub along the wall. They did not know what he was doing or what was toward. They