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
It had been horrible to see Toussac tear the throat out of the hound,
but it had not made my flesh creep as it crept now. Pity was mingled
with my disgust for this unfortunate young man, who had been fitted by
Nature for the life of a retired student or of a dreaming poet, but who
had been dragged by stronger wills than his own into a part which no
child could be more incapable of playing. I forgave him the trick by
which he had caught me and the selfish fears to which he had been
willing to sacrifice me. He had flung himself down upon the ground, and
floundered about in a convulsion of terror, whilst his terrible little
companion, with his cynical smile, stood over him with his pistol in his
hand. He played with the helpless panting coward as a cat might with a
mouse; but I read in his inexorable eyes that it was no jest, and his
finger seemed to be already tightening upon his trigger. Full of horror
at so cold-blooded a murder, I pushed open my crazy cupboard, and had
rushed out to plead for the victim, when there came a buzz of voices and
a clanking of steel from without. With a stentorian shout of 'In the
name of the Emperor!' a single violent wrench tore the door of the hut
from its hinges.
It was still blowing hard, and through the open doorway I could see a
thick cluster of mounted men, with plumes slanted and mantles flapping,
the rain shining upon their shoulders. At the side the light from the
hut struck upon the heads of two beautiful horses, and upon the heavy
red-toupeed busbies of the hussars who stood at their heads. In the
doorway stood another hussar--a man of high rank, as could be seen from
the richness of his dress and the distinction of his bearing. He was
booted to the knees, with a uniform of light blue and silver, which his
tall, slim, light-cavalry figure suited to a marvel. I could not but
admire the way in which he carried himself, for he never deigned to draw
the sword which shone at his side, but he stood in the doorway glancing
round the blood-bespattered hut, and staring at its occupants with a
very cool and alert expression. He had a handsome face, pale and
clear-cut, with a bristling moustache, which cut across the brass
chin-chain of his busby.
'Well,' said he, 'well?'
The older man had put his pistol back into the breast of his brown coat.
'This is Lucien Lesage,' said he.
The hussar looked with disgust at the prostrate figure upon the floor.
'A pretty conspirator!' said he. 'Get up, you grovelling hound! Here,
Gerard, take charge of him and bring him into camp.'
A younger officer with two troopers at his heels came clanking in to the
hut, and the wretched creature, half swooning, was dragged out into the
darkness.
'Where is the other--the man called Toussac?'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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