But at this moment a voice of thunder cried,—
"Silence!"
Every voice was hushed; for he who spoke in such a commanding and steady voice was Jean Peuquoy, the syndic of the guild of weavers,—a citizen who was held in the highest esteem and consideration, and was a little feared by the people.
Jean Peuquoy was a type of the sturdy bourgeoisie, who loved their city as a mother and as a child, worshipped her and grumbled at her, lived always for her, and would die for her if need were. For the honest weaver there was no world but France, and in all France naught but St. Quentin. No one was so well versed as he in the history and traditions of the town, its ancient customs, and old-time legends. There was not a quarter, not a street, not a house, which in its present or its past had any secrets from Jean Peuquoy. He was in himself the municipality personified. His shop was a second Grand'place, and his wooden house in the Rue St. Martin another town-hall. This venerable mansion was made noticeable by a very peculiar coat-of-arms,—a shuttle crowned between the antlers of a full-grown stag. One of Jean Peuquoy's ancestors (for Jean Peuquoy reckoned up his ancestors like any gentleman)—a weaver like himself, it need not be said, and in addition an archer of renown—had put out the two eyes of this fine stag with two shafts at more than a hundred paces. These superb antlers are still to be seen at St. Quentin in the Rue St. Martin. Every one for ten leagues around knew the antlers and the weaver. Jean Peuquoy was thus the city itself; and every dweller in St. Quentin listened to the voice of his country speaking through him.
And so no one stirred when the weaver's voice, rising above the grumbling and the muttering, shouted, "Silence!"
"Yes, be silent!" he continued, "and lend me your ears for one moment, my fellow-citizens and good friends, I beseech you. Let us look over together, with your leave, what we have already done, and we may perhaps learn from that what we have still to do. When the enemy sat down before our walls; when we saw this swarm of Spaniards, English, Germans, and Walloons, under the redoubtable Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy, swooping down like locusts around our town,—we bravely accepted our lot, did we not? We did not murmur, nor did we accuse Providence of having cruelly selected St. Quentin as the expiatory sacrifice of France. Far from it; and Monsieur l'Amiral will do us the justice to say that from the very hour of his arrival, bringing us the mighty succor of his experience and valor, we did our best to forward his plans with our persons and our property. We have furnished supplies and money, and have ourselves shouldered the cross-bow and wielded the pick and shovel. Those of us who have not acted as sentinels on the walls have been digging in the town. We have helped to discipline and restore order among the rebellious peasants in the suburbs, who refused to work in payment for the protection we had afforded them. In short, we have done, I honestly believe, everything that could possibly be asked of men whose trade is not war. So we hoped that our lord the king would speedily remember his loyal subjects in St. Quentin, and would send us without delay the succor that we needed; and so it happened. Monsieur de Montmorency came hurrying hither to drive the forces of Philip II. from our gates, and we thanked God and the king; but the fatal day of St. Laurent dashed our hopes to the ground in a few short hours. The constable was taken, his army cut to pieces, and we were left in a more hopeless state than ever. Five days have passed since then, and the enemy have made good use of them. Three fierce assaults have cost us more than two hundred men and whole sections of the walls. The cannon thunders unceasingly. Listen! it echoes my very words. But we do not wish to hear it, and listen only on the side where Paris lies, to hear if we cannot distinguish some sound to announce the arrival of further reinforcement. But no; and our last resources are, so far as we can see, exhausted. The king abandons us, and has many other things to do than to think of us. He must collect around him at Paris all that remains of his forces, and must save the kingdom rather than one poor town; and if he does turn his eyes and his thoughts toward St. Quentin now and then, it is only to ask if its death-agony will last long enough to give France time to recover. But as to hope or chance of relief, there is no more now for us, dear countrymen and friends. Monsieur de Rambouillet and Monsieur de Lauxford have spoken the truth. We lack fortifications and troops; our city is dying; we are abandoned, despairing, and lost!"
"Yes, yes!" cried the whole assembly, with one accord; "we must surrender! we must surrender!"
"Not so," rejoined Jean Peuquoy; "we must die!"
An amazed silence followed this unexpected conclusion. The weaver profited by it to proceed with increased animation.
"We must die. What we have already done points out to us what remains for us to do. Messieurs Lauxford and de Rambouillet say that we cannot hold out; but Monsieur de Coligny says that we must hold out! And let us do it! You know whether I am devoted to our good town of St. Quentin, my dear brothers. I love her as I loved my old mother, in very truth. Every bullet that strikes her venerable walls seems to pierce my heart; and yet now that the general has spoken, I feel that he must be obeyed. Let not the arm rebel against the head, and St. Quentin perish! Monsieur l'Amiral knows what he is doing and what he means to do. He has weighed, in his wisdom, the fate of one city against the fate of France. He has decided that St. Quentin must die, like a sentinel at his post; so be it. The man who murmurs is a coward; and he who disobeys, a traitor. The walls are crumbling: let us make new walls with our dead bodies; let us gain a week, let us gain two days, or an hour even, at the price of all our blood and all our property. Monsieur l'Amiral knows the worth of all this; and since he asks it of us, we must do it. He will have to answer for it to God and to the king; but that doesn't concern us. As for us, our business is to die when he says, 'Die!' Let Monsieur de Coligny's conscience look out for the rest. He is responsible, and we must submit."