Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix d’Arcy, the murmurs of dissatisfaction having changed to curses after the messengers despatched to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac had passed by. These peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant not to find their leader waiting for them at the rendezvous. “Where is he?” they asked each other. “Who knows, perhaps he has turned tail at the last moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are here risking our lives and our children’s bread.”
Soon the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor flew from lip to lip, increasing the anger that swelled in every heart. Some were of opinion that it would be best to disperse; while others wished to march against Montaignac without waiting any longer for Lacheneur. The point was being deliberated when a vehicle appeared in sight. It was the Baron d’Escorval’s cabriolet. He and the abbe were in advance of Lacheneur, and trusted that they had arrived in time to prevent any further prosecution of the enterprise. But although only a few minutes previously several of the insurgents had wavered, the peacemakers found all their entreaties and warnings useless. Instead of arresting the movement, their intervention only precipitated it.
“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one of the neighbouring farmers, who was the recognized leader in Lacheneur’s absence. “If death is before us, it is also behind us. To attack and conquer—that is our only hope of salvation. Forward, then, at once. That is the only way of disconcerting our enemies. He who hesitates is a coward! So forward!”
“Yes, forward!” re-echoed the excited crowd. They unfurled the tricolour, the banner banished by the Bourbon kings, which reminded them of so much glory and such great misfortunes; the drums beat, and with loud shouts of, “Long live Napoleon the Second!” the whole column took up its line of march.
Pale, in disordered garb, and with voices husky with emotion and fatigue, M. d’Escorval and the abbe followed in the wake of the rebels, imploring them to listen to reason. These two alone perceived the precipice towards which these misguided men were rushing, and they prayed to providence for an inspiration that might enable them to arrest this foolish enterprise while there was yet time. In fifty minutes the distance separating the Croix d’Arcy from Montaignac is covered. Soon the insurgents perceive the gate of the citadel, which was to have been opened for them by their friends within the town. It is eleven o’clock, and this gate is opened. Does not this circumstance prove that their friends are masters of the town, and that they are awaiting them in force? Hence, the column boldly advances, so certain of success that those who carry guns do not even take the trouble to load them.
M. d’Escorval and the abbe alone foresee the catastrophe. They entreat the leader of the expedition not to neglect the commonest precautions; they implore him to send some two men on in advance to reconnoitre; they themselves offer to go, on condition that the peasants will await their return before proceeding farther.
But their prayers are unheeded. The peasants pass the outer line of fortification in safety, and the head of the advancing column reaches the drawbridge. The enthusiasm now amounts to delirium; and who will be the first to enter is the only thought.
Alas! at that very moment they hear a pistol fired. It is a signal, for instantly, and on every side, resounds a terrible fusillade. Three or four peasant fall, mortally wounded. The remainder pause, terror stricken and thinking only of escape. Still the leader encourages his men, there are a few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in the ranks; and a struggle begins, all the more frightful owing to the darkness!
But it is not the cry of “Forward!” that suddenly rends the air. The voice of a coward raises the cry of panic: “We are betrayed! Let him save himself who can!”
Then comes the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the throng; and these men fly madly, despairingly, scattered like withered leaves are scattered by the force of the tempest.