‘You see,’ he was saying. ‘They won’t budge. Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld will have to wake them up with his cannon. Heavens above! How soundly they sleep in Saint-Georges! When I’m ill, this is where I’ll come.’
‘Canolles is too kind,’ Ravailly replied. ‘He thinks that a governor is like a father: he’s afraid his men will catch cold if they have to do guard duty at night.’
‘Quite right,’ said another, ‘you can’t even see a sentry.’
‘Hey, there!’ shouted the lieutenant, stepping on to the bank. ‘Wake yourselves there and give us a hand to climb up!’
At that last quip, a burst of laughter ran along the whole line of the attackers, and, while three or four boats made towards the port, the rest of the army disembarked.
‘Come on, now,’ said Ravailly. ‘I understand. Canolles wants to appear to be surprised so as not to fall out with the court. So, gentlemen, let’s return the compliment and not kill anybody. Once we are inside, spare them all, except the women, who will probably not want it in any case, by God! Now, boys, don’t forget that this is a war between friends, so the first man to draw his sword, I’ll run him through.’
At this order, given in a truly French spirit of merriment, the laughter resumed, and the soldiers shared their officers’ hilarity.
‘Very good, my friends,’ said the lieutenant. ‘It does us good to laugh, but we mustn’t forget why we’re here. To the ladders, and up we go!’
At this, Canolles got up, and, with his cane in his hand and his hat on, like a man taking a stroll in the morning air, he went over to the parapet, which only came up to his waist.
It was light enough for him to be recognized.
‘Well, now, Navailles! Good morning to you,’ he said, addressing the whole regiment. ‘Good morning, Ravailly, good morning, Remonenq.’
‘Why, it’s Canolles!’ the young men exclaimed. ‘So you’re up at last, Baron.’
‘Indeed, I am. We live the life of Reilly4 here: early to bed and late to rise. But what are you doing in these parts so early?’
‘I would think you could see that,’ said Ravailly. ‘We come to lay siege to you, that’s all.’
‘And why have you come to do that?’
‘To capture your fort.’
Canolles laughed.
‘Come now,’ said Ravailly. ‘You give in, don’t you?’
‘First of all, I must know whom I am surrendering to. How is it that Navailles is fighting against the king?’
‘My word, my dear fellow, it’s because we’ve taken up rebellion. When we thought about it, we decided that Mazarin was definitely a coward and not worthy to be served by gallant gentlemen, and as a result we went over to the princes. How about you?’
‘Why, dear chap, I’m a raging Epernonist.’
‘Huh! Leave your people there, and come with us.’
‘Can’t do it. Hey, you down there: leave the chains on the bridge alone. You know very well that one should look at those things, but from a distance, and it’s bad luck to touch them. Ravailly, tell them not to touch the chains,’ Canolles continued, frowning. ‘Otherwise, I’ll give the order to fire at them. And, I warn you, Ravailly, I’ve got some excellent marksmen.’
‘Why, you’re joking!’ the officer replied. ‘Let them capture you, you’re haven’t got the strength.’
‘I’m not joking. Down with those ladders! Ravailly, I beg you: this is the king’s house that you are attacking, so beware!’
‘Saint George – the king’s house?’
‘Why not? Just look, and you’ll see the flag on the tip of the bastion. Come, now. Put your boats back in the water, and your ladders in the boats, or I’ll fire. If you want talk, come alone or with Remonenq, and then we can have breakfast as we talk. I have an excellent cook on the Ile Saint-Georges.’
Ravailly started to laugh and gave his men a look of encouragement. Meanwhile, another company was preparing to disembark.
At this, Canolles realized that the decisive moment had come. And, resuming the firm attitude and serious manner appropriate to a man bearing his heavy responsibilities, he shouted: ‘Halt! Ravailly, no more joking. Not another word, a step or a gesture, or I shall give the order to fire as surely as that is the king’s flag up there and as you are marching against the fleur-de-lys of France.’
As good as his word, he forcibly overturned the first ladder that was jutting above the battlements.
Five or six men who were in more of a hurry than the rest had begun to climb, and they were thrown off. They fell back, and their fall caused a huge burst of laughter from the attackers and the defenders. It was like a schoolboy game.
At that moment, a signal indicated that the attackers had broken the chains that had closed the entry to the port.
At once, Ravailly and Remonenq grasped a ladder and began in their turn to go down into the ditch, crying: ‘With us, Navailles! Forward, onward and upward!’
‘My poor Ravailly,’ Canolles shouted. ‘Stop, I beg you…’
But at that moment the battery, which had been silent until then, burst out in thunder and lightning, and a cannon shot threw up the earth next to Canolles.
‘Very well,’ Canolles cried, pointing with his cane. ‘Since they insist, fire! Fire my friends, all along the line!’
At this, though not a single man could be seen, a row of muskets bent down towards the rampart, and a belt of flame wrapped around the crest of the wall, while two huge artillery pieces exploded in response to the Duke de La Rochefoucauld’s cannon.
A dozen men fell, but instead of discouraging their companions, their loss spurred them on. The land battery replied to the fort battery, a shot brought down the royal flag, and another crushed one of Canolles’s lieutenants, whose name was d’Elboin.
Canolles looked around him again and saw that his men had already reloaded their guns.
‘General fire!’ he ordered.
This command was carried out no less promptly than the previous one.
Ten minutes later, there was not a single unbroken window on the Ile Saint-Georges. The stones shuddered and burst into splinters, the cannon fire broke through the walls, cannonballs smashed on to the wide paving stones, and a thick cloud of smoke darkened the air, full of shouts, threats and groans.
Canolles saw that the chief threat to his fort came from Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld’s battery.
‘Vibrac,’ he said, ‘take care of Ravailly and make sure he does not gain an inch of ground while I am away. I am going to our battery.’
At this, he ran across to the two guns that were replying to La Rochefoucauld’s fire, took command of them himself, and became loader, aimer and commander. In a moment, he had silenced three out of the six enemy guns and brought down some fifty men. The rest, who had not been expecting this fierce resistance, started to scatter and take to their heels. La Rochefoucauld, rallying them, was hit by a splinter of stone that knocked his sword out of his hand.
When he saw this, Canolles left the remainder of the task to the head of the battery and ran back to the place where the company of Navailles, together with d’Espagnet’s men, was pressing its assault.
Vibrac was holding his ground, but he had just been shot in the shoulder. Canolles’s return lifted the spirits of his troops, and his presence was greeted with cries of joy.
‘Forgive me,’ he shouted to Ravailly. ‘I had to leave you for a moment, dear friend, as you see, to take care of Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld’s guns. But have no fear, I’m back now!’
And as the captain of the regiment of Navailles, who was too busy to reply to this quip – which, indeed, in the midst of the frightful din made by the artillery and musketry, he might very well not have heard – was leading his men to the assault for the third time, Canolles drew a pistol from his belt and, pointing it towards his former comrade, now his enemy, pulled the trigger. The shot was aimed by a firm hand and sure eye. It broke Ravailly’s arm.
‘Thank you, Canolles!’ he sh
outed, having seen where the shot came from. ‘Thank you, I’ll pay you back for that.’
But despite his self-control, the young captain was forced to halt, and his sword fell from his grasp. Remonenq ran across to support him in his arms.
‘Would you like to have the wound dressed here, Ravailly?’ Canolles cried. ‘I’ve got a surgeon who is as good in his way as my cook.’
‘Certainly not, I’m going back to Bordeaux. But expect me to return at any moment, because I shall do so, I promise. But next time I will choose my time.’
‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Remonenq shouted. ‘We’re pulling back. Farewell, Canolles. The first match is yours.’
Remonenq was right: the artillery had wreaked havoc in the army on the ground, which had lost around a hundred men at least. As for the army on the water, it had lost almost as many. But the greatest losses of all had been in the regiment of Navailles, which, to sustain the honour of the uniform, had always insisted on marching ahead of the citizens led by d’Espagnet.
Canolles raised his empty pistol.
‘Cease fire! Let them retreat in peace. We cannot afford to waste any munitions.’
Indeed, any shots they fired would have been more or less wasted. The attackers were retreating at full speed, leaving their dead, but carrying off their wounded. Canolles counted his own casualties: sixteen wounded and four dead. As for himself, he had not suffered a scratch.
‘Peste!’ he exclaimed, ten minutes later, as he accepted Nanon’s joyful embraces. ‘My dear friend, we did not have to wait long before I earned my governor’s spurs. What a stupid shambles! I killed a hundred and fifty of them, at least, and broke the arm of one of my best friends, to prevent him getting himself killed outright.’
‘Yes,’ said Nanon. ‘But you are safe and sound, aren’t you?’
‘Thank God, I am! And you no doubt brought me good fortune, Nanon. But look out for the next round. Those Bordeaux men are stubborn. And in any event, Ravailly and Remonenq promised me that they would be back.’
‘So?’ said Nanon. ‘The same man is in command at Saint-Georges, and the same soldiers are defending it. Let them come, and the second time, they will be even better welcomed than the first. Because, between now and then, you will have time to improve your defences, won’t you?’
‘My dearest,’ Canolles said confidentially. ‘One only gets to know something by using it, and I learned just now, by experience, that this place is not impregnable. If I were called the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, I should have the Ile Saint-Georges tomorrow morning… By the way, d’Elboin will not be taking lunch with us.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because he was cut in two by a cannonball.’
VI
The return of the attackers to Bordeaux was a pitiful sight to behold. The townspeople had left triumphantly, counting on their numbers and the skill of their generals, in short, entirely confident of the outcome of the expedition, thanks to familiarity, that additional reassurance for a man in danger – for what man among them had not in his youth roamed the woods and fields of the Ile Saint-Georges, alone or with some sweet companion? What man of Bordeaux had not plied an oar, aimed a hunting gun or cast a fishing net in the country that he was to revisit as a soldier? So for these townsfolk the defeat was doubly cruel: the countryside shamed them as well as the enemy, and they returned with heads bowed, listening with resignation to the sound of lamentation and the moans of the women who, counting the gaps in the ranks in the manner of the savages of America, were increasingly made aware of the losses suffered in the defeat.
So a great murmur filled the town with mourning and confusion. The soldiers returned home, each describing the disaster in his own way. Their leaders went to the princess, who, as we have said, was staying with the president.
Madame de Condé was waiting for the expedition to return, standing at her window. Born into a family of warriors, wife of one of the greatest generals in the world and brought up to despise the rusty armour and ridiculous plumes of the citizen militia, she could not help feeling vaguely uneasy at the thought that these townspeople, her supporters, were going out to fight an army of experienced soldiers. But three things reassured her, in spite of that: the first was that Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld was leading the expedition; the second was that the regiment of Navailles was in the vanguard; and the third was that the name of Condé was on the banners.
But, in a contrast that is not hard to understand, all that was hope for the princess was pain for Madame de Cambes – just as everything that was about to become an agony for the illustrious lady would be a triumph for the viscountess.
It was the Duke de la Rochefoucauld who presented himself to them, covered in dust and bleeding. The sleeve of his black doublet was torn, and his shirt was covered in blood.
‘Is it true, what they tell me?’ the princess exclaimed, hurrying forward to meet him.
‘And what do they tell you, Madame?’ the duke asked coldly.
‘They say that you have been repulsed.’
‘What they say does not go far enough, Madame. In truth, we were beaten.’
‘Beaten!’ the princess exclaimed, the blood draining from her cheeks. ‘Beaten! It’s impossible!’
‘Beaten,’ the viscountess murmured. ‘Beaten by Monsieur de Canolles!’
‘And how did this happen?’ Madame de Condé asked, in a tone that betrayed the depth of her indignation.
‘It happened, Madame, as all miscalculations in gaming, in love or in war: we attacked a more skilful or a stronger force than ourselves.’
‘So is he such a fine, brave fellow, this Monsieur de Canolles?’ asked the princess.
Madame de Cambes’s heart leapt with joy.
‘Why, in faith,’ said La Rochefoucauld, shrugging his shoulders, ‘as brave a fellow as any! It is just that he had fresh troops and solid walls, and he was on his guard, no doubt having been warned of our arrival, so he made a meal of our townsfolk. Oh, Madame, by the by, what miserable soldiers! They fled at the second volley.’
‘And Navailles?’ Claire exclaimed, without seeing how unwise it was to do so.
‘The whole difference between Navailles and the townspeople, Madame,’ said La Rochefoucauld, ‘is that the townspeople fled, and Navailles retreated.’
‘All that’s left now is for us to lose Vayres!’
‘I don’t deny it,’ La Rochefoucauld replied coldly.
‘Beaten!’ the princess said, stamping her foot. ‘Beaten by nobodies, led by a person called Canolles! The name is ridiculous.’
Claire blushed to the whites of her eyes.
‘You consider that a ridiculous name, Madame,’ said the duke. ‘But Monsieur de Mazarin thinks it sublime. And I might almost venture to say…’ he went on, giving Claire a brief, but penetrating glance ‘… that he is not alone in that opinion. Names are like colours, Madame,’ he continued, giving one of his peevish smiles. ‘There’s no arguing about them.’
‘Do you think that Richon is a man who will let himself be beaten?’
‘Why not? I was! We must wait until we have worked through our bad luck. War is a game, and one day or another we shall have our revenge.’
‘This would not have happened,’ said Madame de Tourville, ‘if my plan had been followed.’
‘That’s right,’ said the princess. ‘No one ever wants to do what we suggest, on the grounds that we are women and understand nothing about war… The men do as they please and get beaten.’
‘Yes, by God, Madame, but it can happen to the best of generals. Aemilius Paulus was defeated at Cannae, Pompey at Pharsalia and Attila at Châlons.5 Only Alexander and you, Madame de Tourville, have never been defeated. What was your plan?’
‘My plan, Duke,’ Madame de Tourville replied in her curtest voice, ‘was to conduct a regular siege. No one bothered to listen to me; they preferred an outright capture. And this is what happened.’
‘Answer Madame de Tourville, please, Lenet,’ said the duke. ‘I d
on’t feel that I know enough about strategy to compete.’
Lenet’s lips had not yet opened, except to smile. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘the argument against a siege is that the people of Bordeaux are not soldiers, but townsmen; they have to take dinner at home and sleep in their marital beds. And a conventional siege excludes a number of conveniences to which our fine citizens are accustomed, so they went to besiege the Ile Saint-Georges as amateurs. Don’t blame them for failing today. They will go back over the four leagues and return to the same war as often as they must.’
‘Do you think they will go back?’ asked the princess.
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure of that, Madame,’ said Lenet. ‘They love their island too much to leave it to the king.’
‘And will they capture it?’
‘Certainly, one day or another.’
‘Well, when they do,’ the princess cried, ‘I want to have that insolent Canolles shot, unless he surrenders unconditionally.’
Claire felt a deathly shudder run through her.
‘Shot!’ said La Rochefoucauld. ‘Peste! If that’s how Your Highness sees war, I am sincerely relieved to be counted among the number of her friends.’
‘Well, then. Let him surrender.’
‘I should like to know what Your Highness would say if Richon should surrender.’
‘It’s not a matter of Richon, Duke. It’s not a question of Richon. Now, bring me a citizen, a juror, a counsellor… in short, something to which I can speak, and who will assure me that this shame will cause those who made me swallow it to regret bitterly what they have done.’
‘Perfect!’ said Lenet. ‘Why, here is Monsieur d’Espagnet who requests the honour of being introduced to Your Highness.’
‘Show him in,’ said the princess.
Claire’s heart, throughout this conversation, had either been beating fit to burst or crushed as if in a vice. In fact, she too had been thinking that the people of Bordeaux would make Canolles pay dearly for his first triumph. But it was much worse when d’Espagnet’s protestations were added to Lenet’s assurances.
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