While the Vendéans were making their useless but not inglorious fight
at Chêne, forty-two of their number were sustaining a struggle at
Pénissière de la Cour, of which the memory survives in history.
These forty-two royalists, who were part of the Clisson division, left
that town intending to march to the village of Cugan, and there disarm
the National Guard. A frightful storm forced them to find shelter in
the château de la Pénissière, where a battalion of the 29th regiment
of the line, informed of their movements, lost no time in besieging
them.
La Pénissière is an ancient building, with a single story between the
ground-floor and garret. It has fifteen irregularly shaped windows.
The chapel backs against one corner of the château. Beyond it, joining
the valley, are meadow-lands divided by evergreen hedges, which heavy
rains sometimes transform into a lake. A battlemented wall, built by
the Vendéans, surrounded the building.
The commanding officer of the battalion of the line had no sooner
reconnoitred the situation than he ordered an immediate attack. After
a short defence the exterior wall was abandoned, and the Vendéans
retreated to the château, within which they barricaded themselves.
Each man took his place on the ground-floor, and on the main-floor;
and on both floors a bugler was stationed, who never ceased to sound
his instrument throughout the combat, which began with rapid volleys
from the windows, so well directed and so vigorous as to conceal the
small number of the besieged.
Picked men and the best shots were chosen to fire; they discharged,
almost without stopping, the heavy blunderbusses which their comrades
reloaded and handed back to them. Each blunderbuss carried a dozen
balls. The Vendéans fired five or six at once; the effect was that of
a discharge of grape-shot. Twice the regular troops attempted an
assault; they came within twenty paces of the château, but were forced
to retreat.
The commander ordered a third attack, and while it was preparing, four
men, assisted by a mason, approached the château by a gable-end, which
had no outlook on the garden, and was therefore undefended. Once at
the foot of the wall, the soldiers raised a ladder, and reaching the
roof uncovered it, flung down into the garret inflammable substances,
to which they set fire, and then retreated. Immediately a column of
smoke burst from the roof, through which the flames soon forced their
way.
The soldiers, uttering loud cries, again marched eagerly to the little
citadel, which seemed to be flying a flag of flame. The besieged had
discovered the conflagration, but there was no time to extinguish it;
besides, the flames were pouring upward, and they trusted that after
destroying the roof the fire might burn out of itself. Accordingly
they replied to the shouts of their assailants with a terrible
fusillade,--the bugles never ceasing for a single instant to sound
their joyous and warlike notes.
The Whites could hear the Blues saying to each other: "They are not
men, they are devils!" and this military praise inspired them with
fresh ardor.
Nevertheless, a reinforcement of fifty men having reached the
besiegers, the commanding officers ordered the drummers to beat the
charge; and the soldiers, emulous of each other, rushed for the fourth
time upon the château. This time they reached the doors, which the
sappers began to batter in. The Vendéan leaders ordered their men on
the ground-floor up to the first floor; the men obeyed; and while one
half of the besieged continued the firing, the other half pulled up
the boards and broke through the ceilings, so that when the soldiers
entered the building they were greeted with a volley at close
quarters, poured down upon them from above through the rafters. Again,
and for the fourth time, they were forced to retreat.
The commander of the battalion then ordered his men to do on the
ground-floor what they had done in the attic. Fascines of gorse and
dried fagots were thrown through the windows into the rooms of the
lower floor; lighted torches were flung after them, and in a few
moments the Vendéans were inclosed in fire above and below them. And
still they fought. The volumes of smoke which issued from the window
were striped, every second or two, with the scarlet flame of the
blunderbusses; but the firing now became the vengeance of despair
rather than an effort of defence. It seemed impossible for the little
garrison to escape death.
The place was no longer tenable; beams and joists were on fire and
were cracking beneath the feet of the Vendéans; tongues of flame began
to dart here and there through the floor; at any moment the roof might
fall in and crush them from above, or the floor give way and
precipitate them into a gulf of flame. The smoke was suffocating.
The Vendéan leaders took a desperate resolution. They determined to
make a sortie; but to give it any chance of success, the firing would
have to be kept up to protect the movement. The leaders asked if any
would volunteer to sacrifice themselves for the safety of their
comrades.
Eight men stepped forward.
The troop was then divided into two squads. Thirty-three men and a
bugler were to gain, if possible, the farther extremity of the park,
which was closed by a hedge only; the eight others, among them the
second bugler, were left to protect the attempt.
In consequence of these arrangements, and while those who volunteered
to remain were running from window to window and keeping up a vigorous
fire, the others broke through the wall on the opposite side to where
the soldiers were attacking, issued in good order with the bugler at
their head, and made their way at a quick step toward the end of the
park where the hedge stood. The soldiers fired upon them and rushed to
intercept them. The Vendéans fired back, knocked over those who
opposed them, escaped through the hedges, leaving five of their number
dead, and scattered over the meadows, which were then under water. The
bugler, who received three wounds, never ceased to sound his bugle.
As for the men who remained in the château, they still held out. Each
time that the soldiers attempted to approach, a volley issued from the
brazier and cut a swathe through their ranks. This lasted for half an
hour. The bugle of the besieged never ceased to sound through the
rattling of the volleys, the crackling of the flames, the rumbling of
the falling timbers, like a sublime defiance hurled by these men at
Death standing before them.
At last, an awful crash was heard; clouds of smoke and sparks rose
high in air; the bugle was hushed, the firing ceased. The flooring had
fallen in, and the little garrison were doubtless swallowed up in the
burning gulf beneath them--unless a miracle had happened.
Such was the opinion of the soldiers, who, after watching the ruins
for some moments, and hearing no cry or moan that betrayed the
presence of a living Vendéan, abandoned the furnace which was burning
up the bodies of both friends and enemies; so that nothing remained on
the scene of the struggle, lately so turbulent and noisy, but the red
and smoking flames dying down in silence, and a few dead bodies
lighted by the last glare of the conflagration.
Thus the scene remained for several hours of the night. But about one
o'clock a man of more than ordinary height, gliding beside the hedges,
or crawling when obliged to cross a path, inspected cautiously the
surroundings of the château. Seeing nothing that warranted distrust,
he made the round of the devastated building, examining attentively
all the bodies he found; after which he disappeared among the shadows.
Presently, however, he returned, carrying a man upon his back and
accompanied by a woman.
These men and this woman, as our readers are of course aware, were
Bertha, Courte-Joie, and Trigaud.
Bertha was pale; her firmness and her habitual resolution had given
way to a sort of restless bewilderment. From time to time she hurried
before her guides, and Courte-Joie was obliged to recall her to
prudence. When the three debouched from the wood into the meadow
lately occupied by the soldiers, and saw in front of them the fifteen
openings which stood out, red and gaping, from the blackened wall,
like so many vent-holes out of hell, the young girl's strength gave
way; she fell upon her knees and cried out a name which her agony
transformed into a sob. Then, rising like a man, she rushed to the
burning ruins.
On her way she stumbled over something; that something was a dead
body. With a horrible expression of anguish she stooped to look at the
livid face, turning it toward her by the hair. Then, seeing other
bodies scattered on the ground, she went wildly from one to another as
if beside herself.
"Alas! mademoiselle," said Courte-Joie, "he is not here. To spare you
this dreadful sight, I had already ordered Trigaud, who came here
first, to look at those bodies. He has seen Monsieur de la Logerie two
or three times, and idiot though he be, you can be sure he would have
recognized him were he here among the dead."
"Yes, yes, you are right; and if he is anywhere--" cried Bertha,
pointing to the ruins; and before the two men could stop her, she
sprang upon the sill of a window on the ground-floor, and there,
standing on the heated stone, she looked down into the gulf of fire
still belching at her feet, into which it almost seemed as though she
were about to fling herself.
At a sign from Courte-Joie Trigaud seized the girl round her waist and
placed her at some distance on the grass. Bertha made no resistance,
for an idea had just crossed her brain which paralyzed her will.
"My God!" she cried, as if with a last expiring sigh of her former
strength, "you denied me the power to defend him or to die with him;
and you now deny me the consolation of giving burial to his body."
"But mademoiselle," said Courte-Joie, "if it is the will of the good
God you must resign yourself to it."
"Never! never! never!" cried Bertha, with the excitement of despair.
"Alas!" said the cripple, "my heart is heavy too; for if Monsieur de
la Logerie is down there, so is poor Jean Oullier."
Bertha groaned; in the selfishness of her grief she had never once
thought of Jean Oullier. "It's true," continued Courte-Joie, "he dies
as he wished to die--with arms in his hand; but that doesn't console
me for thinking he is down there."
"Is there no hope?" cried Bertha. "Couldn't they have escaped in some
way? Oh, let us look! let us search!"
Courte-Joie shook his head.
"I think it is impossible. After what that man of the thirty-three
others who did escape told us, it does not seem possible. Five of
those who made the sortie were killed."
"But Jean Oullier and Monsieur Michel were among those who remained,"
said Bertha.
"No doubt; and that is why I have so little hope. See," said
Courte-Joie, pointing to the walls, which rose from their foundations
to the eaves without a fissure, and then recalling Bertha's eyes by a
gesture to the furnace of the ground-floor, where the roof and the
floors were still burning; "see, there is nothing left but charred
remains and walls that threaten ruin. Courage, mademoiselle, courage,
for there is not one chance in a hundred that your lover and Jean
Oullier have escaped that wreck."
"No, no!" cried Bertha, rising. "No! I say he cannot, he shall not be
dead! If it needed a miracle to save him God has performed it. I will
dig those embers, I will sound those walls. I will have him, dead or
living! I say I will; do you hear me Courte-Joie?"
Seizing in her white hands a beam which protruded its charred end
through a window, Bertha made superhuman efforts to draw it toward
her, as if with that lever she could lift the enormous mass of
material and discover what it concealed.
"Don't think of it!" cried Courte-Joie, desperately; "the work is
beyond your strength, mademoiselle, and above mine and even Trigaud's.
Besides, we haven't time for it; the soldiers will return by daybreak,
and they mustn't find us here. Let us go, mademoiselle; for Heaven's
sake let us go at once!"
"You may go if you like," said Bertha, in a tone that allowed of no
objections. "I shall stay here."
"Stay here!" exclaimed Courte-Joie, horrified.
"I shall stay. If the soldiers return it will no doubt be for the
purpose of searching the ruins. I will throw myself at the feet of
their commander; my prayers, my tears will persuade them to let me
share in the work, and I shall find him--oh, yes, I shall find him!"
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle; the red-breeches will know you as the
daughter of the Marquis de Souday. If they don't shoot you, they'll
take you prisoner. Come away! it will be daylight soon. Come, and if
necessary," added Courte-Joie, alarmed at the girl's determination,
"if necessary, I promise to bring you back to-morrow night."
"No, I tell you, no,--I will not go away!" answered the young girl.
"Something tells me here" (and she struck her breast) "that he is
calling me, he wants me."
Then, as Trigaud advanced, on a sign from Courte-Joie, apparently to
seize her, she cried out, springing once more to the sill of the
window:--
"Come a step nearer, and I will jump into that furnace."
Courte-Joie, perceiving that nothing could be obtained of Bertha by
force, was about to resort to prayers, when Trigaud, who had remained
standing with his arms stretched out in the position he had taken to
seize the young girl, made a sign to his companion to be silent.
Courte-Joie, who knew by experience the extraordinary acuteness of the
poor fool's senses, obeyed him. Trigaud listened.
"Are the soldiers returning?" asked Courte-Joie.
"No; it is not that," replied Trigaud.
Then, unbinding Courte-Joie, who was strapped as usual to his
shoulders, he lay down flat on his stomach with his ear to the ground.
Bertha, without coming down from her present post, turned her head to
the mendicant and watched him. The movement he had made, the words he
had said, caused her heart, she knew not why, to beat violently.
"Do you hear anything extraordinary?" asked Courte-Joie.
"Yes," replied Trigaud.
Then he made a sign to Courte-Joie and Bertha to listen likewise.
Trigaud, as we know, was stingy of words.
Courte-Joie lay down with his ear to the earth. Bertha sprang down
from the window, and it was but a second after she had laid her ear to
the ground before she rose again, crying out:--
"They are alive! they are alive! Oh, my God, I thank thee!"
"Don't let us hope too soon," said Courte-Joie; "but I do hear a dull
sound which seems to come from the depths of those ruins. But there
were eight of them; we can't be sure the sound comes from the two we
seek."
"Not sure, Aubin! My presentiment, which would not let me go away when
you begged me, makes me sure of it. Our friends are there, I tell you;
they found a shelter in some cellar where they are now imprisoned by
the fall of these materials."
"It may be so," replied Courte-Joie.
"It is certainly so!" cried Bertha. "But how can we release them? How
shall we reach the place where they are?"
"If they are in a vault, the vault must have an opening; if they are
in a cellar, the cellar has a window."
"Well, then, if we can't find either we must dig out the earth and
through the foundation-wall."
So saying, Bertha began to go round the building, dragging aside with
frenzied motions the beams, stones, tiles, and other fragments which
had fallen beside the outer wall and now hid its base.
Suddenly she gave a cry. Trigaud and Courte-Joie ran to her,--one on
his great legs, the other on his stumps and hands, with the rapidity
of a batrachian.
"Listen!" said Bertha, triumphantly.
Sure enough, on the spot where she stood they heard distinctly a dull
but continued sound coming from the depths of the ruined building,--a
sound like that of some tool or instrument striking steady and regular
blows on the foundations.
"This is the place," said Bertha, pointing to an enormous pile of
rubbish heaped against the wall. "We shall find them here."
Trigaud set to work. He began by pushing away a whole section of the
roof which had slid down outside the building and now lay vertically
against the wall. Then he threw aside the loose stones piled there by
the fall of a window-casing on the first floor; and finally, after
wonderful feats of strength, he laid bare an opening through which the
sounds of the labor of the buried men came to them distinctly.
Bertha wanted to pass through the opening as soon as it was
practicable; but Trigaud held her back. He took a fallen lath, lit it
by the embers, fastened the girth, which usually held Courte-Joie to
his shoulders, round the latter's waist, and lowered him into the
cavity.
Bertha and Trigaud held their breaths. Courte-Joie's voice was heard,
speaking to some one; then he gave a signal to be hoisted up. Trigaud
obeyed with the alacrity of a well-fed animal.
"Living? are they living?" cried Bertha, in anguish.
"Yes, mademoiselle, but for God's sake don't attempt to go down there;
they are not in the cellar, but in a sort of niche beyond it. The
opening through which they got there is blocked. We must break
through the wall to reach them; and I am very much afraid that may
bring down the roof of the cellar upon them. Let me direct Trigaud."
Bertha fell on her knees and prayed. Courte-Joie collected a number of
dry laths and returned to the cellar; Trigaud followed him.
At the end of ten minutes, which seemed to Bertha as many centuries, a
loud noise of crashing stones was heard. A cry of anguish escaped her;
she darted to the opening and there met Trigaud coming up, bearing on
his shoulder the body of a man bent double, whose pale face was
hanging down upon the giant's breast. Bertha recognized Michel.
"He is dead! Oh, my God! he is dead!" she cried, not daring to go up
to him.
"No, no," said a voice from below, which Bertha recognized as that of
Jean Oullier, "no, he is not dead."
At these words the girl sprang forward, took Michel from Trigaud's
hands, laid him on the grass, and quite reassured by the beating of
his heart, endeavored to bring back his senses by bathing his forehead
with water from a pool.