Uncle Bernac: A Memory of the EmpireDoyle, Arthur Conan
History
Uncle Bernac: A Memory of the Empire
Doyle, Arthur Conan
France -- History -- Consulate and First Empire, 1799-1815 -- Fiction
'Don't, Toussac; don't!' said the same gentle voice which had spoken
first. 'I saw you do it once before, and the horrible snick that it
made haunted me for a long time. To think that the sacred flame of life
can be so readily snuffed out by that great material finger and thumb!
Mind can indeed conquer matter, but the fighting must not be at close
quarters.'
My neck was so twisted that I could not see any of these people who were
discussing my fate. I could only lie and listen.
'The fact remains, my dear Charles, that the fellow has our
all-important secret, and that it is our lives or his.
'I recognised in the voice which was now speaking that of the man of the
cottage.
'We owe it to ourselves to put it out of his power to harm us. Let him
sit up, Toussac, for there is no possibility of his escaping.'
Some irresistible force at the back of my neck dragged me instantly into
a sitting position, and so for the first time I was able to look round
me in a dazed fashion, and to see these men into whose hands I had
fallen. That they were murderers in the past and had murderous plans
for the future I already gathered from what I had heard and seen.
I understood also that in the heart of that lonely marsh I was
absolutely in their power. None the less, I remembered the name that I
bore, and I concealed as far as I could the sickening terror which lay
at my heart.
There were three of them in the room, my former acquaintance and two new
comers. Lesage stood by the table, with his fat brown book in his hand,
looking at me with a composed face, but with that humorous questioning
twinkle in his eyes which a master chess-player might assume when he had
left his opponent without a move. On the top of the box beside him sat
a very ascetic-faced, yellow, hollow-eyed man of fifty, with prim lips
and a shrunken skin, which hung loosely over the long jerking tendons
under his prominent chin. He was dressed in snuff-coloured clothes, and
his legs under his knee-breeches were of a ludicrous thinness. He shook
his head at me with an air of sad wisdom, and I could read little
comfort in his inhuman grey eyes. But it was the man called Toussac who
alarmed me most. He was a colossus; bulky rather than tall, but
misshapen from his excess of muscle. His huge legs were crooked like
those of a great ape; and, indeed, there was something animal about his
whole appearance, something for he was bearded up to his eyes, and it
was a paw rather than a hand which still clutched me by the collar. As
to his expression, he was too thatched with hair to show one, but his
large black eyes looked with a sinister questioning from me to the
others. If they were the judge and jury, it was clear who was to be
executioner.
'Whence did he come? What is his business? How came he to know the
hiding-place?' asked the thin man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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