throughout the district of Fougères, the talk ran for the most part
upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged
in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary
struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vendée was losing
ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young
commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of
six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the
insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and
restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed
that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs
had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but
a singular complication had arisen.
That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the
Vendée was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning
of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror,
determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to
win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible
representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and
the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and
authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate.
Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by
a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening
watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No
mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his
authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows:
"Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at
the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee
of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a
delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for
his part, had but the power that is born of pity.
His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and
his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right
to spare the conquered.
Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these
two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with
rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other
with those of terror.
Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme
intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to
increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side.
These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn
together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature
had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore
witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the
images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and
that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes
merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of
Ormus!
Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious
showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed
wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances
and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing
for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a
battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the
thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his
belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had
ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but
never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest.
These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles,
though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and
Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature.
One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain,
and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or
later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and
one morning the contest began as follows.
Cimourdain said to Gauvain,--
"What have we accomplished?"
To which the latter replied,--
"You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a
few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Fougères. In eight
days he will be surrounded."
"And in fifteen?"
"He will be captured."
"And then?"
"You have seen my notice?"
"Yes; and what then?"
"He is to be shot."
"A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined."
"I approve of a military death."
"And I of a revolutionary one."
Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,--
"Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to
be set at liberty?"
"I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain.
"Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred,
one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band
of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvigné, before the
revolutionary tribunal?"
"Neither do I wage war against old men."
"An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is
advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have
faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide
is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple."
"The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making
war against children."
Cimourdain's eye grew stern.
"Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name
is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI.,
and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet."
"I am no politician, master."
"Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the
attack of the post of Cossé, when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and
defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division,
you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'"
"Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to
kill one man."
"And why at Cailleterie d'Astillé, when you saw that your soldiers were
about to kill the Vendean Joseph Bézier, who was wounded and just able
to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!'
and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?"
"Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy."
"There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present
moment. Joseph Bézier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as
Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with
two enemies."
[Illustration 095]
"I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies."
"After the victory of Landéan, why did you not shoot the three hundred
peasant prisoners?"
"Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to
be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners."
"Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?"
"No."
"Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?"
"The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about."
"But Lantenac is your kinsman."
"And France nearer than he."
"Lantenac is an old man."
"To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the
English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the
duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine."
"Remember these words, Gauvain."
"I have said them."
For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then
Gauvain continued,--
"This will be a bloody year,--this '93."
"Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be
performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument.
How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness?
Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless
severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary
year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution
feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon
feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business
of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king,
aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier,
and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the
judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the
tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it
with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be
sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it
possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration
be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are
the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher,
or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its
fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to
take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will
not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an
end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the
health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a
time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after
that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence
this hemorrhage,--'93."
"A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent."
"Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain;
"it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are
inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre
of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the
implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are
worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe."
"And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then
continued,--
"But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of
revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this
man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast
among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he
would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His
weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his
teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway
to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves."
"The sheep is a brute."
"And what are the lions?"
This answer set Cimourdain thinking.
"The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles,
ideas."
"It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror."
"Some day the Revolution will justify all that."
"Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution."
Gauvain continued,--
"Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and
harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to
accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well,
then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither
nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that
good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold
standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike
off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and
not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless
men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am
opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am
but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose
the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be
enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the
time to be brothers."
"Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care,
Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son."
And he added, thoughtfully,--
"In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another
form."
Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a
dialogue between a sword and all axe.
[Illustration 086]
VIII.
DOLOROSA.
Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking
straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did
not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often
living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among
the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind.
Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm,
making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was,
never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome,
sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come
in, she would go into the woods.
Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the
parish of Azé, and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace
her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both
time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the
cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods.
In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first
she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before
her feet were bleeding.
Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither
hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her
children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer
any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons
as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask.
"Have you seen three little children anywhere?"
And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,--
"Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them:
"René-Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?"
And again,--
"The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months."
Presently she would add,--
"Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me."
[Illustration 087]
People gazed at her, and that was all.
Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,--
"It is because they are mine. That is the reason."
And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand
speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a
peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work.
"Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Two boys?"
"And a girl."
"And you are looking for them?"
"Yes."
"I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and
keeps them with him."
"Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried.
"Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant.
"And shall I find my children there?"
"Very likely you will."
"What did you say the name was?"
"The Tourgue."
"What is the Tourgue?"
"It is a place."
"Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?"
"I never was there."
"Is it far?"
"I should say so."
"In what direction?"
"In the direction of Fougères."
"Which way shall I go?"
"You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave
Ernée on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through
Longchamps, and cross the Leroux."
The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward.
"Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset."
She had already started before he had time to lower his arm.
He called out to her.
"You must be careful; they are fighting over there."
She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing.
[Illustration 088]
IX.
A PROVINCIAL BASTILE.
[Illustration 089]
I.
LA TOURGUE.
The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Fougères from
the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parigné, might have
beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging
from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the
living Tourgue, but the dead one.
The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be
called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious
than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone
like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from
a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the
appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements
of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman,
since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished
in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the
imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached
it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the
wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space
and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set
upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions,
and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys
had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen;
at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams
covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories;
a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its
summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and
through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy
walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the
cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find
brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through
a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the
mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars.
Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper
stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah,
composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could
not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture
brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When
these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so
skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can
be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the
earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius.
II.
THE BREACH.
The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of
a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would
have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The
fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately
proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to
destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of
powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than
a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as
the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the
requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent
in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was
evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to
time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same
epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and
each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron
ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep.
The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and
directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a
crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor
throughout the foundation of the tower.
This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the
direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay.
III.
THE OUBLIETTE.
This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like
many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The
first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized
vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the
walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with
each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault,
where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and
such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by
two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here
in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn
and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that
they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to
each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these
wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It
required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing
of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden.
[Illustration 090]
Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only
entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim,
stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under
his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle
of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was
thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen
at Bouillon.
This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to
such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy
wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the
prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one
overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the
easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through
this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this
tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for
himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the
scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were
tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of
it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one
the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period.
This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing
itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us.
Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound
of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach,
which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure
somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron
grating, loosened and broken.
IV.
THE BRIDGE-CASTLE.
A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was
connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This
bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore
the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left
standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose
side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a
phantom.
To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever
behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that
kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant
abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for
La Jupellière, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for
Pinson le Tortu.
La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is
but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile of the
Gauvains, and served to guard, towards the west, the entrance of the
forest of Fougères, which is now little more than a grove.
This fortress was built on one of those great blocks of slate which
are found in abundance between Mayence and Dinan, scattered in all
directions among the copses and along the heath like the missiles
of some Titanic combat. The tower composed the entire fortress; and
below the tower stood the rock at whose base flowed one of those
water-courses which swells into a torrent in January and dries up in
June.
Simple as were its means of defence, this tower was almost impregnable
in the Middle Ages, but the bridge had proved a source of weakness.
The Gauvains of Gothic times had built it without a bridge. It was
formerly accessible by means of one of those swinging bridges that
could be instantly severed by the stroke of an axe. So long as the
Gauvains remained Viscounts it pleased them just as it was, and they
were satisfied with it. But when they became Marquises and exchanged
the keep for the Court, they spanned the stream with three arches and
thus offered access in the direction of the plain very much as they had
yielded to the advances of the king. The marquises of the seventeenth
century and the marchionesses of the seventeenth no longer prided
themselves on their impregnability. They abandoned the traditions of
their ancestors to follow the fashions of Versailles.
Facing the tower towards the west was a somewhat elevated plateau
adjoining two plains; this plateau was very near the tower, only
separated from it by a deep ravine through which flowed a stream
tributary to the Couesnon. The bridge that connected the fortress with
the plateau stood on lofty piles, and on these piles was constructed
as at Chenonceaux a building in the Mansard style of architecture, but
more comfortable than the tower. Customs were still very rude, and the
lords continued to occupy chambers in the keep that were more like
dungeons than bedrooms. As to the building on the bridge, which was a
diminutive kind of castle, a long corridor had been added to it, by
way of entrance, which was called the hall of the guards. Over this
hall, which was like an entresol, was the library, and above that a
granary. Separated by pillars stood the long windows with their small
panes of Bohemian glass; medallions were sculptured on the walls. The
fortress was three stories high; halberds and muskets were to be found
below, books in the middle, and over all the bags of oats,--a somewhat
barbarous arrangement, but princely to the last degree.
The tower loomed above this coquettish building presenting a stern and
gloomy contrast.
The platform offered a point of attack from which the bridge could be
destroyed.
Between these two buildings there was no harmony whatsoever; the
roughness of the one jarred against the elegance of the other. It would
seem as if two semicircles ought to be identical; yet no two styles
have less in common than that of a Roman semicircle and a classic
archivolt. That tower, a worthy companion for the forest, was a strange
neighbor for the bridge, which might have come from Versailles. Fancy
Louis XIV. leaning on the arm of Alain Barbe-Torte. There was something
appalling in this juxtaposition. An inexpressible spirit of terror
pervaded the combined majesty of these structures.
Let us repeat, that from a military point of view the bridge went
far towards betraying the tower; for while it added to its beauty it
diminished its strength, ornamenting it on the one hand and weakening
it on the other; by placing it on a level with the plateau, it had
exposed it to attacks from that direction, although it still remained
impregnable in the direction of the forest. Formerly it had commanded
the plateau, but matters were now reversed. An enemy installed on the
plain would speedily become master of the bridge. The library and
the granary were advantageous to the besiegers rather than to the
besieged, since the contents of both are of a combustible nature. For
an assailant who knows how to avail himself of fire as a means of
assault, it matters but little whether it be a Homer or a bundle of
hay, provided it burns. The French offered a proof of this fact to the
Germans when they burned the library at Heidelberg, as did the Germans
in burning that of Strasbourg. In short, this bridge built on to the
Tourgue was a strategic mistake; but in the seventeenth century, under
Colbert and Louvois, the Princes Gauvain, like the Princes de Rohan or
La Tremoille, believed themselves henceforth safe from assault. Still,
the builders of the bridge had taken certain precautions. In the first
place, anticipating the chances of fire, they had fastened crosswise
below the three windows looking towards the stream, by iron clamps
which no longer than fifty years ago were still to be seen, a strong
ladder, equal in length to the height of the first two stories of the
bridge,--a height surpassing that of three ordinary stories; secondly,
foreseeing the possibility of a siege, they had isolated the bridge
from the tower by means of a low and heavy iron door, arched at the top
and locked with a large key, whose hiding-place was known to the master
alone; once closed, it could defy the battering-ram and almost brave
the cannon-ball.
One must cross the bridge to reach this door, which was the only means
of access to the tower.
V.
THE IRON DOOR.
As a result of the elevation of this castle on the bridge by means of
piles, its second story was on a level with the corresponding story of
the tower; and here, for greater safety, the iron door had been placed.
This iron door led from the bridge into the library, and from the
tower into a large vaulted hall with a pillar in the centre. As
already stated, this hall was in the second story of the keep. Like
the tower itself, it was circular in its form, and was lighted by deep
embrasures overlooking the fields. The stones of its rough and naked
walls, unhidden from the view, were, however, symmetrically adjusted.
This hall was reached by a spiral staircase built in the wall,--quite
a simple matter when walls are fifteen feet thick. In the Middle Ages
they used to capture a city by streets, a street by houses, and a
house by rooms; and thus a fortress was besieged story by story. In
this respect La Tourgue was very skilfully arranged, and very difficult
to cope with. An uncomfortable staircase connected one story with
another; the doors were sloping, and not high enough to admit a man
unless he bent his head; and where at every door the besieged stood in
waiting for their assailants, a bowed head was certain death.
Below the circular hall with the pillar were two similar rooms,
composing the first story and the ground-floor, and above these three
more. The tower was closed, so to speak, by a platform which rested on
these six rooms like a stone cover, and a narrow watch-tower led up to
the platform.
As they were obliged to pierce this wall in which the iron door was
sealed to a depth of fifteen feet, it was thereby framed in a deep
archway, which when the door was closed formed a porch six or seven
feet deep, towards the bridge as well as towards the tower, and when
it was open these two porches united to form the entrance arch. Set in
the wall under the porch, towards the bridge, was a low gate with a
Saint-Gilles bolt, leading into the corridor of the first story under
the library. This was another difficulty for the besiegers. That side
of the castle on the bridge looking towards the plateau ended in a
perpendicular wall, and there the bridge was severed. The drawbridge
set up against a low gate to connect it with the plateau, and which
on account of the height of the latter could only be lowered like an
inclined plane, led into the long corridor called the guard-room. The
besiegers who found themselves in possession of this corridor would
have been obliged to carry by main force the Saint-Gilles winding
stairway that led to the second story, in order to reach the iron gate.
VI.
THE LIBRARY.
As to the library, it was an oblong room of the same length and width
as the bridge, with a single door, and that the iron one. A false
folding-door covered with green cloth, which only needed to be pushed,
concealed within the entrance arch of the tower. The walls of the
library were lined from floor to ceiling with glass bookcases in the
fine taste of the seventeenth century cabinet-work, and lighted by six
large windows, three on a side,--that is, one over each arch. Through
these windows the interior of the room was visible from the height of
the platform. Between the windows stood six marble busts on pedestals
of carved oak,--Hermolaüs of Byzantium, the grammarian Athenæus
of Naucratis, Suidas, Casaubon, Clovis, King of France, and his
chancellor, Anachalus,--who for that matter was no more a chancellor
than Clovis was a king.
There were various books in the library. One has remained famous.
It was an ancient quarto, enriched with prints, with the title
"Saint Bartholomew" in large letters, together with the sub-title,
"Gospel according to Saint Bartholomew, preceded by a dissertation by
Pantoenus, Christian philosopher, on the question as to whether this
Gospel should be considered apocryphal, and whether Saint Bartholomew
is identical with Nathanal." This book, supposed to be a unique copy,
was placed on a reading-desk in the middle of the library. In the last
century people came to see it as a curiosity.
VII.
THE GRANARY.
As for the granary, which, like the library, followed the oblong form
of the bridge, it was merely the space under the woodwork of the roof.
It consisted of a large room filled with hay and straw, and lighted by
six Mansard windows, with no other ornament than the statue of Saint
Barnabas sculptured on the door, and below it the following verse:--
"Barnabus sanctus falcem jubet ire per herbam."
A lofty and massive tower, six stories in height, pierced here and
there by a few embrasures, its sole means of entrance and egress an
iron door opening into a bridge-castle closed by a drawbridge; behind
the tower a forest, before it a heath-covered plateau, higher than the
bridge, lower than the tower; below the bridge, between the tower and
the plateau, a deep narrow ravine filled with underbrush, a torrent in
winter, a stream in the springtime, and a rocky bed in summer,--such
was the Tour-Gauvain, called La Tourgue.
[Illustration 091]
[Illustration: The Hostages 092]
X.
THE HOSTAGES.
July passed away, and August came. A blast, fierce and heroic,
had swept over France; two spectres had but just crossed the
horizon,--Marat with a dagger in his side, and Charlotte Corday
headless: events looked threatening. As to the Vendée, defeated in
her grand strategic schemes, she turned her attention to others on a
smaller scale, which, as we have already said, were likely to prove
more dangerous. This war had now become one monstrous battle scattered
about in the woods: the disasters of the grand army, Royal and
Catholic, so called, had begun. A decree had been passed to send the
army of Mayence into the Vendée; eight thousand Vendeans were killed
at Ancenis; they were repulsed from Nantes, dislodged from Montaigu,
expelled from Thouars, driven out of Noirmoutier, pitched headlong
out of Cholet, Mortagne, and Saumur; they had evacuated Parthenay,
abandoned Clisson, and lost ground at Châtillon; at Saint-Hilaire their
flag was captured; they were defeated at Pornic, Sables, Fontenay,
Doui, Château-d'Eau, and Ponts-de-Cé; they were checkmated at Luçon,
retreated from Châtaigneraye, and were routed at the Roche-sur-Yon;
at present, while they threatened La Rochelle on the one hand, on the
other an English fleet riding in the waters of Guernsey, commanded by
General Craig, and carrying several regiments of the English army,
together with some of the best officers of the French navy, was only
waiting for the signal of the Marquis de Lantenac to disembark,--a
descent which might once more turn the tide of victory in favor of the
Royalists. Pitt was but a political malefactor. As the dagger to an
armament, even so is treason to political warfare. Pitt stabbed our
country, and betrayed his own, since to dishonor is to betray. Through
his influence and under his administration England waged Punic warfare.
She spied, cheated, and deceived. Poacher and forger, she stopped at
nothing, stooping to the petty details of hatred. She established
a monopoly of tallow that cost five francs a pound. A letter from
Prigent, Pitt's agent in the Vendée, which was seized on the person of
an Englishman at Lille, contained the following lines: "I beg you to
spare no money. In regard to the assassinations, we hope that prudence
will be exercised; disguised priests and women are the most suitable
for this work. Send sixty thousand livres to Rouen, and fifty thousand
to Caen." This letter was read by Barère at the Convention on the first
day of August. As a retaliation for these acts of treachery witness the
cruelties of Parrein, and still later the atrocities of Carrier. The
Republicans of Metz and those of the South were eager to march against
the rebels. A decree was passed ordering the formation of twenty-four
companies of sappers, who were to burn the fences and enclosures of the
Bocage. Here was a crisis without parallel. War was suspended in one
direction only to break out in another. "No mercy! No prisoners!" was
the war-cry of both parties. Dark and terrible shadows fall across the
pages of history in these times.
In this very month of August the Tourgue was besieged.
One evening, just as the stars were rising in the calm twilight
peculiar to dog-day weather, when not a leaf stirred in the woods, nor
a blade of grass quivered on the plain, the sound of a horn was heard
through the silence of the approaching night. It came from the summit
of the tower.
This peal was answered by the ring of a clarion from below. On the top
of the tower stood an armed man, and in the shadow below lay a camp.
In the obscurity around the Tour-Gauvain one could dimly distinguish
the moving to and fro of dark figures. This was the bivouac. A few
fires had been kindled beneath the forest-trees and among the heather
of the plateau, their shining points of light pricking through the
darkness here and there, as if earth as well as sky would deck itself
out with stars, though it were but with the lurid stars of war. Towards
the plateau the bivouac stretched as far as the plain, and in the
direction of the forest it extended into the thicket. The Tourgue was
invested.
The extent of the besiegers' bivouac indicated a numerous force.
The camp pressed hard upon the fortress, reaching to the rock in the
direction of the tower, and as far as the ravine on the side of the
bridge.
Another peal from the horn was heard, followed by a second blast from
the clarion.
The horn asked the question, and the clarion made reply.
The horn was the voice of the tower asking the camp, "May we speak with
you?" To which the clarion, speaking for the camp, answered, "Yes."
At that time the Convention did not regard the Vendeans in the light
of belligerents, and it being forbidden by a decree to exchange flags
of truce with "the brigands," they supplemented as best they could the
usual means of communication which international law authorizes in
ordinary warfare, but interdicts in civil conflicts. Consequently in
time of need a certain understanding existed between the peasant horn
and the military clarion. The first call simply broached the subject;
the second asked the question, "Will you listen?" If the clarion made
no reply to the second question, it meant refusal. If, on the other
hand, the clarion replied, it was consent, and signified a truce for a
few minutes.
When the clarion answered this second call, the man who stood on the
top of the tower spoke, and these were his words:--
"Be it known to all ye who hear me, I am Gouge-le-Bruant, surnamed
Brise-Bleu because I have killed many of your people, and also
surnamed the Imânus because I mean to kill many more; in the attack
at Granville, while my finger rested on the barrel of my gun, it was
chopped off by a sabre-stroke; at Laval you guillotined my father, my
mother, and my eighteen-year-old sister Jacqueline. And now you know me.
"I speak to you in the name of my master, Monseigneur le Marquis
Gauvain de Lantenac, Vicomte de Fontenay, Breton Prince, and owner of
the Seven Forests.
"It is well for you to learn that before shutting himself up in this
tower, where you hold him blockaded, Monsieur le Marquis distributed
the command among six chiefs, his lieutenants. To Delière he assigned
the country between the woods of Brest and Erneé; to Treton, that
which lies between the Roë and Laval; to Jacquet, called Taillefer,
the border of the Haut-Maine; to Gaulier, called Grand-Pierre,
Château-Gontier; to Lecomte, Craon; to Monsieur Dubois-Guy, Fougères;
and to Monsieur de Rochambeau, all Mayenne; so that the capture of this
fortress by no means ends the war for you, and even were Monsieur le
Marquis to die, the Vendée of God and the king will still live.
"I say this for your information. Monseigneur is here beside me; I am
but his mouthpiece. Silence, besiegers!
"It will be well for you to consider my words.
"Remember that the war you are waging against us is unjust; we are men
living in our own land and fighting honestly. Submissive to the will
of God, we are as simple and upright as the grass beneath the dew. It
is the Republic who has attacked us: she comes to trouble us in our
fields; she has burned our houses and our harvests and destroyed our
farms, and our women and children have been forced to run barefoot in
the woods while the hedge-sparrow was still singing.
"You who are down there listening to me,--you have pursued us through
the forest and surrounded us in this tower; you have killed or
scattered our allies; you have cannon, and you have added to your
division the garrisons and the posts of Mortain, Barenton, Teilleul,
Landivy, Evran, Tinténiac, and Vitré,--which gives you four thousand
five hundred men with which to attack us.
"We, who are nineteen for the defence, are supplied with provisions and
munitions.
"You have succeeded in undermining and blowing up a part of our rock
and wall, thus making a breach at the foot of the tower, through which
you can enter, although it is not open, while the tower stands strong
and upright, forming an arch above it.
"Now you are preparing for the assault.
"And we--first of all, Monseigneur le Marquis, who is a Breton prince
and the secular prior of the Abbey of Sainte-Marie de Lantenac, where
a daily Mass was instituted by Queen Jeanne, and the other defenders
of this tower, who are: Monsieur l'Abbé Turmeau, whose military name
is Grand-Francoeur; my comrades, Guinoiseau, captain of the Camp-Vert;
Chante-en-Hiver, captain of the camp of Avoine; Musette, captain of the
camp Fourmis; and myself, a peasant, born in the town of Daon, through
which runs the brook Moriandre,--we have one thing to tell you.
"Listen, now, ye men at the foot of this tower!
"We hold three prisoners,--the same children who were adopted by one of
your battalions, and they are yours. We offer to give them back to you
on one condition,--that we be allowed to go free.
"If you refuse,--listen to this. There are but two points of
attack,--either the breach or the bridge, according as you advance from
the fortress or the plateau. There are three stories in the building
on the bridge; in the lower one I, the Imânus, who speak to you, have
placed six casks of tar and one hundred bundles of dry heather; there
is straw in the upper, and there are books and papers in the middle
story; the iron door communicating with the tower is closed, and
monseigneur carries the key on his person; I have made a hole under
the door, through which is passed a sulphur slow-match; one end of it
is in a cask of tar, and the other within reach of my hand, inside the
tower; I can set it on fire whenever I choose. If you refuse to let us
go free, the children will be placed on the second floor of the bridge,
between the story where the sulphur-match ends in the barrel and the
one which is filled with straw, and the iron door will be closed on
them. If you attack us by way of the bridge, you will be the ones to
set the building on fire; if by the breach, it will be left to us; and
if you attack us from both sides at once, we shall both be kindling the
fire at the same instant; at all events, the three children will perish.
"It rests with you, now, either to accept or refuse.
"If you accept, we depart; if you refuse, the children die.
"I have finished,"
And the man who had been speaking from the top of the tower was silent.
"We refuse!" cried a voice from below, in tones abrupt and severe.
Another voice, quite as firm, although less harsh, added,--
"We give you twenty-four hours to surrender at discretion."
A silence ensued, and then the same voice continued,--
"If to-morrow at this hour you have not surrendered, we begin the
assault."
"And give no quarter," resumed the first speaker; and then a voice
from the top of the tower made reply to the savage one. Between two
battlements a tall figure, in which, by the light of the stars,
one might have recognized the awe-inspiring form of the Marquis de
Lantenac, leaned forward; his glance, piercing the shadows, seemed
searching for some one.
"Ah, it is thou, priest!" he cried.
"Yes, it is I, traitor!" replied the harsh voice from below.
XI.
TERRIBLE AS THE ANTIQUE.
This implacable voice was in truth the voice of Cimourdain; the younger
and less imperative one was that of Gauvain.
The Marquis de Lantenac had not been mistaken in his recognition of the
Abbé Cimourdain.
In this district, ensanguined by civil war, Cimourdain, as we have
said, had in a few weeks become famous. No man had won a more baleful
notoriety. Men would say: "Marat in Paris, Châlier at Lyons, Cimourdain
in the Vendée." All the veneration which the Abbé Cimourdain had
formerly enjoyed was now turned to his dishonor. This is what a priest
who unfrocks himself may fairly expect.
Cimourdain excited a feeling of horror. The austere are unfortunate,
inasmuch as their own acts seem to condemn them. Could their
consciences be revealed, men might perhaps absolve them. A Lycurgus
misunderstood may seem like a Tiberius. However, the fact remains that
these two men--the Marquis de Lantenac and the Abbé Cimourdain--were
equally matched in regard to the hatred they inspired. The maledictions
hurled at Cimourdain by the Royalists were counterbalanced by the
execrations which the Republicans heaped upon Lantenac. Each of those
men seemed a monster in the eyes of the opposite camp. In fact, by
a singular coincidence it chanced that while Prieur de la Marne
at Granville had set a price on the head of Lantenac, Charette at
Noirmoutier had likewise set one on that of Cimourdain.
We may observe that these two men--the Marquis and the
priest--represented in a certain degree one and the same man. The
bronze mask of civil war has a double profile, one of which looks
towards the past, the other towards the future. Lantenac wore the
former, Cimourdain the latter; only the bitter sneer of Lantenac was
shrouded in darkness, whereas on Cimourdain's fatal brow might be
discerned a glimmer of the dawn.
Meanwhile the besieged Tourgue was enjoying a respite.
Thanks to the intervention of Gauvain, they had agreed upon a sort of
truce for twenty-four hours.
The Imânus had indeed been well informed. In consequence of
Cimourdain's requisitions Gauvain was now in command of four thousand
five hundred men, national guards as well as troops of the line, with
which he surrounded Lantenac in the Tourgue, and could, moreover, bring
to bear against the fortress a masked battery of six cannon, planted on
the edge of the forest towards the tower, together with an open battery
of six on the plateau towards the bridge. He had succeeded in springing
the mine, and a breach had been made at the foot of the tower.
Thus on the expiration of the twenty-four hours' truce, the struggle
would begin again under the following conditions:--
On the plateau and in the forest were four thousand five hundred men
against nineteen in the tower.
History may find the names of the nineteen besieged in the placards
posted against outlaws. We may possibly come across them.
It would have pleased Cimourdain had Gauvain consented to accept the
rank of adjutant-general, in order to command these four thousand five
hundred men, which was practically an army. But the latter refused,
saying: "We will consider that matter after Lantenac is taken; I have
won no promotion as yet."
These important commands, held by officers of subordinate rank, were,
moreover, in accordance with Republican customs. Bonaparte, later
on, while as yet only a colonel of artillery, was at the same time
commander-in-chief of the army of Italy.
It was a strange fate for the Tour-Gauvain to be attacked by one
Gauvain, while defended by another member of the same family. Hence a
certain reluctance in the attack, but none in the defence; for M. de
Lantenac was a man who spared nothing. Accustomed as he had been to
live at Versailles, he had no feeling of regard for the Tourgue, which
he scarcely knew. He had sought refuge there, simply because he had
no other resource; but he would have destroyed it without a scruple.
Gauvain felt more respect for it.
The bridge was the weak point of the fortress, but in the library
above it were the family records. Now, if the assault began there, the
burning of the bridge would be inevitable, and it seemed to Gauvain
that to burn the records would be like attacking his ancestors. The
Tourgue was the ancestral manor of the Gauvain family; from this tower
started all their fiefs of Brittany, as those of France from the tower
of the Louvre. It was the centre round which clustered the family
associations of the Gauvains. He himself was born there; and now, led
by the tortuous chances of fate, the grown man had come to attack the
venerable walls that had protected his childhood.
[Illustration 093]
Was it an impious act to lay this dwelling in ashes? Perhaps his own
cradle was stored away in some corner of the granary over the library.
Certain trains of thought assume the nature of emotions. Before the
old family mansion Gauvain felt himself deeply moved, and it was in
consequence of this feeling that he had spared the bridge. Contenting
himself with making it impossible for the enemy to sally forth or
attempt an escape at this point of egress, he held the bridge in check
by a battery, and chose the opposite side for the attack. Hence the
mining and sapping at the foot of the tower.
Cimourdain had allowed him to take his own course, meanwhile
reproaching himself; for these Gothic antiquities were odious to his
severe soul, and he was no more indulgent towards buildings than
towards human beings. Sparing a castle was the first step in the
direction of mercy; and he knew that mercy was Gauvain's weak point.
Cimourdain, as we are aware, kept watch over him, and arrested his
progress down this slope, so fatal in his eyes. And yet even he--and he
acknowledged it to himself with a sort of indignation--had been unable
to see the Tourgue again without a secret emotion: he was affected by
the sight of that schoolroom containing the first books in which he
had taught Gauvain to read. He had been the curé of the neighboring
village Parigné; had occupied an upper room in the castle on the
bridge; it was in the library that he held little Gauvain between
his knees, and taught him the alphabet; within these four old walls
he had seen his beloved pupil, the child of his soul, growing up to
manhood, and watched the development of his mind. Was he about to burn
and destroy this library, this castle, these walls, wherein he had so
often blessed the child? He had spared them, but it had not been done
without compunction.
He had allowed Gauvain to begin the siege from the opposite point. The
tower might have been called the savage side of the Tourgue, and the
library its civilized side. Cimourdain had allowed Gauvain to make the
breach only in the former.
This ancient castle in the midst of the Revolution had, after all, only
resumed its feudal customs, in being at the same time attacked and
defended by a Gauvain. The history of the Middle Ages is but a record
of wars between kinsmen. Étéocles and Polynices are Gothic as well as
Grecian; and Hamlet but repeats in Elsinore what Orestes did in Argos.
XII.
THE RESCUE PLANNED.
The entire night was spent by both parties in preparations. As soon as
the gloomy parley to which we lately listened was over, Gauvain's first
act was to summon his lieutenant.
Guéchamp, with whom we must become acquainted, was a man of the
secondary order, honest, brave, commonplace, a better soldier than
commander, strictly intelligent up to the point when it becomes a duty
not to understand, never moved to tenderness, proof against corruption
in whatsoever shape it might present itself,--whether in the form of
bribery, that taints the conscience, or in that of pity, that corrupts
justice. As the eyes of a horse are shaded by his blinders, so were his
heart and soul protected by the two screens of discipline and the order
of command, and he walked straight ahead in the space they allowed him
to see. His course was direct, but his path was narrow.
A man to be depended on, withal,--stern in command, exact in obedience.
Gauvain spoke in rapid tones,--
"We need a ladder, Guéchamp."
"We have none, commander."
"One must be found."
"For scaling?"
"No; for rescue."
After a moments reflection, Guéchamp replied,--
"I understand. But to serve your purpose a very long one is needed."
"The length of three stories."
"Yes, commander, that's about the height."
"It ought to be longer than that, for we must be sure of success."
"Certainly."
"How is it that you have no ladder?"
[Illustration 094]
"Commander, you did not think it best to besiege the Tourgue from the
plateau; you were satisfied to blockade it on that side; you planned
the attack by way of the tower, and not from the bridge. So we gave our
attention to the mine, and thought no more about the scaling. That is
why we have no ladder."
"Have one made at once."
"A ladder of the length of three stories cannot be made at once."
"Then fasten several short ones together."
"But we must first get our ladders."
"Find them."
"There are none to be found. All through the country the peasants
destroy ladders, just as they break up the carts and cut the bridges."
"True, they intend to paralyze the Republic."
"They mean that we shall neither transport baggage, cross a river, nor
scale a wall."
"But I must have a ladder, in spite of all that."
"I was thinking, commander, that at Javené, near Fougères, there is a
large carpenter's shop. We might get one there."
"There is not a moment to lose."
"When do you want the ladder?"
"By this time to-morrow, at the latest."
"I will send a messenger at full speed to Javené to carry the order
for a requisition. A post of cavalry stationed there will furnish an
escort. The ladder may be here to-morrow before sunset."
"Very well; that will answer," said Gauvain; "only be quick about it.
Go!"
Ten minutes later, Guéchamp returned, and said to Gauvain,--
"The messenger has started for Javené."
Gauvain ascended the plateau, and for a long time stood gazing intently
on the bridge-castle across the ravine. The gable of the castle, with
no other opening than the low entrance closed by the raised drawbridge,
faced the escarpment of the ravine. In order to reach the plateau at
the foot of the bridge one roust climb down the face of the ravine,
which might be accomplished by clinging to the bushes. But once in the
moat, the assailants would be exposed to a shower of missiles from the
three stories. Gauvain became convinced that at this stage of the siege
the proper way to attack was through the breach of the tower.
He took every precaution to render flight impossible; he perfected the
strict blockade of the Tourgue. Drawing the meshes of his battalions
more and more closely, so that nothing could pass between them,
Gauvain and Cimourdain divided the investment of the fortress between
them,--the former reserving for himself the forest side, and leaving
the plateau to Cimourdain. It was agreed that while Gauvain, aided by
Guéchamp, should conduct the assault through the mine, Cimourdain, with
all the matches of the upper battery lighted, should watch the bridge
and the ravine.
XIII.
WHAT THE MARQUIS IS DOING.
While all these preparations for the attack were going on outside, they
were also making ready for resistance inside the tower.
A tower may be entered by a mine as a cask is bored by an auger; hence
a tower is sometimes called a _douve_,[4] and it was the fate of the
Tourgue to have its walls pierced by a bung-hole.
The powerful boring of two or three hundred-weight of powder had driven
a hole through the mighty wall from one side to the other. Beginning at
the foot of the tower, it had made a breach in the thickest part of the
wall, in a sort of shapeless arch in the lower story of the fortress,
and in order to make this hole more practicable for assault from
without, the besiegers had enlarged it by cannon-shot.
The ground-floor where this breach had penetrated was a large, empty
hall of a circular form, with a pillar in the centre, supporting the
keystone of the vaulted ceiling. The hall, which was the largest in
the keep, was no less than forty feet in diameter. Each story of the
tower had a similar room, only on a smaller scale, with guards to the
embrasures of the loop-holes. The hall on the ground-floor had neither
embrasures, ventilators, nor dormer windows. There was about as much
air and light in it as in a tomb.
The door of the oubliettes, the greater part of which was iron, was in
the lower hall. Another door opened on a staircase leading to the upper
rooms. All the staircases were built in the wall itself.
It was to the lower hall that the besieged had gained access by the
breach they had made; but even after gaining possession of it, the
tower would still remain to be taken.
One could scarcely breathe in this lower hall, and formerly no one
could remain in it twenty-four hours without suffocating; but now,
thanks to the breach, one could exist there.
For this reason the besieged had not closed the breach. Besides, what
purpose would it have served? The guns would have reopened it.
They had fastened an iron torch-holder into the wall, wherein they set
a torch, and that lighted the lower floor.
But how were they to defend themselves?
To stop up the hole would have been easy enough, but useless. A
_retirade_ would be more effective. A _retirade_ is an intrenchment
with a retreating angle,--a kind of barricade composed of rafters,
by means of which the fire may be concentrated on the assailants,
and which while leaving the breach open from without closes it
from within. There was no lack of materials, and they proceeded to
construct a barricade of this description with clefts for the passage
of gun-barrels. The corner of the _retirade_ was supported by the
middle pillar, the two wings touching the walls on either side. Having
completed this they placed _fugades_ in safe places.
The Marquis directed everything. Inspirer, commander, guide, and
master,--a terrible spirit!
Lantenac was one of those soldiers of the eighteenth century who save
cities at the age of eighty. He resembled the Count d'Alberg, who, when
almost a centenarian, drove the King of Poland from Riga.
"Courage, friends!" he said; "in 1713, at the beginning of this
century, Charles XII., shut up in a house at Bender, with three hundred
Swedes, held his own against twenty thousand Turks."
They barricaded the two lower stories, fortified the chambers,
converted the alcoves into battlements, supported the doors with
beams driven in by a mallet, thus forming buttresses; but the spiral
staircase connecting the different stories they were obliged to leave
free, since if they blockaded it against the besieger, their own
passage would be obstructed. Thus a fortification always has its weak
point.
The Marquis, indefatigable, vigorous as a young man, set example for
the others by putting his own hands to the work, raising beams and
carrying stones; he gave his orders, helped, fraternized, and laughed
with this savage band, yet always remaining their lord and master,
haughty even while familiar, elegant although fierce.
He allowed no one to contradict him. Once he said: "If half of you were
to revolt, I would have you shot by the other half, and still defend
the place with the rest."
This is the sort of thing for which men worship a commander.
[Illustration 095]
XIV.
WHAT THE IMÂNUS IS DOING.
While the Marquis occupied himself with the breach and tower, the
Imânus attended to the bridge. At the beginning of the siege the
escape-ladder suspended crosswise below the windows of the second story
had been removed by order of the Marquis and placed by the Imânus in
the library. Probably this was the very ladder whose place Gauvain
wished to supply. The windows of the entresol on the first story,
called the guard-room, were defended by a triple bracing of iron bars
set in the stones, so that one could neither come nor go that way.
The library windows, which were high, had no bars.
The Imânus was accompanied by three men as resolute and daring as
himself. These men were Hoisnard, called Branche-d'Or, and the two
brothers Pique-en-Bois. Taking with him a dark-lantern, he opened
the iron door, and made a careful inspection of the three stories
of the bridge-castle. Hoisnard Branche-d'Or, whose brother had been
killed by the Republicans, was as implacable as the Imânus. The latter
investigated the upper story, filled with hay and straw, as well as the
lower one, into which he had several _pots-à-feu_ brought, which he
placed near the tar-barrels; he ordered bundles of dry heather to be
so arranged that they would touch the tar-casks, after which he made
sure that the sulphur-match, one end of which was on the bridge and the
other in the tower, was in good working order. Over the floor, under
the casks and the bundles, he poured a pool of tar into which he dipped
the end of the sulphur-match; then he ordered his men to bring into the
library, between the ground-floor and the attic, with tar beneath and
straw overhead, three cradles containing René-Jean, Gros-Alain, and
Georgette, who were all sound asleep. The cradles were brought in very
gently, that the children might not be roused.
They were simple little village cribs, something like an osier basket,
which when placed on the floor were low enough for a child to climb
in and out without help. Beside each cradle the Imânus ordered them
to place a porringer of soup, together with a wooden spoon. The
escape-ladder, taken off its hooks, was laid on the floor against the
wall, and the three cradles were placed end to end along the opposite
wall, facing the ladder; then, thinking that a current of air might be
useful, he flung wide open the six windows of the library. It was a
warm and clear summer night.
He sent the brothers Pique-en-Bois to open the windows in the stories
above and below. On the eastern façade of the building he had observed
a large ivy, old and withered, about the color of tinder, which
entirely covered one side of the bridge, framing the windows of the
three stories, and thought that this ivy would do no harm. After
bestowing a last glance on everything, the Imânus and his men left the
châtelet and returned into the keep. Double locking the heavy iron
door, he examined attentively this immense and awe-inspiring lock,
nodded approvingly at the sulphur-match, passed through the hole he
had drilled, which was henceforth the only channel of communication
between the tower and the bridge. This match, starting from the round
room, passed beneath the iron door and entered under the arch, coiled
snake-like over the spiral stairs, crept across the floor of the
corridor below, and ended in the pool of tar under the dry heath. The
Imânus had calculated that it would take a quarter of an hour from the
time this sulphur-match was lighted from the interior of the tower, to
set on fire the pool of tar under the library. Having completed and
reviewed all these preparations, he carried the key of the iron door to
the Marquis de Lantenac, who put it in his pocket.
Every movement of the besiegers must be watched; so with his cowherd
horn in his belt he stood sentinel in the watch-tower of the platform
on the summit of the tower. While keeping his eye on both the forest
and the plateau, he had beside him in the embrasure of the watch-tower
a powder-horn, and a canvas bag filled with good-sized balls and old
newspapers, which he tore up to make cartridges. When the sun rose, it
revealed in the forest eight battalions, with sabres at their sides,
cartridge-boxes on their backs, and fixed bayonets, ready for the
assault; on the plateau a battery with caissons, cartridges, and boxes
of grape-shot; within the fortress nineteen men loading their muskets,
pistols, and blunderbusses, and three children asleep in their cradles.
[Footnote 1: A corruption of the word "patriot."--Tr.]
[Footnote 2: Rustics.]
[Footnote 3: Equal to the occasion.]
[Footnote 4: Stave, cask.]
[Illustration: The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. 096]