We offer this siege to our young readers as a sort of illustration of
one of Sir Walter Scott’s best novels. Sir Walter has dealt freely
with historical characters; he has made most of them effective, but
has not always adhered quite faithfully either to men or events.
But no novelist,--and we should have said no dramatist, if a bust
of Shakespeare had not been looking down upon us,--ever sketched an
historical character so happily as he has done that of Louis XI.;--it
is Louis himself! with all his pettinesses, shrewdness, superstition,
and duplicity.
Louis XI. had raised the Liégeois against their suzerain, the duke
of Burgundy. In an over-cunning attempt at policy, Louis had placed
himself in the hands of the bold Burgundian, who, irritated by the
outbreak at Liége, compelled the imprudent monarch to hoist the cross
of St. Andrew, the ensign of the house of Burgundy, and lead his army
against the Liégeois, whose revolt he had excited. Made aware of the
storm about to break over their ramparts, the inhabitants prepared
for a vigorous defence. Although reduced to a feeble garrison of six
hundred men, the burgesses determined to withstand with courage the
efforts of an enemy who had sworn to ruin them. The duke of Burgundy
opened the trenches, and took up his lodging in one of the faubourgs.
The besieged, in a vigorous sortie, killed eight hundred Burgundians,
and put the rest of their infantry to flight. Wild, provost of
Liége, who had led on this attack, died of his wounds: the loss was
irreparable,--no one could replace him. The duke of Burgundy and the
king came up. They lodged in houses in the faubourgs, and ordered
many useless attacks and assaults. Several days passed without any
event of consequence. During this short repose, the Liégeois meditated
carrying off the king and the duke by surprise. In the darkness and
silence of night, the Liégeois marched, led by the owners of the
houses in which the princes were lodged. A hollow way cut through a
rock covered their march. They killed some sentinels, arrived at the
lodgings without being discovered, and stopped at a pavilion in which
dwelt the count du Perche, son of the duke d’Alençon. They missed the
decisive moment. The two princes were awakened and put upon their
guard. Three hundred men-at-arms were round them instantly. The tumult
was horrible. The clash of arms, the uncertainty of the cause of the
peril, the darkness, and the cries of the combatants, augmented the
confusion of this frightful _mêlée_. The Liégeois, conscious of the
smallness of their numbers, and feeling they must succumb, fought
like lions at bay: they perished, but sold their lives dearly. The
king and the duke of Burgundy met in the street, at the head of their
guards; their presence removed mutual suspicions. They separated, after
felicitating each other upon their good fortune and intrepidity upon so
perilous an occasion. This fruitless attempt only increased the rage
of the irritable duke: he ordered an assault for the 30th of October.
At the given signal, towards daybreak, forty thousand men advanced
to the foot of the battlements, to the sound of warlike instruments.
Nobody appeared upon the walls to defend them; the inhabitants had
fled; women, children, and old men awaited in consternation and silence
the evils it would please their implacable conqueror to pour upon
them. The Burgundians entered without resistance. The poor remains
of the population took refuge in the churches from the fury of the
soldiery. The duke triumphed: but what triumph could satisfy his
brutal nature? Priests were immolated at the foot of the altar; sacred
virgins, dragged from their asylums, were violated and then massacred;
soldiers went from house to house with the lighted torch and naked
sword in their hands; they vented their fury upon defenceless women
and children; plunder was the least of their crimes. The unfortunate
fugitives perished in the woods of hunger and destitution, or were
pitilessly massacred; prisoners, too poor to pay their ransom, were
precipitated into the waters of the Meuse. The city, when changed into
a desert, presenting no animated creature upon which the barbarous
conqueror could exercise his cruel vengeance, he directed his
resentment against inanimate objects. Four thousand men of the country
of Limbourg were commanded to set fire to the public edifices, and to
demolish all that the flames had not devoured. Liége soon became one
heap of melancholy ruins.
And this was Charles the Bold, or rather, as _téméraire_ is better
translated, “the Rash!” to whom, as the impersonation of brute courage,
I dare say the Burgundians have raised statues, as we have raised
one to Richard I., just such another hero, who slaughtered his five
thousand Saracen captives before Acre! An intelligent foreigner said:
“You propose a statue to Richard I.: you have one of George IV.; where
is Alfred’s?”