At the approach of the English the French withdrew to their camp, and were followed by Talbot, who arrived breathless, his troops exhausted with a long march. Misinformed as to their numbers, believing that the French were retreating in alarm, without waiting to recruit his troops, the Earl of Shrewsbury resolved on storming the French camp.
The mistake was fatal. Not only did the French army vastly outnumber his own, not only was it fresh, whilst his troops were fagged, but their camp was well chosen and well defended with artillery that played upon the English from every side with disastrous effect. The defeat was complete. Talbot and his gallant son fell, and their death has been immortalised by Shakespeare. Nor has the great dramatist failed to point out the cause of the failure—the disunion among the English leaders.
This memorable battle prepared the way for the final deliverance of Guyenne and of France, not from English arms only, but from the plague of the Free Companies, which had grown and spread under the shadow of the English domination. At length the south—which as yet had not been in name even French—was absorbed into the kingdom, and partook of the benefits of union, and began to tingle with the lifeblood of the nation.
Ogier del' Peyra resigned all concern relative to his estates into the hands of his son, or rather the management was taken from him by Jean, because the old man could or would attend to nothing himself. Whether his mind had been affected by his imprisonment in the oubliette, or whether the inactivity was constitutional, and when the necessity for exertion and the motive for revenge were passed he could no longer rouse himself to action, remained uncertain. He had expressed no surprise when Jean brought Noémi to Le Peuch as its mistress. He accepted whatever happened as a matter of course.
For long he did absolutely nothing but sit in the sun and bite pieces of twig and straw. If addressed, he replied only with a "Yes" or "No," and gave tokens of annoyance if anyone was persistent in forcing a conversation. Whether he was thinking of the past, or thinking of nothing at all, none could say. Most certainly he gave no thought to the future, for he made no provision for the morrow and left everything to Jean.
At last he became feeble, and when feeble suddenly took it into his head to absent himself for a good part of the day.
On inquiry, Jean learned that he crossed the river taking with him a hammer and chisel; and he was informed that the old man had been seen scrambling up the slope to the ruins of l'Eglise Guillem. One day, accordingly, Jean went after him, and on reaching the cave-habitation found his father seated on the floor engaged in chipping with his tools.
"What are you doing, father?" asked Jean.
The old man did not answer with words, but pointed to the floor. He had been trimming into shapeliness the crosses that marked the lives taken at the storming of l'Eglise.
"But there are eleven, father," said Jean, pointing to one larger than the rest, fresh cut.