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

the woman he loved in the clutch of wretches whose very touch was pollution. He must help her. All duties and intentions gave way to that determination.

A dead silence fell over the room as he entered and the people caught sight of him. He stood staring at the occupants and they returned his stare in good measure. Finally the biggest ruffian, who seemed to be the leader, found his voice and burst out with a savage oath:

"Another Russian! Well, the more the merrier."

He raised a huge horse pistol as he spoke. His words were greeted with jeers and yells from the band. With a flash of inspiration Marteau, realizing into what he had been led, dropped his own weapon and instantly threw up his hands.

"I am French, messieurs," he cried loudly as the pistol clattered on the floor at his feet.

"What are you doing in that uniform, then?" roared the leader.

Marteau tore open the heavy green coat, disclosing beneath it his French uniform. He had a second to make up his mind how to answer that pertinent question. He was quite in the dark as to the meaning of the mysterious situation. He opened his mouth and spoke.

"It is quite simple," he began, "I am——"

What should he say? What was he? Were these men for the Emperor or for the king, or were they common blackguards for themselves? The latter was probably the true state of the case, but did it please them to pose as royalists? He took a long chance after a quick prayer because he wanted to live not so much for himself as for the woman.

"I am deserting the Emperor," he said. "I am for the king."

"No king could have brought us to worse straits than we are now in," said the leader, lowering his pistol uncertainly, but still keeping the young man covered.

"Right, my friend," continued Marteau exultantly, realizing that he had made the right choice. "Bonaparte is beaten, Bl�cher is marching on Paris, Schwarzenberg has the Emperor surrounded. I thought I might as well save myself while I had the chance, so I stole this Russian coat to keep myself from freezing to death, and here I am. I belong to Aumenier."

"You'll join us, then?"

"With pleasure. Who do you serve?"

"Ourselves," laughed the leader grimly. "We're from F�re-Champenoise way. We're all of the village and countryside that the Cossacks and the Prussians have left of our families. We're hungry, starving, naked. Do you hear? We were hiding in the woods hard by to-day. There was a wagon-train. A regiment of Cossacks surprised it, killed its defenders, brought it here. We saw it all."

"And where are the Cossacks gone?" asked the young man, coolly picking up his pistol from the floor and nonchalantly sitting upon the nearest table in a careless way which certainly belied the beating of his heart. He took careful notice of the men. They were ignorant fellows of the baser sort, half-mad, starving, ferocious peasants, little better than brute beasts, made so by the war.

"An order came for them. They marched away, leaving a company of other soldiers like those yonder." He pointed to the men on the floor.

"And what became of them?"

"There was an attack from the woods at night—a little handful of French soldiers. They beat them off and followed them down the road. They have been gone half an hour. We heard the firing. We came out thinking to plunder the train. We opened wagon after wagon but found nothing but arms. We can't eat steel or powder. We killed two sentries, made prisoners of the officers. We'll set fire to the house and leave them presently. As for this man, we'll kill him, and as for this woman——"

He laughed meaningly, basely, leering at the girl in hideous suggestiveness that made her shudder; and which his wretched companions found highly amusing.

"You have done well," said the young officer quickly, although he was cold with rage at the ruffian's low insinuation. "I hope to have some interest with the king later. If you will give me your names I will see that you are rewarded."

"Never mind our names," growled the leader, still suspicious, evidently.

"Food and drink would reward us better now," shouted a second.

"Aye," yelled one of the others, seconding this happy thought. "We have eaten nothing since yesterday, and as for drink, it is a week since my lips have tasted a swallow of wine."

"And what would you give me if I could procure you some of the fine wine of the country, my friends?" said Marteau quietly, putting great restraint upon himself to continue trafficking with these scoundrels.

"Give? Anything," answered several in chorus, their red eyes gleaming.

"If you've got it we'll take it for nothing," said the brutal leader with ferocious cunning.

"Do I look as if I concealed wine and provisions on my person?" asked the officer boldly, confident now that he had found the way to master these men.

"No," was the answer. "But where is it?"

"And be quick about it," cried a second threateningly. "Those Russians may be back at any moment."

"Is this a jest?" asked a third with a menacing gesture.

"It would be ill-done to joke with men as hungry as you are, I take it," answered Marteau.

"Hurry, then," cried a fourth.

"In good time, my friends. First, a word with you. What are you going to do with those two prisoners?"

"Knock the men in the head, I told you," answered the leader.

"And the woman?"

"We are trying to settle who should have her—first."

"It's a pity there's only one, still——" began another.

"I'll make a bargain with you, then," interrupted Marteau quickly, fingering his weapon while he spoke. "Food and drink in plenty for you, the woman for me."

"And what do you want of the woman?"

"Before I was a soldier I lived in Aumenier, I told you. I served these people. This woman is an aristocrat. I hate her."

It was an old appeal and an old comment but it served. These were wild days like those of the revolution, the license and rapine and ravagings of which some of the older men present could very well recall.

"She treated me like dirt under her feet," went on the officer. "Now I want to have my turn."

"Marteau!" cried the woman for the first time, recognizing him as he turned a grim face toward her, upon which he had very successfully counterfeited a look of hatred. "Is it indeed——"

"Silence," thundered the young soldier, stepping near to her and shaking his clenched fist in her face. "These worthy patriots will give you to me, and then——"

There was a burst of wild laughter throughout the room.

"It's these cursed aristocrats that have brought these hateful Russians upon us," cried one.

"Give her to the lad and let us have food and drink," cried another.

"He'll deal with her," cried a third.

"You hear?" asked the chief.

"I hear," answered Marteau. "Listen. My father kept this house for its owners. He is dead in the village yonder."

"The wine, the wine," roared one, licking his lips.

"Food. I starve," cried another, baring his teeth.

"Wait. Naturally, fleeing from the army, I came to him. My sister is dead too, outraged, murdered. You know?"

"Yes, yes, we know."

"I want to get my revenge on someone and who better than she?"

The young officer did not dare again to look at the young woman. He could feel the horror, the amazement, the contempt in her glance. Was this one of the loyal Marteaux?

"Make her suffer for us!"

"Our children!"

"Our mothers!"

"Our daughters!" cried one after the other, intoxicated with their wrongs, real or fancied, their faces black with rage, their clenched hands raised to heaven as if invoking vengeance.

"Have no fear," said Marteau. "Because of my father's position I know where the wine cellar is, and there is food there."

"Lead on," said the chief. "We've talked too much."

"This way," replied the young captain, lifting the only candlestick from the table. "Leave two men to watch the woman and give the alarm, the rest follow me."

Marteau knew the old castle like a book. He knew where the keys were kept. Chatting carelessly and giving them every evidence of his familiarity, he found the keys, unlocked the doors, led them from room to room, from level to level, until finally they reached the wine cellar. It was separated from the cellar in which they stood by a heavy iron-bound oaken door. In spite of his easy bearing and manner, suspicions had been aroused in the uneasy minds of the rabble, but when Marteau lifted the candle and bade them bring their own lights and see through an iron grating in the door what the chamber beyond contained and they recognized the casks and bottles, to say nothing of hams, smoked meats and other eatables, their suspicions vanished. They burst into uproarious acclamation.

"Hasten," cried the leader.

"This is the last door."

"Have you the key?"

"It is here."

Marteau lifted the key, thrust it in the lock and turned it slowly, as if by a great effort and, the door opening outward, he drew it back.

"Enter," he said. "Help yourselves."

With cries of joy like famished wolves the whole band poured into the wine cellar. All, that is, but Marteau. As the last men entered he flung the door to and with astonishing quickness turned the key in the lock and turned away. The door had shut with a mighty crash, the noise had even stopped the rioting plunderers. The first man who had seized a bottle dropped it crashing to the floor. All eyes and faces turned toward the door. The last man threw himself against it frantically. It held as firmly as if it had been the rock wall. They were trapped. The leader was quicker than the rest. He still had his weapon. Thrusting it through the iron bars of the grating in the door he pulled the trigger. There was a mighty roar, a cloud of smoke, but fortunately in the dim light his aim was bad. Marteau laughed grimly.

"Enjoy yourselves, messieurs. The provisions are good and you may eat as much as you like. The wine is excellent. Drink your fill!"

The next instant he leaped up the stairs and retraced his steps. It was a long distance from the wine-cellar to the great room, but through the grating that gave entrance to the courtyard the sound of shots had penetrated. One of the ruffians, committing the woman to the care of the remaining man, started to follow his comrades. He had his pistol in his hand. He went noisily, muttering oaths, feeling that something was wrong but not being able to divine exactly what. Marteau heard him coming. He put the candle down, concealed himself and, as the man came, struck him heavily over the head with the butt of his remaining pistol. He fell like a log. Leaving the candle where it was, the young officer, dispossessing his victim of his pistols, entered the hall and, instead of entering the great room by the door by which he had left it, ran along the hall to the main entrance and thus took the remaining brigand in the rear.

This man was one of those who had seized the Countess Laure. In spite of herself the girl started as the officer appeared in the doorway. The man felt her start, wheeled, his eyes recognized the officer. He had no pistol, but his fingers went to his belt and with the quickness of light itself he hurled a knife straight at Marteau. The woman with equal speed caught the man's arm and disturbed his aim. Her movement was purely instinctive. According to his own words she had even more to fear from Marteau than from this ruffian. The young officer instantly dropped to his knees and as he did so presented his pistol and fired. The knife whistled harmlessly over his head and buried itself in the wood paneling of the door. The bullet sped straight to its mark. The unfortunate blackguard collapsed on the floor at the feet of the girl, who screamed and shrank back shuddering.

"Now, mademoiselle," said the young man, advancing into the room, "I have the happiness to inform you that you are free."