The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn

The wretch sank upon his knees in a state of such utter collapse and terror that, crouching upon the pavement, he could only extend his hands and mutter in an almost inaudible voice:

"Oh, mercy! Not death!"

"You fear death! Wait, I shall bandage your eyes," said the ragpicker.

And letting down his sack from his shoulders, father Bribri took a large piece of cloth out of it and threw it over the condemned man who, on his knees and gathered into a lump, was almost wholly covered therewith. Soon as that was done, the ragpicker stepped quickly back.

Three shots were fired at once.

Popular justice was done.

A few minutes later, fastened under his arms to the lamp-post, the corpse of the bandit swung to the night breeze with the poster attached to his clothes:

"Shot as a thief."

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 - This portrait of courage is justified by the heroic death of two young girls, about eighteen years old, who, their hair flowing to the winds, their arms bare, held their place on a barricade near St. Denis Street in June, 1848.]

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.