Chapter X: On the Barricade

Shortly after the execution of the thief day began to dawn.

Presently the men who were stationed on the lookout at the corners of the streets in the neighborhood of the barricade, that now reached almost as high as the first story windows of the linendraper's house, were seen falling back; after firing their pieces, they cried out "To arms!"

Almost immediately after, the drums, silent until then, were heard to beat the charge, and two companies of the Municipal Guards turned in from a side street and marched resolutely upon the barricade. Instantaneously the interior of the improvised fortress was filled with defenders.

Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, George Duchene and their friends took their posts and held their guns in readiness.

Father Bribri, who was a great lover of tobacco, foreseeing that he might soon not have leisure to take his pinch of snuff, inhaled a last load out of his pouch, seized his musket and knelt down in front of a species of loophole that was contrived between several cobblestones, while Flameche, pistol in hand, climbed up the ledges like a cat, in order to reach the summit of the barricade.

"Will you come down, you imp, and not make a target of your nose!" cried out the ragpicker, pulling Flameche by the leg. "You will be shot to dust."

"No fear, father Bribri!" replied Flameche, tugging away, and finally succeeding in slipping from the old man's grip. "This is gratis--I wish to treat myself to a first salvo, face to face--and have a good look at things."

And raising half his body above the barricade, Flameche stuck out his tongue to the Municipal Guard, which was approaching at the double quick.

Addressing the combatants who surrounded him, Monsieur Lebrenn said:

"Those soldiers are, after all, our brothers. Let us make one last attempt to avoid the effusion of blood."

"You are right--try again, Monsieur Lebrenn," came from the bare-armed blacksmith as he flipped the stock of his gun with his nail; "but it will be love's labor lost--as you will see."

The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them.

The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened.

At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant's house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behind the blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son--who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body--standing beside him, gun in hand. George Duchene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse.

He turned and saw Pradeline. She had been running fast, as the redness of her cheeks and short breath denoted.

The defenders of the barricade had seen the young girl approach; they were surprised to see her among them. As she sought to push her way through the crowd in order to reach George, they said to her:

"Don't stay here, young woman; it is too dangerous a place."

"You here!" cried George stupefied at the sight of Pradeline.

"George, listen to me!" the girl said to him imploringly. "I went twice to your house yesterday, and failed to find you at home. I wrote to you that I would call again this morning. To keep my appointment I had to cross several barricades, and--"

"Stand back!" cried George, alarmed for her safety. "You will be shot--this is no place for you."

"George, I have come to render you a service--I--"

Pradeline could not finish her sentence. Lebrenn, who had in vain been parleying with the captain of the Municipal Guards, turned around and cried out:

"They insist upon war! Very well, war it shall be! Wait for them to open fire--then return it."

The Municipal Guard fired; the insurgents responded; soon a cloud of smoke hovered above the barricade. Shots were fired from the neighboring windows; shots came from the air-holes of the cellars; even the old grandfather of George Duchene could be seen at his attic window throwing upon the heads of the Municipal Guard, in default of better arms and ammunition, all manner of household furniture and kitchen utensils--tables, chairs, pots and pitchers; in short, everything that could go through the window was hurled down by the good old invalid of toil, as Lebrenn had justly styled him. It was an almost comic sight. The old man seemed to be moving out by the window. When his supply of projectiles was exhausted, he threw in despair even his cotton cap at the troops. He then looked around, disconsolate at finding nothing more handy to his purpose, but immediately a shout of triumph went up from his throat, and he began to tear up the roof tiles that were within reach of his hands, and to fling them one after the other down upon the soldiers.

The engagement was hotly contested. After returning the discharges of the insurgents with several rounds of shot, the Municipalists rushed intrepidly upon the barricade with felled bayonets, expecting to carry it by assault.

Several groups could be descried through the dense whitish smoke that settled and rose over the top of the barricade. In one of these groups, Marik Lebrenn, after having discharged his gun, was wielding it as a club to drive the assailants back. His son and George, close behind him, seconded his efforts vigorously. From time to time, and without lagging in the fight, father and son cast a hurried glance at the half open blinds above their heads, and off and on these words reached their ears:

"Courage, Marik!" would come from Madam Lebrenn. "Courage, my son!"

"Courage, father!" echoed Velleda. "Courage, brother!"

A stray bullet shattered with a great clatter one of the thin slats of the lattice behind which the two heroic women were posted. The two true Gallic women, as Lebrenn called them, did not wince. They remained in their places to watch the merchant and his son.

There was a moment when, after boldly struggling hand to hand with a captain, and having beaten the officer down, Lebrenn was endeavoring to regain his feet, which slipped and stumbled over the uncertain cobblestones; on the instant a soldier who had succeeded in reaching the top of the barricade, and from his elevated position towered over the merchant, raised his gun, and was on the point of transfixing the linendraper with his bayonet. George perceived the imminent danger of Velleda's father; he threw himself in front of the threatened thrust; the bayonet ran through his arm and he dropped to the ground. The soldier was about to deal the merchant's protector a second thrust when two small hands seized him by his legs, and holding him with the convulsive grip of despair, caused him to lose his balance. Head foremost the soldier rolled down the other side of the barricade.

George owed his life to Pradeline. Bold as a lioness, her hair streaming, her cheeks aflame, the girl had managed to draw near to George during the struggle. The very instant, however, after she had saved him, a rebounding bullet struck her in the breast. She fell down upon her knees and fainted--her last glances sought George.[9]

Father Bribri, seeing the young woman wounded, dropped his musket, ran to her, and raised her up. He was looking around for some safe place to lay her down when he noticed Madam Lebrenn and her daughter at the door of the shop. They had just descended from the floor above, and were busy, with the help of Gildas and Jeanike, making preparations to receive the wounded.

Gildas was beginning to accustom himself to the firing. He aided father Bribri to transport Pradeline into the rear room, where Madam Lebrenn and her daughter immediately turned their attention to her.

The ragpicker was stepping out of the shop when there came, rolling down to his feet, a frail body clad in tattered trousers and a ragged jacket, all clotted with blood.

"Oh, my poor Flameche!" cried the old man, trying to pick up the boy. "Are you wounded? It may not be dangerous--courage!"

"I am done for, father Bribri," answered the boy in a fast ebbing voice. "It is a pity--I shall not--go--angling for the red fishes in--the--pond--of--"

And he expired.

A big tear rolled down upon the scrubby beard of the ragpicker.

"Poor little devil! he was not a bad boy," father Bribri soliloquized with a sigh. "He dies as he lived--on the Paris pavement!"

Such was the short funeral oration pronounced over Flameche's body.

At the moment that the poor boy died, George's grandfather, unable any longer to restrain himself, decided, despite his feebleness, to join the fray. He hurried down to the street, and ran to the barricade. From his window, his ammunition, moveables and fixtures, being exhausted, he had had leisure to follow the vicissitudes of the conflict. He saw the little fellow fall; looked for him among the dead and the wounded; he called to him in heartrending accents.

So stubborn was the resistance offered by the defenders of the barricade that the Municipalists, after sustaining heavy losses, were compelled to beat a retreat, which they effected in good order.

The firing had ceased for several minutes when suddenly a shot was heard in the near vicinity, and, almost immediately after, the sound of horses approaching at a gallop.

Presently, on the rear side of the barricade, a colonel of dragoons hove in sight, followed by a number of horsemen, sabers in hand, like their commander, driving before them a group of insurgents who fired at intervals as they retreated on the run.

It was Colonel Plouernel. Separated from his squadron by an onrush of insurgents, he was endeavoring to cut himself a passage to the boulevard, not imagining he would find his path barred at that spot by a barricade.

The combat, suspended for a moment, broke out afresh. At first the defenders of the barricade believed that the small number of troopers was the vanguard of a regiment which meant to take them in the rear, and thus place them between two fires, by the return of the Municipalists to the assault.

The fifteen or twenty dragoons commanded by Colonel Plouernel were received with a general discharge of musketry. Several of the dragoons fell; the colonel himself was wounded. But obedient to his natural intrepidity, he drove his spurs into his horse's flanks, waved his sword and cried out:

"Dragoons! Cut down this rabble with your swords!"

The colonel's horse gave an enormous bound; it brought him to the very base of the barricade, but the animal slipped over the rolling cobblestones and fell prone.

Although wounded and pinned to the ground under his mount, the Count of Plouernel still defended himself with heroic valor. His every sword thrust found its mark. But it was all of no avail; he was about to succumb to superior numbers when, at the risk of his own life, Monsieur Lebrenn, assisted by his son and George, although the latter was wounded, threw themselves between the prostrate colonel and his exasperated assailants, and succeeded in extricating him from under his horse, and in pushing him into the shop.

"Friends! These dragoons are isolated; they are in no condition to resist us; let us disarm them; let there be no useless carnage--they are our brothers!" someone cried.

"Mercy to the soldiers--but death to their colonel!" cried the men who had just been driven to the spot before the merciless and headlong onslaught of the Count of Plouernel. "Death to the colonel!"

"Yes! Yes!" repeated several voices.

"No!" shouted back the linendraper, barring the door with his gun, while George came to his support. "No! No! No massacre after battle! No cowardice!"

"The colonel killed my brother with a pistol shot fired within an inch of his face--down there, at the corner of the street," bellowed a man with bloodshot eyes, his mouth foaming with rage, and brandishing a sword. "Death to the colonel!"

"Yes! Yes! Death!" shouted several threatening voices. "Death!"

"No! You shall not kill a wounded man! You can not mean to murder an unarmed man--a prisoner!"

"Death," shouted back an increasing number of angry voices. "Death!"

"Very well, walk in! Let us see if you will have the heart to dishonor the cause of the people with a crime."

And the merchant, although ready to offer fresh resistance to the ferocity of the angry men, left free the passage of the door which he had until then blocked.

The assailants remained motionless. Lebrenn's words had gone home.

Nevertheless, the man who desired to avenge his brother rushed forward, sword in hand, emitting a savage cry. Already his feet were on the threshold when, seizing him by the waist, George held him back, saying:

"Would you, indeed, commit murder! Oh, no, brother! You are no murderer!"

And with tears in his eyes, George Duchene embraced the man.

George's voice, his countenance, his accent and his deportment made so deep an impression upon the angry man who cried for vengeance, that he lowered his head, flung away his sword, and, dropping upon a heap of cobblestones, covered his face in his hands, murmuring between the sobs that choked him:

"My brother! My poor brother!"

* * * * *

The struggle was over. The merchant's son went out for tidings, and returned with the information that the King, together with the royal family, had fled; that everywhere the troops fraternized with the people; that the Chamber of Deputies was dissolved; and that a provisional government was set up at the City Hall.

The wounded, whether they belonged to the insurrectionists or to the army, were transported to the improvised hospitals that were set up in several shops, as had been done in the linendraper's. As much attention was bestowed upon the soldiers as upon those who shortly before were engaged in a deadly struggle with them. The women gathered around the wounded. If there was aught to be regretted it was the excessiveness of the zeal of the tenders of good offices.

Several soldiers of the Municipal Guard, besides an officer of dragoons who accompanied Colonel Plouernel, having been taken prisoner, they were distributed among the neighboring houses, whence they soon thereafter emerged in civilian dress, and arm in arm with their adversaries of the same morning.

Lebrenn's shop was crowded with wounded men. One of these lay upon the counter; the others on mattresses hastily spread upon the floor. The merchant and his family assisted several surgeons of the quarter. Gildas was engaged in distributing wine mixed with water to the patients, whose throats were parched with thirst. Among the latter, and lying beside each other upon the same mattress, were father Bribri and a sergeant of the Municipal Guards, an old soldier with moustaches as grey as those of the ragpicker himself.

The latter, after having pronounced Flameche's funeral oration, had been shot in the leg during the encounter with the dragoons. The sergeant, on his part, had received a wound in the loins in the course of the first attack that the barricade had to sustain.

"Zounds! How I suffer!" murmured the sergeant. "And what a thirst! My throat is on fire!"

Father Bribri overheard the words, and seeing Gildas approach holding in one hand a bottle of wine and water, and in the other a basket with glasses, called out to him as if he were at an inn:

"Waiter! This way, waiter! The old man here wants something to drink, if you please! He is thirsty!"

Surprised and touched by the civility of his companion on the mattress, the sergeant said to him:

"Thank you, my good old man; I may not decline, because I feel as if I would choke."

Upon the summons of father Bribri, Gildas filled one of the glasses in his basket. He stooped down and handed it to the soldier. The latter essayed to rise, but failed, and said as he dropped back:

"Zounds! I can not sit up. My loins are shattered."

"Wait a second, sergeant," said father Bribri; "one of my legs is disabled, but my loins and arms are still sea-worthy. I shall give you a helping hand."

The ragpicker helped the soldier to sit up, and supported him until he had emptied his glass. After that he gently helped him to lie down again.

"Thanks, and pardon the trouble, my good old man," said the Municipalist.

"At your service, sergeant."

"Tell me, old boy--"

"What is it, sergeant?"

"Doesn't it strike you that this thing is rather droll?"

"What, sergeant?"

"Well, to think that two hours ago we were trying to shoot holes through each other, and now we are exchanging courtesies."

"Don't mention it, sergeant! Shots are stupid things."

"All the more when people have no ill-will for each other--"

"Zounds! May the devil take me, sergeant, if I had any ill-will towards you! Nevertheless, for all I know, it was I who put the bullet in your loin--just as, without having the slightest ill feeling for me, you would have planted your bayonet in my bowels. Wherefore, I repeat it, it is a stupid thing for people who have no ill-will toward each other to come to blows."

"That's the truth of it."

"And, furthermore, were you particularly stuck upon Louis Philippe, sergeant?"

"I? Little did I trouble my head about him! What I was after was to obtain my furlough, so that I could go to the country and plant my cabbages. That's what I was after. And you, old boy, what were you after?"

"I am after the Republic that will guarantee work, and will furnish bread to those who need it."

"If that is so, old fellow, I am as much for the Republic as yourself, because I have a poor brother with a large family upon his hands, to whom to be out of work is like death. Ah! And was it for that that you fought, old fellow? By my honor, you were not so far out of the way. Long live the Republic!"

"And yet, it may be you, old fraud, who shot that bullet into my leg--but, at least you are not to be blamed."

"How the devil could I help it! Do we ever know why we fall into one another's hair? The old custom of obeying orders is what sets us agoing. We are ordered to fire--and we fire, without at first taking any particular aim--that's true. But the other side answers in kind. Zounds! From that minute it is each for his own skin."

"I believe you."

"And then one gets pricked, or sees a comrade fall; he grows hotter in the collar; the smell of gunpowder intoxicates you; and then you begin to bellow as if you were among deaf people--"

"Once so far, the rest comes natural, sergeant!"

"It does not matter so much, you see, my good old man, so long as you are at guns' length. But the moment you come to close quarters, to a bayonet charge, and you can see the white of each others' eyes, then the compliments exchanged are: 'Take this!' 'Take that!' and yet one feels a weakness stealing over his legs and arms."

"Quite natural, sergeant, because you think to yourself--'These are, after all, brave fellows who want the Reform, they want the Republic. Good--what harm can they do me? Besides, am I not one of the common people, like themselves? Have I not relatives and friends among the common people? I wager a hundred to one that I should be of their opinion, that I should fall in line with them, instead of charging upon them'--"

"That's so true, my old man, that I'm as much for the Republic as yourself, if it can furnish work to my poor brother."

"And that's why I repeat, sergeant, that there is nothing so stupid as for people to shoot holes into one another, without, at least, knowing the why and the wherefore."

Saying this father Bribri drew out of his pocket his old snuff-box of white wood, and holding it out to his companion, added:

"Will you have some, sergeant?"

"Zounds! That's not to be refused, old man; it will help to clear up my head."

"Tell me, sergeant," remarked father Bribri laughing, "have you perhaps a cold in the head? Do you know the song:

"There were six soldiers, or five,
They had a cold in the head--"

"Ah, you gay old fraud!" exclaimed the Municipalist, giving his mattress-fellow a friendly tap on the shoulder and laughing heartily at the opportune refrain. He took a pinch of snuff, and after absorbing and relishing it like a connoisseur, he added:

"Zounds! This is good!"

"I'll take you into my confidence, sergeant," whispered father Bribri, taking a pinch himself, "this is my only luxury. I get it at the Civitte, nowhere else!"

"That's the very place my wife makes her purchases in."

"Oh, so, then, you are married, sergeant? The devil take it! Your poor wife must be feeling frightfully uneasy."

"Yes, she is an excellent woman. If my wound is not fatal, old man, you must come to my house and take a bowl of soup with us. Ho! Ho! We shall chat about St. Denis Street while nibbling a crust."

"You are very kind, sergeant. Neither is that to be refused. And seeing that I do not keep house, you and your wife must return the visit by coming and sharing a rabbit-stew with me on the outer boulevard."

"Agreed, old man!"

As the civilian and the Municipalist were exchanging these courtesies, Monsieur Lebrenn came out of the rear room, the door of which had been kept closed. The linendraper looked pale; there were tears in his eyes. He said to his wife, whom he found busy attending one of the wounded men:

"Will you come in a minute, my dear friend?"

Madam Lebrenn joined her husband, and the door of the rear room closed behind them. There a sad spectacle presented itself to the eyes of the merchant's wife.

Pradeline lay stretched out upon a sofa. The girl was in her death agony. George Duchene, with his arm in a sling, was on his knees beside her, urging her to take some of the wine and water in a cup that he held up to her lips.

At the sight of Madam Lebrenn, the poor creature endeavored to smile. She gathered all the strength she could, and said in a faint and broken voice:

"Madam--I asked to see you--before I die--in order to tell you--the truth about George. I was an orphan; I worked at flower-making. I had suffered a good deal--underwent untold privations--but still I kept my character. I should also say, so as not to praise myself too highly, I had never been tempted," she added with a bitter sigh; and then she smiled: "I met George upon his return from the army--I fell in love with him--I loved him--Oh! I loved him dearly--let that pass--he was the only one--perhaps it was because he never became my lover. I am sure I loved him more than he loved me. He was better than I--it was out of kindness that he offered to marry me. Unfortunately, a girl friend crossed my way and led me astray. She had been a working girl, like myself--and misery had driven her to sell herself! I saw her rich, well dressed--well fed--she urged me to do as she had done--my head turned--I forgot George--but not for long--but for nothing in the world would I have dared to appear before him again. Occasionally, nevertheless, I would come to this street--seeking to catch a glimpse of him. I saw him more than once at work in your shop, madam--and talking to your daughter, who seemed to me very beautiful--Oh, as beautiful as the day! A presentiment told me George was bound to fall in love with her. I watched him--more than once, recently, I saw him early in the morning at his window--looking across the street at yours. Yesterday morning I was with someone--"

A feeble blush of shame colored for an instant the pallid cheeks of the dying girl. She dropped her eyes, and presently proceeded in a voice that was fast sinking:

"There--accidentally--I learned that that person--found your daughter--very beautiful, and--knowing that that person is utterly--reckless of consequences--I feared for your daughter and for George--I tried--yesterday--to notify him--he was not at home; I wrote to him--asking to see him, without stating my reasons--This morning--I went out--without knowing--that there--were barricades--and--"

The young girl could not finish; her head fell back; mechanically she raised both her hands to the wound on her bosom, heaved a sigh of profound grief, and stammered a few unintelligible words. Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn wept in silence as they contemplated her.

"Josephine," said George, "do you suffer much?" And covering his eyes with his hands he added: "This mortal wound--was received by her in the attempt to save my life!"

"George--George," muttered the dying girl almost inaudibly, as her eyes roved aimlessly about, "George--you--do--not know--"

And she began to laugh.

That laugh of death was heartrending.

"Poor child! Come to your senses," pleaded Madam Lebrenn.

"My name is Pradeline," came deliriously from the wretched girl. "Yes--because--I always sing."

"Unhappy child!" cried Lebrenn. "Poor girl, she is delirious!"

"George," she resumed, her mind wandering, "listen to my songs--"

And in an expiring voice she improvised to her favorite melody:

"I feel th'approach of death,
I'm breathing my last breath--
It is my fate, and yet
I grieve--to die--"

She did not complete the last line. Her arms twitched; her head drooped upon her shoulder. She was dead.

That instant, Gildas opened the door that communicated with a back staircase leading to the upper story, and said to the merchant:

"Monsieur, the colonel upstairs wishes to speak with you."

The merchant went up to his own bed chamber, where the colonel had been quartered as a measure of precaution.

The Count of Plouernel had received only two slight wounds, but was severely bruised. In order to facilitate the staunching of the blood he had taken off his uniform.

Lebrenn found his guest standing in the middle of the apartment, pale and somber.

"Monsieur," said he, "my wounds are not serious enough to prevent me from leaving the house. I shall never forget your generous conduct towards me. Your conduct was all the more noble in view of what transpired between us yesterday morning. My only wish is to be able some day to return your generosity. That, I suppose, will be difficult, monsieur, seeing my party is vanquished, and you are the vanquishers. I was blind with regard to the actual state of public sentiment. This sudden Revolution opens my eyes. I realize it--yes, the day of the people's triumph has come. We had our day, as you said to me yesterday, monsieur; your turn has come."

"I think so too, monsieur. But now, allow me to advise you. It would not be prudent for you to go out in uniform. The popular effervescence has not yet cooled down. I shall supply you with a coat and hat, and, in the company of one of my friends, you will be able to return to your own residence without any difficulty, or running any danger."

"Monsieur! You can not mean that! To disguise myself--that would be cowardice!"

"If you please, monsieur! No exaggerated scruples! Have you not the consciousness of having fought with intrepidity to the very end?"

"Yes; but of having been disarmed--by--"

But the Count of Plouernel checked himself, and offering his hand to the merchant said:

"Pardon me, monsieur--I forgot myself; besides, I am vanquished. It shall be as you say. I shall take your advice. I shall assume the disguise without feeling that I am committing an act of cowardice. A man whose conduct is as worthy as yours must be a good judge in matters of honor."

A minute later the Count of Plouernel was in bourgeois dress, thanks to the clothes that the merchant lent him.

The Count then pointed to his battered casque which lay on top of his uniform, that had been torn in several places during the struggle, and said to Monsieur Lebrenn:

"Monsieur, I request you to keep my casque, in default of my sword, which I would have preferred to leave with you as a souvenir from a soldier whose life you generously saved--as a token of gratitude."

"I accept it, monsieur," answered the linendraper. "I shall join the casque to several other souvenirs which have come down to me from your family."

"From my family!" exclaimed the Count of Plouernel in amazement. "From my family! Do you know my family?"

"Alas, monsieur," answered the merchant in melancholy tones, "this was not the first time that, in the course of the centuries, a Neroweg of Plouernel and a Lebrenn met, arms in hand."

"What is that you say, monsieur?" asked the Count with increasing wonderment. "I pray you, explain yourself."

Two raps at the door interrupted the conversation of Monsieur Lebrenn and his guest.

"Who is there?" demanded the merchant.

"I, father."

"Walk in, my boy!"

"Father," said Sacrovir in great glee, "several friends are downstairs. They come from the City Hall. They want to see you."

"My boy," said Monsieur Lebrenn, "you are known as well as myself in the street. I wish you to escort our guest home. Take the back stairs in order to avoid going out by the shop door. Do not leave Monsieur Plouernel until he is safe at home."

"Rest assured, father. I have already crossed the barricade twice. I answer for monsieur's safety."

"Excuse me, monsieur, if I now leave you," said the merchant to the Count of Plouernel. "My friends are waiting for me."

"Adieu, monsieur," answered the Count in a voice that came from the heart. "I do not know what the future has in store for us; mayhap we may meet again in opposite camps; but I swear to you, I shall not, henceforth, be able to look upon you as an enemy."

With these words the Count of Plouernel followed the merchant's son.

Monsieur Lebrenn, left alone in the chamber, contemplated the colonel's casque for a moment, and muttered to himself:

"Truly, there are strange fatalities in this world."

He lifted up the casque and took it into that mysterious chamber which so much excited the curiosity of Gildas.

Lebrenn then joined his friends, from whom he learned that there was no longer any doubt but that the Republic would be proclaimed by the provisional government.