JEAN PEUQUOY THE WEAVER
A general council of the military leaders and prominent citizens was
being held in the St. Quentin town-hall. It was the 15th of August
already, and the town had not yet capitulated; but there was much talk
about capitulation. The suffering and destitution of the inhabitants
were at their height; and since there was no hope of saving the place,
and since the enemy, some day, sooner or later, were sure to gain
possession, would it not be better to put an end to so much misery?
Gaspard de Coligny, the gallant admiral, whom the Constable de
Montmorency, his uncle, had intrusted with the defence of the place, had
determined not to admit the Spaniard until the last extremity. He knew
that each day's delay, terrible though it was to the suffering people,
might be the salvation of the kingdom. But what could he do against the
discouragement and mutterings of the whole population? The war outside
the walls gave no time for fighting within; and if the people of St.
Quentin should refuse some day to perform the labor which was required
of them as well as of the troops, further resistance would be useless,
and it would remain but to deliver the keys of the town, and with them
the key of France, to Philip II. and his general, Philibert Emmanuel of
Savoy.
However, he had resolved, before contemplating such a disastrous step,
to make one last supreme effort; and with that in view he had convoked
this assembly of the principal men of the town, whom we will now allow
to complete our information as to the desperate condition of the
fortifications, and, above all, as to the condition of the brave hearts
of their defenders;--the most important fortifications of all.
The speech with which the admiral opened the sitting appealing
eloquently to the patriotism of his hearers, was received with
depressing silence. Then Gaspard de Coligny directly questioned Captain
Oger, one of the valiant gentlemen who served under him. He hoped by
beginning with the officers to urge the citizens on to further
resistance. But Captain Oger's advice unluckily was not what the admiral
anticipated.
"Since you have done me the honor to ask my opinion, Monsieur l'Amiral,"
said he, "I will say what I have to say frankly, but with much sorrow:
St. Quentin can hold out no longer. If we had any hope of maintaining
ourselves for a week even, or for four days, or for two days, I would
say, 'These two days may afford time for the army to be reorganized;
these two days may save our country,--therefore let us not surrender
until the last stone in the walls has crumbled, and the last man has
fallen.' But I am convinced that the next assault, which may be made
within an hour, will be the last. Is it not, then, better, while there
is still time, to save what can be saved of the town by capitulation,
and escape pillage at least, if we cannot escape defeat?"
"Yes, yes, that is true! Well said! that is the only reasonable course
to take," muttered those who heard him.
"No, gentlemen, no!" cried the admiral; "we are not dealing with reason
now, but with sentiment. Besides, I do not believe that one single
assault will let the Spaniards into the town, when we have already
repelled five. Come, Lauxford, you know the present condition of the
works and the countermines: are not the fortifications sufficiently
strong to hold out for a long time to come? Speak frankly, and don't
represent matters any more or less favorable than they really are. We
have come together to learn the truth; and it is the truth I ask of
you."
"I will tell it to you," replied the engineer Lauxford, "or rather I
will let the facts speak for themselves; they will tell you the truth
better than I, and without flattery. For this purpose, all you need to
do is to go over with me in your mind the vulnerable points of these
fortifications. Monsieur l'Amiral, at the present moment there are four
practicable openings for the enemy; and I must confess that I am much
surprised that he has not already made use of them. In the first place,
there is a breach in the wall at the Boulevard St. Martin wide enough
for twenty men to pass through abreast. We have lost there more than two
hundred men,--living walls, who cannot, however, supply the lack of
walls of stone. At the Porte St. Jean, the great tower alone is still
standing, and the best curtain is battered to pieces. There is a
countermine at that point, all closed and ready; but I fear that if we
fire it, we shall cause the destruction of the great tower; which alone
holds the assailants in check, and the ruins of which would serve them
as ladders. At the hamlet of Remicourt, the Spanish trenches have cut
through the outer wall of the moat, and they have taken up a position
there under cover of a mantlet, behind which they are battering away at
the walls without intermission. Finally, on the Faubourg d'Isle side,
you know, Monsieur l'Amiral, that the enemy is in possession not only of
the moats, but of the boulevard and the abbey; and they are so firmly
lodged there that it is no longer possible to inflict any damage on them
at that point, while, step by step, they are scaling the parapet,--which
is only five or six feet thick,--attacking in flank with their batteries
the men at work on the Boulevard de la Reine, and worrying them so that
it has been impracticable to keep them at work. The remainder of the
fortifications will perhaps stand out; but there are the four mortal
wounds, and they will soon sap the life of the city, Monseigneur. You
have asked me for the truth, and I have given it to you in all its
melancholy details, leaving to your wisdom and foresight to say what use
shall be made of it."
Thereupon the mutterings of the throng began again, and although no one
dared to say it aloud, every one was saying under his breath,--
"The best thing to do is to capitulate, and not risk the disastrous
chances of an assault."
But the admiral rejoined, undismayed,--
"Hold, gentlemen, another word! As you say, Monsieur Lauxford, if our
walls are wreak, we have, to supplement their weakness, our gallant
soldiers,--living ramparts. With them, and with the earnest concurrence
of the citizens, is it not possible to postpone the taking of the town
for a few days? (And what would be a shameful act to-day will cover us
with glory then.) Yes, the fortifications are too weak, I agree; but we
have troops in sufficient numbers, have we not, Monsieur de
Rambouillet?"
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said the captain who was addressed, "if we were
down in the square, in the midst of the crowd, who are awaiting the
result of our deliberations, I would say yes; for we should do our
utmost to inspire hope and confidence in every breast. But here, in
council, before those whose courage needs no proof or stimulus, I do not
hesitate to tell you that we have not men enough for the difficult and
dangerous work to be done. We have given arms to every one who was able
to carry them. The rest are employed in the defensive works, and
children and old men are doing their share there. Even the women are
assisting in the good work by saving and nursing the wounded. In short,
not one arm is idle, and yet arms are sadly needed. There is not a spot
on the ramparts where there is one man too many, and there are
frequently not enough. Multiply as we will, it is impossible to arrange
our forces so that fifty more men are not absolutely necessary at the
Porte St. Jean, and at least fifty others at the Boulevard St. Martin.
The disaster of St. Laurent has deprived us of reinforcements that we
had reason to anticipate; and unless you expect succor from Paris,
Monseigneur, it is for you to consider if, in such dire extremity, you
ought to risk the lives of the small number of men we have left, and of
this remnant of our gallant gendarmerie, who may still do much good
service in helping to defend other places, and perhaps to save our
country."
The whole assembly murmured approval of these words; and the distant
shouting of the people who were crowding around the building on the
outside was a still more eloquent commentary upon them.
But at this moment a voice of thunder cried,--
"Silence!"
Every voice was hushed; for he who spoke in such a commanding and steady
voice was Jean Peuquoy, the syndic of the guild of weavers,--a citizen
who was held in the highest esteem and consideration, and was a little
feared by the people.
Jean Peuquoy was a type of the sturdy bourgeoisie, who loved their city
as a mother and as a child, worshipped her and grumbled at her, lived
always for her, and would die for her if need were. For the honest
weaver there was no world but France, and in all France naught but St.
Quentin. No one was so well versed as he in the history and traditions
of the town, its ancient customs, and old-time legends. There was not a
quarter, not a street, not a house, which in its present or its past had
any secrets from Jean Peuquoy. He was in himself the municipality
personified. His shop was a second Grand'place, and his wooden house in
the Rue St. Martin another town-hall. This venerable mansion was made
noticeable by a very peculiar coat-of-arms,--a shuttle crowned between
the antlers of a full-grown stag. One of Jean Peuquoy's ancestors (for
Jean Peuquoy reckoned up his ancestors like any gentleman)--a weaver
like himself, it need not be said, and in addition an archer of
renown--had put out the two eyes of this fine stag with two shafts at
more than a hundred paces. These superb antlers are still to be seen at
St. Quentin in the Rue St. Martin. Every one for ten leagues around knew
the antlers and the weaver. Jean Peuquoy was thus the city itself; and
every dweller in St. Quentin listened to the voice of his country
speaking through him.
And so no one stirred when the weaver's voice, rising above the
grumbling and the muttering, shouted, "Silence!"
"Yes, be silent!" he continued, "and lend me your ears for one moment,
my fellow-citizens and good friends, I beseech you. Let us look over
together, with your leave, what we have already done, and we may perhaps
learn from that what we have still to do. When the enemy sat down before
our walls; when we saw this swarm of Spaniards, English, Germans, and
Walloons, under the redoubtable Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy, swooping
down like locusts around our town,--we bravely accepted our lot, did we
not? We did not murmur, nor did we accuse Providence of having cruelly
selected St. Quentin as the expiatory sacrifice of France. Far from it;
and Monsieur l'Amiral will do us the justice to say that from the very
hour of his arrival, bringing us the mighty succor of his experience and
valor, we did our best to forward his plans with our persons and our
property. We have furnished supplies and money, and have ourselves
shouldered the cross-bow and wielded the pick and shovel. Those of us
who have not acted as sentinels on the walls have been digging in the
town. We have helped to discipline and restore order among the
rebellious peasants in the suburbs, who refused to work in payment for
the protection we had afforded them. In short, we have done, I honestly
believe, everything that could possibly be asked of men whose trade is
not war. So we hoped that our lord the king would speedily remember his
loyal subjects in St. Quentin, and would send us without delay the
succor that we needed; and so it happened. Monsieur de Montmorency came
hurrying hither to drive the forces of Philip II. from our gates, and we
thanked God and the king; but the fatal day of St. Laurent dashed our
hopes to the ground in a few short hours. The constable was taken, his
army cut to pieces, and we were left in a more hopeless state than ever.
Five days have passed since then, and the enemy have made good use of
them. Three fierce assaults have cost us more than two hundred men and
whole sections of the walls. The cannon thunders unceasingly. Listen! it
echoes my very words. But we do not wish to hear it, and listen only on
the side where Paris lies, to hear if we cannot distinguish some sound
to announce the arrival of further reinforcement. But no; and our last
resources are, so far as we can see, exhausted. The king abandons us,
and has many other things to do than to think of us. He must collect
around him at Paris all that remains of his forces, and must save the
kingdom rather than one poor town; and if he does turn his eyes and his
thoughts toward St. Quentin now and then, it is only to ask if its
death-agony will last long enough to give France time to recover. But as
to hope or chance of relief, there is no more now for us, dear
countrymen and friends. Monsieur de Rambouillet and Monsieur de Lauxford
have spoken the truth. We lack fortifications and troops; our city is
dying; we are abandoned, despairing, and lost!"
"Yes, yes!" cried the whole assembly, with one accord; "we must
surrender! we must surrender!"
"Not so," rejoined Jean Peuquoy; "we must die!"
An amazed silence followed this unexpected conclusion. The weaver
profited by it to proceed with increased animation.
"We must die. What we have already done points out to us what remains
for us to do. Messieurs Lauxford and de Rambouillet say that we cannot
hold out; but Monsieur de Coligny says that we must hold out! And let us
do it! You know whether I am devoted to our good town of St. Quentin, my
dear brothers. I love her as I loved my old mother, in very truth. Every
bullet that strikes her venerable walls seems to pierce my heart; and
yet now that the general has spoken, I feel that he must be obeyed. Let
not the arm rebel against the head, and St. Quentin perish! Monsieur
l'Amiral knows what he is doing and what he means to do. He has weighed,
in his wisdom, the fate of one city against the fate of France. He has
decided that St. Quentin must die, like a sentinel at his post; so be
it. The man who murmurs is a coward; and he who disobeys, a traitor. The
walls are crumbling: let us make new walls with our dead bodies; let us
gain a week, let us gain two days, or an hour even, at the price of all
our blood and all our property. Monsieur l'Amiral knows the worth of all
this; and since he asks it of us, we must do it. He will have to answer
for it to God and to the king; but that doesn't concern us. As for us,
our business is to die when he says, 'Die!' Let Monsieur de Coligny's
conscience look out for the rest. He is responsible, and we must
submit."
After these solemn, mournful words, every tongue was still, every head
lowered, Gaspard de Coligny's like the others, and even to a greater
degree than the others. It was in truth a heavy burden which the syndic
of weavers put upon him; and he could not forbear a shudder as he
thought of all these lives with which he was thus made chargeable.
"I see by your silence, my friends and brothers," continued Jean
Peuquoy, "that you understand and approve what I have said; but one
cannot expect husbands and fathers to pronounce sentence aloud upon
their wives and children. To say nothing is to make a favorable reply.
You will allow Monsieur l'Amiral to make orphans of your children and
widows of your wives; but you cannot pronounce their sentence
yourselves, is it not so? It is quite right too. Say nothing and die. No
one would be so brutal as to require you to cry: 'Meure St. Quentin!'
But if your patriotic hearts beat, as I believe they do, in unison with
mine, you can at least cry, 'Vive la France!'"
"Vive la France!" echoed a few voices, as feeble as the wailing of
children, and as mournful as sobs.
Then Gaspard de Coligny, deeply moved, and in a state of intense
agitation, rose hastily from his seat.
"Listen to me; listen!" he cried: "I will not accept such a fearful
responsibility alone. I was able to resist you when you wished to yield
to the enemy, but when you do yield to me, I can no longer discuss the
question; and since every soul in this assembly is of a contrary opinion
to that which I hold, and since you all deem the sacrifice useless--"
"I believe, may God forgive me," broke in a loud voice from the crowd,
"that even you are about to speak of giving up the town, Monsieur
l'Amiral."