The Eagle of the Empire by Cyrus Townsend Brady (best smutty novels .txt) 📕

river was filled with men and horses. Marshal Poniatowski was near me. He had been wounded, and guided his swimming horse with his left hand. The current was swift. We were swept down the stream. A cavalryman next to me was shot from his horse. He fell over upon me. I was forced under water a moment. Another horse, swimming frantically, struck my shoulder with his hoof, fortunately it was the left one. My arm was broken. I seized the tatters of the flag in my teeth--you know I am an expert swimmer, mademoiselle?"

"I know it," answered the girl, her eyes gleaming at the recital. "Have you forgot the day when, disregarding your warnings, I fell into the river and was swept away and how you plunged in and brought me to the shore and never told my father?"

"I have not forgot," said the young officer simply, "but it was not for me to remind you."

"And I have not forgot, either. But continue the story," said the young Countess, her eyes shining, her breath coming quicker, as she listened to the gallant tale so modestly set forth.

"With my right arm I swam as best I could. There was a horse nearby which had lost his rider. I grasped the saddle horn. Somehow I managed to reach the shore with the Eagle. I clambered up the bank, slippery with water and with blood, mademoiselle. The Russians were firing at us from the town. A bullet struck me."

"Where?"

"I am ashamed to say, in the back," said the soldier, flushing at the recollection. "But if I had stood up and faced them the Eagle would have been lost."

The Russian laughed scornfully.

"In the back," he cried meaningly, "a fine place for a soldier!"

"Shame," said the Countess quickly.

"If I had faced them," returned the French soldier simply, "I should have been shot in the breast and killed, perhaps, but I should have lost the Eagle. It was my business to save the Eagle at all hazards, even though I should be branded with cowardice for having done so," he went on hotly.

"I understand," said the Countess. "I, who have known you from a child, know that you are a brave man, monsieur. Proceed."

"I staggered up the bank. Fortune had brought me to the place where the Emperor stood watching. There were staff officers about him. Oh, very few. The slaughter had been dreadful, the confusion was inconceivable, mademoiselle. They made way for me. How well I remember the whole scene," continued the young Frenchman. "The Emperor stood a little apart, his face pale, his head bent. He was frowning and whistling."

"Whistling! Damme," burst out Sir Gervaise Yeovil, deeply interested in the unpretentious account of so heroic a deed. "What was he whistling?"

"_Malbrook-s'en-va-t'en-guerre_."

"By gad," roared the Englishman. "Marlborough beat you. Just wait until we come in touch with you."

"There was no Napoleon there," observed Marteau simply, as if that were adequate answer.

"Napoleon or no Napoleon, wait until Wellington----"

"We shall wait."

"Pardon, Monsieur Yeovil," said the Countess, "will you not allow Monsieur Marteau to proceed?"

"There is little more to tell, mademoiselle. The Emperor saw me come up. I was wet, my arm hung useless, the bullet had gone through my body. There was blood on my uniform coat. I thought that I was dying, that my end was at hand. My strength was ebbing. I concentrated all my will and power. Holding the Eagle, I lifted it up in salute. 'What have we here?' cried the Emperor, fixing his glance upon me. 'Lieutenant Marteau,' I answered. His voice came to me as in a dream and my own voice sounded far away. 'Of what regiment?' 'The Fifth-of-the-Line, Sire.' 'You have saved the Eagle.' 'Yes, Sire,' I replied. And then consciousness left me. As I fell I heard the Emperor say, 'See that he gets the Legion of Honor if he survives.' People caught me in their arms. When I woke up I was in France. Here, at Aumenier, in my father's house."

Young Marteau did not add to his story that, as he fell, he heard the Emperor, deeply moved, exclaim:

"With such men what resources does not France possess?"

"And did the Emperor give you the cross?" eagerly asked the girl.

"It was forgot until a few days since. When I recovered I rejoined the regiment. To take the duty of an officer suddenly ill I happened to be stationed on service near the Emperor at Nogent. When others were urging him to make terms, I, though a young soldier, ventured to express myself to the contrary."

"And then?"

"His Majesty pardoned the liberty, recognized me, gave me his own cross, made me a Major on his staff."

"And the Eagle?"

"It is still carried at the head of what remains of the Fifth-of-the-Line," said the young man proudly.

"When we have taken your Emperor we will do away with those Eagles, and after we restore her rightful king to France we shall give her back her ancient flag of golden lilies," said the Russian.

"Precisely," said Marteau sharply. "When you have taken the Emperor you may do all that. The men who have made France so great under him will care little what you do, monsieur, under such circumstances."

"And why will they be so indifferent, Monsieur Jean?" asked the Countess curiously.

"They will be dead, mademoiselle, and their Emperor, too, unless God preserve his life for some future use."

"Happy," said the young girl, "is the man who can inspire such devotion, monsieur. Although I have been trained differently I think that----"

What the Countess thought was never said for at that instant the door at the farther end of the great room was thrown open suddenly with a violent crash, and into the apartment came crowding the score of villains and scoundrels who had been imprisoned below stairs. They had managed to break out in some way and had returned to the great hall to seize again their captives and to wreak their vengeance upon their betrayer. They had got at the wine and were inflamed with drink as well as revenge and savage passion. They had realized, of course, that some enemies were outside but they had not clearly grasped the situation. All they thought of at the time were the people in the great hall. They came crowding through the big doorway, several of them handling pistols and all of them shouting savage and fearsome cries of revenge and triumph.

Instantly the pistols were presented, the triggers pressed and half a dozen bullets swept through the room. Marteau had seen the first movement of the door. He had divined what had happened. Before the pistols had been leveled he was by the side of the Countess. The table at which she sat was a huge and heavy one. With one movement he hurled her, chair and all, to the floor, with the other he threw the table on its side in front of her. One of the bullets grazed his cheek, the others swept harmlessly through the room. He seized from another table two of his remaining pistols and discharged them squarely into the face of the crowding mass at the other end of the room at point-blank range. The sounds of the shots still echoed when he cried out:

"The knife, Countess. Cut the bonds of the prisoners. We must fight here for our lives and your honor."

The Countess Laure was quick to understand.

"You are safe now. They have no more shots. Hasten," he urged, reaching down a hand and assisting her to her feet.

He clutched the barrels of his pistols thereafter and hurled them directly into the faces of the infuriated men. Five of them were down and his prompt action had given the people in the room a little respite.

"Gentlemen," cried Marteau, sweeping out his sword and stepping into the open space between the prisoners and the overturned table on one hand and the renegades on the other, "quick, take your swords for the honor of the Countess and for your lives."

The man who led the renegades had some idea of military tactics. He spoke a few sharp words and half a dozen of them backed out of the room, entered the outer hall and ran around to the door on the side of the apartment which gave access to the great hall. The little band of defenders retreated into a corner near the fireplace, which was raised a step or two above the floor of the room.

Meanwhile Laure had cut the lashings of the Russians, the Cossacks, and the Englishman. They staggered to their feet numb from their long bondage, but inspired by the frightful imminence of their peril they seized their swords and presented a bold front to the two-sided enemy. There was one pistol left charged. Marteau handed that to the girl.

"The last shot, mademoiselle," he said meaningly, "for yourself if----"

"I understand."

"If you could only get to the door," growled the Russian commander, "my men outside would make short work of----"

"It is impossible until we have dealt with these villains," said Marteau. "On guard!" he cried as the marauders suddenly leaped forward.

The big Englishman, burly, tremendously powerful for all his advancing years, dropped his sword for a moment, picked up one of the heavy oak chairs and hurled it full into the face of the larger body at the further end of the room. One stumbled over it, two others fell. The next moment both parties were upon the little group. In their haste, in their drunken excitement, the marauders had not thought to recharge their pistols. With swords, scythes and clubs they fell on the six men. Their numbers worked to their disadvantage. Three of the men surrounding the woman, the Frenchman and the two Russian guardsmen, were accomplished swordsmen. The Cossacks were not to be disdained in rough-and-tumble fighting and the Englishman was a valiant ally. Their racial antagonisms were forgot in their common danger and the deadly peril of the woman.

The swords of the soldiers flashed as they thrust and parried. The Cossacks, less skillful, strove to beat down the attackers by sweeping slashes--not the best method for such close fighting. One Cossack was pierced through the breast by a thrust from a renegade and another was cut from his neck almost to his heart by a blow from a scythe. One of the Russian officers was wounded, fell to his knees and was dispatched. The Englishman was hit by a billet of wood and dazed. Marteau and the other Russian were still unharmed. But it was going hard with them. In fact, a fierce blow on his blade from a bludgeon shivered the weapon of the Frenchman. A sword was aimed at his heart. There was a blinding flash, a detonation, and the man who held it staggered back. The Countess, the last pistol almost touching the man's body, had pulled the trigger. Marteau seized the sword of the