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Personal Recollections of
Joan of Arc
By
Mark Twain
VOLUME 2 (of 2)
PERSONAL
RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
by The Sieur Louis De Conte
BOOK=
II --
IN COURT AND CAMP (Continued).
29 F=
ierce
Talbot Reconsiders
31 F=
rance
Begins to Live Again
32 T=
he
Joyous News Flies Fast
34 T=
he Jests
of the Burgundians
35 T=
he Heir
of France is Crowned
36 J=
oan
Hears News from Home
38 T=
he King
Cries "Forward!".
39 W=
e Win,
But the King Balks
41 T=
he Maid
Will March No More
5 Fi=
fty
Experts Against a Novice
6 Th=
e Maid
Baffles Her Persecutors
9 He=
r Sure Deliverance
Foretold
10 T=
he
Inquisitors at Their Wits' End..
11 T=
he Court
Reorganized for Assassination..
12 J=
oan's
Master-Stroke Diverted
14 J=
oan
Struggles with Her Twelve Lies.
15 U=
ndaunted
by Threat of Burning
16 J=
oan
Stands Defiant Before the Rack..
19 O=
ur Last
Hopes of Rescue Fail
21 R=
espited
Only for Torture
THE
TROOPS must have a rest. Two days would be allowed for this. The
morning
of the 14th I was writing from Joan's dictation in a small room
which
she sometimes used as a private office when she wanted to get away
from
officials and their interruptions. Catherine Boucher came in and
sat
down and said:
"Joan,
dear, I want you to talk to me."
"Indeed,
I am not sorry for that, but glad. What is in your mind?"
"This.
I scarcely slept last night, for thinking of the dangers you are
running.
The Paladin told me how you made the duke stand out of the way
when
the cannon-balls were flying all about, and so saved his life."
"Well,
that was right, wasn't it?"
"Right?
Yes; but you stayed there yourself. Why will you do like that?
It
seems such a wanton risk."
"Oh,
no, it was not so. I was not in any danger."
"How
can you say that, Joan, with those deadly things flying all about
you?"
Joan
laughed, and tried to turn the subject, but Catherine persisted.
She
said:
"It
was horribly dangerous, and it could not be necessary to stay
in
such a place. And you led an assault again. Joan, it is tempting
that
you will let others lead the assaults, if there must be assaults,
and
that you will take better care of yourself in those dreadful
battles.
Will you?"
But
Joan fought away from the promise and did not give it. Catherine sat
troubled
and discontented awhile, then she said:
"Joan,
are you going to be a soldier always? These wars are so long--so
long.
They last forever and ever and ever."
There
was a glad flash in Joan's eye as she cried:
"This
campaign will do all the really hard work that is in front of
it in
the next four days. The rest of it will be gentler--oh, far less
bloody.
Yes, in four days
redemption
of
Catherine
started (and so did I); then she gazed long at Joan like one
in a
trance, murmuring "four days--four days," as if to herself and
unconsciously.
Finally she asked, in a low voice that had something of
awe
in it:
"Joan,
tell me--how is it that you know that? For you do know it, I
think."
"Yes,"
said Joan, dreamily, "I know--I know. I shall strike--and strike
again.
And before the fourth day is finished I shall strike yet again."
She
became silent. We sat wondering and still. This was for a whole
minute,
she looking at the floor and her lips moving but uttering
nothing.
Then came these words, but hardly audible: "And in a thousand
years
the English power in
It
made my flesh creep. It was uncanny. She was in a trance again--I
could
see it--just as she was that day in the pastures of Domremy when
she
prophesied about us boys in the war and afterward did not know that
she
had done it. She was not conscious now; but Catherine did not know
that,
and so she said, in a happy voice:
"Oh,
I believe it, I believe it, and I am so glad! Then you will come
back
and bide with us all your life long, and we will love you so, and
honor
you!"
A
scarcely perceptible spasm flitted across Joan's face, and the dreamy
voice
muttered:
"Before
two years are sped I shall die a cruel death!"
I
sprang forward with a warning hand up. That is why Catherine did not
scream.
She was going to do that--I saw it plainly. Then I whispered her
to
slip out of the place, and say nothing of what had happened. I said
Joan
was asleep--asleep and dreaming. Catherine whispered back, and
said:
"Oh,
I am so grateful that it is only a dream! It sounded like
prophecy."
And she was gone.
Like
prophecy! I knew it was prophecy; and I sat down crying, as knowing
we
should lose her. Soon she started, shivering slightly, and came to
herself,
and looked around and saw me crying there, and jumped out of
her
chair and ran to me all in a whirl of sympathy and compassion, and
put
her hand on my head, and said:
"My
poor boy! What is it? Look up and tell me."
I had
to tell her a lie; I grieved to do it, but there was no other way.
I
picked up an old letter from my table, written by Heaven knows who,
about
some matter Heaven knows what, and told her I had just gotten it
from
Pere Fronte, and that in it it said the children's Fairy Tree had
been
chopped down by some miscreant or other, and-- I got no further.
She
snatched the letter from my hand and searched it up and down and
all
over, turning it this way and that, and sobbing great sobs, and the
tears
flowing down her cheeks, and ejaculating all the time, "Oh, cruel,
cruel!
how could any be so heartless? Ah, poor Arbre Fee de Bourlemont
gone--and
we children loved it so! Show me the place where it says it!"
And
I, still lying, showed her the pretended fatal words on the
pretended
fatal page, and she gazed at them through her tears, and said
she
could see herself that they were hateful, ugly words--they "had the
very
look of it."
Then
we heard a strong voice down the corridor announcing:
"His
majesty's messenger--with despatches for her Excellency the
Commander-in-Chief
of the Armies of
I
KNEW she had seen the wisdom of the Tree. But when? I could not know.
Doubtless
before she had lately told the King to use her, for that she
had
but one year left to work in. It had not occurred to me at the time,
but
the conviction came upon me now that at that time she had already
seen
the Tree. It had brought her a welcome message; that was plain,
otherwise
she could not have been so joyous and light-hearted as she had
been
these latter days. The death-warning had nothing dismal about it
for
her; no, it was remission of exile, it was leave to come home.
Yes,
she had seen the Tree. No one had taken the prophecy to heart which
she
made to the King; and for a good reason, no doubt; no one wanted to
take
it to heart; all wanted to banish it away and forget it. And all
had
succeeded, and would go on to the end placid and comfortable. All
but
me alone. I must carry my awful secret without any to help me. A
heavy
load, a bitter burden; and would cost me a daily heartbreak. She
was
to die; and so soon. I had never dreamed of that. How could I, and
she
so strong and fresh and young, and every day earning a new right
to a
peaceful and honored old age? For at that time I thought old age
valuable.
I do not know why, but I thought so. All young people think
it, I
believe, they being ignorant and full of superstitions. She
had
seen the Tree. All that miserable night those ancient verses went
floating
back and forth through my brain:
And when, in exi=
le
wand'ring, we
Shall fainting y=
earn
for glimpse of thee,
Oh, rise upon our
sight!
But
at dawn the bugles and the drums burst through the dreamy hush of
the
morning, and it was turn out all! mount and ride. For there was red
work
to be done.
We
marched to Meung without halting. There we carried the bridge by
assault,
and left a force to hold it, the rest of the army marching away
next
morning toward Beaugency, where the lion Talbot, the terror of
the
French, was in command. When we arrived at that place, the English
retired
into the castle and we sat down in the abandoned town.
Talbot
was not at the moment present in person, for he had gone away to
watch
for and welcome Fastolfe and his reinforcement of five thousand
men.
Joan
placed her batteries and bombarded the castle till night. Then some
news
came: Richemont, Constable of France, this long time in disgrace
with
the King, largely because of the evil machinations of La Tremouille
and
his party, was approaching with a large body of men to offer his
services
to Joan--and very much she needed them, now that Fastolfe
was
so close by. Richemont had wanted to join us before, when we first
marched
on
of
his, warned him to keep his distance and refused all reconciliation
with
him.
I go
into these details because they are important. Important because
they
lead up to the exhibition of a new gift in Joan's extraordinary
mental
make-up--statesmanship. It is a sufficiently strange thing to
find
that great quality in an ignorant country-girl of seventeen and a
half,
but she had it.
Joan
was for receiving Richemont cordially, and so was La Hire and
the
two young Lavals and other chiefs, but the Lieutenant-General,
d'Alencon,
strenuously and stubbornly opposed it. He said he had
absolute
orders from the King to deny and defy Richemont, and that if
they
were overridden he would leave the army. This would have been a
heavy
disaster, indeed. But Joan set herself the task of persuading him
that
the salvation of
the
commands of a sceptered ass; and she accomplished it. She persuaded
him
to disobey the King in the interest of the nation, and to be
reconciled
to Count Richemont and welcome him. That was statesmanship;
and
of the highest and soundest sort. Whatever thing men call great,
look
for it in Joan of Arc, and there you will find it.
In
the early morning, June 17th, the scouts reported the approach of
Talbot
and Fastolfe with Fastolfe's succoring force. Then the drums beat
to
arms; and we set forth to meet the English, leaving Richemont and his
troops
behind to watch the
at
home. By and by we came in sight of the enemy. Fastolfe had tried to
convince
Talbot that it would be wisest to retreat and not risk a battle
with
Joan at this time, but distribute the new levies among the English
strongholds
of the
patient
and wait--wait for more levies from
army
with fruitless daily skirmishing; then at the right time fall upon
her
in resistless mass and annihilate her. He was a wise old experienced
general,
was Fastolfe. But that fierce Talbot would hear of no delay. He
was
in a rage over the punishment which the Maid had inflicted upon him
at
would
have it out with her if he had to fight her all alone. So Fastolfe
yielded,
though he said they were now risking the loss of everything
which
the English had gained by so many years' work and so many hard
knocks.
The
enemy had taken up a strong position, and were waiting, in order of
battle,
with their archers to the front and a stockade before them.
Night
was coming on. A messenger came from the English with a rude
defiance
and an offer of battle. But Joan's dignity was not ruffled, her
bearing
was not discomposed. She said to the herald:
"Go
back and say it is too late to meet to-night; but to-morrow, please
God
and our Lady, we will come to close quarters."
The
night fell dark and rainy. It was that sort of light steady rain
which
falls so softly and brings to one's spirit such serenity and
peace.
About ten o'clock D'Alencon, the Bastard of Orleans, La Hire,
Pothon
of Saintrailles, and two or three other generals came to our
headquarters
tent, and sat down to discuss matters with Joan. Some
thought
it was a pity that Joan had declined battle, some thought not.
Then
Pothon asked her why she had declined it. She said:
"There
was more than one reason. These English are ours--they cannot
get
away from us. Wherefore there is no need to take risks, as at other
times.
The day was far spent. It is good to have much time and the fair
light
of day when one's force is in a weakened state--nine hundred of
us
yonder keeping the
hundred
with the Constable of France keeping the bridge and watching the
Dunois
said:
"I
grieve for this decision, Excellency, but it cannot be helped. And
the
case will be the same the morrow, as to that."
Joan
was walking up and down just then. She laughed her affectionate,
comrady
laugh, and stopping before that old war-tiger she put her small
hand
above his head and touched one of his plumes, saying:
"Now
tell me, wise man, which feather is it that I touch?"
"In
sooth, Excellency, that I cannot."
"Name
of God, Bastard, Bastard! you cannot tell me this small thing, yet
are
bold to name a large one--telling us what is in the stomach of the
unborn
morrow: that we shall not have those men. Now it is my thought
that
they will be with us."
That
made a stir. All wanted to know why she thought that. But La Hire
took
the word and said:
"Let
be. If she thinks it, that is enough. It will happen."
Then
Pothon of Santrailles said:
"There
were other reasons for declining battle, according to the saying
of
your Excellency?"
"Yes.
One was that we being weak and the day far gone, the battle might
not
be decisive. When it is fought it must be decisive. And it shall
be."
"God
grant it, and amen. There were still other reasons?"
"One
other--yes." She hesitated a moment, then said: "This was not the=
day.
To-morrow is the day. It is so written."
They
were going to assail her with eager questionings, but she put up
her
hand and prevented them. Then she said:
"It
will be the most noble and beneficent victory that God has
vouchsafed
for
whence
or how I know this thing, but be content that it is so."
There
was pleasure in every face, and conviction and high confidence.
A
murmur of conversation broke out, but that was interrupted by a
messenger
from the outposts who brought news--namely, that for an hour
there
had been stir and movement in the English camp of a sort unusual
at
such a time and with a resting army, he said. Spies had been sent
under
cover of the rain and darkness to inquire into it. They had just
come
back and reported that large bodies of men had been dimly made out
who
were slipping stealthily away in the direction of Meung.
The
generals were very much surprised, as any might tell from their
faces.
"It
is a retreat," said Joan.
"It
has that look," said D'Alencon.
"It
certainly has," observed the Bastard and La Hire.
"It
was not to be expected," said Louis de Bourbon, "but one can divi=
ne
the
purpose of it."
"Yes,"
responded Joan. "Talbot has reflected. His rash brain has cooled.
He
thinks to take the
the
river. He knows that this leaves his garrison of Beaugency at the
mercy
of fortune, to escape our hands if it can; but there is no other
course
if he would avoid this battle, and that he also knows. But he
shall
not get the bridge. We will see to that."
"Yes,"
said D'Alencon, "we must follow him, and take care of that
matter.
What of Beaugency?"
"Leave
Beaugency to me, gentle duke; I will have it in two hours, and at
no
cost of blood."
"It
is true, Excellency. You will but need to deliver this news there
and
receive the surrender."
"Yes.
And I will be with you at Meung with the dawn, fetching the
Constable
and his fifteen hundred; and when Talbot knows that Beaugency
has
fallen it will have an effect upon him."
"By
the mass, yes!" cried La Hire. "He will join his Meung garrison t=
o
his
army and break for
us
again, along with our Beaugency watchers, and be stronger for our
great
day's work by four-and-twenty hundred able soldiers, as was here
promised
within the hour. Verily this Englishman is doing our errands
for
us and saving us much blood and trouble. Orders, Excellency--give us
orders!"
"They
are simple. Let the men rest three hours longer. At one o'clock
the
advance-guard will march, under our command, with Pothon of
Saintrailles
as second; the second division will follow at two under the
Lieutenant-General.
Keep well in the rear of the enemy, and see to it
that
you avoid an engagement. I will ride under guard to Beaugency and
make
so quick work there that I and the Constable of France will join
you
before dawn with his men."
She
kept her word. Her guard mounted and we rode off through the
puttering
rain, taking with us a captured English officer to confirm
Joan's
news. We soon covered the journey and summoned the castle.
Richard
Guetin, Talbot's lieutenant, being convinced that he and his
five
hundred men were left helpless, conceded that it would be useless
to
try to hold out. He could not expect easy terms, yet Joan granted
them
nevertheless. His garrison could keep their horses and arms, and
carry
away property to the value of a silver mark per man. They could go
whither
they pleased, but must not take arms against
ten
days.
Before
dawn we were with our army again, and with us the Constable
and
nearly all his men, for we left only a small garrison in Beaugency
castle.
We heard the dull booming of cannon to the front, and knew that
Talbot
was beginning his attack on the bridge. But some time before it
was
yet light the sound ceased and we heard it no more.
Guetin
had sent a messenger through our lines under a safe-conduct given
by
Joan, to tell Talbot of the surrender. Of course this poursuivant had
arrived
ahead of us. Talbot had held it wisdom to turn now and retreat
upon
Scales
and the garrison of Meung.
What
a harvest of English strongholds we had reaped in those three
days!--strongholds
which had defied
and
plenty of it until we came.
WHEN
THE morning broke at last on that forever memorable 18th of June,
there
was no enemy discoverable anywhere, as I have said. But that did
not
trouble me. I knew we should find him, and that we should strike
him;
strike him the promised blow--the one from which the English power
in
trance.
The
enemy had plunged into the wide plains of La Beauce--a roadless
waste
covered with bushes, with here and there bodies of forest trees--a
region
where an army would be hidden from view in a very little while.
We
found the trail in the soft wet earth and followed it. It indicated
an
orderly march; no confusion, no panic.
But
we had to be cautious. In such a piece of country we could walk into
an
ambush without any trouble. Therefore Joan sent bodies of cavalry
ahead
under La Hire, Pothon, and other captains, to feel the way.
Some
of the other officers began to show uneasiness; this sort of
hide-and-go-seek
business troubled them and made their confidence
a
little shaky. Joan divined their state of mind and cried out
impetuously:
"Name
of God, what would you? We must smite these English, and we will.
They
shall not escape us. Though they were hung to the clouds we would
get
them!"
By
and by we were nearing Patay; it was about a league away. Now at this
time
our reconnaissance, feeling its way in the bush, frightened a deer,
and
it went bounding away and was out of sight in a moment. Then hardly
a
minute later a dull great shout went up in the distance toward Patay.
It
was the English soldiery. They had been shut up in a garrison so long
on
moldy food that they could not keep their delight to themselves when
this
fine fresh meat came springing into their midst. Poor creature, it
had
wrought damage to a nation which loved it well. For the French knew
where
the English were now, whereas the English had no suspicion of
where
the French were.
La
Hire halted where he was, and sent back the tidings. Joan was radiant
with
joy. The Duke d'Alencon said to her:
"Very
well, we have found them; shall we fight them?"
"Have
you good spurs, prince?"
"Why?
Will they make us run away?"
"Nenni,
en nom de Dieu! These English are ours--they are lost. They will
fly.
Who overtakes them will need good spurs. Forward--close up!"
By
the time we had come up with La Hire the English had discovered
our
presence. Talbot's force was marching in three bodies. First his
advance-guard;
then his artillery; then his battle-corps a good way in
the
rear. He was now out of the bush and in a fair open country. He at
once
posted his artillery, his advance-guard, and five hundred picked
archers
along some hedges where the French would be obliged to pass,
and
hoped to hold this position till his battle-corps could come up.
Sir
John Fastolfe urged the battle-corps into a gallop. Joan saw her
opportunity
and ordered La Hire to advance--which La Hire promptly did,
launching
his wild riders like a storm-wind, his customary fashion.
The
duke and the Bastard wanted to follow, but Joan said:
"Not
yet--wait."
So
they waited--impatiently, and fidgeting in their saddles. But she was
ready--gazing
straight before her, measuring, weighing, calculating--by
shades,
minutes, fractions of minutes, seconds--with all her great soul
present,
in eye, and set of head, and noble pose of body--but patient,
steady,
master of herself--master of herself and of the situation.
And
yonder, receding, receding, plumes lifting and falling, lifting and
falling,
streamed the thundering charge of La Hire's godless crew, La
Hire's
great figure dominating it and his sword stretched aloft like a
flagstaff.
"Oh,
Satan and his Hellions, see them go!" Somebody muttered it in deep
admiration.
And
now he was closing up--closing up on Fastolfe's rushing corps.
And
now he struck it--struck it hard, and broke its order. It lifted
the
duke and the Bastard in their saddles to see it; and they turned,
trembling
with excitement, to Joan, saying:
"Now!"
But
she put up her hand, still gazing, weighing, calculating, and said
again:
"Wait--not
yet."
Fastolfe's
hard-driven battle-corps raged on like an avalanche toward
the
waiting advance-guard. Suddenly these conceived the idea that it was
flying
in panic before Joan; and so in that instant it broke and swarmed
away
in a mad panic itself, with Talbot storming and cursing after it.
Now
was the golden time. Joan drove her spurs home and waved the advance
with
her sword. "Follow me!" she cried, and bent her head to her horse=
's
neck
and sped away like the wind!
We
went down into the confusion of that flying rout, and for three long
hours
we cut and hacked and stabbed. At last the bugles sang "Halt!"
The
Battle of Patay was won.
Joan
of Arc dismounted, and stood surveying that awful field, lost in
thought.
Presently she said:
"The
praise is to God. He has smitten with a heavy hand this day."
After
a little she lifted her face, and looking afar off, said, with the
manner
of one who is thinking aloud, "In a thousand years--a thousand
years--the
English power in
She
stood again a time thinking, then she turned toward her grouped
generals,
and there was a glory in her face and a noble light in her
eye;
and she said:
"Oh,
friends, friends, do you know?--do you comprehend?
way
to be free!"
"And
had never been, but for Joan of Arc!" said La Hire, passing before
her
and bowing low, the other following and doing likewise; he muttering
as he
went, "I will say it though I be damned for it." Then battalion
after
battalion of our victorious army swung by, wildly cheering. And
they
shouted, "Live forever, Maid of Orleans, live forever!" while Joa=
n,
smiling,
stood at the salute with her sword.
This
was not the last time I saw the Maid of Orleans on the red field
of
Patay. Toward the end of the day I came upon her where the dead and
dying
lay stretched all about in heaps and winrows; our men had mortally
wounded
an English prisoner who was too poor to pay a ransom, and from
a
distance she had seen that cruel thing done; and had galloped to the
place
and sent for a priest, and now she was holding the head of her
dying
enemy in her lap, and easing him to his death with comforting soft
words,
just as his sister might have done; and the womanly tears running
down
her face all the time. (1)
(1)
Lord Ronald Gower (Joan of Arc, p. 82) says: "Michelet discovered
this
story in the deposition of Joan of Arc's page, Louis de Conte, who
was
probably an eye-witness of the scene." This is true. It was a part
of
the testimony of the author of these "Personal Recollections of
Joan
of Arc," given by him in the Rehabilitation proceedings of 1456.
--TRANSLATOR.
JOAN HAD said true:
The
war called the Hundred Years' War was very sick to-day. Sick on its
English
side--for the very first time since its birth, ninety-one years
gone
by.
Shall
we judge battles by the numbers killed and the ruin wrought? Or
shall
we not rather judge them by the results which flowed from them?
Any
one will say that a battle is only truly great or small according to
its
results. Yes, any one will grant that, for it is the truth.
Judged
by results, Patay's place is with the few supremely great and
imposing
battles that have been fought since the peoples of the world
first
resorted to arms for the settlement of their quarrels. So
judged,
it is even possible that Patay has no peer among that few just
mentioned,
but stand alone, as the supremest of historic conflicts. For
when
it began
her
case wholly hopeless in the view of all political physicians; when
it
ended, three hours later, she was convalescent. Convalescent, and
nothing
requisite but time and ordinary nursing to bring her back to
perfect
health. The dullest physician of them all could see this, and
there
was none to deny it.
Many
death-sick nations have reached convalescence through a series
of
battles, a procession of battles, a weary tale of wasting conflicts
stretching
over years, but only one has reached it in a single day and
by a
single battle. That nation is
Remember
it and be proud of it; for you are French, and it is the
stateliest
fact in the long annals of your country. There it stands,
with
its head in the clouds! And when you grow up you will go on
pilgrimage
to the field of Patay, and stand uncovered in the presence
of--what?
A monument with its head in the clouds? Yes. For all nations
in
all times have built monuments on their battle-fields to keep green
the
memory of the perishable deed that was wrought there and of the
perishable
name of him who wrought it; and will
Joan
of Arc? Not for long. And will she build a monument scaled to their
rank
as compared with the world's other fields and heroes? Perhaps--if
there
be room for it under the arch of the sky.
But
let us look back a little, and consider certain strange and
impressive
facts. The Hundred Years' War began in 1337. It raged on and
on,
year after year and year after year; and at last
on,
year after year, and at last again she went down under another
devastating
blow--
more,
and the war raged on, and on, and still on, year after year,
decade
after decade. Children were born, grew up, married, died--the war
raged
on; their children in turn grew up, married, died--the war raged
on;
their children, growing, saw
under
the incredible disaster of
year
after year, and in time these children married in their turn.
to
nobody--in three months would be flying the English flag; the French
King
was making ready to throw away his crown and flee beyond the seas.
Now
came the ignorant country-maid out of her remote village and
confronted
this hoary war, this all-consuming conflagration that had
swept
the land for three generations. Then began the briefest and most
amazing
campaign that is recorded in history. In seven weeks it was
finished.
In seven weeks she hopelessly crippled that gigantic war that
was
ninety-one years old. At
the
field of Patay she broke its back.
Think
of it. Yes, one can do that; but understand it? Ah, that is
another
matter; none will ever be able to comprehend that stupefying
marvel.
Seven
weeks--with her and there a little bloodshed. Perhaps the most of
it,
in any single fight, at Patay, where the English began six thousand
strong
and left two thousand dead upon the field. It is said
and
believed that in three battles alone--
the
thousand other fights of that long war. The dead of that war make a
mournful
long list--an interminable list. Of men slain in the field the
count
goes by tens of thousands; of innocent women and children slain by
bitter
hardship and hunger it goes by that appalling term, millions.
It
was an ogre, that war; an ogre that went about for near a hundred
years,
crunching men and dripping blood from its jaws. And with her
little
hand that child of seventeen struck him down; and yonder he lies
stretched
on the field of Patay, and will not get up any more while this
old
world lasts.
THE
GREAT news of Patay was carried over the whole of
hours,
people said. I do not know as to that; but one thing is sure,
anyway:
the moment a man got it he flew shouting and glorifying God and
told
his neighbor; and that neighbor flew with it to the next homestead;
and
so on and so on without resting the word traveled; and when a man
got
it in the night, at what hour soever, he jumped out of his bed and
bore
the blessed message along. And the joy that went with it was like
the
light that flows across the land when an eclipse is receding from
the
face of the sun; and, indeed, you may say that
an
eclipse this long time; yes, buried in a black gloom which these
beneficent
tidings were sweeping away now before the onrush of their
white
splendor.
The
news beat the flying enemy to Yeuville, and the town rose against
its
English masters and shut the gates against their brethren. It flew
to
fortress;
and straightway the garrison applied the torch and took to
the
fields and the woods. A detachment of our army occupied Meung and
pillaged
it.
When
we reached
joy
than we had ever seen it before--which is saying much. Night had
just
fallen, and the illuminations were on so wonderful a scale that
we
seemed to plow through seas of fire; and as to the noise--the hoarse
cheering
of the multitude, the thundering of cannon, the clash of
bells--indeed,
there was never anything like it. And everywhere rose
a new
cry that burst upon us like a storm when the column entered the
gates,
and nevermore ceased: "Welcome to Joan of Arc--way for the SAVIOR
OF
avenged!
Mad?
Why, you never could imagine it in the world. The prisoners were
in
the center of the column. When that came along and the people caught
sight
of their masterful old enemy Talbot, that had made them dance so
long
to his grim war-music, you may imagine what the uproar was like if
you
can, for I can not describe it. They were so glad to see him that
presently
they wanted to have him out and hang him; so Joan had him
brought
up to the front to ride in her protection. They made a striking
pair.
YES,
made
sumptuous preparations to receive him, but--he didn't come. He was
simply
a serf at that time, and La Tremouille was his master. Master and
serf
were visiting together at the master's
At
Beaugency Joan had engaged to bring about a reconciliation
between
the Constable Richemont and the King. She took Richemont to
Sully-sur-Loire
and made her promise good.
The
great deeds of Joan of Arc are five:
1.
The Raising of the Siege.
2.
The Victory of Patay.
3.
The Reconciliation at Sully-sur-Loire.
4.
The Coronation of the King.
5.
The Bloodless March.
We
shall come to the Bloodless March presently (and the Coronation).
It
was the victorious long march which Joan made through the enemy's
country
from Gien to
every
English town and fortress that barred the road, from the beginning
of
the journey to the end of it; and this by the mere force of her name,
and
without shedding a drop of blood--perhaps the most extraordinary
campaign
in this regard in history--this is the most glorious of her
military
exploits.
The
Reconciliation was one of Joan's most important achievements. No
one
else could have accomplished it; and, in fact, no one else of
high
consequence had any disposition to try. In brains, in scientific
warfare,
and in statesmanship the Constable Richemont was the ablest
man
in
suspicion--(and
it made him sufficiently conspicuous in that trivial and
conscienceless
Court).
In
restoring Richemont to
successful
completion of the great work which she had begun. She had
never
seen Richemont until he came to her with his little army. Was it
not
wonderful that at a glance she should know him for the one man who
could
finish and perfect her work and establish it in perpetuity? How
was
it that that child was able to do this? It was because she had the
"seeing
eye," as one of our knights had once said. Yes, she had that
great
gift--almost the highest and rarest that has been granted to man.
Nothing
of an extraordinary sort was still to be done, yet the remaining
work
could not safely be left to the King's idiots; for it would require
wise
statesmanship and long and patient though desultory hammering of
the
enemy. Now and then, for a quarter of a century yet, there would be
a
little fighting to do, and a handy man could carry that on with small
disturbance
to the rest of the country; and little by little, and with
progressive
certainty, the English would disappear from
And
that happened. Under the influence of Richemont the King became at
a
later time a man--a man, a king, a brave and capable and determined
soldier.
Within six years after Patay he was leading storming parties
himself;
fighting in fortress ditches up to his waist in water, and
climbing
scaling-ladders under a furious fire with a pluck that would
have
satisfied even Joan of Arc. In time he and Richemont cleared away
all
the English; even from regions where the people had been under their
mastership
for three hundred years. In such regions wise and careful
work
was necessary, for the English rule had been fair and kindly; and
men
who have been ruled in that way are not always anxious for a change.
Which
of Joan's five chief deeds shall we call the chiefest? It is my
thought
that each in its turn was that. This is saying that, taken as a
whole,
they equalized each other, and neither was then greater than its
mate.
Do
you perceive? Each was a stage in an ascent. To leave out one of them
would
defeat the journey; to achieve one of them at the wrong time and
in
the wrong place would have the same effect.
Consider
the Coronation. As a masterpiece of diplomacy, where can
you
find its superior in our history? Did the King suspect its
vast
importance? No. Did his ministers? No. Did the astute
representative
of the English crown? No. An advantage of incalculable
importance
was here under the eyes of the King and of
could
get it by a bold stroke,
but,
being ignorant of its value, neither of them put forth his hand.
Of
all the wise people in high office in
the
priceless worth of this neglected prize--the untaught child of
seventeen,
Joan of Arc--and she had known it from the beginning as an
essential
detail of her mission.
How
did she know it? It was simple: she was a peasant. That tells the
whole
story. She was of the people and knew the people; those others
moved
in a loftier sphere and knew nothing much about them. We make
little
account of that vague, formless, inert mass, that mighty
underlying
force which we call "the people"--an epithet which carries
contempt
with it. It is a strange attitude; for at bottom we know that
the
throne which the people support stands, and that when that support
is
removed nothing in this world can save it.
Now,
then, consider this fact, and observe its importance. Whatever the
parish
priest believes his flock believes; they love him, they revere
him;
he is their unfailing friend, their dauntless protector, their
comforter
in sorrow, their helper in their day of need; he has their
whole
confidence; what he tells them to do, that they will do, with a
blind
and affectionate obedience, let it cost what it may. Add these
facts
thoughtfully together, and what is the sum? This: The parish
priest
governs the nation. What is the King, then, if the parish priest
withdraws
his support and deny his authority? Merely a shadow and no
King;
let him resign.
Do
you get that idea? Then let us proceed. A priest is consecrated to
his
office by the awful hand of God, laid upon him by his appointed
representative
on earth. That consecration is final; nothing can undo
it,
nothing can remove it. Neither the Pope nor any other power can
strip
the priest of his office; God gave it, and it is forever sacred
and
secure. The dull parish knows all this. To priest and parish,
whatsoever
is anointed of God bears an office whose authority can
no
longer be disputed or assailed. To the parish priest, and to his
subjects
the nation, an uncrowned king is a similitude of a person who
has
been named for holy orders but has not been consecrated; he has no
office,
he has not been ordained, another may be appointed to his place.
In a word,
an uncrowned king is a doubtful king; but if God appoint him
and
His servant the Bishop anoint him, the doubt is annihilated; the
priest
and the parish are his loyal subjects straightway, and while he
lives
they will recognize no king but him.
To Joan
of Arc, the peasant-girl, Charles VII. was no King until he was
crowned;
to her he was only the Dauphin; that is to say, the heir. If I
have
ever made her call him King, it was a mistake; she called him the
Dauphin,
and nothing else until after the Coronation. It shows you as in
a
mirror--for Joan was a mirror in which the lowly hosts of
clearly
reflected--that to all that vast underlying force called "the
people,"
he was no King but only Dauphin before his crowning, and was
indisputably
and irrevocably King after it.
Now
you understand what a colossal move on the political chess-board the
Coronation
was.
his
mistake by crowning his King; but what good could that do? None in
the
world.
Speaking
of chess, Joan's great acts may be likened to that game. Each
move
was made in its proper order, and it as great and effective because
it
was made in its proper order and not out of it. Each, at the time
made,
seemed the greatest move; but the final result made them all
recognizable
as equally essential and equally important. This is the
game,
as played:
1.
Joan moves to
2.
Then moves the Reconciliation--but does not proclaim check, it being
a
move for position, and to take effect later.
3.
Next she moves the Coronation--check.
4.
Next, the Bloodless March--check.
5.
Final move (after her death), the reconciled Constable Richemont to
the
French King's elbow--checkmate.
THE
CAMPAIGN of the Loire had as good as opened the road to
There
was no sufficient reason now why the Coronation should not take
place.
The Coronation would complete the mission which Joan had received
from
heaven, and then she would be forever done with war, and would fly
home
to her mother and her sheep, and never stir from the hearthstone
and
happiness any more. That was her dream; and she could not rest, she
was
so impatient to see it fulfilled. She became so possessed with this
matter
that I began to lose faith in her two prophecies of her early
death--and,
of course, when I found that faith wavering I encouraged it
to
waver all the more.
The
King was afraid to start to
with
English fortresses, so to speak. Joan held them in light esteem and
not
things to be afraid of in the existing modified condition of English
confidence.
And
she was right. As it turned out, the march to
a
holiday excursion: Joan did not even take any artillery along, she was
so
sure it would not be necessary. We marched from Gien twelve thousand
strong.
This was the 29th of June. The Maid rode by the side of the
King;
on his other side was the Duke d'Alencon. After the duke followed
three
other princes of the blood. After these followed the Bastard of
came
La Hire, Saintrailles, Tremouille, and a long procession of knights
and
nobles.
We
rested three days before Auxerre. The city provisioned the army, and
a
deputation waited upon the King, but we did not enter the place.
Saint-Florentin
opened its gates to the King.
On
the 4th of July we reached Saint-Fal, and yonder lay
us--a
town which had a burning interest for us boys; for we remembered
how
seven years before, in the pastures of Domremy, the Sunflower came
with
his black flag and brought us the shameful news of the Treaty of
royal
line in marriage to the Butcher of Agincourt. That poor town was
not
to blame, of course; yet we flushed hot with that old memory, and
hoped
there would be a misunderstanding here, for we dearly wanted to
storm
the place and burn it. It was powerfully garrisoned by English and
Burgundian
soldiery, and was expecting reinforcements from
night
we camped before its gates and made rough work with a sortie which
marched
out against us.
Joan
summoned
no
artillery, scoffed at the idea, and sent her a grossly insulting
reply.
Five days we consulted and negotiated. No result. The King was
about
to turn back now and give up. He was afraid to go on, leaving this
strong
place in his rear. Then La Hire put in a word, with a slap in it
for
some of his Majesty's advisers:
"The
Maid of Orleans undertook this expedition of her own motion; and it
is my
mind that it is her judgment that should be followed here, and not
that
of any other, let him be of whatsoever breed and standing he may."
There
was wisdom and righteousness in that. So the King sent for the
Maid,
and asked her how she thought the prospect looked. She said,
without
any tone of doubt or question in her voice:
"In
three days' time the place is ours."
The
smug Chancellor put in a word now:
"If
we were sure of it we would wait her six days."
"Six
days, forsooth! Name of God, man, we will enter the gates
to-morrow!"
Then
she mounted, and rode her lines, crying out:
"Make
preparation--to your work, friends, to your work! We assault at
dawn!"
She
worked hard that night, slaving away with her own hands like a
common
soldier. She ordered fascines and fagots to be prepared and
thrown
into the fosse, thereby to bridge it; and in this rough labor she
took
a man's share.
At
dawn she took her place at the head of the storming force and the
bugles
blew the assault. At that moment a flag of truce was flung to the
breeze
from the walls, and
The
next day the King with Joan at his side and the Paladin bearing her
banner
entered the town in state at the head of the army. And a goodly
army
it was now, for it had been growing ever bigger and bigger from the
first.
And
now a curious thing happened. By the terms of the treaty made with
the
town the garrison of English and Burgundian soldiery were to be
allowed
to carry away their "goods" with them. This was well, for
otherwise
how would they buy the wherewithal to live? Very well; these
people
were all to go out by the one gate, and at the time set for them
to
depart we young fellows went to that gate, along with the Dwarf, to
see
the march-out. Presently here they came in an interminable file, the
foot-soldiers
in the lead. As they approached one could see that each
bore
a burden of a bulk and weight to sorely tax his strength; and we
said
among ourselves, truly these folk are well off for poor common
soldiers.
When they were come nearer, what do you think? Every rascal
of
them had a French prisoner on his back! They were carrying away their
"goods,"
you see--their property--strictly according to the permission
granted
by the treaty.
Now
think how clever that was, how ingenious. What could a body say?
what
could a body do? For certainly these people were within their
right.
These prisoners were property; nobody could deny that. My dears,
if
those had been English captives, conceive of the richness of that
booty!
For English prisoners had been scarce and precious for a hundred
years;
whereas it was a different matter with French prisoners. They had
been
over-abundant for a century. The possessor of a French prisoner
did
not hold him long for ransom, as a rule, but presently killed him
to
save the cost of his keep. This shows you how small was the value of
such
a possession in those times. When we took
thirty
francs, a sheep sixteen, a French prisoner eight. It was an
enormous
price for those other animals--a price which naturally seems
incredible
to you. It was the war, you see. It worked two ways: it made
meat
dear and prisoners cheap.
Well,
here were these poor Frenchmen being carried off. What could we
do?
Very little of a permanent sort, but we did what we could. We sent
a
messenger flying to Joan, and we and the French guards halted the
procession
for a parley--to gain time, you see. A big Burgundian lost
his
temper and swore a great oath that none should stop him; he would
go,
and would take his prisoner with him. But we blocked him off, and
he
saw that he was mistaken about going--he couldn't do it. He exploded
into
the maddest cursings and revilings, then, and, unlashing his
prisoner
from his back, stood him up, all bound and helpless; then drew
his
knife, and said to us with a light of sarcasting triumph in his eye:
"I
may not carry him away, you say--yet he is mine, none will dispute
it.
Since I may not convey him hence, this property of mine, there is
another
way. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest among you will
question
that right. Ah, you had not thought of that--vermin!"
That
poor starved fellow begged us with his piteous eyes to save him;
then
spoke, and said he had a wife and little children at home. Think
how
it wrung our heartstrings. But what could we do? The Burgundian was
within
his right. We could only beg and plead for the prisoner. Which we
did.
And the Burgundian enjoyed it. He stayed his hand to hear more of
it,
and laugh at it. That stung. Then the Dwarf said:
"Prithee,
young sirs, let me beguile him; for when a matter requiring
permission
is to the fore, I have indeed a gift in that sort, as any
will
tell you that know me well. You smile; and that is punishment for
my
vanity; and fairly earned, I grant you. Still, if I may toy a little,
just
a little--" saying which he stepped to the Burgundian and began a
fair
soft speech, all of goodly and gentle tenor; and in the midst he
mentioned
the Maid; and was going on to say how she out of her good
heart
would prize and praise this compassionate deed which he was about
to--
It was as far as he got. The Burgundian burst into his smooth
oration
with an insult leveled at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but
the
Dwarf, his face all livid, brushed us aside and said, in a most
grave
and earnest way:
"I crave your patience. Am not I her guard of honor? This is my affair."<= o:p>
And
saying this he suddenly shot his right hand out and gripped the
great
Burgundian by the throat, and so held him upright on his feet.
"You
have insulted the Maid," he said; "and the Maid is
tongue
that does that earns a long furlough."
One
heard the muffled cracking of bones. The Burgundian's eyes began to
protrude
from their sockets and stare with a leaden dullness at vacancy.
The
color deepened in his face and became an opaque purple. His hands
hung
down limp, his body collapsed with a shiver, every muscle relaxed
its
tension and ceased from its function. The Dwarf took away his hand
and
the column of inert mortality sank mushily to the ground.
We
struck the bonds from the prisoner and told him he was free. His
crawling
humbleness changed to frantic joy in a moment, and his ghastly
fear
to a childish rage. He flew at that dead corpse and kicked it,
spat
in its face, danced upon it, crammed mud into its mouth, laughing,
jeering,
cursing, and volleying forth indecencies and bestialities like
a
drunken fiend. It was a thing to be expected; soldiering makes few
saints.
Many of the onlookers laughed, others were indifferent, none
was
surprised. But presently in his mad caperings the freed man capered
within
reach of the waiting file, and another Burgundian promptly
slipped
a knife through his neck, and down he went with a death-shriek,
his
brilliant artery blood spurting ten feet as straight and bright as a
ray
of light. There was a great burst of jolly laughter all around from
friend
and foe alike; and thus closed one of the pleasantest incidents
of my
checkered military life.
And
now came Joan hurrying, and deeply troubled. She considered the
claim
of the garrison, then said:
"You
have right upon your side. It is plain. It was a careless word to
put
in the treaty, and covers too much. But ye may not take these poor
men
away. They are French, and I will not have it. The King shall ransom
them,
every one. Wait till I send you word from him; and hurt no hair of
their
heads; for I tell you, I who speak, that that would cost you very
dear."
That settled
it. The prisoners were safe for one while, anyway. Then she
rode
back eagerly and required that thing of the King, and would listen
to no
paltering and no excuses. So the King told her to have her way,
and
she rode straight back and bought the captives free in his name and
let
them go.
IT
WAS here hat we saw again the Grand Master of the King's Household,
in
whose castle Joan was guest when she tarried at Chinon in those
first
days of her coming out of her own country. She made him Bailiff of
And
now we marched again; Chalons surrendered to us; and there by
Chalons
in a talk, Joan, being asked if she had no fears for the future,
said
yes, one--treachery. Who would believe it? who could dream it? And
yet
in a sense it was prophecy. Truly, man is a pitiful animal.
We
marched, marched, kept on marching; and at last, on the 16th of July,
we
came in sight of our goal, and saw the great cathedraled towers of
van
to rear; and as for Joan of Arc, there where she sat her horse
gazing,
clothed all in white armor, dreamy, beautiful, and in her face
a
deep, deep joy, a joy not of earth, oh, she was not flesh, she was a
spirit!
Her sublime mission was closing--closing in flawless triumph.
To-morrow
she could say, "It is finished--let me go free."
We
camped, and the hurry and rush and turmoil of the grand preparations
began.
The Archbishop and a great deputation arrived; and after these
came
flock after flock, crowd after crowd, of citizens and country-folk,
hurrahing,
in, with banners and music, and flowed over the camp, one
rejoicing
inundation after another, everybody drunk with happiness. And
all
night long
the
town, building triumphal arches and clothing the ancient cathedral
within
and without in a glory of opulent splendors.
We
moved betimes in the morning; the coronation ceremonies would begin
at
nine and last five hours. We were aware that the garrison of English
and
Burgundian soldiers had given up all thought of resisting the Maid,
and
that we should find the gates standing hospitably open and the whole
city
ready to welcome us with enthusiasm.
It
was a delicious morning, brilliant with sunshine, but cool and
fresh
and inspiring. The army was in great form, and fine to see, as
it
uncoiled from its lair fold by fold, and stretched away on the final
march
of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.
Joan,
on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the personal
staff
grouped about her, took post for a final review and a good-by;
for
she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or ever serve with
these
or any other soldiers any more after this day. The army knew this,
and
believed it was looking for the last time upon the girlish face of
its
invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride, its darling, whom it
had
ennobled in its private heart with nobilities of its own creation,
call
her "Daughter of God," "Savior of France," "Victor=
y's
Sweetheart,"
"The
Page of Christ," together with still softer titles which were
simply
naive and frank endearments such as men are used to confer upon
children
whom they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of
the
emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the
march-past,
the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of cheers,
heads
up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands braying paens
of
victory; but now there was nothing of that. But for one impressive
sound,
one could have closed his eyes and imagined himself in a world
of
the dead. That one sound was all that visited the ear in the summer
stillness--just
that one sound--the muffled tread of the marching host.
As
the serried masses drifted by, the men put their right hands up to
their
temples, palms to the front, in military salute, turning their
eyes
upon Joan's face in mute God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping
them
there while they could. They still kept their hands up in reverent
salute
many steps after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her
handkerchief
to her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion
crinkle
along the faces of the files.
The
march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad with
jubilation;
but this one was a thing to break it.
We
rode now to the King's lodgings, which was the Archbishop's country
palace;
and he was presently ready, and we galloped off and took
position
at the head of the army. By this time the country-people were
arriving
in multitudes from every direction and massing themselves on
both
sides of the road to get sight of Joan--just as had been done every
day
since our first day's march began. Our march now lay through the
grassy
plain, and those peasants made a dividing double border for that
plain.
They stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright
colors
on each side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it
had a
white jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her.
Endless
borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front of
us--that
is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we had
been
marching through all these days. Not a lane between multitudinous
flowers
standing upright on their stems--no, these flowers were always
kneeling;
kneeling, these human flowers, with their hands and faces
lifted
toward Joan of Arc, and the grateful tears streaming down. And
all
along, those closest to the road hugged her feet and kissed them
and
laid their wet cheeks fondly against them. I never, during all those
days,
saw any of either sex stand while she passed, nor any man keep his
head
covered. Afterward in the Great Trial these touching scenes were
used
as a weapon against her. She had been made an object of adoration
by
the people, and this was proof that she was a heretic--so claimed
that
unjust court.
As we
drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and towers
was
gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of people; and
all
the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and gloomed with
drifting
clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in state and moved in
procession
through the city, with all the guilds and industries in
holiday
costume marching in our rear with their banners; and all the
route
was hedged with a huzzaing crush of people, and all the windows
were
full and all the roofs; and from the balconies hung costly stuffs
of
rich colors; and the waving of handkerchiefs, seen in perspective
through
a long vista, was like a snowstorm.
Joan's
name had been introduced into the prayers of the Church--an honor
theretofore
restricted to royalty. But she had a dearer honor and an
honor
more to be proud of, from a humbler source: the common people had
had
leaden medals struck which bore her effigy and her escutcheon, and
these
they wore as charms. One saw them everywhere.
From
the Archbishop's Palace, where we halted, and where the King and
Joan
were to lodge, the King sent to the Abbey Church of St. Remi,
which
was over toward the gate by which we had entered the city, for the
Sainte
Ampoule, or flask of holy oil. This oil was not earthly oil; it
was
made in heaven; the flask also. The flask, with the oil in it, was
brought
down from heaven by a dove. It was sent down to St. Remi just as
he
was going to baptize King Clovis, who had become a Christian. I know
this
to be true. I had known it long before; for Pere Fronte told me in
Domremy.
I cannot tell you how strange and awful it made me feel when
I saw
that flask and knew I was looking with my own eyes upon a thing
which
had actually been in heaven, a thing which had been seen by
angels,
perhaps; and by God Himself of a certainty, for He sent it. And
I was
looking upon it--I. At one time I could have touched it. But I
was
afraid; for I could not know but that God had touched it. It is most
probable
that He had.
From
this flask
that
was nine hundred years. And so, as I have said, that flask of holy
oil was
sent for, while we waited. A coronation without that would not
have
been a coronation at all, in my belief.
Now
in order to get the flask, a most ancient ceremonial had to be gone
through
with; otherwise the Abby of St. Remi hereditary guardian in
perpetuity
of the oil, would not deliver it. So, in accordance with
custom,
the King deputed five great nobles to ride in solemn state and
richly
armed and accoutered, they and their steeds, to the
as a
guard of honor to the Archbishop of Rheims and his canons, who were
to
bear the King's demand for the oil. When the five great lords were
ready
to start, they knelt in a row and put up their mailed hands before
their
faces, palm joined to palm, and swore upon their lives to conduct
the
sacred vessel safely, and safely restore it again to the Church
of
St. Remi after the anointing of the King. The Archbishop and his
subordinates,
thus nobly escorted, took their way to St. Remi. The
Archbishop
was in grand costume, with his miter on his head and his
cross
in his hand. At the door of St. Remi they halted and formed, to
receive
the holy vial. Soon one heard the deep tones of the organ and of
chanting
men; then one saw a long file of lights approaching through the
dim
church. And so came the Abbot, in his sacerdotal panoply, bearing
the
vial, with his people following after. He delivered it, with solemn
ceremonies,
to the Archbishop; then the march back began, and it was
most
impressive; for it moved, the whole way, between two multitudes of
men
and women who lay flat upon their faces and prayed in dumb silence
and
in dread while that awful thing went by that had been in heaven.
This
August company arrived at the great west door of the cathedral;
and
as the Archbishop entered a noble anthem rose and filled the vast
building.
The cathedral was packed with people--people in thousands.
Only
a wide space down the center had been kept free. Down this space
walked
the Archbishop and his canons, and after them followed those five
stately
figures in splendid harness, each bearing his feudal banner--and
riding!
Oh,
that was a magnificent thing to see. Riding down the cavernous
vastness
of the building through the rich lights streaming in long rays
from
the pictured windows--oh, there was never anything so grand!
They
rode clear to the choir--as much as four hundred feet from the
door,
it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and they made
deep
obeisance till their plumes touched their horses' necks, then made
those
proud prancing and mincing and dancing creatures go backward all
the
way to the door--which was pretty to see, and graceful; then they
stood
them on their hind-feet and spun them around and plunged away and
disappeared.
For
some minutes there was a deep hush, a waiting pause; a silence so
profound
that it was as if all those packed thousands there were steeped
in
dreamless slumber--why, you could even notice the faintest sounds,
like
the drowsy buzzing of insects; then came a mighty flood of rich
strains
from four hundred silver trumpets, and then, framed in the
pointed
archway of the great west door, appeared Joan and the King. They
advanced
slowly, side by side, through a tempest of welcome--explosion
after
explosion of cheers and cries, mingled with the deep thunders of
the
organ and rolling tides of triumphant song from chanting choirs.
Behind
Joan and the King came the Paladin and the Banner displayed; and
a
majestic figure he was, and most proud and lofty in his bearing, for
he
knew that the people were marking him and taking note of the gorgeous
state
dress which covered his armor.
At
his side was the Sire d'Albret, proxy for the Constable of France,
bearing
the Sword of State.
After
these, in order of rank, came a body royally attired representing
the
lay peers of
La
Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.
These
were followed by the representatives of the ecclesiastical
peers--the
Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon, Chalons,
Behind
these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and famous
names,
and everybody was eager to get a sight of them. Through all the
din
one could hear shouts all along that told you where two of them
were:
"Live the Bastard of Orleans!" "Satan La Hire forever!"=
The
August procession reached its appointed place in time, and the
solemnities
of the Coronation began. They were long and imposing--with
prayers,
and anthems, and sermons, and everything that is right for such
occasions;
and Joan was at the King's side all these hours, with her
Standard
in her hand. But at last came the grand act: the King took
the
oath, he was anointed with the sacred oil; a splendid personage,
followed
by train-bearers and other attendants, approached, bearing the
Crown
of
to
hesitate--in fact, did hesitate; for he put out his hand and then
stopped
with it there in the air over the crown, the fingers in the
attitude
of taking hold of it. But that was for only a moment--though
a
moment is a notable something when it stops the heartbeat of twenty
thousand
people and makes them catch their breath. Yes, only a moment;
then
he caught Joan's eye, and she gave him a look with all the joy of
her
thankful great soul in it; then he smiled, and took the Crown of
set
it upon his head.
Then
what a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the
chanting
of the choirs and groaning of the organ; and outside the
clamoring
of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The fantastic
dream,
the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the peasant-child
stood
fulfilled; the English power was broken, the Heir of France was
crowned.
She
was like one transfigured, so divine was the joy that shone in her
face
as she sank to her knees at the King's feet and looked up at him
through
her tears. Her lips were quivering, and her words came soft and
low
and broken:
"Now,
O gentle King, is the pleasure of God accomplished according to
His
command that you should come to
belongeth
of right to you, and unto none other. My work which was given
me to
do is finished; give me your peace, and let me go back to my
mother,
who is poor and old, and has need of me."
The
King raised her up, and there before all that host he praised her
great
deeds in most noble terms; and there he confirmed her nobility and
titles,
making her the equal of a count in rank, and also appointed a
household
and officers for her according to her dignity; and then he
said:
"You
have saved the crown. Speak--require--demand; and whatsoever grace
you
ask it shall be granted, though it make the kingdom poor to meet
it."
Now
that was fine, that was royal. Joan was on her knees again
straightway,
and said:
"Then,
O gentle King, if out of your compassion you will speak the word,
I
pray you give commandment that my village, poor and hard pressed by
reason
of war, may have its taxes remitted."
"It
is so commanded. Say on."
"That
is all."
"All?
Nothing but that?"
"It
is all. I have no other desire."
"But
that is nothing--less than nothing. Ask--do not be afraid."
"Indeed,
I cannot, gentle King. Do not press me. I will not have aught
else,
but only this alone."
The
King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if trying to
comprehend
and realize the full stature of this strange unselfishness.
Then
he raised his head and said:
"Who
has won a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks and all
she
will take is this poor grace--and even this is for others, not for
herself.
And it is well; her act being proportioned to the dignity of
one
who carries in her head and heart riches which outvalue any that
any
King could add, though he gave his all. She shall have her way. Now,
therefore,
it is decreed that from this day forth Domremy, natal village
of
Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, called the Maid of Orleans, is
freed
from all taxation forever." Whereat the silver horns blew a
jubilant
blast.
There,
you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she was
in a
trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to name to boon
she
would demand of the King if he should ever chance to tell her she
might
claim one. But whether she had the vision or not, this act showed
that
after all the dizzy grandeurs that had come upon her, she was still
the
same simple, unselfish creature that she was that day.
Yes,
Charles VII. remitted those taxes "forever." Often the gratitude =
of
kings
and nations fades and their promises are forgotten or deliberately
violated;
but you, who are children of
pride
that
gone
by since that day. The taxes of the region wherein Domremy lies
have
been collected sixty-three times since then, and all the villages
of
that region have paid except that one--Domremy. The tax-gatherer
never
visits Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread
sorrow-sowing
apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been filed
meantime,
and they lie yonder with the other public records, and any
may
see them that desire it. At the top of every page in the sixty-three
books
stands the name of a village, and below that name its weary burden
of
taxation is figured out and displayed; in the case of all save one.
It is
true, just as I tell you. In each of the sixty-three books there
is a page headed "Domremi," but under that name not a figure appears.<= o:p>
Where
the figures should be, there are three words written; and the same
words
have been written every year for all these years; yes, it is a
blank
page, with always those grateful words lettered across the face of
it--a
touching memorial. Thus:
DOMREMI | | | | RIEN--LA PUCELLE
"NOTHING--THE MAID OF
How
brief it is; yet how much it says! It is the nation speaking. You
have
the spectacle of that unsentimental thing, a Government, making
reverence
to that name and saying to its agent, "Uncover, and pass on;
it is
kept always; "forever" was the King's word. (1) At two o'clock in the<= o:p>
afternoon
the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end; then
the
procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at its head,
and
took up its solemn march through the midst of the church, all
instruments
and all people making such clamor of rejoicing noises as
was,
indeed, a marvel to hear. An so ended the third of the great days
of
Joan's life. And how close together they stand--May 8th, June 18th,
July
17th!
(1)
IT was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and
more;
then the over-confident octogenarian's prophecy failed. During the
tumult
of the French Revolution the promise was forgotten and the grace
withdrawn.
It has remained in disuse ever since. Joan never asked to be
remembered,
but
and
reverence; Joan never asked for a statue, but
them
upon her; Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France
is
building one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is
impending.
Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given
her,
and with a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which
she
did ask for and get has been taken away from her. There is something
infinitely
pathetic about this.
taxes,
and could hardly find a citizen within her borders who would vote
against
the payment of the debt. -- NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
WE
MOUNTED and rode, a spectacle to remember, a most noble display of
rich
vestments and nodding plumes, and as we moved between the banked
multitudes
they sank down all along abreast of us as we advanced, like
grain
before the reaper, and kneeling hailed with a rousing welcome the
consecrated
King and his companion the Deliverer of France. But by and
by
when we had paraded about the chief parts of the city and were come
near
to the end of our course, we being now approaching the Archbishop's
palace,
one saw on the right, hard by the inn that is called the Zebra,
a
strange thing--two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in the
front
rank of the kneelers; unconscious, transfixed, staring. Yes, and
clothed
in the coarse garb of the peasantry, these two. Two halberdiers
sprang
at them in a fury to teach them better manners; but just as they
seized
them Joan cried out "Forbear!" and slid from her saddle and
flung
her arms about one of those peasants, calling him by all manner of
endearing
names, and sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was
her
uncle, Laxart.
The
news flew everywhere, and shouts of welcome were raised, and in just
one
little moment those two despised and unknown plebeians were become
famous
and popular and envied, and everybody was in a fever to get sight
of
them and be able to say, all their lives long, that they had seen the
father
of Joan of Arc and the brother of her mother. How easy it was for
her
to do miracles like to this! She was like the sun; on whatsoever dim
and
humble object her rays fell, that thing was straightway drowned in
glory.
All
graciously the King said:
"Bring
them to me."
And
she brought them; she radiant with happiness and affection, they
trembling
and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands; and there
before
all the world the King gave them his hand to kiss, while the
people
gazed in envy and admiration; and he said to old D'Arc:
"Give
God thanks for that you are father to this child, this dispenser
of
immortalities. You who bear a name that will still live in the mouths
of
men when all the race of kings has been forgotten, it is not meet
that
you bare your head before the fleeting fames and dignities of a
day--cover
yourself!" And truly he looked right fine and princely when
he
said that. Then he gave order that the Bailly of Rheims be brought;
and
when he was come, and stood bent low and bare, the King said to him,
"These
two are guests of
I may
as well say now as later, that Papa D'Arc and Laxart were stopping
in
that little Zebra inn, and that there they remained. Finer quarters
were
offered them by the Bailly, also public distinctions and brave
entertainment;
but they were frightened at these projects, they being
only
humble and ignorant peasants; so they begged off, and had peace.
They
could not have enjoyed such things. Poor souls, they did not even
know
what to do with their hands, and it took all their attention to
keep
from treading on them. The Bailly did the best he could in the
circumstances.
He made the innkeeper place a whole floor at their
disposal,
and told him to provide everything they might desire, and
charge
all to the city. Also the Bailly gave them a horse apiece and
furnishings;
which so overwhelmed them with pride and delight and
astonishment
that they couldn't speak a word; for in their lives they
had
never dreamed of wealth like this, and could not believe, at first,
that
the horses were real and would not dissolve to a mist and blow
away.
They could not unglue their minds from those grandeurs, and were
always
wrenching the conversation out of its groove and dragging the
matter
of animals into it, so that they could say "my horse" here, and
"my
horse" there and yonder and all around, and taste the words and lick
their
chops over them, and spread their legs and hitch their thumbs in
their
armpits, and feel as the good God feels when He looks out on His
fleets
of constellations plowing the awful deeps of space and reflects
with
satisfaction that they are His--all His. Well, they were the
happiest
old children one ever saw, and the simplest.
The
city gave a grand banquet to the King and Joan in mid-afternoon, and
to
the Court and the Grand Staff; and about the middle of it Pere D'Arc
and
Laxart were sent for, but would not venture until it was promised
that
they might sit in a gallery and be all by themselves and see all
that
was to be seen and yet be unmolested. And so they sat there and
looked
down upon the splendid spectacle, and were moved till the tears
ran
down their cheeks to see the unbelievable honors that were paid to
their
small darling, and how naively serene and unafraid she sat there
with
those consuming glories beating upon her.
But
at last her serenity was broken up. Yes, it stood the strain of
the
King's gracious speech; and of D'Alencon's praiseful words, and the
Bastard's;
and even La Hire's thunder-blast, which took the place by
storm;
but at last, as I have said, they brought a force to bear which
was
too strong for her. For at the close the King put up his hand to
command
silence, and so waited, with his hand up, till every sound was
dead
and it was as if one could almost the stillness, so profound it
was.
Then out of some remote corner of that vast place there rose
a
plaintive voice, and in tones most tender and sweet and rich came
floating
through that enchanted hush our poor old simple song "L'Arbre
Fee
Bourlemont!" and then Joan broke down and put her face in her
hands
and cried. Yes, you see, all in a moment the pomps and grandeurs
dissolved
away and she was a little child again herding her sheep with
the
tranquil pastures stretched about her, and war and wounds and blood
and
death and the mad frenzy and turmoil of battle a dream. Ah, that
shows
you the power of music, that magician of magicians, who lifts his
wand
and says his mysterious word and all things real pass away and the
phantoms
of your mind walk before you clothed in flesh.
That
was the King's invention, that sweet and dear surprise. Indeed,
he
had fine things hidden away in his nature, though one seldom got a
glimpse
of them, with that scheming Tremouille and those others always
standing
in the light, and he so indolently content to save himself fuss
and
argument and let them have their way.
At
the fall of night we the Domremy contingent of the personal staff
were
with the father and uncle at the inn, in their private parlor,
brewing
generous drinks and breaking ground for a homely talk about
Domremy
and the neighbors, when a large parcel arrived from Joan to be
kept
till she came; and soon she came herself and sent her guard away,
saying
she would take one of her father's rooms and sleep under his
roof,
and so be at home again. We of the staff rose and stood, as was
meet,
until she made us sit. Then she turned and saw that the two
old
men had gotten up too, and were standing in an embarrassed and
unmilitary
way; which made her want to laugh, but she kept it in, as
not
wishing to hurt them; and got them to their seats and snuggled down
between
them, and took a hand of each of them upon her knees and nestled
her
own hands in them, and said:
"Now
we will nave no more ceremony, but be kin and playmates as in other
times;
for I am done with the great wars now, and you two will take
me
home with you, and I shall see--" She stopped, and for a moment her
happy
face sobered, as if a doubt or a presentiment had flitted through
her
mind; then it cleared again, and she said, with a passionate
yearning,
"Oh, if the day were but come and we could start!"
The
old father was surprised, and said:
"Why,
child, are you in earnest? Would you leave doing these wonders
that
make you to be praised by everybody while there is still so much
glory
to be won; and would you go out from this grand comradeship with
princes
and generals to be a drudging villager again and a nobody? It is
not
rational."
"No,"
said the uncle, Laxart, "it is amazing to hear, and indeed not
understandable.
It is a stranger thing to hear her say she will stop
the
soldiering that it was to hear her say she would begin it; and I who
speak
to you can say in all truth that that was the strangest word that
ever
I had heard till this day and hour. I would it could be explained."
"It is not difficult," said Joan. "I was not ever fond of wounds and<= o:p>
suffering,
nor fitted by my nature to inflict them; and quarrelings
did
always distress me, and noise and tumult were against my liking, my
disposition
being toward peace and quietness, and love for all things
that
have life; and being made like this, how could I bear to think of
wars
and blood, and the pain that goes with them, and the sorrow
and
mourning that follow after? But by his angels God laid His great
commands
upon me, and could I disobey? I did as I was bid. Did He
command
me to do many things? No; only two: to raise the siege of
free.
Has ever a poor soldier fallen in my sight, whether friend or foe,
and I
not felt the pain in my own body, and the grief of his home-mates
in my
own heart? No, not one; and, oh, it is such bliss to know that my
release
is won, and that I shall not any more see these cruel things or
suffer
these tortures of the mind again! Then why should I not go to
my
village and be as I was before? It is heaven! and ye wonder that I
desire
it. Ah, ye are men--just men! My mother would understand."
They
didn't quite know what to say; so they sat still awhile, looking
pretty
vacant. Then old D'Arc said:
"Yes,
your mother--that is true. I never saw such a woman. She worries,
and
worries, and worries; and wakes nights, and lies so, thinking--that
is,
worrying; worrying about you. And when the night storms go raging
along,
she moans and says, 'Ah, God pity her, she is out in this with
her
poor wet soldiers.' And when the lightning glares and the thunder
crashes
she wrings her hands and trembles, saying, 'It is like the awful
cannon
and the flash, and yonder somewhere she is riding down upon the
spouting
guns and I not there to protect her."
"Ah,
poor mother, it is pity, it is pity!"
"Yes,
a most strange woman, as I have noticed a many times. When there
is
news of a victory and all the village goes mad with pride and joy,
she
rushes here and there in a maniacal frenzy till she finds out the
one
only thing she cares to know--that you are safe; then down she goes
on
her knees in the dirt and praises God as long as there is any breath
left
in her body; and all on your account, for she never mentions
the
battle once. And always she says, 'Now it is over--now
saved--now
she will come home'--and always is disappointed and goes
about
mourning."
"Don't,
father! it breaks my heart. I will be so good to her when I get
home.
I will do her work for her, and be her comfort, and she shall not
suffer
any more through me."
There
was some more talk of this sort, then Uncle Laxart said:
"You
have done the will of God, dear, and are quits; it is true, and
none
may deny it; but what of the King? You are his best soldier; what
if he
command you to stay?"
That
was a crusher--and sudden! It took Joan a moment or two to recover
from
the shock of it; then she said, quite simply and resignedly:
"The
King is my Lord; I am his servant." She was silent and thoughtful
a
little while, then she brightened up and said, cheerily, "But let us
drive
such thoughts away--this is no time for them. Tell me about home."
So
the two old gossips talked and talked; talked about everything and
everybody
in the village; and it was good to hear. Joan out of her
kindness
tried to get us into the conversation, but that failed, of
course.
She was the Commander-in-Chief, we were nobodies; her name was
the
mightiest in
of
princes and heroes, we of the humble and obscure; she held rank above
all
Personages and all Puissances whatsoever in the whole earth, by
right
of baring her commission direct from God. To put it in one word,
she
was JOAN OF ARC--and when that is said, all is said. To us she was
divine.
Between her and us lay the bridgeless abyss which that word
implies.
We could not be familiar with her. No, you can see yourselves
that
that would have been impossible.
And
yet she was so human, too, and so good and kind and dear and loving
and
cheery and charming and unspoiled and unaffected! Those are all the
words
I think of now, but they are not enough; no, they are too few and
colorless
and meager to tell it all, or tell the half. Those simple old
men
didn't realize her; they couldn't; they had never known any people
but
human beings, and so they had no other standard to measure her by.
To
them, after their first little shyness had worn off, she was just a
girl--that
was all. It was amazing. It made one shiver, sometimes, to
see
how calm and easy and comfortable they were in her presence, and
hear
them talk to her exactly as they would have talked to any other
girl
in
Why,
that simple old Laxart sat up there and droned out the most tedious
and
empty tale one ever heard, and neither he nor Papa D'Arc ever gave
a
thought to the badness of the etiquette of it, or ever suspected that
that
foolish tale was anything but dignified and valuable history. There
was
not an atom of value in it; and whilst they thought it distressing
and
pathetic, it was in fact not pathetic at all, but actually
ridiculous.
At least it seemed so to me, and it seems so yet. Indeed, I
know
it was, because it made Joan laugh; and the more sorrowful it got
the
more it made her laugh; and the Paladin said that he could have
laughed
himself if she had not been there, and Noel Rainguesson said the
same.
It was about old Laxart going to a funeral there at Domremy two or
three
weeks back. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got
Joan
to rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing it,
and
comforting him, and trying to say pitying things to him, he told
her
how it happened. And first he asked her if she remembered that black
bull
calf that she left behind when she came away, and she said indeed
she
did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so, and was he well?--and
just
drowned him in questions about that creature. And he said it was a
young
bull now, and very frisky; and he was to bear a principal hand at
a
funeral; and she said, "The bull?" and he said, "No,
myself"; but said
the
bull did take a hand, but not because of his being invited, for
he
wasn't; but anyway he was away over beyond the Fairy Tree, and fell
asleep
on the grass with his Sunday funeral clothes on, and a long black
rag
on his hat and hanging down his back; and when he woke he saw by the
sun
how late it was, and not a moment to lose; and jumped up terribly
worried,
and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe he
could
ride part way on him and gain time; so he tied a rope around the
bull's
body to hold on by, and put a halter on him to steer with,
and
jumped on and started; but it was all new to the bull, and he was
discontented
with it, and scurried around and bellowed and reared and
pranced,
and Uncle Laxart was satisfied, and wanted to get off and go
by
the next bull or some other way that was quieter, but he didn't
dare
try; and it was getting very warm for him, too, and disturbing and
wearisome,
and not proper for Sunday; but by and by the bull lost all
his
temper, and went tearing down the slope with his tail in the air and
blowing
in the most awful way; and just in the edge of the village
he
knocked down some beehives, and the bees turned out and joined the
excursion,
and soared along in a black cloud that nearly hid those other
two
from sight, and prodded them both, and jabbed them and speared them
and
spiked them, and made them bellow and shriek, and shriek and bellow;
and
here they came roaring through the village like a hurricane, and
took
the funeral procession right in the center, and sent that section
of it
sprawling, and galloped over it, and the rest scattered apart and
fled
screeching in every direction, every person with a layer of bees on
him,
and not a rag of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally
the
bull broke for the river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle
Laxart
out he was nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding
with
raisins in it. And then he turned around, this old simpleton, and
looked
a long time in a dazed way at Joan where she had her face in a
cushion,
dying, apparently, and says:
"What
do you reckon she is laughing at?"
And
old D'Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently
scratching
his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn't
know--"must
have been something that happened when we weren't noticing."
Yes,
both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic;
whereas
to my mind it was purely ridiculous, and not in any way valuable
to
any one. It seemed so to me then, and it seems so to me yet. And as
for
history, it does not resemble history; for the office of history is
to
furnish serious and important facts that teach; whereas this strange
and
useless event teaches nothing; nothing that I can see, except not
to
ride a bull to a funeral; and surely no reflecting person needs to be
taught
that.
NOW
THESE were nobles, you know, by decree of the King!--these precious
old
infants. But they did not realize it; they could not be called
conscious
of it; it was an abstraction, a phantom; to them it had no
substance;
their minds could not take hold of it. No, they did not
bother
about their nobility; they lived in their horses. The horses were
solid;
they were visible facts, and would make a mighty stir in Domremy.
Presently
something was said about the Coronation, and old D'Arc said
it
was going to be a grand thing to be able to say, when they got home,
that
they were present in the very town itself when it happened. Joan
looked
troubled, and said:
"Ah,
that reminds me. You were here and you didn't send me word. In the
town,
indeed! Why, you could have sat with the other nobles, and been
welcome;
and could have looked upon the crowning itself, and carried
that
home to tell. Ah, why did you use me so, and send me no word?"
The
old father was embarrassed, now, quite visibly embarrassed, and had
the
air of one who does not quite know what to say. But Joan was looking
up in
his face, her hands upon his shoulders--waiting. He had to speak;
so
presently he drew her to his breast, which was heaving with emotion;
and
he said, getting out his words with difficulty:
"There,
hide your face, child, and let your old father humble himself
and
make his confession. I--I--don't you see, don't you understand?--I
could
not know that these grandeurs would not turn your young head--it
would
be only natural. I might shame you before these great per--"
"Father!"
"And
then I was afraid, as remembering that cruel thing I said once in
my sinful
anger. Oh, appointed of God to be a soldier, and the greatest
in
the land! and in my ignorant anger I said I would drown you with my
own
hands if you unsexed yourself and brought shame to your name and
family.
Ah, how could I ever have said it, and you so good and dear
and
innocent! I was afraid; for I was guilty. You understand it now, my
child,
and you forgive?"
Do
you see? Even that poor groping old land-crab, with his skull full of
pulp,
had pride. Isn't it wonderful? And more--he had conscience; he had
a
sense of right and wrong, such as it was; he was able to find remorse.
It
looks impossible, it looks incredible, but it is not. I believe that
some
day it will be found out that peasants are people. Yes, beings in
a
great many respects like ourselves. And I believe that some day they
will
find this out, too--and then! Well, then I think they will rise up
and
demand to be regarded as part of the race, and that by consequence
there
will be trouble. Whenever one sees in a book or in a king's
proclamation
those words "the nation," they bring before us the upper
classes;
only those; we know no other "nation"; for us and the kings no
other
"nation" exists. But from the day that I saw old D'Arc the peasan=
t
acting
and feeling just as I should have acted and felt myself, I have
carried
the conviction in my heart that our peasants are not merely
animals,
beasts of burden put here by the good God to produce food
and
comfort for the "nation," but something more and better. You
look
incredulous. Well, that is your training; it is the training of
everybody;
but as for me, I thank that incident for giving me a better
light,
and I have never forgotten it.
Let
me see--where was I? One's mind wanders around here and there and
yonder,
when one is old. I think I said Joan comforted him. Certainly,
that
is what she would do--there was no need to say that. She coaxed him
and
petted him and caressed him, and laid the memory of that old hard
speech
of his to rest. Laid it to rest until she should be dead. Then
he
would remember it again--yes, yes! Lord, how those things sting, and
burn,
and gnaw--the things which we did against the innocent dead! And
we
say in our anguish, "If they could only come back!" Which is all =
very
well
to say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn't profit anything. In my
opinion
the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I am
not
alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same thing; and
a man
there in
of
those places--it seems more as if it was at Beaugency than the
others--this
man said the same thing exactly; almost the same words; a
dark
man with a cast in his eye and one leg shorter than the other. His
name
was--was--it is singular that I can't call that man's name; I had
it in
my mind only a moment ago, and I know it begins with--no, I don't
remember
what it begins with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of
it
presently, and then I will tell you.
Well,
pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt when
she was
in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades hacking and
flashing
all around her, and the blows rapping and slatting on her
shield,
and blood gushing on her from the cloven ghastly face and broken
teeth
of the neighbor at her elbow, and the perilous sudden back surge
of
massed horses upon a person when the front ranks give way before a
heavy
rush of the enemy, and men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles
all
around, and battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one's
face
and hide the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling
and
swaying and laboring jumble one's horse's hoofs sink into soft
substances
and shrieks of pain respond, and presently--panic! rush!
swarm!
flight! and death and hell following after! And the old fellow
got
ever so much excited; and strode up and down, his tongue going like
a
mill, asking question after question and never waiting for an answer;
and
finally he stood Joan up in the middle of the room and stepped off
and
scanned her critically, and said:
"No--I
don't understand it. You are so little. So little and slender.
When
you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion of it;
but
in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty page, not
a
league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and darkness and
breathing
smoke and thunder. I would God I might see you at it and go
tell
your mother! That would help her sleep, poor thing! Here--teach me
the
arts of the soldier, that I may explain them to her."
And
she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the manual
of
arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was incredibly
awkward
and slovenly, and so was his drill with the pike; but he didn't
know
it, and was wonderfully pleased with himself, and mightily excited
and
charmed with the ringing, crisp words of command. I am obliged
to
say that if looking proud and happy when one is marching were
sufficient,
he would have been the perfect soldier.
And
he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course that
was
beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan handle the
foils,
but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid of the things,
and
skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a woman who has lost
her
mind on account of the arrival of a bat. He was of no good as
an
exhibition. But if La Hire had only come in, that would have been
another
matter. Those two fenced often; I saw them many times. True,
Joan
was easily his master, but it made a good show for all that, for
La
Hire was a grand swordsman. What a swift creature Joan was! You would
see
her standing erect with her ankle-bones together and her foil arched
over
her head, the hilt in one hand and the button in the other--the old
general
opposite, bent forward, left hand reposing on his back, his
foil
advanced, slightly wiggling and squirming, his watching eye boring
straight
into hers--and all of a sudden she would give a spring forward,
and
back again; and there she was, with the foil arched over her head as
before.
La Hire had been hit, but all that the spectator saw of it was
a
something like a thin flash of light in the air, but nothing distinct,
nothing
definite.
We
kept the drinkables moving, for that would please the Bailly and the
landlord;
and old Laxart and D'Arc got to feeling quite comfortable, but
without
being what you could call tipsy. They got out the presents which
they
had been buying to carry home--humble things and cheap, but they
would
be fine there, and welcome. And they gave to Joan a present from
Pere
Fronte and one from her mother--the one a little leaden image of
the
Holy Virgin, the other half a yard of blue silk ribbon; and she
was
as pleased as a child; and touched, too, as one could see plainly
enough.
Yes, she kissed those poor things over and over again, as if
they
had been something costly and wonderful; and she pinned the Virgin
on
her doublet, and sent for her helmet and tied the ribbon on that;
first
one way, then another; then a new way, then another new way; and
with
each effort perching the helmet on her hand and holding it off
this
way and that, and canting her head to one side and then the other,
examining
the effect, as a bird does when it has got a new bug. And she
said
she could almost wish she was going to the wars again; for then she
would
fight with the better courage, as having always with her something
which
her mother's touch had blessed.
Old
Laxart said he hoped she would go to the wars again, but home first,
for
that all the people there were cruel anxious to see her--and so he
went
on:
"They
are proud of you, dear. Yes, prouder than any village ever was of
anybody
before. And indeed it is right and rational; for it is the first
time
a village has ever had anybody like you to be proud of and call its
own.
And it is strange and beautiful how they try to give your name to
every
creature that has a sex that is convenient. It is but half a year
since
you began to be spoken of and left us, and so it is surprising to
see
how many babies there are already in that region that are named
for
you. First it was just Joan; then it was Joan-Orleans; then
Joan-Orleans-Beaugency-Patay;
and now the next ones will have a lot
of
towns and the Coronation added, of course. Yes, and the animals the
same.
They know how you love animals, and so they try to do you honor
and
show their love for you by naming all those creatures after you;
insomuch
that if a body should step out and call 'Joan of Arc--come!'
there
would be a landslide of cats and all such things, each supposing
it
was the one wanted, and all willing to take the benefit of the doubt,
anyway,
for the sake of the food that might be on delivery. The kitten
you
left behind--the last stray you fetched home--bears you name, now,
and
belongs to Pere Fronte, and is the pet and pride of the village;
and
people have come miles to look at it and pet it and stare at it and
wonder
over it because it was Joan of Arc's cat. Everybody will tell you
that;
and one day when a stranger threw a stone at it, not knowing it
was
your cat, the village rose against him as one man and hanged him!
And
but for Pere Fronte--"
There
was an interruption. It was a messenger from the King, bearing
a
note for Joan, which I read to her, saying he had reflected, and had
consulted
his other generals, and was obliged to ask her to remain at
the
head of the army and withdraw her resignation. Also, would she
come
immediately and attend a council of war? Straightway, at a little
distance,
military commands and the rumble of drums broke on the still
night,
and we knew that her guard was approaching.
Deep
disappointment clouded her face for just one moment and no
more--it
passed, and with it the homesick girl, and she was Joan of Arc,
Commander-in-Chief
again, and ready for duty.
IN MY
double quality of page and secretary I followed Joan to the
council.
She entered that presence with the bearing of a grieved
goddess.
What was become of the volatile child that so lately was
enchanted
with a ribbon and suffocated with laughter over the distress
of a
foolish peasant who had stormed a funeral on the back of a
bee-stung
bull? One may not guess. Simply it was gone, and had left no
sign.
She moved straight to the council-table, and stood. Her glance
swept
from face to face there, and where it fell, these lit it as with a
torch,
those it scorched as with a brand. She knew where to strike. She
indicated
the generals with a nod, and said:
"My
business is not with you. You have not craved a council of war."
Then
she turned toward the King's privy council, and continued: "No; it
is
with you. A council of war! It is amazing. There is but one thing to
do,
and only one, and lo, ye call a council of war! Councils of war have
no
value but to decide between two or several doubtful courses. But a
council
of war when there is only one course? Conceive of a man in a
boat
and his family in the water, and he goes out among his friends to
ask
what he would better do? A council of war, name of God! To determine
what?"
She
stopped, and turned till her eyes rested upon the face of La
Tremouille;
and so she stood, silent, measuring him, the excitement in
all
faces burning steadily higher and higher, and all pulses beating
faster
and faster; then she said, with deliberation:
"Every
sane man--whose loyalty is to his King and not a show and a
pretense--knows
that there is but one rational thing before us--the
march
upon
Down
came the fist of La Hire with an approving crash upon the table.
La
Tremouille turned white with anger, but he pulled himself firmly
together
and held his peace. The King's lazy blood was stirred and
his
eye kindled finely, for the spirit of war was away down in him
somewhere,
and a frank, bold speech always found it and made it tingle
gladsomely.
Joan waited to see if the chief minister might wish to
defend
his position; but he was experienced and wise, and not a man to
waste
his forces where the current was against him. He would wait; the
King's
private ear would be at his disposal by and by.
That
pious fox the Chancellor of France took the word now. He washed his
soft
hands together, smiling persuasively, and said to Joan:
"Would
it be courteous, your Excellency, to move abruptly from here
without
waiting for an answer from the Duke of Burgundy? You may not
know
that we are negotiating with his Highness, and that there is
likely
to be a fortnight's truce between us; and on his part a pledge to
deliver
of a
march thither."
Joan
turned to him and said, gravely:
"This
is not a confessional, my lord. You were not obliged to expose
that
shame here."
The
Chancellor's face reddened, and he retorted:
"Shame?
What is there shameful about it?"
Joan
answered in level, passionless tones:
"One
may describe it without hunting far for words. I knew of this poor
comedy,
my lord, although it was not intended that I should know. It is
to
the credit of the devisers of it that they tried to conceal it--this
comedy
whose text and impulse are describable in two words."
The
Chancellor spoke up with a fine irony in his manner:
"Indeed?
And will your Excellency be good enough to utter them?"
"Cowardice
and treachery!"
The
fists of all the generals came down this time, and again the King's
eye
sparkled with pleasure. The Chancellor sprang to his feet and
appealed
to his Majesty:
"Sire,
I claim your protection."
But
the King waved him to his seat again, saying:
"Peace.
She had a right to be consulted before that thing was
undertaken,
since it concerned war as well as politics. It is but just
that
she be heard upon it now."
The
Chancellor sat down trembling with indignation, and remarked to
Joan:
"Out
of charity I will consider that you did not know who devised this
measure
which you condemn in so candid language."
"Save
your charity for another occasion, my lord," said Joan, as calmly
as
before. "Whenever anything is done to injure the interests and
degrade
the honor of
conspirators-in-chief--"
"Sir,
sire! this insinuation--"
"It
is not an insinuation, my lord," said Joan, placidly, "it is
a
charge. I bring it against the King's chief minister and his
Chancellor."
Both
men were on their feet now, insisting that the King modify Joan's
frankness;
but he was not minded to do it. His ordinary councils were
stale
water--his spirit was drinking wine, now, and the taste of it was
good.
He said:
"Sit--and
be patient. What is fair for one must in fairness be allowed
the
other. Consider--and be just. When have you two spared her? What
dark
charges and harsh names have you withheld when you spoke of her?"
Then
he added, with a veiled twinkle in his eyes, "If these are offenses
I see
no particular difference between them, except that she says her
hard
things to your faces, whereas you say yours behind her back."
He
was pleased with that neat shot and the way it shriveled those two
people
up, and made La Hire laugh out loud and the other generals softly
quake
and chuckle. Joan tranquilly resumed:
"From
the first, we have been hindered by this policy of shilly-shally;
this
fashion of counseling and counseling and counseling where no
counseling
is needed, but only fighting. We took
May,
and could have cleared the region round about in three days and
saved
the slaughter of Patay. We could have been in
ago,
and in
into
the country--what for? Ostensibly to hold councils; really to give
had
to be fought. After Patay, more counseling, more waste of precious
time.
Oh, my King, I would that you would be persuaded!" She began to
warm
up, now. "Once more we have our opportunity. If we rise and strike,
all
is well. Bid me march upon
and
in six months all
this
chance be wasted, I give you twenty years to do it in. Speak the
word,
O gentle King--speak but the one--"
"I
cry you mercy!" interrupted the Chancellor, who saw a dangerous
enthusiasm
rising in the King's face. "March upon
Excellency
forget that the way bristles with English strongholds?"
"That
for your English strongholds!" and Joan snapped her fingers
scornfully.
"Whence have we marched in these last days? From Gien. And
whither?
To
they
now? French ones--and they never cost a blow!" Here applause broke
out
from the group of generals, and Joan had to pause a moment to let it
subside.
"Yes, English strongholds bristled before us; now French
ones
bristle behind us. What is the argument? A child can read it.
The
strongholds between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of
English,
but by the same breed as those others--with the same fears, the
same
questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to see the
heavy
hand of God descending upon them. We have but to march!--on the
instant--and
they are ours,
word,
O my King, command your servant to--"
"Stay!"
cried the Chancellor. "It would be madness to put our affront
upon
his Highness the Duke of
every
hope to make with him--"
"Oh,
the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned you for
years,
and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that have softened
his
manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals? No; it was
blows!--the
blows which we gave him! That is the only teaching that
that
sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care for wind? The treaty
which
we hope to make with him--alack! He deliver
pauper
in the land that is less able to do it. He deliver Paris
that
would make great
can
see that this thin pour-parler with its fifteen-day truce has no
purpose
but to give
More
treachery--always treachery! We call a council of war--with nothing
to
council about; but
course
is. He knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his
traitors
and march upon
"Sire,
it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot, we must
not
go back from what we have done; we have proposed to treat, we must
treat
with the Duke of Burgundy."
"And
we will!" said Joan.
"Ah?
How?"
"At
the point of the lance!"
The
house rose, to a man--all that had French hearts--and let go a crack
of
applause--and kept it up; and in the midst of it one heard La Hire
growl
out: "At the point of the lance! By God, that is music!" The King=
was
up, too, and drew his sword, and took it by the blade and strode to
Joan
and delivered the hilt of it into her hand, saying:
"There,
the King surrenders. Carry it to
And
so the applause burst out again, and the historical council of war
that
has bred so many legends was over.
IT
WAS away past midnight, and had been a tremendous day in the matter
of
excitement and fatigue, but that was no matter to Joan when there was
business
on hand. She did not think of bed. The generals followed her to
her
official quarters, and she delivered her orders to them as fast as
she
could talk, and they sent them off to their different commands as
fast
as delivered; wherefore the messengers galloping hither and thither
raised
a world of clatter and racket in the still streets; and soon were
added
to this the music of distant bugles and the roll of drums--notes
of
preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.
The
generals were soon dismissed, but I wasn't; nor Joan; for it was my
turn
to work, now. Joan walked the floor and dictated a summons to
the
Duke of Burgundy to lay down his arms and make peace and exchange
pardons
with the King; or, if he must fight, go fight the Saracens.
"Pardonnez-vous
l'un--l'autre de bon coeligeur, entierement, ainsi que
doivent
faire loyaux chretiens, et, s'il vous plait de guerroyer,
allez
contre les Sarrasins." It was long, but it was good, and had the
sterling
ring to it. It is my opinion that it was as fine and simple and
straightforward
and eloquent a state paper as she ever uttered.
It
was delivered into the hands of a courier, and he galloped away with
it.
The Joan dismissed me, and told me to go to the inn and stay, and in
the
morning give to her father the parcel which she had left there. It
contained
presents for the Domremy relatives and friends and a peasant
dress
which she had bought for herself. She said she would say good-by
to
her father and uncle in the morning if it should still be their
purpose
to go, instead of tarrying awhile to see the city.
I
didn't say anything, of course, but I could have said that wild horses
couldn't
keep those men in that town half a day. They waste the glory of
being
the first to carry the great news to Domremy--the taxes remitted
forever!--and
hear the bells clang and clatter, and the people cheer and
shout?
Oh, not they. Patay and
which
in a vague way these men understood to be colossal; but they were
colossal
mists, films, abstractions; this was a gigantic reality!
When
I got there, do you suppose they were abed! Quite the reverse.
They
and the rest were as mellow as mellow could be; and the Paladin was
doing
his battles in great style, and the old peasants were endangering
the
building with their applause. He was doing Patay now; and was
bending
his big frame forward and laying out the positions and movements
with
a rake here and a rake there of his formidable sword on the floor,
and
the peasants were stooped over with their hands on their spread
knees
observing with excited eyes and ripping out ejaculations of wonder
and
admiration all along:
"Yes,
here we were, waiting--waiting for the word; our horses fidgeting
and
snorting and dancing to get away, we lying back on the bridles till
our
bodies fairly slanted to the rear; the word rang out at last--'Go!'
and
we went!
"Went?
There was nothing like it ever seen! Where we swept by squads of
scampering
English, the mere wind of our passage laid them flat in
piles
and rows! Then we plunged into the ruck of Fastolfe's frantic
battle-corps
and tore through it like a hurricane, leaving a causeway of
the
dead stretching far behind; no tarrying, no slacking rein, but on!
on!
on! far yonder in the distance lay our prey--Talbot and his host
looming
vast and dark like a storm-cloud brooding on the sea! Down we
swooped
upon them, glooming all the air with a quivering pall of dead
leaves
flung up by the whirlwind of our flight. In another moment
we
should have struck them as world strikes world when disorbited
constellations
crash into the Milky way, but by misfortune and the
inscrutable
dispensation of God I was recognized! Talbot turned white,
and
shouting, 'Save yourselves, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of
Arc!'
drove his spurs home till they met in the middle of his horse's
entrails,
and fled the field with his billowing multitudes at his back!
I
could have cursed myself for not putting on a disguise. I saw reproach
in
the eyes of her Excellency, and was bitterly ashamed. I had caused
what
seemed an irreparable disaster. Another might have gone aside to
grieve,
as not seeing any way to mend it; but I thank God I am not of
those.
Great occasions only summon as with a trumpet-call the slumbering
reserves
of my intellect. I saw my opportunity in an instant--in
the
next I was away! Through the woods I vanished--fst!--like an
extinguished
light! Away around through the curtaining forest I sped,
as if
on wings, none knowing what was become of me, none suspecting my
design.
Minute after minute passed, on and on I flew; on, and still on;
and
at last with a great cheer I flung my Banner to the breeze and burst
out
in front of Talbot! Oh, it was a mighty thought! That weltering
chaos
of distracted men whirled and surged backward like a tidal wave
which
has struck a continent, and the day was ours! Poor helpless
creatures,
they were in a trap; they were surrounded; they could not
escape
to the rear, for there was our army; they could not escape to the
front,
for there was I. Their hearts shriveled in their bodies, their
hands
fell listless at their sides. They stood still, and at our leisure
we
slaughtered them to a man; all except Talbot and Fastolfe, whom I
saved
and brought away, one under each arm."
Well,
there is no denying it, the Paladin was in great form that night.
Such
style! such noble grace of gesture, such grandeur of attitude,
such
energy when he got going! such steady rise, on such sure wing, such
nicely
graduated expenditures of voice according to the weight of
the
matter, such skilfully calculated approaches to his surprises and
explosions,
such belief-compelling sincerity of tone and manner, such a
climaxing
peal from his brazen lungs, and such a lightning-vivid picture
of
his mailed form and flaunting banner when he burst out before that
despairing
army! And oh, the gentle art of the last half of his last
sentence--delivered
in the careless and indolent tone of one who has
finished
his real story, and only adds a colorless and inconsequential
detail
because it has happened to occur to him in a lazy way.
It
was a marvel to see those innocent peasants. Why, they went all to
pieces
with enthusiasm, and roared out applauses fit to raise the roof
and
wake the dead. When they had cooled down at last and there was
silence
but for the heaving and panting, old Laxart said, admiringly:
"As
it seems to me, you are an army in your single person."
"Yes, that is what he is," said Noel Rainguesson, convincingly. "He is<= o:p>
a
terror; and not just in this vicinity. His mere name carries a shudder
with
it to distant lands--just his mere name; and when he frowns, the
shadow
of it falls as far as
before
schedule time. Yes; and some say--"
"Noel
Rainguesson, you are preparing yourself for trouble. I will say
just
one word to you, and it will be to your advantage to--"
I saw
that the usual thing had got a start. No man could prophesy when
it
would end. So I delivered Joan's message and went off to bed.
Joan
made her good-byes to those old fellows in the morning, with loving
embraces
and many tears, and with a packed multitude for sympathizers,
and
they rode proudly away on their precious horses to carry their
great
news home. I had seen better riders, some will say that; for
horsemanship
was a new art to them.
The
vanguard moved out at dawn and took the road, with bands braying
and
banners flying; the second division followed at eight. Then came the
Burgundian
ambassadors, and lost us the rest of that day and the whole
of
the next. But Joan was on hand, and so they had their journey for
their
pains. The rest of us took the road at dawn, next morning, July
20th.
And got how far? Six leagues. Tremouille was getting in his sly
work
with the vacillating King, you see. The King stopped at St. Marcoul
and
prayed three days. Precious time lost--for us; precious time gained
for
We
could not go on without the King; that would be to leave him in the
conspirators'
camp. Joan argued, reasoned, implored; and at last we got
under
way again.
Joan's
prediction was verified. It was not a campaign, it was only
another
holiday excursion. English strongholds lined our route; they
surrendered
without a blow; we garrisoned them with Frenchmen and passed
on.
and
on the 25th of July the hostile forces faced each other and made
preparation
for battle; but
turned
and retreated toward
great
spirits.
Will
you believe it? Our poor stick of a King allowed his worthless
advisers
to persuade him to start back for Gien, whence he had set out
when
we first marched for
start
back. The fifteen-day truce had just been concluded with the Duke
of
We
marched to Bray; then the King changed his mind once more, and with
it
his face toward
promising
to stand by them. She furnished them the news herself that the
Kin
had made this truce; and in speaking of it she was her usual frank
self.
She said she was not satisfied with it, and didn't know whether
she
would keep it or not; that if she kept it, it would be solely out of
tenderness
for the King's honor. All French children know those famous
words.
How naive they are! "De cette treve qui a ete faite, je ne suis
pas
contente, et je ne
seulement
pour garder l'honneur du roi." But in any case, she said, she
would
not allow the blood royal to be abused, and would keep the army in
good
order and ready for work at the end of the truce.
Poor
child, to have to fight
all
at the same time--it was too bad. She was a match for the others,
but a
conspiracy--ah, nobody is a match for that, when the victim that
is to
be injured is weak and willing. It grieved her, these troubled
days,
to be so hindered and delayed and baffled, and at times she was
sad
and the tears lay near the surface. Once, talking with her good old
faithful
friend and servant, the Bastard of Orleans, she said:
"Ah,
if it might but please God to let me put off this steel raiment
and
go back to my father and my mother, and tend my sheep again with my
sister
and my brothers, who would be so glad to see me!"
By
the 12th of August we were camped near Dampmartin. Later we had a
brush
with
morrow,
but
toward
Charles
sent heralds and received the submission of
Pierre
Cauchon, that faithful friend and slave of the English, was not
able
to prevent it, though he did his best. He was obscure then, but his
name
was to travel round the globe presently, and live forever in the
curses
of
grave.
camped
two leagues from Senlis.
took
up a strong position. We went against him, but all our efforts to
beguile
him out from his intrenchments failed, though he had promised
us a
duel in the open field. Night shut down. Let him look out for the
morning!
But in the morning he was gone again.
We
entered
garrison
and hoisting our own flag.
On
the 23d Joan gave command to move upon
were
not satisfied with this, and retired sulking to Senlis, which had
just
surrendered. Within a few days many strong places submitted--Creil,
Pont-Saint-Maxence,
Choisy, Gournay-sur-Aronde, Remy, Le
Neufville-en-Hez,
Moguay,
tumbling,
crash after crash! And still the King sulked and disapproved,
and
was afraid of our movement against the capital.
On
the 26th of August, 1429, Joan camped at St. Denis; in effect, under
the
walls of
And
still the King hung back and was afraid. If we could but have had
him
there to back us with his authority!
decided
to waive resistance and go an concentrate his strength in the
best
and loyalest province remaining to him--
could
only have persuaded the King to come and countenance us with his
presence
and approval at this supreme moment!
COURIER
after courier was despatched to the King, and he promised to
come,
but didn't. The Duke d'Alencon went to him and got his promise
again,
which he broke again. Nine days were lost thus; then he came,
arriving
at St. Denis September 7th.
Meantime
the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless conduct of
the
King could have no other result. Preparations had now been made to
defend
the city. Joan's chances had been diminished, but she and her
generals
considered them plenty good enough yet. Joan ordered the attack
for
eight o'clock next morning, and at that hour it began.
Joan
placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which
protected
the gate St. Honor. When it was sufficiently crippled the
assault
was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then we moved
forward
to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves against it again
and
again, Joan in the lead with her standard at her side, the smoke
enveloping
us in choking clouds, and the missiles flying over us and
through
us as thick as hail.
In
the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate
sure
and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down by
a
crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a
panic--for
what were they without her? She was the army, herself.
Although
disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new assault
be
made, saying it must win; and adding, with the battle-light rising in
her
eyes, "I will take
force,
and this was done by Gaucourt and the Duke d'Alencon.
But
her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming
with
enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in the
morning,
and in half an hour
She
could have kept her word. About this there was no doubt. But
she
forgot one factor--the King, shadow of that substance named La
Tremouille.
The King forbade the attempt!
You
see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of Burgundy, and
another
sham private trade of some sort was on foot.
You
would know, without my telling you, that Joan's heart was nearly
broken.
Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at her heart she
slept
little that night. Several times the watchers heard muffled
sobs
from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis, and many times the
grieving
words, "It could have been taken!--it could have been taken!"
which
were the only ones she said.
She
dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope. D'Alencon
had
thrown a bridge across the
by
that and assault
and
broke the bridge down! And more--he declared the campaign ended!
And
more still--he had made a new truce and a long one, in which he had
agreed
to leave
Joan
of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was defeated by
her
own King. She had said once that all she feared for her cause was
treachery.
It had struck its first blow now. She hung up her white
armor
in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and asked the King
to
relieve her of her functions and let her go home. As usual, she was
wise.
Grand combinations, far-reaching great military moves were at an
end,
now; for the future, when the truce should end, the war would be
merely
a war of random and idle skirmishes, apparently; work suitable
for
subalterns, and not requiring the supervision of a sublime military
genius.
But the King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all
would
need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her where he
could
balk and hinder her.
Now
came her Voices again. They said, "Remain at St. Denis." There wa=
s
no
explanation. They did not say why. That was the voice of God; it took
precedence
of the command of the King; Joan resolved to stay. But that
filled
La Tremouille with dread. She was too tremendous a force to be
left
to herself; she would surely defeat all his plans. He beguiled the
King
to use compulsion. Joan had to submit--because she was wounded and
helpless.
In the Great Trial she said she was carried away against
her
will; and that if she had not been wounded it could not have been
accomplished.
Ah, she had a spirit, that slender girl! a spirit to brave
all
earthly powers and defy them. We shall never know why the Voices
ordered
her to stay. We only know this; that if she could have obeyed,
the
history of
books.
Yes, well we know that.
On
the 13th of September the army, sad and spiritless, turned its
face
toward the
detail.
It was a funeral march; that is what it was. A long, dreary
funeral
march, with never a shout or a cheer; friends looking on in
tears,
all the way, enemies laughing. We reached Gien at last--that
place
whence we had set out on our splendid march toward Rheims
less
than three months before, with flags flying, bands playing, the
victory-flush
of Patay glowing in our faces, and the massed multitudes
shouting
and praising and giving us godspeed. There was a dull rain
falling
now, the day was dark, the heavens mourned, the spectators were
few,
we had no welcome but the welcome of silence, and pity, and tears.
Then
the King disbanded that noble army of heroes; it furled its flags,
it
stored its arms: the disgrace of
wore
the victor's crown; Joan of Arc, the unconquerable, was conquered.
YES,
IT was as I have said: Joan had Paris and France in her grip, and
the
Hundred Years' War under her heel, and the King made her open her
fist
and take away her foot.
Now
followed about eight months of drifting about with the King and his
council,
and his gay and showy and dancing and flirting and hawking and
frolicking
and serenading and dissipating court--drifting from town to
town
and from castle to castle--a life which was pleasant to us of the
personal
staff, but not to Joan. However, she only saw it, she didn't
live
it. The King did his sincerest best to make her happy, and showed a
most
kind and constant anxiety in this matter.
All others
had to go loaded with the chains of an exacting court
etiquette,
but she was free, she was privileged. So that she paid
her
duty to the King once a day and passed the pleasant word, nothing
further
was required of her. Naturally, then, she made herself a hermit,
and
grieved the weary days through in her own apartments, with her
thoughts
and devotions for company, and the planning of now forever
unrealizable
military combinations for entertainment. In fancy she moved
bodies
of men from this and that and the other point, so calculating the
distances
to be covered, the time required for each body, and the nature
of
the country to be traversed, as to have them appear in sight of each
other
on a given day or at a given hour and concentrate for battle.
It was
her only game, her only relief from her burden of sorrow and
inaction.
She played it hour after hour, as others play chess; and lost
herself
in it, and so got repose for her mind and healing for her heart.
She
never complained, of course. It was not her way. She was the sort
that
endure in silence.
But--she
was a caged eagle just the same, and pined for the free air and
the
alpine heights and the fierce joys of the storm.
might
turn up. Several times, at intervals, when Joan's dull captivity
grew
too heavy to bear, she was allowed to gather a troop of cavalry and
make
a health-restoring dash against the enemy. These things were a bath
to
her spirits.
It
was like old times, there at Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, to see her lead
assault
after assault, be driven back again and again, but always rally
and
charge anew, all in a blaze of eagerness and delight; till at last
the
tempest of missiles rained so intolerably thick that old D'Aulon,
who
was wounded, sounded the retreat (for the King had charged him on
his
head to let no harm come to Joan); and away everybody rushed after
him--as
he supposed; but when he turned and looked, there were we of
the
staff still hammering away; wherefore he rode back and urged her to
come,
saying she was mad to stay there with only a dozen men. Her eye
danced
merrily, and she turned upon him crying out:
"A
dozen men! name of God, I have fifty-thousand, and will never budge
till
this place is taken!
"Sound
the charge!"
Which
he did, and over the walls we went, and the fortress was ours. Old
D'Aulon
thought her mind was wandering; but all she meant was, that
she
felt the might of fifty thousand men surging in her heart. It was a
fanciful
expression; but, to my thinking, truer word was never said.
Then
there was the affair near Lagny, where we charged the intrenched
Burgundians
through the open field four times, the last time
victoriously;
the best prize of it Franquet d'Arras, the free-booter and
pitiless
scourge of the region roundabout.
Now
and then other such affairs; and at last, away toward the end of
May,
1430, we were in the neighborhood of
to go
to the help of that place, which was being besieged by the Duke of
I had
been wounded lately, and was not able to ride without help; but
the
good Dwarf took me on behind him, and I held on to him and was safe
enough.
We started at midnight, in a sullen downpour of warm rain, and
went
slowly and softly and in dead silence, for we had to slip through
the
enemy's lines. We were challenged only once; we made no answer, but
held
our breath and crept steadily and stealthily along, and got through
without
any accident. About three or half past we reached
just
as the gray dawn was breaking in the east.
Joan
set to work at once, and concerted a plan with Guillaume de Flavy,
captain
of the city--a plan for a sortie toward evening against the
enemy,
who was posted in three bodies on the other side of the
the
level plain. From our side one of the city gates communicated with
a
bridge. The end of this bridge was defended on the other side of the
river
by one of those fortresses called a boulevard; and this boulevard
also
commanded a raised road, which stretched from its front across the
plain
to the
another
was camped at Clairoix, a couple of miles above the raised road;
and a
body of English was holding Venette, a mile and a half below it. A
kind
of bow-and-arrow arrangement, you see; the causeway the arrow, the
boulevard
at the feather-end of it, Marguy at the barb, Venette at one
end
of the bow, Clairoix at the other.
Joan's
plan was to go straight per causeway against Marguy, carry it by
assault,
then turn swiftly upon Clairoix, up to the right, and capture
that
camp in the same way, then face to the rear and be ready for heavy
work,
for the Duke of Burgundy lay behind Clairoix with a reserve.
Flavy's
lieutenant, with archers and the artillery of the boulevard,
was
to keep the English troops from coming up from below and seizing the
causeway
and cutting off Joan's retreat in case she should have to
make
one. Also, a fleet of covered boats was to be stationed near
the
boulevard as an additional help in case a retreat should become
necessary.
It
was the 24th of May. At four in the afternoon Joan moved out at the
head
of six hundred cavalry--on her last march in this life!
It
breaks my heart. I had got myself helped up onto the walls, and from
there
I saw much that happened, the rest was told me long afterward by
our
two knights and other eye-witnesses. Joan crossed the bridge, and
soon
left the boulevard behind her and went skimming away over the
raised
road with her horsemen clattering at her heels. She had on a
brilliant
silver-gilt cape over her armor, and I could see it flap and
flare
and rise and fall like a little patch of white flame.
It
was a bright day, and one could see far and wide over that plain.
Soon
we saw the English force advancing, swiftly and in handsome order,
the
sunlight flashing from its arms.
Joan
crashed into the Burgundians at Marguy and was repulsed. Then she
saw
the other Burgundians moving down from Clairoix. Joan rallied her
men
and charged again, and was again rolled back. Two assaults occupy
a
good deal of time--and time was precious here. The English were
approaching
the road now from Venette, but the boulevard opened fire on
them
and they were checked. Joan heartened her men with inspiring words
and
led them to the charge again in great style. This time she carried
Marguy
with a hurrah. Then she turned at once to the right and plunged
into
the plan and struck the Clairoix force, which was just arriving;
then
there was heavy work, and plenty of it, the two armies hurling each
other
backward turn about and about, and victory inclining first to the
one,
then to the other. Now all of a sudden there was a panic on our
side.
Some say one thing caused it, some another. Some say the cannonade
made
our front ranks think retreat was being cut off by the English,
some
say the rear ranks got the idea that Joan was killed. Anyway our
men
broke, and went flying in a wild rout for the causeway. Joan tried
to
rally them and face them around, crying to them that victory was
sure,
but it did no good, they divided and swept by her like a wave. Old
D'Aulon
begged her to retreat while there was yet a chance for safety,
but
she refused; so he seized her horse's bridle and bore her along with
the
wreck and ruin in spite of herself. And so along the causeway they
came
swarming, that wild confusion of frenzied men and horses--and the
artillery
had to stop firing, of course; consequently the English and
Burgundians
closed in in safety, the former in front, the latter behind
their
prey. Clear to the boulevard the French were washed in this
enveloping
inundation; and there, cornered in an angle formed by the
flank
of the boulevard and the slope of the causeway, they bravely
fought
a hopeless fight, and sank down one by one.
Flavy,
watching from the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed and
the
drawbridge raised. This shut Joan out.
The
little personal guard around her thinned swiftly. Both of our good
knights
went down disabled; Joan's two brothers fell wounded; then Noel
Rainguesson--all
wounded while loyally sheltering Joan from blows aimed
at
her. When only the Dwarf and the Paladin were left, they would not
give
up, but stood their ground stoutly, a pair of steel towers streaked
and
splashed with blood; and where the ax of one fell, and the sword of
the
other, an enemy gasped and died.
And
so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple souls,
they
came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories! they were
very
dear to me.
Then
there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still laying
about
her with her sword, was seized by her cape and dragged from her
horse.
She was borne away a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy's camp, and
after
her followed the victorious army roaring its joy.
The
awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it flew;
and
wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of paralysis;
and
they murmured over and over again, as if they were talking to
themselves,
or in their sleep, "The Maid of Orleans taken!... Joan of
Arc a
prisoner!... the savior of
saying
that over, as if they couldn't understand how it could be, or how
God
could permit it, poor creatures!
You
know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to pavement
with
rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was like, and some other
cities.
But can any man tell you what the mourning in the hearts of the
peasantry
of France was like? No, nobody can tell you that, and,
poor
dumb things, they could not have told you themselves, but it was
there--indeed,
yes. Why, it was the spirit of a whole nation hung with
crape!
The
24th of May. We will draw down the curtain now upon the most
strange,
and pathetic, and wonderful military drama that has been played
upon
the stage of the world. Joan of Arc will march no more.
I
CANNOT bear to dwell at great length upon the shameful history of
the
summer and winter following the capture. For a while I was not much
troubled,
for I was expecting every day to hear that Joan had been put
to
ransom, and that the King--no, not the King, but grateful France--had
come
eagerly forward to pay it. By the laws of war she could not
be
denied the privilege of ransom. She was not a rebel; she was a
legitimately
constituted soldier, head of the armies of
her
King's appointment, and guilty of no crime known to military law;
therefore
she could not be detained upon any pretext, if ransom were
proffered.
But
day after day dragged by and no ransom was offered! It seems
incredible,
but it is true. Was that reptile Tremouille busy at the
King's
ear? All we know is, that the King was silent, and made no offer
and
no effort in behalf of this poor girl who had done so much for him.
But,
unhappily, there was alacrity enough in another quarter. The news
of
the capture reached
English
and Burgundians deafened the world all the day and all the night
with
the clamor of their joy-bells and the thankful thunder of their
artillery,
and the next day the Vicar-General of the Inquisition sent a
message
to the Duke of Burgundy requiring the delivery of the prisoner
into
the hands of the Church to be tried as an idolater.
The
English had seen their opportunity, and it was the English power
that
was really acting, not the Church. The Church was being used as a
blind,
a disguise; and for a forcible reason: the Church was not only
able
to take the life of Joan of Arc, but to blight her influence and
the
valor-breeding inspiration of her name, whereas the English
power
could but kill her body; that would not diminish or destroy the
influence
of her name; it would magnify it and make it permanent. Joan
of
Arc was the only power in
the
only power in
could
be brought to take her life, or to proclaim her an idolater, a
heretic,
a witch, sent from Satan, not from heaven, it was believed that
the
English supremacy could be at once reinstated.
The
Duke of Burgundy listened--but waited. He could not doubt that the
French
King or the French people would come forward presently and pay a
higher
price than the English. He kept Joan a close prisoner in a
strong
fortress, and continued to wait, week after week. He was a French
prince,
and was at heart ashamed to sell her to the English. Yet with
all
his waiting no offer came to him from the French side.
One
day Joan played a cunning trick on her jailer, and not only slipped
out
of her prison, but locked him up in it. But as she fled away she was
seen
by a sentinel, and was caught and brought back.
Then
she was sent to Beaurevoir, a stronger castle. This was early in
August,
and she had been in captivity more than two months now. Here she
was
shut up in the top of a tower which was sixty feet high. She ate her
heart
there for another long stretch--about three months and a half.
And
she was aware, all these weary five months of captivity, that the
English,
under cover of the Church, were dickering for her as one would
dicker
for a horse or a slave, and that
silent,
all her friends the same. Yes, it was pitiful.
And
yet when she heard at last that
and
likely to be captured, and that the enemy had declared that no
inhabitant
of it should escape massacre, not even children of seven
years
of age, she was in a fever at once to fly to our rescue. So she
tore
her bedclothes to strips and tied them together and descended
this
frail rope in the night, and it broke, and she fell and was badly
bruised,
and remained three days insensible, meantime neither eating nor
drinking.
And
now came relief to us, led by the Count of Vendome, and
was
saved and the siege raised. This was a disaster to the Duke of
be
made for Joan of Arc. The English at once sent a French bishop--that
forever
infamous Pierre Cauchon of
the
Archbishopric of Rouen, which was vacant, if he should succeed. He
claimed
the right to preside over Joan's ecclesiastical trial because
the
battle-ground where she was taken was within his diocese. By the
military
usage of the time the ransom of a royal prince was 10,000
livres
of gold, which is 61,125 francs--a fixed sum, you see. It must be
accepted
when offered; it could not be refused.
Cauchon
brought the offer of this very sum from the English--a royal
prince's
ransom for the poor little peasant-girl of Domremy. It shows
in a
striking way the English idea of her formidable importance. It was
accepted.
For that sum Joan of Arc, the Savior of France, was sold; sold
to
her enemies; to the enemies of her country; enemies who had lashed
and
thrashed and thumped and trounced
holiday
sport of it; enemies who had forgotten, years and years ago,
what
a Frenchman's face was like, so used were they to seeing nothing
but
his back; enemies whom she had whipped, whom she had cowed, whom she
had
taught to respect French valor, new-born in her nation by the breath
of
her spirit; enemies who hungered for her life as being the only
puissance
able to stand between English triumph and French degradation.
Sold
to a French priest by a French prince, with the French King and the
French
nation standing thankless by and saying nothing.
And
she--what did she say? Nothing. Not a reproach passed her lips. She
was
too great for that--she was Joan of Arc; and when that is said, all
is
said.
As a
soldier, her record was spotless. She could not be called to
account
for anything under that head. A subterfuge must be found, and,
as we
have seen, was found. She must be tried by priests for crimes
against
religion. If none could be discovered, some must be invented.
Let
the miscreant Cauchon alone to contrive those.
English
power; its population had been under English dominion so many
generations
that they were hardly French now, save in language. The
place
was strongly garrisoned. Joan was taken there near the end of
December,
1430, and flung into a dungeon. Yes, and clothed in chains,
that
free spirit!
Still
only
one way. You will remember that whenever Joan was not at the front,
the
French held back and ventured nothing; that whenever she led, they
swept
everything before them, so long as they could see her white
armor
or her banner; that every time she fell wounded or was reported
killed--as
at
argue
from this that they had undergone no real transformation as yet;
that
at bottom they were still under the spell of a timorousness born of
generations
of unsuccess, and a lack of confidence in each other and
in
their leaders born of old and bitter experience in the way of
treacheries
of all sorts--for their kings had been treacherous to their
great
vassals and to their generals, and these in turn were treacherous
to
the head of the state and to each other. The soldiery found that
they
could depend utterly on Joan, and upon her alone. With her gone,
everything
was gone. She was the sun that melted the frozen torrents and
set
them boiling; with that sun removed, they froze again, and the army
and
all
and
nothing more; incapable of thought, hope, ambition, or motion.
MY
WOUND gave me a great deal of trouble clear into the first part of
October;
then the fresher weather renewed my life and strength. All this
time
there were reports drifting about that the King was going to ransom
Joan.
I believed these, for I was young and had not yet found out the
littleness
and meanness of our poor human race, which brags about itself
so
much, and thinks it is better and higher than the other animals.
In
October I was well enough to go out with two sorties, and in the
second
one, on the 23d, I was wounded again. My luck had turned,
you
see. On the night of the 25th the besiegers decamped, and in the
disorder
and confusion one of their prisoners escaped and got safe into
you
would wish to see.
"What?
Alive? Noel Rainguesson!"
It
was indeed he. It was a most joyful meeting, that you will easily
know;
and also as sad as it was joyful. We could not speak Joan's name.
One's
voice would have broken down. We knew who was meant when she was
mentioned;
we could say "she" and "her," but we could not speak th=
e
name.
We
talked of the personal staff. Old D'Aulon, wounded and a prisoner,
was
still with Joan and serving her, by permission of the Duke of
character
as a prisoner of war taken in honorable conflict. And this was
continued--as
we learned later--until she fell into the hands of that
bastard
of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais.
Noel
was full of noble and affectionate praises and appreciations of our
old
boastful big Standard-Bearer, now gone silent forever, his real and
imaginary
battles all fought, his work done, his life honorably closed
and
completed.
"And
think of his luck!" burst out Noel, with his eyes full of tears.
"Always
the pet child of luck!
"See
how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all
through,
in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the
public
eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a chance to do
fine
things and always doing them; in the beginning called the Paladin
in
joke, and called it afterward in earnest because he magnificently
made
the title good; and at last--supremest luck of all--died in the
field!
died with his harness on; died faithful to his charge, the
Standard
in his hand; died--oh, think of it--with the approving eye of
Joan
of Arc upon him!
"He
drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to his
peace,
blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to follow.
What
luck, what luck! And we? What was our sin that we are still here,
we
who have also earned our place with the happy dead?"
And
presently he said:
"They
tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it away,
their
most precious prize after its captured owner. But they haven't it
now.
A month ago we put our lives upon the risk--our two good knights,
my
fellow-prisoners, and I--and stole it, and got it smuggled by
trusty
hands to
Treasury."
I was
glad and grateful to learn that. I have seen it often since, when
I
have gone to
the
city and hold the first place of honor at the banquets and in the
processions--I
mean since Joan's brothers passed from this life. It will
still
be there, sacredly guarded by French love, a thousand years from
now--yes,
as long as any shred of it hangs together. (1) Two or three
weeks
after this talk came the tremendous news like a thunder-clap, and
we
were aghast--Joan of Arc sold to the English!
Not
for a moment had we ever dreamed of such a thing. We were young, you
see,
and did not know the human race, as I have said before. We had been
so
proud of our country, so sure of her nobleness, her magnanimity,
her
gratitude. We had expected little of the King, but of
had
expected everything. Everybody knew that in various towns patriot
priests
had been marching in procession urging the people to sacrifice
money,
property, everything, and buy the freedom of their heaven-sent
deliverer.
That the money would be raised we had not thought of
doubting.
But
it was all over now, all over. It was a bitter time for us. The
heavens
seemed hung with black; all cheer went out from our hearts.
Was
this comrade here at my bedside really Noel Rainguesson, that
light-hearted
creature whose whole life was but one long joke, and who
used
up more breath in laughter than in keeping his body alive? No, no;
that
Noel I was to see no more. This one's heart was broken. He moved
grieving
about, and absently, like one in a dream; the stream of his
laughter
was dried at its source.
Well,
that was best. It was my own mood. We were company for each other.
He
nursed me patiently through the dull long weeks, and at last, in
January,
I was strong enough to go about again. Then he said:
"Shall
we go now?"
"Yes."
There
was no need to explain. Our hearts were in
our
bodies there. All that we cared for in this life was shut up in that
fortress.
We could not help her, but it would be some solace to us to be
near
her, to breathe the air that she breathed, and look daily upon the
stone
walls that hid her. What if we should be made prisoners there?
Well,
we could but do our best, and let luck and fate decide what should
happen.
And
so we started. We could not realize the change which had come upon
the
country. We seemed able to choose our own route and go whenever we
pleased,
unchallenged and unmolested. When Joan of Arc was in the field
there
was a sort of panic of fear everywhere; but now that she was out
of
the way, fear had vanished. Nobody was troubled about you or afraid
of you,
nobody was curious about you or your business, everybody was
indifferent.
We
presently saw that we could take to the
ourselves
out with land travel.
So we
did it, and were carried in a boat to within a league of
Then
we got ashore; not on the hilly side, but on the other, where it
is as
level as a floor. Nobody could enter or leave the city without
explaining
himself. It was because they feared attempts at a rescue of
Joan.
We
had no trouble. We stopped in the plain with a family of peasants and
stayed
a week, helping them with their work for board and lodging, and
making
friends of them. We got clothes like theirs, and wore them.
When
we had worked our way through their reserves and gotten their
confidence,
we found that they secretly harbored French hearts in their
bodies.
Then we came out frankly and told them everything, and found
them
ready to do anything they could to help us.
Our
plan was soon made, and was quite simple. It was to help them drive
a
flock of sheep to the market of the city. One morning early we made
the
venture in a melancholy drizzle of rain, and passed through the
frowning
gates unmolested. Our friends had friends living over a humble
wine
shop in a quaint tall building situated in one of the narrow lanes
that
run down from the cathedral to the river, and with these they
bestowed
us; and the next day they smuggled our own proper clothing and
other
belongings to us. The family that lodged us--the Pieroons--were
French
in sympathy, and we needed to have no secrets from them.
(1)
It remained there three hundred and sixty years, and then was
destroyed
in a public bonfire, together with two swords, a plumed cap,
several
suits of state apparel, and other relics of the Maid, by a mob
in
the time of the Revolution. Nothing which the hand of Joan of Arc is
known
to have touched now remains in existence except a few preciously
guarded
military and state papers which she signed, her pen being guided
by a
clerk or her secretary, Louis de Conte. A boulder exists from which
she
is known to have mounted her horse when she was once setting out
upon
a campaign. Up to a quarter of a century ago there was a single
hair
from her head still in existence. It was drawn through the wax of
a
seal attached to the parchment of a state document. It was
surreptitiously
snipped out, seal and all, by some vandal relic-hunter,
and
carried off. Doubtless it still exists, but only the thief knows
where.
-- TRANSLATOR.
IT
WAS necessary for me to have some way to gain bread for Noel and
myself;
and when the Pierrons found that I knew how to write, the
applied
to their confessor in my behalf, and he got a place for me with
a
good priest named Manchon, who was to be the chief recorder in the
Great
Trial of Joan of Arc now approaching. It was a strange position
for
me--clerk to the recorder--and dangerous if my sympathies and the
late
employment should be found out. But there was not much danger.
Manchon
was at bottom friendly to Joan and would not betray me; and
my
name would not, for I had discarded my surname and retained only my
given
one, like a person of low degree.
I
attended Manchon constantly straight along, out of January and into
February,
and was often in the citadel with him--in the very fortress
where
Joan was imprisoned, though not in the dungeon where she was
confined,
and so did not see her, of course.
Manchon
told me everything that had been happening before my coming.
Ever
since the purchase of Joan, Cauchon had been busy packing his jury
for
the destruction of the Maid--weeks and weeks he had spent in this
bad
industry. The
and
able and trusty ecclesiastics of the stripe he wanted; and he had
scraped
together a clergyman of like stripe and great fame here and
there
and yonder, until he was able to construct a formidable court
numbering
half a hundred distinguished names. French names they were,
but
their interests and sympathies were English.
A
great officer of the Inquisition was also sent from
accused
must be tried by the forms of the Inquisition; but this was a
brave
and righteous man, and he said squarely that this court had no
power
to try the case, wherefore he refused to act; and the same honest
talk
was uttered by two or three others.
The
Inquisitor was right. The case as here resurrected against Joan had
already
been tried long ago at
and
by a higher tribunal than this one, for at the head of it was an
Archbishop--he
of
a
lower court was impudently preparing to try and redecide a cause which
had
already been decided by its superior, a court of higher authority.
Imagine
it! No, the case could not properly be tried again. Cauchon
could
not properly preside in this new court, for more than one reason:
domicile,
which was still Domremy; and finally this proposed judge was
the
prisoner's outspoken enemy, and therefore he was incompetent to
try
her. Yet all these large difficulties were gotten rid of. The
territorial
Chapter of Rouen finally granted territorial letters to
Cauchon--though
only after a struggle and under compulsion. Force was
also
applied to the Inquisitor, and he was obliged to submit.
So
then, the little English King, by his representative, formally
delivered
Joan into the hands of the court, but with this reservation:
if
the court failed to condemn her, he was to have her back again! Ah,
dear,
what chance was there for that forsaken and friendless child?
Friendless,
indeed--it is the right word. For she was in a black
dungeon,
with half a dozen brutal common soldiers keeping guard night
and
day in the room where her cage was--for she was in a cage; an iron
cage,
and chained to her bed by neck and hands and feet. Never a person
near
her whom she had ever seen before; never a woman at all. Yes, this
was,
indeed, friendlessness.
Now
it was a vassal of Jean de Luxembourg who captured Joan and
this
very De
Joan
in her cage. He came with two English earls, Warwick and
He
was a poor reptile. He told her he would get her set free if she
would
promise not to fight the English any more. She had been in that
cage
a long time now, but not long enough to break her spirit. She
retorted
scornfully:
"Name
of God, you but mock me. I know that you have neither the power
nor
the will to do it."
He
insisted. Then the pride and dignity of the soldier rose in Joan, and
she
lifted her chained hands and let them fall with a clash, saying:
"See
these! They know more than you, and can prophesy better. I know
that
the English are going to kill me, for they think that when I am
dead
they can get the
"Though
there were a hundred thousand of them they would never get it."
This
defiance infuriated
strong
man, she a chained and helpless girl--he drew his dagger and
flung
himself at her to stab her. But
back.
stainless
and undisgraced? It would make her the idol of
whole
nation would rise and march to victory and emancipation under the
inspiration
of her spirit. No, she must be saved for another fate than
that.
Well,
the time was approaching for the Great Trial. For more than two
months
Cauchon had been raking and scraping everywhere for any odds and
ends
of evidence or suspicion or conjecture that might be usable against
Joan,
and carefully suppressing all evidence that came to hand in her
favor.
He had limitless ways and means and powers at his disposal for
preparing
and strengthening the case for the prosecution, and he used
them
all.
But
Joan had no one to prepare her case for her, and she was shut up in
those
stone walls and had no friend to appeal to for help. And as for
witnesses,
she could not call a single one in her defense; they were
all
far away, under the French flag, and this was an English court; they
would
have been seized and hanged if they had shown their faces at the
gates
of
the
prosecution, witness for the defense; and with a verdict of death
resolved
upon before the doors were opened for the court's first
sitting.
When
she learned that the court was made up of ecclesiastics in the
interest
of the English, she begged that in fairness an equal number of
priests
of the French party should be added to these.
Cauchon
scoffed at her message, and would not even deign to answer it.
By
the law of the Church--she being a minor under twenty-one--it was her
right
to have counsel to conduct her case, advise her how to answer
when
questioned, and protect her from falling into traps set by cunning
devices
of the prosecution. She probably did not know that this was her
right,
and that she could demand it and require it, for there was none
to
tell her that; but she begged for this help, at any rate. Cauchon
refused
it. She urged and implored, pleading her youth and her ignorance
of
the complexities and intricacies of the law and of legal procedure.
Cauchon
refused again, and said she must get along with her case as best
she
might by herself. Ah, his heart was a stone.
Cauchon
prepared the proces verbal. I will simplify that by calling it
the
Bill of Particulars. It was a detailed list of the charges against
her,
and formed the basis of the trial. Charges? It was a list of
suspicions
and public rumors--those were the words used. It was merely
charged
that she was suspected of having been guilty of heresies,
witchcraft,
and other such offenses against religion.
Now
by the law of the Church, a trial of that sort could not be begun
until
a searching inquiry had been made into the history and character
of
the accused, and it was essential that the result of this inquiry be
added
to the proces verbal and form a part of it. You remember that that
was
the first thing they did before the trial at
again
now. An ecclesiastic was sent to Domremy. There and all about
the
neighborhood he made an exhaustive search into Joan's history
and
character, and came back with his verdict. It was very clear. The
searcher
reported that he found Joan's character to be in every way what
he
"would like his own sister's character to be." Just about the
same
report that was brought back to
character
which could endure the minutest examination.
This
verdict was a strong point for Joan, you will say. Yes, it would
have
been if it could have seen the light; but Cauchon was awake, and it
disappeared
from the proces verbal before the trial. People were prudent
enough
not to inquire what became of it.
One
would imagine that Cauchon was ready to begin the trial by this
time.
But no, he devised one more scheme for poor Joan's destruction,
and
it promised to be a deadly one.
One
of the great personages picked out and sent down by the University
of
handsome,
grave, of smooth, soft speech and courteous and winning
manners.
There was no seeming of treachery or hypocrisy about him,
yet
he was full of both. He was admitted to Joan's prison by night,
disguised
as a cobbler; he pretended to be from her own country; he
professed
to be secretly a patriot; he revealed the fact that he was
a
priest. She was filled with gladness to see one from the hills and
plains
that were so dear to her; happier still to look upon a priest and
disburden
her heart in confession, for the offices of the Church were
the
bread of life, the breath of her nostrils to her, and she had been
long
forced to pine for them in vain. She opened her whole innocent
heart
to this creature, and in return he gave her advice concerning her
trial
which could have destroyed her if her deep native wisdom had not
protected
her against following it.
You
will ask, what value could this scheme have, since the secrets of
the
confessional are sacred and cannot be revealed? True--but suppose
another
person should overhear them? That person is not bound to keep
the
secret. Well, that is what happened. Cauchon had previously caused
a
hole to be bored through the wall; and he stood with his ear to that
hole
and heard all. It is pitiful to think of these things. One wonders
how
they could treat that poor child so. She had not done them any harm.
ON
TUESDAY, the 20th of February, while I sat at my master's work in the
evening,
he came in, looking sad, and said it had been decided to begin
the
trial at eight o'clock the next morning, and I must get ready to
assist
him.
Of
course I had been expecting such news every day for many days; but no
matter,
the shock of it almost took my breath away and set me trembling
like
a leaf. I suppose that without knowing it I had been half imagining
that
at the last moment something would happen, something that would
stop
this fatal trial; maybe that La Hire would burst in at the gates
with
his hellions at his back; maybe that God would have pity and
stretch
forth His mighty hand. But now--now there was no hope.
The
trial was to begin in the chapel of the fortress and would be
public.
So I went sorrowing away and told Noel, so that he might be
there
early and secure a place. It would give him a chance to look again
upon
the face which we so revered and which was so precious to us.
All
the way, both going and coming, I plowed through chattering and
rejoicing
multitudes of English soldiery and English-hearted French
citizens.
There was no talk but of the coming event. Many times I heard
the
remark, accompanied by a pitiless laugh:
"The
fat Bishop has got things as he wants them at last, and says he
will
lead the vile witch a merry dance and a short one."
But
here and there I glimpsed compassion and distress in a face, and
it
was not always a French one. English soldiers feared Joan, but they
admired
her for her great deeds and her unconquerable spirit.
In
the morning Manchon and I went early, yet as we approached the
vast
fortress we found crowds of men already there and still others
gathering.
The chapel was already full and the way barred against
further
admissions of unofficial persons. We took our appointed places.
Throned
on high sat the president, Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, in
his
grand robes, and before him in rows sat his robed court--fifty
distinguished
ecclesiastics, men of high degree in the Church, of
clear-cut
intellectual faces, men of deep learning, veteran adepts in
strategy
and casuistry, practised setters of traps for ignorant minds
and
unwary feet. When I looked around upon this army of masters of
legal
fence, gathered here to find just one verdict and no other,
and
remembered that Joan must fight for her good name and her life
single-handed
against them, I asked myself what chance an ignorant poor
country-girl
of nineteen could have in such an unequal conflict; and
my
heart sank down low, very low. When I looked again at that obese
president,
puffing and wheezing there, his great belly distending and
receding
with each breath, and noted his three chins, fold above fold,
and
his knobby and knotty face, and his purple and splotchy complexion,
and
his repulsive cauliflower nose, and his cold and malignant eyes--a
brute,
every detail of him--my heart sank lower still. And when I noted
that
all were afraid of this man, and shrank and fidgeted in their seats
when
his eye smote theirs, my last poor ray of hope dissolved away and
wholly
disappeared.
There
was one unoccupied seat in this place, and only one. It was over
against
the wall, in view of every one. It was a little wooden bench
without
a back, and it stood apart and solitary on a sort of dais. Tall
men-at-arms
in morion, breastplate, and steel gauntlets stood as stiff
as their
own halberds on each side of this dais, but no other creature
was
near by it. A pathetic little bench to me it was, for I knew whom it
was
for; and the sight of it carried my mind back to the great court at
Poitiers,
where Joan sat upon one like it and calmly fought her cunning
fight
with the astonished doctors of the Church and Parliament, and
rose
from it victorious and applauded by all, and went forth to fill the
world
with the glory of her name.
What
a dainty little figure she was, and how gentle and innocent, how
winning
and beautiful in the fresh bloom of her seventeen years! Those
were
grand days. And so recent--for she was just nineteen now--and how
much
she had seen since, and what wonders she had accomplished!
But
now--oh, all was changed now. She had been languishing in dungeons,
away
from light and air and the cheer of friendly faces, for nearly
three-quarters
of a year--she, born child of the sun, natural comrade of
the
birds and of all happy free creatures. She would be weary now, and
worn
with this long captivity, her forces impaired; despondent, perhaps,
as
knowing there was no hope. Yes, all was changed.
All
this time there had been a muffled hum of conversation, and rustling
of
robes and scraping of feet on the floor, a combination of dull noises
which
filled all the place. Suddenly:
"Produce
the accused!"
It
made me catch my breath. My heart began to thump like a hammer. But
there
was silence now--silence absolute. All those noises ceased, and
it
was as if they had never been. Not a sound; the stillness grew
oppressive;
it was like a weight upon one. All faces were turned toward
the
door; and one could properly expect that, for most of the people
there
suddenly realized, no doubt, that they were about to see, in
actual
flesh and blood, what had been to them before only an embodied
prodigy,
a word, a phrase, a world-girdling Name.
The
stillness continued. Then, far down the stone-paved corridors, one
heard
a vague slow sound approaching: clank... clink... clank--Joan of
Arc,
Deliverer of France, in chains!
My
head swam; all things whirled and spun about me. Ah, I was realizing,
too.
I
GIVE you my honor now that I am not going to distort or discolor the
facts
of this miserable trial. No, I will give them to you honestly,
detail
by detail, just as Manchon and I set them down daily in the
official
record of the court, and just as one may read them in the
printed
histories.
There
will be only this difference: that in talking familiarly with you,
I shall
use my right to comment upon the proceedings and explain them as
I go
along, so that you can understand them better; also, I shall throw
in
trifles which came under our eyes and have a certain interest for you
and
me, but were not important enough to go into the official record.
(1)
To take up my story now where I left off. We heard the clanking of
Joan's
chains down the corridors; she was approaching.
Presently
she appeared; a thrill swept the house, and one heard deep
breaths
drawn. Two guardsmen followed her at a short distance to the
rear.
Her head was bowed a little, and she moved slowly, she being weak
and
her irons heavy. She had on men's attire--all black; a soft woolen
stuff,
intensely black, funereally black, not a speck of relieving color
in it
from her throat to the floor. A wide collar of this same black
stuff
lay in radiating folds upon her shoulders and breast; the sleeves
of
her doublet were full, down to the elbows, and tight thence to her
manacled
wrists; below the doublet, tight black hose down to the chains
on
her ankles.
Half-way
to her bench she stopped, just where a wide shaft of light fell
slanting
from a window, and slowly lifted her face. Another thrill!--it
was
totally colorless, white as snow; a face of gleaming snow set in
vivid
contrast upon that slender statue of somber unmitigated black. It
was
smooth and pure and girlish, beautiful beyond belief, infinitely
sad
and sweet. But, dear, dear! when the challenge of those untamed
eyes
fell upon that judge, and the droop vanished from her form and
it
straightened up soldierly and noble, my heart leaped for joy; and I
said,
all is well, all is well--they have not broken her, they have not
conquered
her, she is Joan of Arc still! Yes, it was plain to me now
that
there was one spirit there which this dreaded judge could not quell
nor
make afraid.
She
moved to her place and mounted the dais and seated herself upon her
bench,
gathering her chains into her lap and nestling her little white
hands
there. Then she waited in tranquil dignity, the only person there
who
seemed unmoved and unexcited. A bronzed and brawny English soldier,
standing
at martial ease in the front rank of the citizen spectators,
did
now most gallantly and respectfully put up his great hand and give
her
the military salute; and she, smiling friendly, put up hers and
returned
it; whereat there was a sympathetic little break of applause,
which
the judge sternly silence.
Now
the memorable inquisition called in history the Great Trial began.
Fifty
experts against a novice, and no one to help the novice!
The
judge summarized the circumstances of the case and the public
reports
and suspicions upon which it was based; then he required Joan to
kneel
and make oath that she would answer with exact truthfulness to all
questions
asked her.
Joan's
mind was not asleep. It suspected that dangerous possibilities
might
lie hidden under this apparently fair and reasonable demand.
She
answered with the simplicity which so often spoiled the enemy's
best-laid
plans in the trial at Poitiers, and said:
"No;
for I do not know what you are going to ask me; you might ask of me
things
which I would not tell you."
This
incensed the Court, and brought out a brisk flurry of angry
exclamations.
Joan was not disturbed. Cauchon raised his voice and began
to
speak in the midst of this noise, but he was so angry that he could
hardly
get his words out. He said:
"With
the divine assistance of our Lord we require you to expedite these
proceedings
for the welfare of your conscience. Swear, with your hands
upon
the Gospels, that you will answer true to the questions which shall
be
asked you!" and he brought down his fat hand with a crash upon his
official
table.
Joan
said, with composure:
"As
concerning my father and mother, and the faith, and what things
I
have done since my coming into France, I will gladly answer; but as
regards
the revelations which I have received from God, my Voices have
forbidden
me to confide them to any save my King--"
Here
there was another angry outburst of threats and expletives, and
much
movement and confusion; so she had to stop, and wait for the noise
to
subside; then her waxen face flushed a little and she straightened
up
and fixed her eye on the judge, and finished her sentence in a voice
that
had the old ring to it:
--"and
I will never reveal these things though you cut my head off!"
Well,
maybe you know what a deliberative body of Frenchmen is like. The
judge
and half the court were on their feet in a moment, and all shaking
their
fists at the prisoner, and all storming and vituperating at once,
so
that you could hardly hear yourself think. They kept this up several
minutes;
and because Joan sat untroubled and indifferent they grew
madder
and noisier all the time. Once she said, with a fleeting trace of
the
old-time mischief in her eye and manner:
"Prithee,
speak one at a time, fair lords, then I will answer all of
you."
At
the end of three whole hours of furious debating over the oath,
the
situation had not changed a jot. The Bishop was still requiring an
unmodified
oath, Joan was refusing for the twentieth time to take any
except
the one which she had herself proposed. There was a physical
change
apparent, but it was confined to the court and judge; they
were
hoarse, droopy, exhausted by their long frenzy, and had a sort of
haggard
look in their faces, poor men, whereas Joan was still placid and
reposeful
and did not seem noticeably tired.
The
noise quieted down; there was a waiting pause of some moments'
duration.
Then the judge surrendered to the prisoner, and with
bitterness
in his voice told her to take the oath after her own fashion.
Joan
sunk at once to her knees; and as she laid her hands upon the
Gospels,
that big English soldier set free his mind:
"By
God, if she were but English, she were not in this place another
half
a second!"
It
was the soldier in him responding to the soldier in her. But what
a
stinging rebuke it was, what an arraignment of French character and
French
royalty! Would that he could have uttered just that one phrase
in
the hearing of Orleans! I know that that grateful city, that adoring
city,
would have risen to the last man and the last woman, and marched
upon
Rouen. Some speeches--speeches that shame a man and humble
him--burn
themselves into the memory and remain there. That one is
burned
into mine.
After
Joan had made oath, Cauchon asked her her name, and where she was
born,
and some questions about her family; also what her age was. She
answered
these. Then he asked her how much education she had.
"I
have learned from my mother the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the
Belief.
All that I know was taught me by my mother."
Questions
of this unessential sort dribbled on for a considerable time.
Everybody
was tired out by now, except Joan. The tribunal prepared to
rise.
At this point Cauchon forbade Joan to try to escape from prison,
upon
pain of being held guilty of the crime of heresy--singular logic!
She
answered simply:
"I
am not bound by this proposition. If I could escape I would not
reproach
myself, for I have given no promise, and I shall not."
Then
she complained of the burden of her chains, and asked that they
might
be removed, for she was strongly guarded in that dungeon and there
was
no need of them. But the Bishop refused, and reminded her that she
had
broken out of prison twice before. Joan of Arc was too proud to
insist.
She only said, as she rose to go with the guard:
"It
is true, I have wanted to escape, and I do want to escape." Then she
added,
in a way that would touch the pity of anybody, I think, "It is
the
right of every prisoner."
And
so she went from the place in the midst of an impressive stillness,
which
made the sharper and more distressful to me the clank of those
pathetic
chains.
What
presence of mind she had! One could never surprise her out of it.
She
saw Noel and me there when she first took her seat on the bench,
and
we flushed to the forehead with excitement and emotion, but her face
showed
nothing, betrayed nothing. Her eyes sought us fifty times that
day,
but they passed on and there was never any ray of recognition in
them.
Another would have started upon seeing us, and then--why, then
there
could have been trouble for us, of course.
We
walked slowly home together, each busy with his own grief and saying
not a
word.
(1)
He kept his word. His account of the Great Trial will be found to
be in
strict and detailed accordance with the sworn facts of history.
--TRANSLATOR.
THAT
NIGHT Manchon told me that all through the day's proceedings
Cauchon
had had some clerks concealed in the embrasure of a window who
were
to make a special report garbling Joan's answers and twisting them
from
their right meaning. Ah, that was surely the cruelest man and the
most
shameless that has lived in this world. But his scheme failed.
Those
clerks had human hearts in them, and their base work revolted
them,
and they turned to and boldly made a straight report, whereupon
Cauchon
cursed them and ordered them out of his presence with a threat
of
drowning, which was his favorite and most frequent menace. The matter
had
gotten abroad and was making great and unpleasant talk, and Cauchon
would
not try to repeat this shabby game right away. It comforted me to
hear
that.
When
we arrived at the citadel next morning, we found that a change
had
been made. The chapel had been found too small. The court had now
removed
to a noble chamber situated at the end of the great hall of the
castle.
The number of judges was increased to sixty-two--one ignorant
girl
against such odds, and none to help her.
The
prisoner was brought in. She was as white as ever, but she was
looking
no whit worse than she looked when she had first appeared the
day
before. Isn't it a strange thing? Yesterday she had sat five hours
on
that backless bench with her chains in her lap, baited, badgered,
persecuted
by that unholy crew, without even the refreshment of a cup of
water--for
she was never offered anything, and if I have made you know
her
by this time you will know without my telling you that she was not a
person
likely to ask favors of those people. And she had spent the night
caged
in her wintry dungeon with her chains upon her; yet here she was,
as I
say, collected, unworn, and ready for the conflict; yes, and
the
only person there who showed no signs of the wear and worry of
yesterday.
And her eyes--ah, you should have seen them and broken your
hearts.
Have you seen that veiled deep glow, that pathetic hurt dignity,
that
unsubdued and unsubduable spirit that burns and smolders in the eye
of a
caged eagle and makes you feel mean and shabby under the burden of
its
mute reproach? Her eyes were like that. How capable they were, and
how
wonderful! Yes, at all times and in all circumstances they could
express
as by print every shade of the wide range of her moods. In
them
were hidden floods of gay sunshine, the softest and peacefulest
twilights,
and devastating storms and lightnings. Not in this world have
there
been others that were comparable to them. Such is my opinion, and
none
that had the privilege to see them would say otherwise than this
which
I have said concerning them.
The
seance began. And how did it begin, should you think? Exactly as it
began
before--with that same tedious thing which had been settled once,
after
so much wrangling. The Bishop opened thus:
"You
are required now, to take the oath pure and simple, to answer truly
all
questions asked you."
Joan
replied placidly:
"I
have made oath yesterday, my lord; let that suffice."
The
Bishop insisted and insisted, with rising temper; Joan but shook her
head
and remained silent. At last she said:
"I
made oath yesterday; it is sufficient." Then she sighed and said, &quo=
t;Of
a
truth, you do burden me too much."
The
Bishop still insisted, still commanded, but he could not move her.
At
last he gave it up and turned her over for the day's inquest to an
old
hand at tricks and traps and deceptive plausibilities--Beaupere, a
doctor
of theology. Now notice the form of this sleek strategist's first
remark--flung
out in an easy, offhand way that would have thrown any
unwatchful
person off his guard:
"Now,
Joan, the matter is very simple; just speak up and frankly and
truly
answer the questions which I am going to ask you, as you have
sworn
to do."
It
was a failure. Joan was not asleep. She saw the artifice. She said:
"No.
You could ask me things which I could not tell you--and would not."
Then,
reflecting upon how profane and out of character it was for these
ministers
of God to be prying into matters which had proceeded from His
hands
under the awful seal of His secrecy, she added, with a warning
note
in her tone, "If you were well informed concerning me you would
wish
me out of your hands. I have done nothing but by revelation."
Beaupere
changed his attack, and began an approach from another quarter.
He
would slip upon her, you see, under cover of innocent and unimportant
questions.
"Did
you learn any trade at home?"
"Yes,
to sew and to spin." Then the invincible soldier, victor of Patay,
conqueror
of the lion Talbot, deliverer of Orleans, restorer of a king's
crown,
commander-in-chief of a nation's armies, straightened
herself
proudly up, gave her head a little toss, and said with naive
complacency,
"And when it comes to that, I am not afraid to be matched
against
any woman in Rouen!"
The
crowd of spectators broke out with applause--which pleased Joan--and
there
was many a friendly and petting smile to be seen. But Cauchon
stormed
at the people and warned them to keep still and mind their
manners.
Beaupere
asked other questions. Then:
"Had
you other occupations at home?"
"Yes.
I helped my mother in the household work and went to the pastures
with
the sheep and the cattle."
Her
voice trembled a little, but one could hardly notice it. As for me,
it
brought those old enchanted days flooding back to me, and I could not
see
what I was writing for a little while.
Beaupere
cautiously edged along up with other questions toward the
forbidden
ground, and finally repeated a question which she had refused
to
answer a little while back--as to whether she had received the
Eucharist
in those days at other festivals than that of Easter. Joan
merely
said:
"Passez
outre." Or, as one might say, "Pass on to matters which you are
privileged
to pry into."
I
heard a member of the court say to a neighbor:
"As
a rule, witnesses are but dull creatures, and an easy prey--yes, and
easily
embarrassed, easily frightened--but truly one can neither scare
this
child nor find her dozing."
Presently
the house pricked up its ears and began to listen eagerly,
for
Beaupere began to touch upon Joan's Voices, a matter of consuming
interest
and curiosity to everybody. His purpose was to trick her into
heedless
sayings that could indicate that the Voices had sometimes given
her
evil advice--hence that they had come from Satan, you see. To have
dealing
with the devil--well, that would send her to the stake in brief
order,
and that was the deliberate end and aim of this trial.
"When
did you first hear these Voices?"
"I
was thirteen when I first heard a Voice coming from God to help me to
live
well. I was frightened. It came at midday, in my father's garden in
the
summer."
"Had
you been fasting?"
"Yes."
"The
day before?"
"No."
"From
what direction did it come?"
"From
the right--from toward the church."
"Did
it come with a bright light?"
"Oh,
indeed yes. It was brilliant. When I came into France I often heard
the
Voices very loud."
"What
did the Voice sound like?"
"It
was a noble Voice, and I thought it was sent to me from God. The
third
time I heard it I recognized it as being an angel's."
"You
could understand it?"
"Quite
easily. It was always clear."
"What
advice did it give you as to the salvation of your soul?"
"It
told me to live rightly, and be regular in attendance upon the
services
of the Church. And it told me that I must go to France."
"In
what species of form did the Voice appear?"
Joan
looked suspiciously at he priest a moment, then said, tranquilly:
"As
to that, I will not tell you."
"Did
the Voice seek you often?"
"Yes.
Twice or three times a week, saying, 'Leave your village and go to
France.'"
"Did
you father know about your departure?"
"No.
The Voice said, 'Go to France'; therefore I could not abide at home
any
longer."
"What
else did it say?"
"That
I should raise the siege of Orleans."
"Was
that all?"
"No,
I was to go to Vaucouleurs, and Robert de Baudricourt would give
me
soldiers to go with me to France; and I answered, saying that I was a
poor
girl who did not know how to ride, neither how to fight."
Then
she told how she was balked and interrupted at Vaucouleurs, but
finally
got her soldiers, and began her march.
"How
were you dressed?"
The
court of Poitiers had distinctly decided and decreed that as God had
appointed
her to do a man's work, it was meet and no scandal to religion
that
she should dress as a man; but no matter, this court was ready to
use
any and all weapons against Joan, even broken and discredited ones,
and
much was going to be made of this one before this trial should end.
"I
wore a man's dress, also a sword which Robert de Baudricourt gave me,
but
no other weapon."
"Who
was it that advised you to wear the dress of a man?"
Joan
was suspicious again. She would not answer.
The
question was repeated.
She
refused again.
"Answer.
It is a command!"
"Passez
outre," was all she said.
So
Beaupere gave up the matter for the present.
"What
did Baudricourt say to you when you left?"
"He
made them that were to go with me promise to take charge of me, and
to me
he said, 'Go, and let happen what may!'" (Advienne que pourra!)
After
a good deal of questioning upon other matters she was asked again
about
her attire. She said it was necessary for her to dress as a man.
"Did
your Voice advise it?"
Joan
merely answered placidly:
"I
believe my Voice gave me good advice."
It
was all that could be got out of her, so the questions wandered to
other
matters, and finally to her first meeting with the King at
Chinon.
She said she chose out the King, who was unknown to her, by the
revelation
of her Voices. All that happened at that time was gone over.
Finally:
"Do
you still hear those Voices?"
"They
come to me every day."
"What
do you ask of them?"
"I
have never asked of them any recompense but the salvation of my
soul."
"Did
the Voice always urge you to follow the army?"
He is
creeping upon her again. She answered:
"It
required me to remain behind at St. Denis. I would have obeyed if I
had
been free, but I was helpless by my wound, and the knights carried
me
away by force."
"When
were you wounded?"
"I
was wounded in the moat before Paris, in the assault."
The
next question reveals what Beaupere had been leading up to:
"Was
it a feast-day?"
You
see? The suggestion that a voice coming from God would hardly advise
or
permit the violation, by war and bloodshed, of a sacred day.
Joan
was troubled a moment, then she answered yes, it was a feast-day.
"Now,
then, tell the this: did you hold it right to make the attack on
such
a day?"
This
was a shot which might make the first breach in a wall which had
suffered
no damage thus far. There was immediate silence in the court
and
intense expectancy noticeable all about. But Joan disappointed the
house.
She merely made a slight little motion with her hand, as when one
brushes
away a fly, and said with reposeful indifference:
"Passez
outre."
Smiles
danced for a moment in some of the sternest faces there,
and
several men even laughed outright. The trap had been long and
laboriously
prepared; it fell, and was empty.
The
court rose. It had sat for hours, and was cruelly fatigued. Most
of
the time had been taken up with apparently idle and purposeless
inquiries
about the Chinon events, the exiled Duke of Orleans, Joan's
first
proclamation, and so on, but all this seemingly random stuff
had
really been sown thick with hidden traps. But Joan had fortunately
escaped
them all, some by the protecting luck which attends upon
ignorance
and innocence, some by happy accident, the others by force of
her
best and surest helper, the clear vision and lightning intuitions of
her
extraordinary mind.
Now,
then, this daily baiting and badgering of this friendless girl, a
captive
in chains, was to continue a long, long time--dignified sport,
a
kennel of mastiffs and bloodhounds harassing a kitten!--and I may as
well
tell you, upon sworn testimony, what it was like from the first
day
to the last. When poor Joan had been in her grave a quarter of
a
century, the Pope called together that great court which was to
re-examine
her history, and whose just verdict cleared her illustrious
name
from every spot and stain, and laid upon the verdict and conduct
of
our Rouen tribunal the blight of its everlasting execrations. Manchon
and
several of the judges who had been members of our court were among
the
witnesses who appeared before that Tribunal of Rehabilitation.
Recalling
these miserable proceedings which I have been telling you
about,
Manchon testified thus:--here you have it, all in fair print in
the
unofficial history:
When
Joan spoke of her apparitions she was interrupted at almost every
word.
They wearied her with long and multiplied interrogatories upon
all
sorts of things. Almost every day the interrogatories of the morning
lasted
three or four hours; then from these morning interrogatories they
extracted
the particularly difficult and subtle points, and these served
as
material for the afternoon interrogatories, which lasted two or three
hours.
Moment by moment they skipped from one subject to another; yet
in
spite of this she always responded with an astonishing wisdom and
memory.
She often corrected the judges, saying, "But I have already
answered
that once before--ask the recorder," referring them to me.
And
here is the testimony of one of Joan's judges. Remember, these
witnesses
are not talking about two or three days, they are talking
about
a tedious long procession of days:
They
asked her profound questions, but she extricated herself quite
well.
Sometimes the questioners changed suddenly and passed on to
another
subject to see if she would not contradict herself. They
burdened
her with long interrogatories of two or three hours, from which
the
judges themselves went forth fatigued. From the snares with which
she
was beset the expertest man in the world could not have extricated
himself
but with difficulty. She gave her responses with great prudence;
indeed
to such a degree that during three weeks I believed she was
inspired.
Ah,
had she a mind such as I have described? You see what these priests
say
under oath--picked men, men chosen for their places in that terrible
court
on account of their learning, their experience, their keen and
practised
intellects, and their strong bias against the prisoner. They
make
that poor country-girl out the match, and more than the match, of
the
sixty-two trained adepts. Isn't it so? They from the University of
Paris,
she from the sheepfold and the cow-stable!
Ah,
yes, she was great, she was wonderful. It took six thousand years
to
produce her; her like will not be seen in the earth again in fifty
thousand.
Such is my opinion.
THE
THIRD meeting of the court was in that same spacious chamber, next
day,
24th of February.
How
did it begin? In just the same old way. When the preparations were
ended,
the robed sixty-two massed in their chairs and the guards and
order-keepers
distributed to their stations, Cauchon spoke from his
throne
and commanded Joan to lay her hands upon the Gospels and swear to
tell
the truth concerning everything asked her!
Joan's
eyes kindled, and she rose; rose and stood, fine and noble, and
faced
toward the Bishop and said:
"Take
care what you do, my lord, you who are my judge, for you take a
terrible
responsibility on yourself and you presume too far."
It
made a great stir, and Cauchon burst out upon her with an awful
threat--the
threat of instant condemnation unless she obeyed. That
made
the very bones of my body turn cold, and I saw cheeks about me
blanch--for
it meant fire and the stake! But Joan, still standing,
answered
him back, proud and undismayed:
"Not
all the clergy in Paris and Rouen could condemn me, lacking the
right!"
This
made a great tumult, and part of it was applause from the
spectators.
Joan resumed her seat.
The
Bishop still insisted. Joan said:
"I
have already made oath. It is enough."
The
Bishop shouted:
"In
refusing to swear, you place yourself under suspicion!"
"Let
be. I have sworn already. It is enough."
The
Bishop continued to insist. Joan answered that "she would tell what
she
knew--but not all that she knew."
The
Bishop plagued her straight along, till at last she said, in a weary
tone:
"I
came from God; I have nothing more to do here. Return me to God, from
whom
I came."
It
was piteous to hear; it was the same as saying, "You only want my
life;
take it and let me be at peace."
The
Bishop stormed out again:
"Once
more I command you to--"
Joan
cut in with a nonchalant "Passez outre," and Cauchon retired from=
the
struggle; but he retired with some credit this time, for he offered
a
compromise, and Joan, always clear-headed, saw protection for herself
in it
and promptly and willingly accepted it. She was to swear to tell
the
truth "as touching the matters et down in the proces verbal." The=
y
could
not sail her outside of definite limits, now; her course was
over
a charted sea, henceforth. The Bishop had granted more than he had
intended,
and more than he would honestly try to abide by.
By
command, Beaupere resumed his examination of the accused. It being
Lent,
there might be a chance to catch her neglecting some detail of
her
religious duties. I could have told him he would fail there. Why,
religion
was her life!
"Since
when have you eaten or drunk?"
If
the least thing had passed her lips in the nature of sustenance,
neither
her youth nor the fact that she was being half starved in her
prison
could save her from dangerous suspicion of contempt for the
commandments
of the Church.
"I
have done neither since yesterday at noon."
The
priest shifted to the Voices again.
"When
have you heard your Voice?"
"Yesterday
and to-day."
"At
what time?"
"Yesterday
it was in the morning."
"What
were you doing then?"
"I
was asleep and it woke me."
"By
touching your arm?"
"No,
without touching me."
"Did
you thank it? Did you kneel?"
He
had Satan in his mind, you see; and was hoping, perhaps, that by and
by it
could be shown that she had rendered homage to the arch enemy of
God
and man.
"Yes,
I thanked it; and knelt in my bed where I was chained, and joined
my
hands and begged it to implore God's help for me so that I might have
light
and instruction as touching the answers I should give here."
"Then
what did the Voice say?"
"It
told me to answer boldly, and God would help me." Then she turned
toward
Cauchon and said, "You say that you are my judge; now I tell you
again,
take care what you do, for in truth I am sent of God and you are
putting
yourself in great danger."
Beaupere
asked her if the Voice's counsels were not fickle and variable.
"No.
It never contradicts itself. This very day it has told me again to
answer
boldly."
"Has
it forbidden you to answer only part of what is asked you?"
"I
will tell you nothing as to that. I have revelations touching the
King
my master, and those I will not tell you." Then she was stirred by
a
great emotion, and the tears sprang to her eyes and she spoke out as
with
strong conviction, saying:
"I
believe wholly--as wholly as I believe the Christian faith and that
God
has redeemed us from the fires of hell, that God speaks to me by
that
Voice!"
Being
questioned further concerning the Voice, she said she was not at
liberty
to tell all she knew.
"Do
you think God would be displeased at your telling the whole truth?"
"The
Voice has commanded me to tell the King certain things, and not
you--and
some very lately--even last night; things which I would he
knew.
He would be more easy at his dinner."
"Why
doesn't the Voice speak to the King itself, as it did when you were
with him?
Would it not if you asked it?"
"I
do not know if it be the wish of God." She was pensive a moment or
two,
busy with her thoughts and far away, no doubt; then she added a
remark
in which Beaupere, always watchful, always alert, detected a
possible
opening--a chance to set a trap. Do you think he jumped at
it
instantly, betraying the joy he had in his mind, as a young hand at
craft
and artifice would do?
No,
oh, no, you could not tell that he had noticed the remark at all. He
slid
indifferently away from it at once, and began to ask idle questions
about
other things, so as to slip around and spring on it from behind,
so to
speak: tedious and empty questions as to whether the Voice had
told
her she would escape from this prison; and if it had furnished
answers
to be used by her in to-day's seance; if it was accompanied with
a
glory of light; if it had eyes, etc. That risky remark of Joan's was
this:
"Without
the Grace of God I could do nothing."
The
court saw the priest's game, and watched his play with a cruel
eagerness.
Poor Joan was grown dreamy and absent; possibly she was
tired.
Her life was in imminent danger, and she did not suspect it. The
time
was ripe now, and Beaupere quietly and stealthily sprang his trap:
"Are
you in a state of Grace?"
Ah,
we had two or three honorable brave men in that pack of judges; and
Jean
Lefevre was one of them. He sprang to his feet and cried out:
"It
is a terrible question! The accused is not obliged to answer it!"
Cauchon's
face flushed black with anger to see this plank flung to the
perishing
child, and he shouted:
"Silence!
and take your seat. The accused will answer the question!"
There
was no hope, no way out of the dilemma; for whether she said yes
or
whether she said no, it would be all the same--a disastrous answer,
for
the Scriptures had said one cannot know this thing. Think what hard
hearts
they were to set this fatal snare for that ignorant young girl
and
be proud of such work and happy in it. It was a miserable moment for
me
while we waited; it seemed a year. All the house showed excitement;
and
mainly it was glad excitement. Joan looked out upon these hungering
faces
with innocent, untroubled eyes, and then humbly and gently she
brought
out that immortal answer which brushed the formidable snare away
as it
had been but a cobweb:
"If
I be not in a state of Grace, I pray God place me in it; if I be in
it, I
pray God keep me so."
Ah,
you will never see an effect like that; no, not while you live. For
a
space there was the silence of the grave. Men looked wondering into
each
other's faces, and some were awed and crossed themselves; and I
heard
Lefevre mutter:
"It
was beyond the wisdom of man to devise that answer. Whence comes
this
child's amazing inspirations?"
Beaupere
presently took up his work again, but the humiliation of his
defeat
weighed upon him, and he made but a rambling and dreary business
of
it, he not being able to put any heart in it.
He
asked Joan a thousand questions about her childhood and about the oak
wood,
and the fairies, and the children's games and romps under our dear
Arbre
Fee Bourlemont, and this stirring up of old memories broke her
voice
and made her cry a little, but she bore up as well as she could,
and
answered everything.
Then
the priest finished by touching again upon the matter of her
apparel--a
matter which was never to be lost sight of in this still-hunt
for
this innocent creature's life, but kept always hanging over her, a
menace
charged with mournful possibilities:
"Would
you like a woman's dress?"
"Indeed
yes, if I may go out from this prison--but here, no."
THE
COURT met next on Monday the 27th. Would you believe it? The Bishop
ignored
the contract limiting the examination to matters set down in
the
proces verbal and again commanded Joan to take the oath without
reservations.
She said:
"You
should be content I have sworn enough."
She
stood her ground, and Cauchon had to yield.
The
examination was resumed, concerning Joan's Voices.
"You
have said that you recognized them as being the voices of angels
the
third time that you heard them. What angels were they?"
"St.
Catherine and St. Marguerite."
"How
did you know that it was those two saints? How could you tell the
one
from the other?"
"I
know it was they; and I know how to distinguish them."
"By
what sign?"
"By
their manner of saluting me. I have been these seven years under
their
direction, and I knew who they were because they told me."
"Whose
was the first Voice that came to you when you were thirteen years
old?"
"It
was the Voice of St. Michael. I saw him before my eyes; and he was
not
alone, but attended by a cloud of angels."
"Did
you see the archangel and the attendant angels in the body, or in
the
spirit?"
"I
saw them with the eyes of my body, just as I see you; and when they
went
away I cried because they did not take me with them."
It
made me see that awful shadow again that fell dazzling white upon her
that
day under l'Arbre Fee de Bourlemont, and it made me shiver again,
though
it was so long ago. It was really not very long gone by, but it
seemed
so, because so much had happened since.
"In
what shape and form did St. Michael appear?"
"As
to that, I have not received permission to speak."
"What
did the archangel say to you that first time?"
"I
cannot answer you to-day."
Meaning,
I think, that she would have to get permission of her Voices
first.
Presently,
after some more questions as to the revelations which had
been
conveyed through her to the King, she complained of the unnecessity
of
all this, and said:
"I
will say again, as I have said before many times in these sittings,
that
I answered all questions of this sort before the court at Poitiers,
and I
would that you wold bring here the record of that court and read
from
that. Prithee, send for that book."
There
was no answer. It was a subject that had to be got around and put
aside.
That book had wisely been gotten out of the way, for it contained
things
which would be very awkward here.
Among
them was a decision that Joan's mission was from God, whereas it
was
the intention of this inferior court to show that it was from the
devil;
also a decision permitting Joan to wear male attire, whereas it
was
the purpose of this court to make the male attire do hurtful work
against
her.
"How
was it that you were moved to come into France--by your own
desire?"
"Yes,
and by command of God. But that it was His will I would not have
come.
I would sooner have had my body torn in sunder by horses than
come,
lacking that."
Beaupere
shifted once more to the matter of the male attire, now, and
proceeded
to make a solemn talk about it. That tried Joan's patience;
and
presently she interrupted and said:
"It
is a trifling thing and of no consequence. And I did not put it on
by
counsel of any man, but by command of God."
"Robert
de Baudricourt did not order you to wear it?"
"No."
"Did
you think you did well in taking the dress of a man?"
"I
did well to do whatsoever thing God commanded me to do."
"But
in this particular case do you think you did well in taking the
dress
of a man?"
"I
have done nothing but by command of God."
Beaupere
made various attempts to lead her into contradictions
of
herself; also to put her words and acts in disaccord with the
Scriptures.
But it was lost time. He did not succeed. He returned to her
visions,
the light which shone about them, her relations with the King,
and
so on.
"Was
there an angel above the King's head the first time you saw him?"
"By
the Blessed Mary!--"
She
forced her impatience down, and finished her sentence with
tranquillity:
"If there was one I did not see it."
"Was
there light?"
"There
were more than three thousand soldiers there, and five hundred
torches,
without taking account of spiritual light."
"What
made the King believe in the revelations which you brought him?"
"He
had signs; also the counsel of the clergy."
"What
revelations were made to the King?"
"You
will not get that out of me this year."
Presently
she added: "During three weeks I was questioned by the clergy
at
Chinon and Poitiers. The King had a sign before he would believe; and
the
clergy were of opinion that my acts were good and not evil."
The
subject was dropped now for a while, and Beaupere took up the matter
of
the miraculous sword of Fierbois to see if he could not find a chance
there
to fix the crime of sorcery upon Joan.
"How
did you know that there was an ancient sword buried in the ground
under
the rear of the altar of the church of St. Catherine of Fierbois?"
Joan
had no concealments to make as to this:
"I
knew the sword was there because my Voices told me so; and I sent to
ask
that it be given to me to carry in the wars. It seemed to me that it
was
not very deep in the ground. The clergy of the church caused it to
be
sought for and dug up; and they polished it, and the rust fell easily
off
from it."
"Were
you wearing it when you were taken in battle at Compiegne?"
"No.
But I wore it constantly until I left St. Denis after the attack
upon
Paris."
This
sword, so mysteriously discovered and so long and so constantly
victorious,
was suspected of being under the protection of enchantment.
"Was
that sword blest? What blessing had been invoked upon it?"
"None.
I loved it because it was found in the church of St. Catherine,
for I
loved that church very dearly."
She
loved it because it had been built in honor of one of her angels.
"Didn't
you lay it upon the altar, to the end that it might be lucky?"
(The
altar of St. Denis.) "No."
"Didn't
you pray that it might be made lucky?"
"Truly
it were no harm to wish that my harness might be fortunate."
"Then
it was not that sword which you wore in the field of Compiegne?
What
sword did you wear there?"
"The
sword of the Burgundian Franquet d'Arras, whom I took prisoner in
the
engagement at Lagny. I kept it because it was a good war-sword--good
to
lay on stout thumps and blows with."
She
said that quite simply; and the contrast between her delicate
little
self and the grim soldier words which she dropped with such easy
familiarity
from her lips made many spectators smile.
"What
is become of the other sword? Where is it now?"
"Is
that in the proces verbal?"
Beaupere
did not answer.
"Which
do you love best, your banner or your sword?"
Her
eye lighted gladly at the mention of her banner, and she cried out:
"I
love my banner best--oh, forty times more than the sword! Sometimes
I
carried it myself when I charged the enemy, to avoid killing any one."=
Then
she added, naively, and with again that curious contrast between
her
girlish little personality and her subject, "I have never killed
anyone."
It
made a great many smile; and no wonder, when you consider what a
gentle
and innocent little thing she looked. One could hardly believe
she
had ever even seen men slaughtered, she look so little fitted for
such
things.
"In
the final assault at Orleans did you tell your soldiers that the
arrows
shot by the enemy and the stones discharged from their catapults
would
not strike any one but you?"
"No.
And the proof is, that more than a hundred of my men were struck.
I
told them to have no doubts and no fears; that they would raise the
siege.
I was wounded in the neck by an arrow in the assault upon the
bastille
that commanded the bridge, but St. Catherine comforted me and I
was
cured in fifteen days without having to quit the saddle and leave my
work."
"Did
you know that you were going to be wounded?"
"Yes;
and I had told it to the King beforehand. I had it from my
Voices."
"When
you took Jargeau, why did you not put its commandant to ransom?"
"I
offered him leave to go out unhurt from the place, with all his
garrison;
and if he would not I would take it by storm."
"And
you did, I believe."
"Yes."
"Had
your Voices counseled you to take it by storm?"
"As
to that, I do not remember."
Thus
closed a weary long sitting, without result. Every device that
could
be contrived to trap Joan into wrong thinking, wrong doing, or
disloyalty
to the Church, or sinfulness as a little child at home or
later,
had been tried, and none of them had succeeded. She had come
unscathed
through the ordeal.
Was
the court discouraged? No. Naturally it was very much surprised,
very
much astonished, to find its work baffling and difficult instead
of
simple and easy, but it had powerful allies in the shape of hunger,
cold,
fatigue, persecution, deception, and treachery; and opposed to
this
array nothing but a defenseless and ignorant girl who must some
time
or other surrender to bodily and mental exhaustion or get caught in
one
of the thousand traps set for her.
And
had the court made no progress during these seemingly resultless
sittings?
Yes. It had been feeling its way, groping here, groping there,
and
had found one or two vague trails which might freshen by and by and
lead
to something. The male attire, for instance, and the visions and
Voices.
Of course no one doubted that she had seen supernatural beings
and
been spoken to and advised by them. And of course no one doubted
that
by supernatural help miracles had been done by Joan, such as
choosing
out the King in a crowd when she had never seen him before, and
her
discovery of the sword buried under the altar. It would have been
foolish
to doubt these things, for we all know that the air is full of
devils
and angels that are visible to traffickers in magic on the one
hand
and to the stainlessly holy on the other; but what many and perhaps
most
did doubt was, that Joan's visions, Voices, and miracles came from
God.
It was hoped that in time they could be proven to have been of
satanic
origin. Therefore, as you see, the court's persistent fashion
of
coming back to that subject every little while and spooking around it
and
prying into it was not to pass the time--it had a strictly business
end
in view.
THE
NEXT sitting opened on Thursday the first of March. Fifty-eight
judges
present--the others resting.
As
usual, Joan was required to take an oath without reservations. She
showed
no temper this time. She considered herself well buttressed by
the
proces verbal compromise which Cauchon was so anxious to repudiate
and
creep out of; so she merely refused, distinctly and decidedly; and
added,
in a spirit of fairness and candor:
"But
as to matters set down in the proces verbal, I will freely tell the
whole
truth--yes, as freely and fully as if I were before the Pope."
Here
was a chance! We had two or three Popes, then; only one of them
could
be the true Pope, of course. Everybody judiciously shirked the
question
of which was the true Pope and refrained from naming him, it
being
clearly dangerous to go into particulars in this matter. Here was
an
opportunity to trick an unadvised girl into bringing herself into
peril,
and the unfair judge lost no time in taking advantage of it. He
asked,
in a plausibly indolent and absent way:
"Which
one do you consider to be the true Pope?"
The
house took an attitude of deep attention, and so waited to hear the
answer
and see the prey walk into the trap. But when the answer came it
covered
the judge with confusion, and you could see many people covertly
chuckling.
For Joan asked in a voice and manner which almost deceived
even
me, so innocent it seemed:
"Are
there two?"
One
of the ablest priests in that body and one of the best swearers
there,
spoke right out so that half the house heard him, and said:
"By
God, it was a master stroke!"
As
soon as the judge was better of his embarrassment he came back to the
charge,
but was prudent and passed by Joan's question:
"Is
it true that you received a letter from the Count of Armagnac asking
you
which of the three Popes he ought to obey?"
"Yes,
and answered it."
Copies
of both letters were produced and read. Joan said that hers had
not
been quite strictly copied. She said she had received the Count's
letter
when she was just mounting her horse; and added:
"So,
in dictating a word or two of reply I said I would try to answer
him
from Paris or somewhere where I could be at rest."
She
was asked again which Pope she had considered the right one.
"I
was not able to instruct the Count of Armagnac as to which one he
ought
to obey"; then she added, with a frank fearlessness which sounded
fresh
and wholesome in that den of trimmers and shufflers, "but as for
me, I
hold that we are bound to obey our Lord the Pope who is at Rome."
The
matter was dropped. They produced and read a copy of Joan's first
effort
at dictating--her proclamation summoning the English to retire
from
the siege of Orleans and vacate France--truly a great and fine
production
for an unpractised girl of seventeen.
"Do
you acknowledge as your own the document which has just been read?"
"Yes,
except that there are errors in it--words which make me give
myself
too much importance." I saw what was coming; I was troubled and
ashamed.
"For instance, I did not say 'Deliver up to the Maid' (rendez
au la
Pucelle); I said 'Deliver up to the King' (rendez au Roi); and I
did
not call myself 'Commander-in-Chief' (chef de guerre). All those are
words
which my secretary substituted; or mayhap he misheard me or forgot
what
I said."
She
did not look at me when she said it: she spared me that
embarrassment.
I hadn't misheard her at all, and hadn't forgotten.
I
changed her language purposely, for she was Commander-in-Chief and
entitled
to call herself so, and it was becoming and proper, too; and
who
was going to surrender anything to the King?--at that time a stick,
a
cipher? If any surrendering was done, it would be to the noble Maid of
Vaucouleurs,
already famed and formidable though she had not yet struck
a
blow.
Ah,
there would have been a fine and disagreeable episode (for me)
there,
if that pitiless court had discovered that the very scribbler of
that
piece of dictation, secretary to Joan of Arc, was present--and
not
only present, but helping build the record; and not only that, but
destined
at a far distant day to testify against lies and perversions
smuggled
into it by Cauchon and deliver them over to eternal infamy!
"Do
you acknowledge that you dictated this proclamation?"
"I
do."
"Have
you repented of it? Do you retract it?"
Ah,
then she was indignant!
"No!
Not even these chains"--and she shook them--"not even these chain=
s
can
chill the hopes that I uttered there. And more!"--she rose, and
stood
a moment with a divine strange light kindling in her face, then
her
words burst forth as in a flood--"I warn you now that before seven
years
a disaster will smite the English, oh, many fold greater than the
fall
of Orleans! and--"
"Silence!
Sit down!"
"--and
then, soon after, they will lose all France!"
Now
consider these things. The French armies no longer existed. The
French
cause was standing still, our King was standing still, there was
no
hint that by and by the Constable Richemont would come forward and
take
up the great work of Joan of Arc and finish it. In face of all
this,
Joan made that prophecy--made it with perfect confidence--and it
came
true. For within five years Paris fell--1436--and our King marched
into
it flying the victor's flag. So the first part of the prophecy was
then
fulfilled--in fact, almost the entire prophecy; for, with Paris in
our
hands, the fulfilment of the rest of it was assured.
Twenty
years later all France was ours excepting a single town--Calais.
Now
that will remind you of an earlier prophecy of Joan's. At the time
that
she wanted to take Paris and could have done it with ease if our
King
had but consented, she said that that was the golden time; that,
with
Paris ours, all France would be ours in six months. But if this
golden
opportunity to recover France was wasted, said she, "I give you
twenty
years to do it in."
She
was right. After Paris fell, in 1436, the rest of the work had to be
done
city by city, castle by castle, and it took twenty years to finish
it.
Yes,
it was the first day of March, 1431, there in the court, that she
stood
in the view of everybody and uttered that strange and incredible
prediction.
Now and then, in this world, somebody's prophecy turns
up
correct, but when you come to look into it there is sure to be
considerable
room for suspicion that the prophecy was made after the
fact.
But here the matter is different. There in that court Joan's
prophecy
was set down in the official record at the hour and moment of
its
utterance, years before the fulfilment, and there you may read it to
this
day.
Twenty-five
years after Joan's death the record was produced in the
great
Court of the Rehabilitation and verified under oath by Manchon
and
me, and surviving judges of our court confirmed the exactness of the
record
in their testimony.
Joan'
startling utterance on that now so celebrated first of March
stirred
up a great turmoil, and it was some time before it quieted down
again.
Naturally, everybody was troubled, for a prophecy is a grisly and
awful
thing, whether one thinks it ascends from hell or comes down from
heaven.
All
that these people felt sure of was, that the inspiration back of it
was
genuine and puissant.
They
would have given their right hands to know the source of it.
At
last the questions began again.
"How
do you know that those things are going to happen?"
"I
know it by revelation. And I know it as surely as I know that you sit
here
before me."
This
sort of answer was not going to allay the spreading uneasiness.
Therefore,
after some further dallying the judge got the subject out of
the
way and took up one which he could enjoy more.
"What
languages do your Voices speak?"
"French."
"St.
Marguerite, too?"
"Verily;
why not? She is on our side, not on the English!"
Saints
and angels who did not condescend to speak English is a grave
affront.
They could not be brought into court and punished for contempt,
but
the tribunal could take silent note of Joan's remark and remember it
against
her; which they did. It might be useful by and by.
"Do
your saints and angels wear jewelry?--crowns, rings, earrings?"
To
Joan, questions like these were profane frivolities and not worthy of
serious
notice; she answered indifferently. But the question brought to
her
mind another matter, and she turned upon Cauchon and said:
"I
had two rings. They have been taken away from me during my captivity.
You
have one of them. It is the gift of my brother. Give it back to me.
If
not to me, then I pray that it be given to the Church."
The
judges conceived the idea that maybe these rings were for the
working
of enchantments.
Perhaps
they could be made to do Joan a damage.
"Where
is the other ring?"
"The
Burgundians have it."
"Where
did you get it?"
"My
father and mother gave it to me."
"Describe
it."
"It
is plain and simple and has 'Jesus and Mary' engraved upon it."
Everybody
could see that that was not a valuable equipment to do devil's
work
with. So that trail was not worth following. Still, to make sure,
one
of the judges asked Joan if she had ever cured sick people by
touching
them with the ring. She said no.
"Now
as concerning the fairies, that were used to abide near by Domremy
whereof
there are many reports and traditions. It is said that your
godmother
surprised these creatures on a summer's night dancing under
the
tree called l'Arbre Fee de Bourlemont. Is it not possible that your
pretended
saints and angels are but those fairies?"
"Is
that in your proces?"
She
made no other answer.
"Have
you not conversed with St. Marguerite and St. Catherine under that
tree?"
"I
do not know."
"Or
by the fountain near the tree?"
"Yes,
sometimes."
"What
promises did they make you?"
"None
but such as they had God's warrant for."
"But
what promises did they make?"
"That
is not in your proces; yet I will say this much: they told me that
the
King would become master of his kingdom in spite of his enemies."
"And
what else?"
There
was a pause; then she said humbly:
"They
promised to lead me to Paradise."
If
faces do really betray what is passing in men's minds, a fear came
upon
many in that house, at this time, that maybe, after all, a chosen
servant
and herald of God was here being hunted to her death. The
interest
deepened. Movements and whisperings ceased: the stillness
became
almost painful.
Have
you noticed that almost from the beginning the nature of the
questions
asked Joan showed that in some way or other the questioner
very
often already knew his fact before he asked his question? Have you
noticed
that somehow or other the questioners usually knew just how and
were
to search for Joan's secrets; that they really knew the bulk of her
privacies--a
fact not suspected by her--and that they had no task before
them
but to trick her into exposing those secrets?
Do
you remember Loyseleur, the hypocrite, the treacherous priest,
tool
of Cauchon? Do you remember that under the sacred seal of the
confessional
Joan freely and trustingly revealed to him everything
concerning
her history save only a few things regarding her supernatural
revelations
which her Voices had forbidden her to tell to any one--and
that
the unjust judge, Cauchon, was a hidden listener all the time?
Now
you understand how the inquisitors were able to devise that long
array
of minutely prying questions; questions whose subtlety and
ingenuity
and penetration are astonishing until we come to remember
Loyseleur's
performance and recognize their source. Ah, Bishop of
Beauvais,
you are now lamenting this cruel iniquity these many years
in
hell! Yes verily, unless one has come to your help. There is but one
among
the redeemed that would do it; and it is futile to hope that that
one
has not already done it--Joan of Arc.
We
will return to the questionings.
"Did
they make you still another promise?"
"Yes,
but that is not in your proces. I will not tell it now, but before
three
months I will tell it you."
The
judge seems to know the matter he is asking about, already; one gets
this
idea from his next question.
"Did
your Voices tell you that you would be liberated before three
months?"
Joan
often showed a little flash of surprise at the good guessing of the
judges,
and she showed one this time. I was frequently in terror to find
my
mind (which I could not control) criticizing the Voices and saying,
"They
counsel her to speak boldly--a thing which she would do without
any
suggestion from them or anybody else--but when it comes to telling
her
any useful thing, such as how these conspirators manage to guess
their
way so skilfully into her affairs, they are always off attending
to
some other business."
I am
reverent by nature; and when such thoughts swept through my head
they
made me cold with fear, and if there was a storm and thunder at the
time,
I was so ill that I could but with difficulty abide at my post and
do my
work.
Joan
answered:
"That
is not in your proces. I do not know when I shall be set free, but
some
who wish me out of this world will go from it before me."
It
made some of them shiver.
"Have
your Voices told you that you will be delivered from this prison?"
Without
a doubt they had, and the judge knew it before he asked the
question.
"Ask
me again in three months and I will tell you." She said it with
such
a happy look, the tired prisoner! And I? And Noel Rainguesson,
drooping
yonder?--why, the floods of joy went streaming through us from
crown
to sole! It was all that we could do to hold still and keep from
making
fatal exposure of our feelings.
She
was to be set free in three months. That was what she meant; we
saw
it. The Voices had told her so, and told her true--true to the very
day--May
30th. But we know now that they had mercifully hidden from her
how
she was to be set free, but left her in ignorance. Home again!
That
day was our understanding of it--Noel's and mine; that was our
dream;
and now we would count the days, the hours, the minutes. They
would
fly lightly along; they would soon be over.
Yes,
we would carry our idol home; and there, far from the pomps and
tumults
of the world, we would take up our happy life again and live
it
out as we had begun it, in the free air and the sunshine, with the
friendly
sheep and the friendly people for comrades, and the grace and
charm
of the meadows, the woods, and the river always before our eyes
and
their deep peace in our hearts. Yes, that was our dream, the dream
that
carried us bravely through that three months to an exact and awful
fulfilment,
the thought of which would have killed us, I think, if we
had
foreknown it and been obliged to bear the burden of it upon our
hearts
the half of those weary days.
Our
reading of the prophecy was this: We believed the King's soul was
going
to be smitten with remorse; and that he would privately plan a
rescue
with Joan's old lieutenants, D'Alencon and the Bastard and La
Hire,
and that this rescue would take place at the end of the three
months.
So we made up our minds to be ready and take a hand in it.
In
the present and also in later sittings Joan was urged to name the
exact
day of her deliverance; but she could not do that. She had not the
permission
of her Voices. Moreover, the Voices themselves did not name
the
precise day. Ever since the fulfilment of the prophecy, I have
believed
that Joan had the idea that her deliverance was going to come
in
the form of death. But not that death! Divine as she was, dauntless
as
she was in battle, she was human also. She was not solely a saint,
an
angel, she was a clay-made girl also--as human a girl as any in
the
world, and full of a human girl's sensitiveness and tenderness and
delicacies.
And so, that death! No, she could not have lived the three
months
with that one before her, I think. You remember that the first
time
she was wounded she was frightened, and cried, just as any other
girl
of seventeen would have done, although she had known for eighteen
days
that she was going to be wounded on that very day. No, she was
not
afraid of any ordinary death, and an ordinary death was what she
believed
the prophecy of deliverance meant, I think, for her face showed
happiness,
not horror, when she uttered it.
Now I
will explain why I think as I do. Five weeks before she was
captured
in the battle of Compiegne, her Voices told her what was
coming.
They did not tell her the day or the place, but said she would
be
taken prisoner and that it would be before the feast of St. John.
She
begged that death, certain and swift, should be her fate, and the
captivity
brief; for she was a free spirit, and dreaded the confinement.
The
Voices made no promise, but only told her to bear whatever came. Now
as
they did not refuse the swift death, a hopeful young thing like Joan
would
naturally cherish that fact and make the most of it, allowing it
to
grow and establish itself in her mind. And so now that she was told
she
was to be "delivered" in three months, I think she believed it me=
ant
that
she would die in her bed in the prison, and that that was why she
looked
happy and content--the gates of Paradise standing open for her,
the
time so short, you see, her troubles so soon to be over, her reward
so
close at hand. Yes, that would make her look happy, that would make
her
patient and bold, and able to fight her fight out like a soldier.
Save
herself if she could, of course, and try for the best, for that
was
the way she was made; but die with her face to the front if die she
must.
Then
later, when she charged Cauchon with trying to kill her with a
poisoned
fish, her notion that she was to be "delivered" by death in the
prison--if
she had it, and I believe she had--would naturally be greatly
strengthened,
you see.
But I
am wandering from the trial. Joan was asked to definitely name the
time
that she would be delivered from prison.
"I
have always said that I was not permitted to tell you everything. I
am to
be set free, and I desire to ask leave of my Voices to tell you
the
day. That is why I wish for delay."
"Do
your Voices forbid you to tell the truth?"
"Is
it that you wish to know matters concerning the King of France? I
tell
you again that he will regain his kingdom, and that I know it as
well
as I know that you sit here before me in this tribunal." She
sighed
and, after a little pause, added: "I should be dead but for this
revelation,
which comforts me always."
Some
trivial questions were asked her about St. Michael's dress and
appearance.
She answered them with dignity, but one saw that they gave
her
pain. After a little she said:
"I
have great joy in seeing him, for when I see him I have the feeling
that
I am not in mortal sin."
She
added, "Sometimes St. Marguerite and St. Catherine have allowed me
to
confess myself to them."
Here
was a possible chance to set a successful snare for her innocence.
"When
you confessed were you in mortal sin, do you think?"
But
her reply did her no hurt. So the inquiry was shifted once more
to
the revelations made to the King--secrets which the court had tried
again
and again to force out of Joan, but without success.
"Now
as to the sign given to the King--"
"I
have already told you that I will tell you nothing about it."
"Do
you know what the sign was?"
"As
to that, you will not find out from me."
All
this refers to Joan's secret interview with the King--held
apart,
though two or three others were present. It was known--through
Loyseleur,
of course--that this sign was a crown and was a pledge of the
verity
of Joan's mission. But that is all a mystery until this day--the
nature
of the crown, I mean--and will remain a mystery to the end of
time.
We can never know whether a real crown descended upon the King's
head,
or only a symbol, the mystic fabric of a vision.
"Did
you see a crown upon the King's head when he received the
revelation?"
"I
cannot tell you as to that, without perjury."
"Did
the King have that crown at Rheims?"
"I
think the King put upon his head a crown which he found there; but a
much
richer one was brought him afterward."
"Have
you seen that one?"
"I
cannot tell you, without perjury. But whether I have seen it or not,
I
have heard say that it was rich and magnificent."
They
went on and pestered her to weariness about that mysterious crown,
but
they got nothing more out of her. The sitting closed. A long, hard
day
for all of us.
THE
COURT rested a day, then took up work again on Saturday, the third
of
March.
This
was one of our stormiest sessions. The whole court was out
of
patience; and with good reason. These threescore distinguished
churchmen,
illustrious tacticians, veteran legal gladiators, had left
important
posts where their supervision was needed, to journey
hither
from various regions and accomplish a most simple and easy
matter--condemn
and send to death a country-lass of nineteen who could
neither
read nor write, knew nothing of the wiles and perplexities of
legal
procedure, could not call a single witness in her defense, was
allowed
no advocate or adviser, and must conduct her case by herself
against
a hostile judge and a packed jury. In two hours she would be
hopelessly
entangled, routed, defeated, convicted. Nothing could be more
certain
that this--so they thought. But it was a mistake. The two hours
had
strung out into days; what promised to be a skirmish had expanded
into
a siege; the thing which had looked so easy had proven to be
surprisingly
difficult; the light victim who was to have been puffed
away
like a feather remained planted like a rock; and on top of all
this,
if anybody had a right to laugh it was the country-lass and not
the
court.
She
was not doing that, for that was not her spirit; but others were
doing
it. The whole town was laughing in its sleeve, and the court knew
it,
and its dignity was deeply hurt. The members could not hide their
annoyance.
And
so, as I have said, the session was stormy. It was easy to see that
these
men had made up their minds to force words from Joan to-day which
should
shorten up her case and bring it to a prompt conclusion. It shows
that
after all their experience with her they did not know her yet.
They
went into the battle with energy. They did not leave the
questioning
to a particular member; no, everybody helped. They volleyed
questions
at Joan from all over the house, and sometimes so many were
talking
at once that she had to ask them to deliver their fire one at a
time
and not by platoons. The beginning was as usual:
"You
are once more required to take the oath pure and simple."
"I
will answer to what is in the proces verbal. When I do more, I will
choose
the occasion for myself."
That
old ground was debated and fought over inch by inch with great
bitterness
and many threats. But Joan remained steadfast, and the
questionings
had to shift to other matters. Half an hour was spent over
Joan's
apparitions--their dress, hair, general appearance, and so on--in
the
hope of fishing something of a damaging sort out of the replies; but
with
no result.
Next,
the male attire was reverted to, of course. After many well-worn
questions
had been re-asked, one or two new ones were put forward.
"Did
not the King or the Queen sometimes ask you to quit the male
dress?"
"That
is not in your proces."
"Do
you think you would have sinned if you had taken the dress of your
sex?"
"I
have done best to serve and obey my sovereign Lord and Master."
After
a while the matter of Joan's Standard was taken up, in the hope of
connecting
magic and witchcraft with it.
"Did
not your men copy your banner in their pennons?"
"The
lancers of my guard did it. It was to distinguish them from the
rest
of the forces. It was their own idea."
"Were
they often renewed?"
"Yes.
When the lances were broken they were renewed."
The
purpose of the question unveils itself in the next one.
"Did
you not say to your men that pennons made like your banner would be
lucky?"
The
soldier-spirit in Joan was offended at this puerility. She drew
herself
up, and said with dignity and fire: "What I said to them was,
'Ride
those English down!' and I did it myself."
Whenever
she flung out a scornful speech like that at these French
menials
in English livery it lashed them into a rage; and that is what
happened
this time. There were ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty of
them
on their feet at a time, storming at the prisoner minute after
minute,
but Joan was not disturbed.
By
and by there was peace, and the inquiry was resumed.
It
was now sought to turn against Joan the thousand loving honors which
had
been done her when she was raising France out of the dirt and shame
of a
century of slavery and castigation.
"Did
you not cause paintings and images of yourself to be made?"
"No.
At Arras I saw a painting of myself kneeling in armor before the
King
and delivering him a letter; but I caused no such things to be
made."
"Were
not masses and prayers said in your honor?"
"If
it was done it was not by my command. But if any prayed for me I
think
it was no harm."
"Did
the French people believe you were sent of God?"
"As
to that, I know not; but whether they believed it or not, I was not
the
less sent of God."
"If
they thought you were sent of God, do you think it was well
thought?"
"If
they believed it, their trust was not abused."
"What
impulse was it, think you, that moved the people to kiss your
hands,
your feet, and your vestments?"
"They
were glad to see me, and so they did those things; and I could
not
have prevented them if I had had the heart. Those poor people came
lovingly
to me because I had not done them any hurt, but had done the
best
I could for them according to my strength."
See
what modest little words she uses to describe that touching
spectacle,
her marches about France walled in on both sides by the
adoring
multitudes: "They were glad to see me." Glad?
Why
they were transported with joy to see her. When they could not kiss
her
hands or her feet, they knelt in the mire and kissed the hoof-prints
of
her horse. They worshiped her; and that is what these priests were
trying
to prove. It was nothing to them that she was not to blame for
what
other people did. No, if she was worshiped, it was enough; she was
guilty
of mortal sin.
Curious
logic, one must say.
"Did
you not stand sponsor for some children baptized at Rheims?"
"At
Troyes I did, and at St. Denis; and I named the boys Charles, in
honor
of the King, and the girls I named Joan."
"Did
not women touch their rings to those which you wore?"
"Yes,
many did, but I did not know their reason for it."
"At
Rheims was your Standard carried into the church? Did you stand at
the
altar with it in your hand at the Coronation?"
"Yes."
"In
passing through the country did you confess yourself in the Churches
and
receive the sacrament?"
"Yes."
"In
the dress of a man?"
"Yes.
But I do not remember that I was in armor."
It
was almost a concession! almost a half-surrender of the permission
granted
her by the Church at Poitiers to dress as a man. The wily court
shifted
to another matter: to pursue this one at this time might call
Joan's
attention to her small mistake, and by her native cleverness she
might
recover her lost ground. The tempestuous session had worn her and
drowsed
her alertness.
"It
is reported that you brought a dead child to life in the church at
Lagny.
Was that in answer to your prayers?"
"As
to that, I have no knowledge. Other young girls were praying for the
child,
and I joined them and prayed also, doing no more than they."
"Continue."
"While
we prayed it came to life, and cried. It had been dead three
days,
and was as black as my doublet. It was straight way baptized, then
it
passed from life again and was buried in holy ground."
"Why
did you jump from the tower of Beaurevoir by night and try to
escape?"
"I
would go to the succor of Compiegne."
It
was insinuated that this was an attempt to commit the deep crime of
suicide
to avoid falling into the hands of the English.
"Did
you not say that you would rather die than be delivered into the
power
of the English?"
Joan
answered frankly; without perceiving the trap:
"Yes;
my words were, that I would rather that my soul be returned unto
God
than that I should fall into the hands of the English."
It
was now insinuated that when she came to, after jumping from the
tower,
she was angry and blasphemed the name of God; and that she did it
again
when she heard of the defection of the Commandant of Soissons. She
was
hurt and indignant at this, and said:
"It
is not true. I have never cursed. It is not my custom to swear."
A
HALT was called. It was time. Cauchon was losing ground in the fight,
Joan
was gaining it.
There
were signs that here and there in the court a judge was being
softened
toward Joan by her courage, her presence of mind, her
fortitude,
her constancy, her piety, her simplicity and candor, her
manifest
purity, the nobility of her character, her fine intelligence,
and
the good brave fight she was making, all friendless and alone,
against
unfair odds, and there was grave room for fear that this
softening
process would spread further and presently bring Cauchon's
plans
in danger.
Something
must be done, and it was done. Cauchon was not distinguished
for
compassion, but he now gave proof that he had it in his character.
He
thought it pity to subject so many judges to the prostrating fatigues
of
this trial when it could be conducted plenty well enough by a
handful
of them. Oh, gentle judge! But he did not remember to modify the
fatigues
for the little captive.
He
would let all the judges but a handful go, but he would select the
handful
himself, and he did.
He
chose tigers. If a lamb or two got in, it was by oversight, not
intention;
and he knew what to do with lambs when discovered.
He
called a small council now, and during five days they sifted the huge
bulk
of answers thus far gathered from Joan. They winnowed it of all
chaff,
all useless matter--that is, all matter favorable to Joan; they
saved
up all matter which could be twisted to her hurt, and out of this
they
constructed a basis for a new trial which should have the semblance
of a
continuation of the old one. Another change. It was plain that the
public
trial had wrought damage: its proceedings had been discussed
all
over the town and had moved many to pity the abused prisoner. There
should
be no more of that. The sittings should be secret hereafter, and
no
spectators admitted. So Noel could come no more. I sent this news
to
him. I had not the heart to carry it myself. I would give the pain a
chance
to modify before I should see him in the evening.
On
the 10th of March the secret trial began. A week had passed since I
had
seen Joan. Her appearance gave me a great shock. She looked tired
and
weak. She was listless and far away, and her answers showed that
she
was dazed and not able to keep perfect run of all that was done and
said.
Another court would not have taken advantage of her state, seeing
that
her life was at stake here, but would have adjourned and spared
her.
Did this one? No; it worried her for hours, and with a glad and
eager
ferocity, making all it could out of this great chance, the first
one
it had had.
She
was tortured into confusing herself concerning the "sign" which
had
been given the King, and the next day this was continued hour after
hour.
As a result, she made partial revealments of particulars forbidden
by
her Voices; and seemed to me to state as facts things which were but
allegories
and visions mixed with facts.
The
third day she was brighter, and looked less worn. She was almost
her
normal self again, and did her work well. Many attempts were made
to
beguile her into saying indiscreet things, but she saw the purpose in
view
and answered with tact and wisdom.
"Do
you know if St. Catherine and St. Marguerite hate the English?"
"They
love whom Our Lord loves, and hate whom He hates."
"Does
God hate the English?"
"Of
the love or the hatred of God toward the English I know nothing."
Then
she spoke up with the old martial ring in her voice and the old
audacity
in her words, and added, "But I know this--that God will send
victory
to the French, and that all the English will be flung out of
France
but the dead ones!"
"Was
God on the side of the English when they were prosperous in
France?"
"I
do not know if God hates the French, but I think that He allowed them
to be
chastised for their sins."
It
was a sufficiently naive way to account for a chastisement which had
now
strung out for ninety-six years. But nobody found fault with it.
There
was nobody there who would not punish a sinner ninety-six years if
he
could, nor anybody there who would ever dream of such a thing as the
Lord's
being any shade less stringent than men.
"Have
you ever embraced St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?"
"Yes,
both of them."
The
evil face of Cauchon betrayed satisfaction when she said that.
"When
you hung garlands upon L'Arbre Fee Bourlemont, did you do it in
honor
of your apparitions?"
"No."
Satisfaction
again. No doubt Cauchon would take it for granted that she
hung
them there out of sinful love for the fairies.
"When
the saints appeared to you did you bow, did you make reverence,
did
you kneel?"
"Yes;
I did them the most honor and reverence that I could."
A
good point for Cauchon if he could eventually make it appear that
these
were no saints to whom she had done reverence, but devils in
disguise.
Now
there was the matter of Joan's keeping her supernatural commerce a
secret
from her parents. Much might be made of that. In fact, particular
emphasis
had been given to it in a private remark written in the margin
of
the proces: "She concealed her visions from her parents and from
every
one." Possibly this disloyalty to her parents might itself be the
sign
of the satanic source of her mission.
"Do
you think it was right to go away to the wars without getting your
parents'
leave? It is written one must honor his father and his mother."
"I
have obeyed them in all things but that. And for that I have begged
their
forgiveness in a letter and gotten it."
"Ah,
you asked their pardon? So you knew you were guilty of sin in going
without
their leave!"
Joan
was stirred. Her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed:
"I
was commanded of God, and it was right to go! If I had had a hundred
fathers
and mothers and been a king's daughter to boot I would have
gone."
"Did
you never ask your Voices if you might tell your parents?"
"They
were willing that I should tell them, but I would not for anything
have
given my parents that pain."
To
the minds of the questioners this headstrong conduct savored of
pride.
That sort of pride would move one to see sacrilegious adorations.
"Did
not your Voices call you Daughter of God?"
Joan
answered with simplicity, and unsuspiciously:
"Yes;
before the siege of Orleans and since, they have several times
called
me Daughter of God."
Further
indications of pride and vanity were sought.
"What
horse were you riding when you were captured? Who gave it you?"
"The
King."
"You
had other things--riches--of the King?"
"For
myself I had horses and arms, and money to pay the service in my
household."
"Had
you not a treasury?"
"Yes.
Ten or twelve thousand crowns." Then she said with naivete "It wa=
s
not a
great sum to carry on a war with."
"You
have it yet?"
"No.
It is the King's money. My brothers hold it for him."
"What
were the arms which you left as an offering in the church of St.
Denis?"
"My
suit of silver mail and a sword."
"Did
you put them there in order that they might be adored?"
"No.
It was but an act of devotion. And it is the custom of men of war
who
have been wounded to make such offering there. I had been wounded
before
Paris."
Nothing
appealed to these stony hearts, those dull imaginations--not
even
this pretty picture, so simply drawn, of the wounded girl-soldier
hanging
her toy harness there in curious companionship with the grim
and
dusty iron mail of the historic defenders of France. No, there
was
nothing in it for them; nothing, unless evil and injury for that
innocent
creature could be gotten out of it somehow.
"Which
aided most--you the Standard, or the Standard you?"
"Whether
it was the Standard or whether it was I, is nothing--the
victories
came from God."
"But
did you base your hopes of victory in yourself or in your
Standard?"
"In
neither. In God, and not otherwise."
"Was
not your Standard waved around the King's head at the Coronation?"
"No.
It was not."
"Why
was it that your Standard had place at the crowning of the King in
the
Cathedral of Rheims, rather than those of the other captains?"
Then,
soft and low, came that touching speech which will live as long
as
language lives, and pass into all tongues, and move all gentle hearts
wheresoever
it shall come, down to the latest day:
"It
had borne the burden, it had earned the honor." (1) How simple it
is,
and how beautiful. And how it beggars the studies eloquence of the
masters
of oratory. Eloquence was a native gift of Joan of Arc; it came
from
her lips without effort and without preparation. Her words were as
sublime
as her deeds, as sublime as her character; they had their source
in a
great heart and were coined in a great brain.
(1)
What she said has been many times translated, but never with
success.
There is a haunting pathos about the original which eludes all
efforts
to convey it into our tongue. It is as subtle as an odor, and
escapes
in the transmission. Her words were these:
"Il
avait, a la peine, c'etait bien raison qu'il fut a l'honneur."
Monseigneur
Ricard, Honorary Vicar-General to the Archbishop of Aix,
finely
speaks of it (Jeanne d'Arc la Venerable, page 197) as "that
sublime
reply, enduring in the history of celebrated sayings like the
cry
of a French and Christian soul wounded unto death in its patriotism
and
its faith." -- TRANSLATOR.
NOW,
as a next move, this small secret court of holy assassins did a
thing
so base that even at this day, in my old age, it is hard to speak
of it
with patience.
In
the beginning of her commerce with her Voices there at Domremy, the
child
Joan solemnly devoted her life to God, vowing her pure body and
her
pure soul to His service. You will remember that her parents tried
to
stop her from going to the wars by haling her to the court at Toul
to
compel her to make a marriage which she had never promised to make--a
marriage
with our poor, good, windy, big, hard-fighting, and most dear
and
lamented comrade, the Standard-Bearer, who fell in honorable battle
and
sleeps with God these sixty years, peace to his ashes! And you will
remember
how Joan, sixteen years old, stood up in that venerable court
and
conducted her case all by herself, and tore the poor Paladin's case
to
rags and blew it away with a breath; and how the astonished old judge
on
the bench spoke of her as "this marvelous child."
You
remember all that. Then think what I felt, to see these false
priests,
here in the tribunal wherein Joan had fought a fourth lone
fight
in three years, deliberately twist that matter entirely around
and
try to make out that Joan haled the Paladin into court and pretended
that
he had promised to marry her, and was bent on making him do it.
Certainly
there was no baseness that those people were ashamed to stoop
to in
their hunt for that friendless girl's life. What they wanted to
show
was this--that she had committed the sin of relapsing from her vow
and
trying to violate it.
Joan
detailed the true history of the case, but lost her temper as she
went
along, and finished with some words for Cauchon which he remembers
yet,
whether he is fanning himself in the world he belongs in or has
swindled
his way into the other.
The
rest of this day and part of the next the court labored upon the
old
theme--the male attire. It was shabby work for those grave men to be
engaged
in; for they well knew one of Joan's reasons for clinging to the
male
dress was, that soldiers of the guard were always present in her
room
whether she was asleep or awake, and that the male dress was a
better
protection for her modesty than the other.
The
court knew that one of Joan's purposes had been the deliverance of
the
exiled Duke of Orleans, and they were curious to know how she had
intended
to manage it. Her plan was characteristically businesslike, and
her
statement of it as characteristically simple and straightforward:
"I
would have taken English prisoners enough in France for his ransom;
and
failing that, I would have invaded England and brought him out by
force."
That
was just her way. If a thing was to be done, it was love first, and
hammer
and tongs to follow; but no shilly-shallying between. She added
with
a little sigh:
"If
I had had my freedom three years, I would have delivered him."
"Have
you the permission of your Voices to break out of prison whenever
you
can?"
"I
have asked their leave several times, but they have not given it."
I
think it is as I have said, she expected the deliverance of death, and
within
the prison walls, before the three months should expire.
"Would
you escape if you saw the doors open?"
She
spoke up frankly and said:
"Yes--for
I should see in that the permission of Our Lord. God helps
who
help themselves, the proverb says. But except I thought I had
permission,
I would not go."
Now,
then, at this point, something occurred which convinces me, every
time
I think of it--and it struck me so at the time--that for a moment,
at
least, her hopes wandered to the King, and put into her mind the same
notion
about her deliverance which Noel and I had settled upon--a rescue
by
her old soldiers. I think the idea of the rescue did occur to her,
but
only as a passing thought, and that it quickly passed away.
Some
remark of the Bishop of Beauvais moved her to remind him once more
that
he was an unfair judge, and had no right to preside there, and that
he
was putting himself in great danger.
"What
danger?" he asked.
"I
do not know. St. Catherine has promised me help, but I do not know
the
form of it. I do not know whether I am to be delivered from this
prison
or whether when you sent me to the scaffold there will happen a
trouble
by which I shall be set free. Without much thought as to this
matter,
I am of the opinion that it may be one or the other." After a
pause
she added these words, memorable forever--words whose meaning she
may
have miscaught, misunderstood; as to that we can never know; words
which
she may have rightly understood, as to that, also, we can never
know;
but words whose mystery fell away from them many a year ago and
revealed
their meaning to all the world:
"But
what my Voices have said clearest is, that I shall be delivered by
a great victory." She paused, my heart was beating fast, for to me that<= o:p>
great
victory meant the sudden bursting in of our old soldiers with the
war-cry
and clash of steel at the last moment and the carrying off of
Joan
of Arc in triumph. But, oh, that thought had such a short life! For
now
she raised her head and finished, with those solemn words which men
still
so often quote and dwell upon--words which filled me with fear,
they
sounded so like a prediction. "And always they say 'Submit to
whatever
comes; do not grieve for your martyrdom; from it you will
ascend
into the Kingdom of Paradise."
Was
she thinking of fire and the stake? I think not. I thought of it
myself,
but I believe she was only thinking of this slow and cruel
martyrdom
of chains and captivity and insult. Surely, martyrdom was the
right
name for it.
It
was Jean de la Fontaine who was asking the questions. He was willing
to
make the most he could out of what she had said:
"As
the Voices have told you you are going to Paradise, you feel certain
that
that will happen and that you will not be damned in hell. Is that
so?"
"I
believe what they told me. I know that I shall be saved."
"It
is a weighty answer."
"To
me the knowledge that I shall be saved is a great treasure."
"Do
you think that after that revelation you could be able to commit
mortal
sin?"
"As
to that, I do not know. My hope for salvation is in holding fast to
my
oath to keep by body and my soul pure."
"Since
you know you are to be saved, do you think it necessary to go to
confession?"
The
snare was ingeniously devised, but Joan's simple and humble answer
left
it empty:
"One
cannot keep his conscience too clean."
We
were now arriving at the last day of this new trial. Joan had come
through
the ordeal well. It had been a long and wearisome struggle for
all
concerned. All ways had been tried to convict the accused, and
all
had failed, thus far. The inquisitors were thoroughly vexed and
dissatisfied.
However,
they resolved to make one more effort, put in one more day's
work.
This was done--March 17th. Early in the sitting a notable trap was
set
for Joan:
"Will
you submit to the determination of the Church all your words and
deeds,
whether good or bad?"
That
was well planned. Joan was in imminent peril now. If she should
heedlessly
say yes, it would put her mission itself upon trial, and
one
would know how to decide its source and character promptly. If she
should
say no, she would render herself chargeable with the crime of
heresy.
But
she was equal to the occasion. She drew a distinct line of
separation
between the Church's authority over her as a subject member,
and
the matter of her mission. She said she loved the Church and was
ready
to support the Christian faith with all her strength; but as to
the
works done under her mission, those must be judged by God alone, who
had
commanded them to be done.
The
judge still insisted that she submit them to the decision of the
Church.
She said:
"I
will submit them to Our Lord who sent me. It would seem to me that
He
and His Church are one, and that there should be no difficulty about
this
matter." Then she turned upon the judge and said, "Why do you mak=
e
a
difficulty when there is no room for any?"
Then
Jean de la Fontaine corrected her notion that there was but one
Church.
There were two--the Church Triumphant, which is God, the saints,
the
angels, and the redeemed, and has its seat in heaven; and the Church
Militant,
which is our Holy Father the Pope, Vicar of God, the prelates,
the
clergy and all good Christians and Catholics, the which Church has
its
seat in the earth, is governed by the Holy Spirit, and cannot err.
"Will
you not submit those matters to the Church Militant?"
"I
am come to the King of France from the Church Triumphant on high by
its
commandant, and to that Church I will submit all those things which
I
have done. For the Church Militant I have no other answer now."
The
court took note of this straitly worded refusal, and would hope to
get
profit out of it; but the matter was dropped for the present, and a
long
chase was then made over the old hunting-ground--the fairies, the
visions,
the male attire, and all that.
In
the afternoon the satanic Bishop himself took the chair and presided
over
the closing scenes of the trial. Along toward the finish, this
question
was asked by one of the judges:
"You
have said to my lord the Bishop that you would answer him as you
would
answer before our Holy Father the Pope, and yet there are several
questions
which you continually refuse to answer. Would you not answer
the
Pope more fully than you have answered before my lord of Beauvais?
Would
you not feel obliged to answer the Pope, who is the Vicar of God,
more
fully?"
Now a
thunder-clap fell out of a clear sky:
"Take
me to the Pope. I will answer to everything that I ought to."
It
made the Bishop's purple face fairly blanch with consternation. If
Joan
had only known, if she had only know! She had lodged a mine under
this
black conspiracy able to blow the Bishop's schemes to the four
winds
of heaven, and she didn't know it. She had made that speech by
mere
instinct, not suspecting what tremendous forces were hidden in it,
and
there was none to tell her what she had done. I knew, and Manchon
knew;
and if she had known how to read writing we could have hoped to
get
the knowledge to her somehow; but speech was the only way, and none
was
allowed to approach her near enough for that. So there she sat,
once
more Joan of Arc the Victorious, but all unconscious of it. She was
miserably
worn and tired, by the long day's struggle and by illness, or
she
must have noticed the effect of that speech and divined the reason
of
it.
She
had made many master-strokes, but this was the master-stroke. It was
an
appeal to Rome. It was her clear right; and if she had persisted
in it
Cauchon's plot would have tumbled about his ears like a house of
cards,
and he would have gone from that place the worst-beaten man of
the
century. He was daring, but he was not daring enough to stand up
against
that demand if Joan had urged it. But no, she was ignorant, poor
thing,
and did not know what a blow she had struck for life and liberty.
France
was not the Church. Rome had no interest in the destruction of
this
messenger of God.
Rome
would have given her a fair trial, and that was all that her cause
needed.
From that trial she would have gone forth free, and honored, and
blessed.
But
it was not so fated. Cauchon at once diverted the questions to other
matters
and hurried the trial quickly to an end.
As
Joan moved feebly away, dragging her chains, I felt stunned and
dazed,
and kept saying to myself, "Such a little while ago she said the
saving
word and could have gone free; and now, there she goes to her
death;
yes, it is to her death, I know it, I feel it. They will double
the
guards; they will never let any come near her now between this and
her
condemnation, lest she get a hint and speak that word again. This is
the
bitterest day that has come to me in all this miserable time."
SO
THE SECOND trial in the prison was over. Over, and no definite
result.
The character of it I have described to you. It was baser in one
particular
than the previous one; for this time the charges had not been
communicated
to Joan, therefore she had been obliged to fight in the
dark.
There
was no opportunity to do any thinking beforehand; there was no
foreseeing
what traps might be set, and no way to prepare for them.
Truly
it was a shabby advantage to take of a girl situated as this
one
was. One day, during the course of it, an able lawyer of Normandy,
Maetre
Lohier, happened to be in Rouen, and I will give you his opinion
of
that trial, so that you may see that I have been honest with you, and
that
my partisanship has not made me deceive you as to its unfair
and
illegal character. Cauchon showed Lohier the proces and asked his
opinion
about the trial. Now this was the opinion which he gave to
Cauchon.
He said that the whole thing was null and void; for these
reasons:
1, because the trial was secret, and full freedom of speech and
action
on the part of those present not possible; 2, because the trial
touched
the honor of the King of France, yet he was not summoned to
defend
himself, nor any one appointed to represent him; 3, because the
charges
against the prisoner were not communicated to her; 4, because
the
accused, although young and simple, had been forced to defend her
cause
without help of counsel, notwithstanding she had so much at stake.
Did
that please Bishop Cauchon? It did not. He burst out upon Lohier
with
the most savage cursings, and swore he would have him drowned.
Lohier
escaped from Rouen and got out of France with all speed, and so
saved
his life.
Well,
as I have said, the second trial was over, without definite
result.
But Cauchon did not give up. He could trump up another. And
still
another and another, if necessary. He had the half-promise of
an
enormous prize--the Archbishopric of Rouen--if he should succeed in
burning
the body and damning to hell the soul of this young girl who
had
never done him any harm; and such a prize as that, to a man like the
Bishop
of Beauvais, was worth the burning and damning of fifty harmless
girls,
let alone one.
So he
set to work again straight off next day; and with high confidence,
too,
intimating with brutal cheerfulness that he should succeed this
time.
It took him and the other scavengers nine days to dig matter
enough
out of Joan's testimony and their own inventions to build up
the
new mass of charges. And it was a formidable mass indeed, for it
numbered
sixty-six articles.
This
huge document was carried to the castle the next day, March 27th;
and
there, before a dozen carefully selected judges, the new trial was
begun.
Opinions
were taken, and the tribunal decided that Joan should hear the
articles
read this time.
Maybe
that was on account of Lohier's remark upon that head; or maybe it
was
hoped that the reading would kill the prisoner with fatigue--for, as
it
turned out, this reading occupied several days. It was also decided
that
Joan should be required to answer squarely to every article, and
that
if she refused she should be considered convicted. You see, Cauchon
was
managing to narrow her chances more and more all the time; he was
drawing
the toils closer and closer.
Joan
was brought in, and the Bishop of Beauvais opened with a speech to
her
which ought to have made even himself blush, so laden it was with
hypocrisy
and lies. He said that this court was composed of holy and
pious
churchmen whose hearts were full of benevolence and compassion
toward
her, and that they had no wish to hurt her body, but only a
desire
to instruct her and lead her into the way of truth and salvation.
Why,
this man was born a devil; now think of his describing himself and
those
hardened slaves of his in such language as that.
And
yet, worse was to come. For now having in mind another of Lovier's
hints,
he had the cold effrontery to make to Joan a proposition which,
I
think, will surprise you when you hear it. He said that this court,
recognizing
her untaught estate and her inability to deal with the
complex
and difficult matters which were about to be considered, had
determined,
out of their pity and their mercifulness, to allow her to
choose
one or more persons out of their own number to help her with
counsel
and advice!
Think
of that--a court made up of Loyseleur and his breed of reptiles.
It
was granting leave to a lamb to ask help of a wolf. Joan looked up to
see
if he was serious, and perceiving that he was at least pretending to
be,
she declined, of course.
The
Bishop was not expecting any other reply. He had made a show of
fairness
and could have it entered on the minutes, therefore he was
satisfied.
Then
he commanded Joan to answer straitly to every accusation; and
threatened
to cut her off from the Church if she failed to do that or
delayed
her answers beyond a given length of time.
Yes,
he was narrowing her chances down, step by step.
Thomas
de Courcelles began the reading of that interminable document,
article
by article. Joan answered to each article in its turn; sometimes
merely
denying its truth, sometimes by saying her answer would be found
in
the records of the previous trials.
What
a strange document that was, and what an exhibition and exposure of
the
heart of man, the one creature authorized to boast that he is made
in
the image of God. To know Joan of Arc was to know one who was wholly
noble,
pure, truthful, brave, compassionate, generous, pious, unselfish,
modest,
blameless as the very flowers in the fields--a nature fine and
beautiful,
a character supremely great. To know her from that document
would
be to know her as the exact reverse of all that. Nothing that she
was
appears in it, everything that she was not appears there in detail.
Consider
some of the things it charges against her, and remember who
it is
it is speaking of. It calls her a sorceress, a false prophet,
an
invoker and companion of evil spirits, a dealer in magic, a person
ignorant
of the Catholic faith, a schismatic; she is sacrilegious, an
idolater,
an apostate, a blasphemer of God and His saints, scandalous,
seditious,
a disturber of the peace; she incites men to war, and to the
spilling
of human blood; she discards the decencies and proprieties of
her
sex, irreverently assuming the dress of a man and the vocation of a
soldier;
she beguiles both princes and people; she usurps divine honors,
and
has caused herself to be adored and venerated, offering her hands
and
her vestments to be kissed.
There
it is--every fact of her life distorted, perverted, reversed. As a
child
she had loved the fairies, she had spoken a pitying word for them
when
they were banished from their home, she had played under their tree
and
around their fountain--hence she was a comrade of evil spirits.
She
had lifted France out of the mud and moved her to strike for
freedom,
and led her to victory after victory--hence she was a disturber
of
the peace--as indeed she was, and a provoker of war--as indeed she
was
again! and France will be proud of it and grateful for it for many
a
century to come. And she had been adored--as if she could help that,
poor
thing, or was in any way to blame for it. The cowed veteran and the
wavering
recruit had drunk the spirit of war from her eyes and touched
her
sword with theirs and moved forward invincible--hence she was a
sorceress.
And
so the document went on, detail by detail, turning these waters
of
life to poison, this gold to dross, these proofs of a noble and
beautiful
life to evidences of a foul and odious one.
Of
course, the sixty-six articles were just a rehash of the things which
had
come up in the course of the previous trials, so I will touch upon
this
new trial but lightly. In fact, Joan went but little into detail
herself,
usually merely saying, "That is not true--passez outre"; or,
"I
have answered that before--let the clerk read it in his record," or
saying
some other brief thing.
She
refused to have her mission examined and tried by the earthly
Church.
The refusal was taken note of.
She
denied the accusation of idolatry and that she had sought men's
homage.
She said:
"If
any kissed my hands and my vestments it was not by my desire, and I
did
what I could to prevent it."
She
had the pluck to say to that deadly tribunal that she did not know
the
fairies to be evil beings. She knew it was a perilous thing to say,
but
it was not in her nature to speak anything but the truth when she
spoke
at all. Danger had no weight with her in such things. Note was
taken
of her remark.
She
refused, as always before, when asked if she would put off the male
attire
if she were given permission to commune. And she added this:
"When
one receives the sacrament, the manner of his dress is a small
thing
and of no value in the eyes of Our Lord."
She
was charge with being so stubborn in clinging to her male dress that
she
would not lay it off even to get the blessed privilege of hearing
mass.
She spoke out with spirit and said:
"I
would rather die than be untrue to my oath to God."
She
was reproached with doing man's work in the wars and thus deserting
the
industries proper to her sex. She answered, with some little touch
of
soldierly disdain:
"As
to the matter of women's work, there's plenty to do it."
It
was always a comfort to me to see the soldier spirit crop up in her.
While
that remained in her she would be Joan of Arc, and able to look
trouble
and fate in the face.
"It
appears that this mission of yours which you claim you had from God,
was
to make war and pour out human blood."
Joan
replied quite simply, contenting herself with explaining that war
was
not her first move, but her second:
"To
begin with, I demanded that peace should be made. If it was refused,
then
I would fight."
The
judge mixed the Burgundians and English together in speaking of the
enemy
which Joan had come to make war upon. But she showed that she
made
a distinction between them by act and word, the Burgundians being
Frenchmen
and therefore entitled to less brusque treatment than the
English.
She said:
"As
to the Duke of Burgundy, I required of him, both by letters and by
his
ambassadors, that he make peace with the King. As to the English,
the
only peace for them was that they leave the country and go home."
Then
she said that even with the English she had shown a pacific
disposition,
since she had warned them away by proclamation before
attacking
them.
"If
they had listened to me," said she, "they would have done wisely.=
"
At
this point she uttered her prophecy again, saying with emphasis,
"Before
seven years they will see it themselves."
Then
they presently began to pester her again about her male costume,
and
tried to persuade her to voluntarily promise to discard it. I
was
never deep, so I think it no wonder that I was puzzled by their
persistency
in what seemed a thing of no consequence, and could not make
out
what their reason could be. But we all know now. We all know now
that
it was another of their treacherous projects. Yes, if they could
but
succeed in getting her to formally discard it they could play a game
upon
her which would quickly destroy her. So they kept at their evil
work
until at last she broke out and said:
"Peace!
Without the permission of God I will not lay it off though you
cut
off my head!"
At
one point she corrected the proces verbal, saying:
"It
makes me say that everything which I have done was done by the
counsel
of Our Lord. I did not say that, I said 'all which I have well
done.'"
Doubt
was cast upon the authenticity of her mission because of the
ignorance
and simplicity of the messenger chosen. Joan smiled at that.
She
could have reminded these people that Our Lord, who is no respecter
of
persons, had chosen the lowly for his high purposes even oftener
than
he had chosen bishops and cardinals; but she phrased her rebuke in
simpler
terms:
"It
is the prerogative of Our Lord to choose His instruments where He
will."
She
was asked what form of prayer she used in invoking counsel from on
high.
She said the form was brief and simple; then she lifted her pallid
face
and repeated it, clasping her chained hands:
"Most
dear God, in honor of your holy passion I beseech you, if you love
me,
that you will reveal to me what I am to answer to these churchmen.
As
concerns my dress, I know by what command I have put it on, but I
know
not in what manner I am to lay it off. I pray you tell me what to
do."
She
was charged with having dared, against the precepts of God and His
saints,
to assume empire over men and make herself Commander-in-Chief.
That
touched the soldier in her. She had a deep reverence for priests,
but
the soldier in her had but small reverence for a priest's opinions
about
war; so, in her answer to this charge she did not condescend to
go into
any explanations or excuses, but delivered herself with bland
indifference
and military brevity.
"If
I was Commander-in-Chief, it was to thrash the English."
Death
was staring her in the face here all the time, but no matter;
she
dearly loved to make these English-hearted Frenchmen squirm, and
whenever
they gave her an opening she was prompt to jab her sting into
it.
She got great refreshment out of these little episodes. Her days
were
a desert; these were the oases in it.
Her
being in the wars with men was charged against her as an indelicacy.
She
said:
"I
had a woman with me when I could--in towns and lodgings. In the field
I
always slept in my armor."
That
she and her family had been ennobled by the King was charged
against
her as evidence that the source of her deeds were sordid
self-seeking.
She answered that she had not asked this grace of the
King;
it was his own act.
This
third trial was ended at last. And once again there was no definite
result.
Possibly
a fourth trial might succeed in defeating this apparently
unconquerable
girl. So the malignant Bishop set himself to work to plan
it.
He
appointed a commission to reduce the substance of the sixty-six
articles
to twelve compact lies, as a basis for the new attempt. This
was
done. It took several days.
Meantime
Cauchon went to Joan's cell one day, with Manchon and two of
the
judges, Isambard de la Pierre and Martin Ladvenue, to see if he
could
not manage somehow to beguile Joan into submitting her mission to
the
examination and decision of the Church Militant--that is to say, to
that
part of the Church Militant which was represented by himself and
his
creatures.
Joan
once more positively refused. Isambard de la Pierre had a heart in
his
body, and he so pitied this persecuted poor girl that he ventured to
do a
very daring thing; for he asked her if she would be willing to have
her
case go before the Council of Basel, and said it contained as many
priests
of her party as of the English party.
Joan
cried out that she would gladly go before so fairly constructed
a
tribunal as that; but before Isambard could say another word Cauchon
turned
savagely upon him and exclaimed:
"Shut
up, in the devil's name!"
Then
Manchon ventured to do a brave thing, too, though he did it in
great
fear for his life. He asked Cauchon if he should enter Joan's
submission
to the Council of Basel upon the minutes.
"No!
It is not necessary."
"Ah,"
said poor Joan, reproachfully, "you set down everything that is
against
me, but you will not set down what is for me."
It was
piteous. It would have touched the heart of a brute. But Cauchon
was
more than that.
WE
WERE now in the first days of April. Joan was ill. She had fallen ill
the
29th of March, the day after the close of the third trial, and was
growing
worse when the scene which I have just described occurred in her
cell.
It was just like Cauchon to go there and try to get some advantage
out
of her weakened state.
Let
us note some of the particulars in the new indictment--the Twelve
Lies.
Part
of the first one says Joan asserts that she has found her
salvation.
She never said anything of the kind. It also says she refuses
to
submit herself to the Church. Not true. She was willing to submit all
her
acts to this Rouen tribunal except those done by the command of God
in
fulfilment of her mission. Those she reserved for the judgment of
God.
She refused to recognize Cauchon and his serfs as the Church, but
was
willing to go before the Pope or the Council of Basel.
A
clause of another of the Twelve says she admits having threatened with
death
those who would not obey her. Distinctly false. Another clause
says
she declares that all she has done has been done by command of God.
What
she really said was, all that she had done well--a correction made
by
herself as you have already seen.
Another
of the Twelve says she claims that she has never committed any
sin.
She never made any such claim.
Another
makes the wearing of the male dress a sin. If it was, she had
high
Catholic authority for committing it--that of the Archbishop of
Rheims
and the tribunal of Poitiers.
The
Tenth Article was resentful against her for "pretending" that St.=
Catherine
and St.
Marguerite
spoke French and not English, and were French in their
politics.
The
Twelve were to be submitted first to the learned doctors of theology
of
the University of Paris for approval. They were copied out and ready
by
the night of April 4th. Then Manchon did another bold thing: he wrote
in
the margin that many of the Twelve put statements in Joan's mouth
which
were the exact opposite of what she had said. That fact would
not
be considered important by the University of Paris, and would not
influence
its decision or stir its humanity, in case it had any--which
it
hadn't when acting in a political capacity, as at present--but it was
a
brave thing for that good Manchon to do, all the same.
The
Twelve were sent to Paris next day, April 5th. That afternoon there
was a
great tumult in Rouen, and excited crowds were flocking through
all
the chief streets, chattering and seeking for news; for a report had
gone
abroad that Joan of Arc was sick until death. In truth, these
long
seances had worn her out, and she was ill indeed. The heads of the
English
party were in a state of consternation; for if Joan should die
uncondemned
by the Church and go to the grave unsmirched, the pity and
the
love of the people would turn her wrongs and sufferings and death
into
a holy martyrdom, and she would be even a mightier power in France
dead
than she had been when alive.
The
Earl of Warwick and the English Cardinal (Winchester) hurried to
the
castle and sent messengers flying for physicians. Warwick was a hard
man,
a rude, coarse man, a man without compassion. There lay the sick
girl
stretched in her chains in her iron cage--not an object to move man
to
ungentle speech, one would think; yet Warwick spoke right out in her
hearing
and said to the physicians:
"Mind
you take good care of her. The King of England has no mind to have
her
die a natural death. She is dear to him, for he bought her dear, and
he
does not want her to die, save at the stake. Now then, mind you cure
her."
The
doctors asked Joan what had made her ill. She said the Bishop of
Beauvais
had sent her a fish and she thought it was that.
Then
Jean d'Estivet burst out on her, and called her names and abused
her.
He understood Joan to be charging the Bishop with poisoning her,
you
see; and that was not pleasing to him, for he was one of Cauchon's
most
loving and conscienceless slaves, and it outraged him to have Joan
injure
his master in the eyes of these great English chiefs, these being
men
who could ruin Cauchon and would promptly do it if they got
the
conviction that he was capable of saving Joan from the stake by
poisoning
her and thus cheating the English out of all the real value
gainable
by her purchase from the Duke of Burgundy.
Joan
had a high fever, and the doctors proposed to bleed her. Warwick
said:
"Be
careful about that; she is smart and is capable of killing herself."
He
meant that to escape the stake she might undo the bandage and let
herself
bleed to death.
But
the doctors bled her anyway, and then she was better.
Not
for long, though. Jean d'Estivet could not hold still, he was so
worried
and angry about the suspicion of poisoning which Joan had hinted
at;
so he came back in the evening and stormed at her till he brought
the
fever all back again.
When
Warwick heard of this he was in a fine temper, you may be sure,
for
here was his prey threatening to escape again, and all through
the
over-zeal of this meddling fool. Warwick gave D'Estivet a quite
admirable
cursing--admirable as to strength, I mean, for it was said by
persons
of culture that the art of it was not good--and after that the
meddler
kept still.
Joan
remained ill more than two weeks; then she grew better. She was
still
very weak, but she could bear a little persecution now without
much
danger to her life. It seemed to Cauchon a good time to furnish it.
So he
called together some of his doctors of theology and went to her
dungeon.
Manchon and I went along to keep the record--that is, to set
down
what might be useful to Cauchon, and leave out the rest.
The
sight of Joan gave me a shock. Why, she was but a shadow! It was
difficult
for me to realize that this frail little creature with the
sad
face and drooping form was the same Joan of Arc that I had so often
seen,
all fire and enthusiasm, charging through a hail of death and
the
lightning and thunder of the guns at the head of her battalions. It
wrung
my heart to see her looking like this.
But
Cauchon was not touched. He made another of those conscienceless
speeches
of his, all dripping with hypocrisy and guile. He told Joan
that
among her answers had been some which had seemed to endanger
religion;
and as she was ignorant and without knowledge of the
Scriptures,
he had brought some good and wise men to instruct her, if
she
desired it. Said he, "We are churchmen, and disposed by our good
will
as well as by our vocation to procure for you the salvation of your
soul
and your body, in every way in our power, just as we would do the
like
for our nearest kin or for ourselves. In this we but follow the
example
of Holy Church, who never closes the refuge of her bosom against
any
that are willing to return."
Joan
thanked him for these sayings and said:
"I
seem to be in danger of death from this malady; if it be the pleasure
of
God that I die here, I beg that I may be heard in confession and also
receive
my Saviour; and that I may be buried in consecrated ground."
Cauchon
thought he saw his opportunity at last; this weakened body
had
the fear of an unblessed death before it and the pains of hell to
follow.
This stubborn spirit would surrender now. So he spoke out and
said:
"Then
if you want the Sacraments, you must do as all good Catholics do,
and
submit to the Church."
He
was eager for her answer; but when it came there was no surrender
in
it, she still stood to her guns. She turned her head away and said
wearily:
"I
have nothing more to say."
Cauchon's
temper was stirred, and he raised his voice threateningly
and
said that the more she was in danger of death the more she ought to
amend
her life; and again he refused the things she begged for unless
she
would submit to the Church. Joan said:
"If
I die in this prison I beg you to have me buried in holy ground; if
you
will not, I cast myself upon my Saviour."
There
was some more conversation of the like sort, then Cauchon demanded
again,
and imperiously, that she submit herself and all her deeds to
the
Church. His threatening and storming went for nothing. That body
was
weak, but the spirit in it was the spirit of Joan of Arc; and out
of
that came the steadfast answer which these people were already so
familiar
with and detested so sincerely:
"Let
come what may. I will neither do nor say any otherwise than I have
said
already in your tribunals."
Then
the good theologians took turn about and worried her with
reasonings
and arguments and Scriptures; and always they held the lure
of
the Sacraments before her famishing soul, and tried to bribe her with
them
to surrender her mission to the Church's judgment--that is to their
judgment--as
if they were the Church! But it availed nothing. I could
have
told them that beforehand, if they had asked me. But they never
asked
me anything; I was too humble a creature for their notice.
Then
the interview closed with a threat; a threat of fearful import;
a
threat calculated to make a Catholic Christian feel as if the ground
were
sinking from under him:
"The
Church calls upon you to submit; disobey, and she will abandon you
as if
you were a pagan!"
Think
of being abandoned by the Church!--that August Power in whose
hands
is lodged the fate of the human race; whose scepter stretches
beyond
the furthest constellation that twinkles in the sky; whose
authority
is over millions that live and over the billions that wait
trembling
in purgatory for ransom or doom; whose smile opens the gates
of
heaven to you, whose frown delivers you to the fires of everlasting
hell;
a Power whose dominion overshadows and belittles the pomps and
shows
of a village. To be abandoned by one's King--yes, that is death,
and
death is much; but to be abandoned by Rome, to be abandoned by the
Church!
Ah, death is nothing to that, for that is consignment to endless
life--and
such a life!
I
could see the red waves tossing in that shoreless lake of fire, I
could
see the black myriads of the damned rise out of them and struggle
and
sink and rise again; and I knew that Joan was seeing what I saw,
while
she paused musing; and I believed that she must yield now, and in
truth
I hoped she would, for these men were able to make the threat good
and
deliver her over to eternal suffering, and I knew that it was in
their
natures to do it.
But I
was foolish to think that thought and hope that hope. Joan of
Arc
was not made as others are made. Fidelity to principle, fidelity
to
truth, fidelity to her word, all these were in her bone and in her
flesh--they
were parts of her. She could not change, she could not cast
them
out. She was the very genius of Fidelity; she was Steadfastness
incarnated.
Where she had taken her stand and planted her foot, there
she
would abide; hell itself could not move her from that place.
Her
Voices had not given her permission to make the sort of submission
that
was required, therefore she would stand fast. She would wait, in
perfect
obedience, let come what might.
My
heart was like lead in my body when I went out from that dungeon;
but
she--she was serene, she was not troubled. She had done what she
believed
to be her duty, and that was sufficient; the consequences
were
not her affair. The last thing she said that time was full of this
serenity,
full of contented repose:
"I
am a good Christian born and baptized, and a good Christian I will
die."
TWO
WEEKS went by; the second of May was come, the chill was departed
out
of the air, the wild flowers were springing in the glades and
glens,
the birds were piping in the woods, all nature was brilliant with
sunshine,
all spirits were renewed and refreshed, all hearts glad,
the
world was alive with hope and cheer, the plain beyond the Seine
stretched
away soft and rich and green, the river was limpid and
lovely,
the leafy islands were dainty to see, and flung still daintier
reflections
of themselves upon the shining water; and from the tall
bluffs
above the bridge Rouen was become again a delight to the eye, the
most
exquisite and satisfying picture of a town that nestles under the
arch
of heaven anywhere.
When
I say that all hearts were glad and hopeful, I mean it in a general
sense.
There were exceptions--we who were the friends of Joan of Arc,
also
Joan of Arc herself, that poor girl shut up there in that frowning
stretch
of mighty walls and towers: brooding in darkness, so close to
the
flooding downpour of sunshine yet so impossibly far away from it;
so
longing for any little glimpse of it, yet so implacably denied it
by
those wolves in the black gowns who were plotting her death and the
blackening
of her good name.
Cauchon
was ready to go on with his miserable work. He had a new scheme
to
try now. He would see what persuasion could do--argument, eloquence,
poured
out upon the incorrigible captive from the mouth of a trained
expert.
That was his plan. But the reading of the Twelve Articles to
her
was not a part of it. No, even Cauchon was ashamed to lay that
monstrosity
before her; even he had a remnant of shame in him, away down
deep,
a million fathoms deep, and that remnant asserted itself now and
prevailed.
On
this fair second of May, then, the black company gathered itself
together
in the spacious chamber at the end of the great hall of the
castle--the
Bishop of Beauvais on his throne, and sixty-two minor judges
massed
before him, with the guards and recorders at their stations and
the
orator at his desk.
Then
we heard the far clank of chains, and presently Joan entered with
her
keepers and took her seat upon her isolated bench. She was looking
well
now, and most fair and beautiful after her fortnight's rest from
wordy
persecution.
She
glanced about and noted the orator. Doubtless she divined the
situation.
The
orator had written his speech all out, and had it in his hand,
though
he held it back of him out of sight. It was so thick that it
resembled
a book. He began flowing, but in the midst of a flowery period
his
memory failed him and he had to snatch a furtive glance at his
manuscript--which
much injured the effect. Again this happened, and then
a
third time. The poor man's face was red with embarrassment, the whole
great
house was pitying him, which made the matter worse; then Joan
dropped
in a remark which completed the trouble. She said:
"Read
your book--and then I will answer you!"
Why,
it was almost cruel the way those moldy veterans laughed; and as
for
the orator, he looked so flustered and helpless that almost anybody
would
have pitied him, and I had difficulty to keep from doing it
myself.
Yes, Joan was feeling very well after her rest, and the native
mischief
that was in her lay near the surface. It did not show when she
made
the remark, but I knew it was close in there back of the words.
When
the orator had gotten back his composure he did a wise thing; for
he
followed Joan's advice: he made no more attempts at sham impromptu
oratory,
but read his speech straight from his "book." In the speech he
compressed
the Twelve Articles into six, and made these his text.
Every
now and then he stopped and asked questions, and Joan replied.
The
nature of the Church Militant was explained, and once more Joan was
asked
to submit herself to it.
She
gave her usual answer.
Then
she was asked:
"Do
you believe the Church can err?"
"I
believe it cannot err; but for those deeds and words of mine which
were
done and uttered by command of God, I will answer to Him alone."
"Will
you say that you have no judge upon earth? Is not our Holy Father
the
Pope your judge?"
"I
will say nothing about it. I have a good Master who is our Lord, and
to
Him I will submit all."
Then
came these terrible words:
"If
you do not submit to the Church you will be pronounced a heretic by
these
judges here present and burned at the stake!"
Ah,
that would have smitten you or me dead with fright, but it only
roused
the lion heart of Joan of Arc, and in her answer rang that
martial
note which had used to stir her soldiers like a bugle-call:
"I
will not say otherwise than I have said already; and if I saw the
fire
before me I would say it again!"
It
was uplifting to hear her battle-voice once more and see the
battle-light
burn in her eye. Many there were stirred; every man that
was a
man was stirred, whether friend or foe; and Manchon risked his
life
again, good soul, for he wrote in the margin of the record in good
plain
letters these brave words: "Superba responsio!" and there they
have
remained these sixty years, and there you may read them to this
day.
"Superba responsio!" Yes, it was just that. For this "superb answer"<= o:p>
came
from the lips of a girl of nineteen with death and hell staring her
in
the face.
Of
course, the matter of the male attire was gone over again; and as
usual
at wearisome length; also, as usual, the customary bribe was
offered:
if she would discard that dress voluntarily they would let her
hear
mass. But she answered as she had often answered before:
"I
will go in a woman's robe to all services of the Church if I may be
permitted,
but I will resume the other dress when I return to my cell."
They
set several traps for her in a tentative form; that is to say,
they
placed suppositious propositions before her and cunningly tried to
commit
her to one end of the propositions without committing themselves
to
the other. But she always saw the game and spoiled it. The trap was
in
this form:
"Would
you be willing to do so and so if we should give you leave?"
Her
answer was always in this form or to this effect:
"When
you give me leave, then you will know."
Yes,
Joan was at her best that second of May. She had all her wits about
her,
and they could not catch her anywhere. It was a long, long session,
and
all the old ground was fought over again, foot by foot, and the
orator-expert
worked all his persuasions, all his eloquence; but the
result
was the familiar one--a drawn battle, the sixty-two retiring upon
their
base, the solitary enemy holding her original position within her
original
lines.
THE
BRILLIANT weather, the heavenly weather, the bewitching weather made
everybody's
heart to sing, as I have told you; yes, Rouen was feeling
light-hearted
and gay, and most willing and ready to break out and laugh
upon
the least occasion; and so when the news went around that the young
girl
in the tower had scored another defeat against Bishop Cauchon there
was
abundant laughter--abundant laughter among the citizens of both
parties,
for they all hated the Bishop. It is true, the English-hearted
majority
of the people wanted Joan burned, but that did not keep them
from
laughing at the man they hated. It would have been perilous for
anybody
to laugh at the English chiefs or at the majority of Cauchon's
assistant
judges, but to laugh at Cauchon or D'Estivet and Loyseleur was
safe--nobody
would report it.
The
difference between Cauchon and cochon (1) was not noticeable
in
speech, and so there was plenty of opportunity for puns; the
opportunities
were not thrown away.
Some
of the jokes got well worn in the course of two or three months,
from
repeated use; for every time Cauchon started a new trial the folk
said
"The sow has littered (2) again"; and every time the trial failed=
they
said it over again, with its other meaning, "The hog has made a
mess
of it."
And
so, on the third of May, Noel and I, drifting about the town, heard
many
a wide-mouthed lout let go his joke and his laugh, and then move to
the
next group, proud of his wit and happy, to work it off again:
"'Od's
blood, the sow has littered five times, and five times has made a
mess
of it!"
And
now and then one was bold enough to say--but he said it softly:
"Sixty-three
and the might of England against a girl, and she camps on
the
field five times!"
Cauchon
lived in the great palace of the Archbishop, and it was guarded
by
English soldiery; but no matter, there was never a dark night but the
walls
showed next morning that the rude joker had been there with his
paint
and brush. Yes, he had been there, and had smeared the sacred
walls
with pictures of hogs in all attitudes except flattering ones;
hogs
clothed in a Bishop's vestments and wearing a Bishop's miter
irreverently
cocked on the side of their heads.
Cauchon
raged and cursed over his defeats and his impotence during seven
says;
then he conceived a new scheme. You shall see what it was; for you
have
not cruel hearts, and you would never guess it.
On
the ninth of May there was a summons, and Manchon and I got out
materials
together and started. But this time we were to go to one of
the
other towers--not the one which was Joan's prison. It was round and
grim
and massive, and built of the plainest and thickest and solidest
masonry--a
dismal and forbidding structure. (3) We entered the circular
room
on the ground floor, and I saw what turned me sick--the instruments
of
torture and the executioners standing ready! Here you have the black
heart
of Cauchon at the blackest, here you have the proof that in his
nature
there was no such thing as pity. One wonders if he ever knew his
mother
or ever had a sister.
Cauchon
was there, and the Vice-Inquisitor and the Abbot of St.
Corneille;
also six others, among them that false Loyseleur. The
guards
were in their places, the rack was there, and by it stood the
executioner
and his aids in their crimson hose and doublets, meet color
for
their bloody trade. The picture of Joan rose before me stretched
upon
the rack, her feet tied to one end of it, her wrists to the other,
and
those red giants turning the windlass and pulling her limbs out of
their
sockets. It seemed to me that I could hear the bones snap and the
flesh
tear apart, and I did not see how that body of anointed
servants
of the merciful Jesus could sit there and look so placid and
indifferent.
After
a little, Joan arrived and was brought in. She saw the rack, she
saw
the attendants, and the same picture which I had been seeing must
have
risen in her mind; but do you think she quailed, do you think she
shuddered?
No, there was no sign of that sort. She straightened herself
up,
and there was a slight curl of scorn about her lip; but as for fear,
she
showed not a vestige of it.
This
was a memorable session, but it was the shortest one of all the
list.
When Joan had taken her seat a resume of her "crimes" was read to=
her.
Then Cauchon made a solemn speech. It in he said that in the course
of
her several trials Joan had refused to answer some of the questions
and
had answered others with lies, but that now he was going to have the
truth
out of her, and the whole of it.
Her
manner was full of confidence this time; he was sure he had found a
way
at last to break this child's stubborn spirit and make her beg
and
cry. He would score a victory this time and stop the mouths of the
jokers
of Rouen. You see, he was only just a man after all, and couldn't
stand
ridicule any better than other people. He talked high, and his
splotchy
face lighted itself up with all the shifting tints and signs
of
evil pleasure and promised triumph--purple, yellow, red, green--they
were
all there, with sometimes the dull and spongy blue of a drowned
man,
the uncanniest of them all. And finally he burst out in a great
passion
and said:
"There
is the rack, and there are its ministers! You will reveal all now
or be
put to the torture.
"Speak."
Then
she made that great answer which will live forever; made it without
fuss
or bravado, and yet how fine and noble was the sound of it:
"I
will tell you nothing more than I have told you; no, not even if you
tear
the limbs from my body. And even if in my pain I did say something
otherwise,
I would always say afterward that it was the torture that
spoke
and not I."
There
was no crushing that spirit. You should have seen Cauchon.
Defeated
again, and he had not dreamed of such a thing. I heard it said
the
next day, around the town, that he had a full confession all written
out,
in his pocket and all ready for Joan to sign. I do not know that
that
was true, but it probably was, for her mark signed at the bottom of
a
confession would be the kind of evidence (for effect with the public)
which
Cauchon and his people were particularly value, you know.
No,
there was no crushing that spirit, and no beclouding that clear
mind.
Consider the depth, the wisdom of that answer, coming from an
ignorant
girl. Why, there were not six men in the world who had ever
reflected
that words forced out of a person by horrible tortures
were
not necessarily words of verity and truth, yet this unlettered
peasant-girl
put her finger upon that flaw with an unerring instinct.
I had
always supposed that torture brought out the truth--everybody
supposed
it; and when Joan came out with those simple common-sense words
they
seemed to flood the place with light. It was like a lightning-flash
at
midnight which suddenly reveals a fair valley sprinkled over with
silver
streams and gleaming villages and farmsteads where was only an
impenetrable
world of darkness before. Manchon stole a sidewise look at
me,
and his face was full of surprise; and there was the like to be seen
in
other faces there. Consider--they were old, and deeply cultured, yet
here
was a village maid able to teach them something which they had not
known
before. I heard one of them mutter:
"Verily
it is a wonderful creature. She has laid her hand upon an
accepted
truth that is as old as the world, and it has crumbled to dust
and
rubbish under her touch. Now whence got she that marvelous insight?"
The
judges laid their heads together and began to talk now. It was
plain,
from chance words which one caught now and then, that Cauchon and
Loyseleur
were insisting upon the application of the torture, and that
most
of the others were urgently objecting.
Finally
Cauchon broke out with a good deal of asperity in his voice and
ordered
Joan back to her dungeon. That was a happy surprise for me. I
was
not expecting that the Bishop would yield.
When
Manchon came home that night he said he had found out why the
torture
was not applied.
There
were two reasons. One was, a fear that Joan might die under the
torture,
which would not suit the English at all; the other was,
that
the torture would effect nothing if Joan was going to take back
everything
she said under its pains; and as to putting her mark to a
confession,
it was believed that not even the rack would ever make her
do
that.
So
all Rouen laughed again, and kept it up for three days, saying:
"The
sow has littered six times, and made six messes of it."
And
the palace walls got a new decoration--a mitered hog carrying a
discarded
rack home on its shoulder, and Loyseleur weeping in its wake.
Many
rewards were offered for the capture of these painters, but nobody
applied.
Even the English guard feigned blindness and would not see the
artists
at work.
The
Bishop's anger was very high now. He could not reconcile himself to
the
idea of giving up the torture. It was the pleasantest idea he had
invented
yet, and he would not cast it by. So he called in some of his
satellites
on the twelfth, and urged the torture again. But it was a
failure.
With
some, Joan's speech had wrought an effect; others feared she might
die
under torture; others did not believe that any amount of suffering
could
make her put her mark to a lying confession. There were fourteen
men
present, including the Bishop. Eleven of them voted dead against the
torture,
and stood their ground in spite of Cauchon's abuse. Two voted
with
the Bishop and insisted upon the torture. These two were Loyseleur
and
the orator--the man whom Joan had bidden to "read his book"--Thom=
as
de
Courcelles, the renowned pleader and master of eloquence.
Age
has taught me charity of speech; but it fails me when I think of
those
three names--Cauchon, Courcelles, Loyseleur.
(1)
Hog, pig.
(2)
Cochonner, to litter, to farrow; also, "to make a mess of"!
(3)
The lower half of it remains to-day just as it was then; the upper
half
is of a later date. -- TRANSLATOR.
ANOTHER
ten days' wait. The great theologians of that treasury of all
valuable
knowledge and all wisdom, the University of Paris, were still
weighing
and considering and discussing the Twelve Lies.
I had
had but little to do these ten days, so I spent them mainly in
walks
about the town with Noel. But there was no pleasure in them, our
spirits
being so burdened with cares, and the outlook for Joan
growing
steadily darker and darker all the time. And then we naturally
contrasted
our circumstances with hers: this freedom and sunshine, with
her
darkness and chains; our comradeship, with her lonely estate; our
alleviations
of one sort and another, with her destitution in all.
She
was used to liberty, but now she had none; she was an out-of-door
creature
by nature and habit, but now she was shut up day and night in
a
steel cage like an animal; she was used to the light, but now she was
always
in a gloom where all objects about her were dim and spectral; she
was
used to the thousand various sounds which are the cheer and music
of a
busy life, but now she heard only the monotonous footfall of the
sentry
pacing his watch; she had been fond of talking with her mates,
but
now there was no one to talk to; she had had an easy laugh, but it
was
gone dumb now; she had been born for comradeship, and blithe and
busy
work, and all manner of joyous activities, but here were only
dreariness,
and leaden hours, and weary inaction, and brooding
stillness,
and thoughts that travel by day and night and night and day
round
and round in the same circle, and wear the brain and break the
heart
with weariness. It was death in life; yes, death in life, that is
what
it must have been. And there was another hard thing about it all. A
young
girl in trouble needs the soothing solace and support and
sympathy
of persons of her own sex, and the delicate offices and gentle
ministries
which only these can furnish; yet in all these months of
gloomy
captivity in her dungeon Joan never saw the face of a girl or a
woman.
Think how her heart would have leaped to see such a face.
Consider.
If you would realize how great Joan of Arc was, remember that
it
was out of such a place and such circumstances that she came week
after
week and month after month and confronted the master intellects
of
France single-handed, and baffled their cunningest schemes, defeated
their
ablest plans, detected and avoided their secretest traps and
pitfalls,
broke their lines, repelled their assaults, and camped on the
field
after every engagement; steadfast always, true to her faith and
her
ideals; defying torture, defying the stake, and answering threats
of eternal death and the pains of hell with a simple "Let come what may,<= o:p>
here
I take my stand and will abide."
Yes,
if you would realize how great was the soul, how profound the
wisdom,
and how luminous the intellect of Joan of Arc, you must study
her
there, where she fought out that long fight all alone--and not
merely
against the subtlest brains and deepest learning of France, but
against
the ignoble deceits, the meanest treacheries, and the hardest
hearts
to be found in any land, pagan or Christian.
She
was great in battle--we all know that; great in foresight; great
in
loyalty and patriotism; great in persuading discontented chiefs and
reconciling
conflicting interests and passions; great in the ability to
discover
merit and genius wherever it lay hidden; great in picturesque
and
eloquent speech; supremely great in the gift of firing the hearts
of
hopeless men and noble enthusiasms, the gift of turning hares into
heroes,
slaves and skulkers into battalions that march to death with
songs
on their lips. But all these are exalting activities; they keep
hand
and heart and brain keyed up to their work; there is the joy of
achievement,
the inspiration of stir and movement, the applause which
hails
success; the soul is overflowing with life and energy, the
faculties
are at white heat; weariness, despondency, inertia--these do
not
exist.
Yes,
Joan of Arc was great always, great everywhere, but she was
greatest
in the Rouen trials.
There
she rose above the limitations and infirmities of our human
nature,
and accomplished under blighting and unnerving and hopeless
conditions
all that her splendid equipment of moral and intellectual
forces
could have accomplished if they had been supplemented by the
mighty
helps of hope and cheer and light, the presence of friendly
faces,
and a fair and equal fight, with the great world looking on and
wondering.
TOWARD
THE END of the ten-day interval the University of Paris rendered
its
decision concerning the Twelve Articles. By this finding, Joan
was
guilty upon all the counts: she must renounce her errors and make
satisfaction,
or be abandoned to the secular arm for punishment.
The
University's mind was probably already made up before the Articles
were
laid before it; yet it took it from the fifth to the eighteenth to
produce
its verdict. I think the delay may have been caused by temporary
difficulties
concerning two points:
1. As
to who the fiends were who were represented in Joan's Voices; 2.
As to
whether her saints spoke French only.
You
understand, the University decided emphatically that it was fiends
who
spoke in those Voices; it would need to prove that, and it did. It
found
out who those fiends were, and named them in the verdict: Belial,
Satan,
and Behemoth. This has always seemed a doubtful thing to me,
and
not entitled to much credit. I think so for this reason: if the
University
had actually known it was those three, it would for very
consistency's
sake have told how it knew it, and not stopped with the
mere
assertion, since it had made Joan explain how she knew they were
not
fiends. Does not that seem reasonable? To my mind the University's
position
was weak, and I will tell you why. It had claimed that Joan's
angels
were devils in disguise, and we all know that devils do disguise
themselves
as angels; up to that point the University's position was
strong;
but you see yourself that it eats its own argument when it turns
around
and pretends that it can tell who such apparitions are, while
denying
the like ability to a person with as good a head on her
shoulders
as the best one the University could produce.
The
doctors of the University had to see those creatures in order to
know;
and if Joan was deceived, it is argument that they in their turn
could
also be deceived, for their insight and judgment were surely not
clearer
than hers.
As to
the other point which I have thought may have proved a difficulty
and
cost the University delay, I will touch but a moment upon that, and
pass
on. The University decided that it was blasphemy for Joan to say
that
her saints spoke French and not English, and were on the French
side
in political sympathies. I think that the thing which troubled the
doctors
of theology was this: they had decided that the three Voices
were
Satan and two other devils; but they had also decided that these
Voices
were not on the French side--thereby tacitly asserting that they
were
on the English side; and if on the English side, then they must be
angels
and not devils. Otherwise, the situation was embarrassing. You
see,
the University being the wisest and deepest and most erudite body
in
the world, it would like to be logical if it could, for the sake
of
its reputation; therefore it would study and study, days and days,
trying
to find some good common-sense reason for proving the Voices to
be
devils in Article No. 1 and proving them to be angels in Article No.
10.
However, they had to give it up. They found no way out; and so, to
this
day, the University's verdict remains just so--devils in No. 1,
angels
in No. 10; and no way to reconcile the discrepancy.
The
envoys brought the verdict to Rouen, and with it a letter for
Cauchon
which was full of fervid praise. The University complimented
him
on his zeal in hunting down this woman "whose venom had infected the
faithful
of the whole West," and as recompense it as good as promised
him
"a crown of imperishable glory in heaven." Only that!--a crown in=
heaven;
a promissory note and no indorser; always something away off
yonder;
not a word about the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was the thing
Cauchon
was destroying his soul for. A crown in heaven; it must have
sounded
like a sarcasm to him, after all his hard work. What should he
do in
heaven? he did not know anybody there.
On
the nineteenth of May a court of fifty judges sat in the
archiepiscopal
palace to discuss Joan's fate. A few wanted her delivered
over
to the secular arm at once for punishment, but the rest insisted
that
she be once more "charitably admonished" first.
So
the same court met in the castle on the twenty-third, and Joan was
brought
to the bar. Pierre Maurice, a canon of Rouen, made a speech
to
Joan in which he admonished her to save her life and her soul by
renouncing
her errors and surrendering to the Church. He finished with
a
stern threat: if she remained obstinate the damnation of her soul was
certain,
the destruction of her body probable. But Joan was immovable.
She
said:
"If
I were under sentence, and saw the fire before me, and the
executioner
ready to light it--more, if I were in the fire itself, I
would
say none but the things which I have said in these trials; and I
would
abide by them till I died."
A
deep silence followed now, which endured some moments. It lay upon me
like
a weight. I knew it for an omen. Then Cauchon, grave and solemn,
turned
to Pierre Maurice:
"Have
you anything further to say?"
The
priest bowed low, and said:
"Nothing,
my lord."
"Prisoner
at the bar, have you anything further to say?"
"Nothing."
"Then
the debate is closed. To-morrow, sentence will be pronounced.
Remove
the prisoner."
She
seemed to go from the place erect and noble. But I do not know; my
sight
was dim with tears.
To-morrow--twenty-fourth
of May! Exactly a year since I saw her go
speeding
across the plain at the head of her troops, her silver helmet
shining,
her silvery cape fluttering in the wind, her white plumes
flowing,
her sword held aloft; saw her charge the Burgundian camp three
times,
and carry it; saw her wheel to the right and spur for the duke's
reserves;
saw her fling herself against it in the last assault she was
ever
to make. And now that fatal day was come again--and see what it was
bringing!
JOAN
HAD been adjudged guilty of heresy, sorcery, and all the other
terrible
crimes set forth in the Twelve Articles, and her life was in
Cauchon's
hands at last. He could send her to the stake at once. His
work
was finished now, you think? He was satisfied? Not at all. What
would
his Archbishopric be worth if the people should get the idea into
their
heads that this faction of interested priests, slaving under the
English
lash, had wrongly condemned and burned Joan of Arc, Deliverer
of
France? That would be to make of her a holy martyr. Then her spirit
would
rise from her body's ashes, a thousandfold reinforced, and sweep
the
English domination into the sea, and Cauchon along with it. No,
the
victory was not complete yet. Joan's guilt must be established by
evidence
which would satisfy the people. Where was that evidence to be
found?
There was only one person in the world who could furnish it--Joan
of
Arc herself. She must condemn herself, and in public--at least she
must
seem to do it.
But
how was this to be managed? Weeks had been spent already in trying
to
get her to surrender--time wholly wasted; what was to persuade her
now?
Torture had been threatened, the fire had been threatened; what was
left?
Illness, deadly fatigue, and the sight of the fire, the presence
of
the fire! That was left.
Now
that was a shrewd thought. She was but a girl after all, and, under
illness
and exhaustion, subject to a girl's weaknesses.
Yes,
it was shrewdly thought. She had tacitly said herself that under
the
bitter pains of the rack they would be able to extort a false
confession
from her. It was a hint worth remembering, and it was
remembered.
She
had furnished another hint at the same time: that as soon as the
pains
were gone, she would retract the confession. That hint was also
remembered.
She
had herself taught them what to do, you see. First, they must wear
out
her strength, then frighten her with the fire. Second, while the
fright
was on her, she must be made to sign a paper.
But
she would demand a reading of the paper. They could not venture
to
refuse this, with the public there to hear. Suppose that during the
reading
her courage should return?--she would refuse to sign then. Very
well,
even that difficulty could be got over. They could read a short
paper
of no importance, then slip a long and deadly one into its place
and
trick her into signing that.
Yet
there was still one other difficulty. If they made her seem to
abjure,
that would free her from the death-penalty. They could keep her
in a
prison of the Church, but they could not kill her.
That
would not answer; for only her death would content the English.
Alive
she was a terror, in a prison or out of it. She had escaped from
two
prisons already.
But
even that difficulty could be managed. Cauchon would make promises
to her;
in return she would promise to leave off the male dress. He
would
violate his promises, and that would so situate her that she would
not
be able to keep hers. Her lapse would condemn her to the stake, and
the
stake would be ready.
These
were the several moves; there was nothing to do but to make them,
each
in its order, and the game was won. One might almost name the day
that
the betrayed girl, the most innocent creature in France and the
noblest,
would go to her pitiful death.
The
world knows now that Cauchon's plan was as I have sketched it to
you,
but the world did not know it at that time. There are sufficient
indications
that Warwick and all the other English chiefs except the
highest
one--the Cardinal of Winchester--were not let into the secret,
also,
that only Loyseleur and Beaupere, on the French side, knew the
scheme.
Sometimes I have doubted if even Loyseleur and Beaupere knew the
whole
of it at first. However, if any did, it was these two.
It is
usual to let the condemned pass their last night of life in peace,
but
this grace was denied to poor Joan, if one may credit the rumors of
the
time. Loyseleur was smuggled into her presence, and in the character
of
priest, friend, and secret partisan of France and hater of England,
he spent some hours in beseeching her to do "the only right an righteous<= o:p>
thing"--submit
to the Church, as a good Christian should; and that then
she
would straightway get out of the clutches of the dreaded English and
be
transferred to the Church's prison, where she would be honorably used
and
have women about her for jailers. He knew where to touch her. He
knew
how odious to her was the presence of her rough and profane English
guards;
he knew that her Voices had vaguely promised something which she
interpreted
to be escape, rescue, release of some sort, and the chance
to
burst upon France once more and victoriously complete the great work
which
she had been commissioned of Heaven to do. Also there was that
other
thing: if her failing body could be further weakened by loss of
rest
and sleep now, her tired mind would be dazed and drowsy on the
morrow,
and in ill condition to stand out against persuasions, threats,
and
the sight of the stake, and also be purblind to traps and snares
which
it would be swift to detect when in its normal estate.
I do
not need to tell you that there was no rest for me that night. Nor
for
Noel. We went to the main gate of the city before nightfall, with a
hope
in our minds, based upon that vague prophecy of Joan's Voices which
seemed
to promise a rescue by force at the last moment. The immense news
had
flown swiftly far and wide that at last Joan of Arc was condemned,
and
would be sentenced and burned alive on the morrow; and so crowds of
people
were flowing in at the gate, and other crowds were being refused
admission
by the soldiery; these being people who brought doubtful
passes
or none at all. We scanned these crowds eagerly, but there was
nothing
about them to indicate that they were our old war-comrades in
disguise,
and certainly there were no familiar faces among them. And
so,
when the gate was closed at last, we turned away grieved, and more
disappointed
than we cared to admit, either in speech or thought.
The
streets were surging tides of excited men. It was difficult to
make
one's way. Toward midnight our aimless tramp brought us to the
neighborhood
of the beautiful church of St. Ouen, and there all was
bustle
and work. The square was a wilderness of torches and people;
and
through a guarded passage dividing the pack, laborers were carrying
planks
and timbers and disappearing with them through the gate of the
churchyard.
We asked what was going forward; the answer was:
"Scaffolds
and the stake. Don't you know that the French witch is to be
burned
in the morning?"
Then
we went away. We had no heart for that place.
At
dawn we were at the city gate again; this time with a hope which our
wearied
bodies and fevered minds magnified into a large probability.
We
had heard a report that the Abbot of Jumieges with all his monks was
coming
to witness the burning. Our desire, abetted by our imagination,
turned
those nine hundred monks into Joan's old campaigners, and their
Abbot
into La Hire or the Bastard or D'Alencon; and we watched them file
in,
unchallenged, the multitude respectfully dividing and uncovering
while
they passed, with our hearts in our throats and our eyes swimming
with
tears of joy and pride and exultation; and we tried to catch
glimpses
of the faces under the cowls, and were prepared to give signal
to
any recognized face that we were Joan's men and ready and eager to
kill
and be killed in the good cause. How foolish we were!
But
we were young, you know, and youth hopeth all things, believeth all
things.
IN
THE MORNING I was at my official post. It was on a platform raised
the
height of a man, in the churchyard, under the eaves of St. Ouen. On
this
same platform was a crowd of priests and important citizens, and
several
lawyers. Abreast it, with a small space between, was another and
larger
platform, handsomely canopied against sun and rain, and richly
carpeted;
also it was furnished with comfortable chairs, and with two
which
were more sumptuous than the others, and raised above the general
level.
One of these two was occupied by a prince of the royal blood of
England,
his Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester; the other by Cauchon,
Bishop
of Beauvais. In the rest of the chairs sat three bishops, the
Vice-Inquisitor,
eight abbots, and the sixty-two friars and lawyers who
had
sat as Joan's judges in her late trials.
Twenty
steps in front of the platforms was another--a table-topped
pyramid
of stone, built up in retreating courses, thus forming steps.
Out
of this rose that grisly thing, the stake; about the stake bundles
of
fagots and firewood were piled. On the ground at the base of the
pyramid
stood three crimson figures, the executioner and his assistants.
At
their feet lay what had been a goodly heap of brands, but was now
a
smokeless nest of ruddy coals; a foot or two from this was
a
supplemental supply of wood and fagots compacted into a pile
shoulder-high
and containing as much as six packhorse loads. Think of
that.
We seem so delicately made, so destructible, so insubstantial; yet
it is
easier to reduce a granite statue to ashes than it is to do that
with
a man's body.
The
sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves of
my
body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming back t it,
such
fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.
The
space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open by a
wall
of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and stalwart
figures,
fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from behind
them
on every hand stretched far away a level plain of human heads; and
there
was no window and no housetop within our view, howsoever distant,
but
was black with patches and masses of people.
But
there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead. The
impressiveness
of this silence and solemnity was deepened by a leaden
twilight,
for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging storm-clouds;
and
above the remote horizon faint winkings of heat-lightning played,
and
now and then one caught the dull mutterings and complainings of
distant
thunder.
At
last the stillness was broken. From beyond the square rose an
indistinct
sound, but familiar--court, crisp phrases of command; next I
saw
the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a marching host
was
glimpsed between. My heart leaped for a moment. Was it La Hire and
his
hellions? No--that was not their gait. No, it was the prisoner and
her
escort; it was Joan of Arc, under guard, that was coming; my spirits
sank
as low as they had been before. Weak as she was they made her walk;
they
would increase her weakness all they could. The distance was not
great--it
was but a few hundred yards--but short as it was it was a
heavy
tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for months,
and
whose feet had lost their powers from inaction. Yes, and for a
year
Joan had known only the cool damps of a dungeon, and now she was
dragging
herself through this sultry summer heat, this airless and
suffocating
void. As she entered the gate, drooping with exhaustion,
there
was that creature Loyseleur at her side with his head bent to her
ear.
We knew afterward that he had been with her again this morning in
the
prison wearying her with his persuasions and enticing her with
false
promises, and that he was now still at the same work at the gate,
imploring
her to yield everything that would be required of her, and
assuring
her that if she would do this all would be well with her: she
would
be rid of the dreaded English and find safety in the powerful
shelter
and protection of the Church. A miserable man, a stony-hearted
man!
The
moment Joan was seated on the platform she closed her eyes and
allowed
her chin to fall; and so sat, with her hands nestling in her
lap,
indifferent to everything, caring for nothing but rest. And she was
so
white again--white as alabaster.
How
the faces of that packed mass of humanity lighted up with interest,
and
with what intensity all eyes gazed upon this fragile girl! And how
natural
it was; for these people realized that at last they were looking
upon
that person whom they had so long hungered to see; a person whose
name
and fame filled all Europe, and made all other names and all other
renowns
insignificant by comparisons; Joan of Arc, the wonder of the
time,
and destined to be the wonder of all times!
And I
could read as by print, in their marveling countenances, the
words
that were drifting through their minds: "Can it be true, is it
believable,
that it is this little creature, this girl, this child with
the
good face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and bonny
face,
that has carried fortresses by storm, charged at the head of
victorious
armies, blown the might of England out of her path with a
breath,
and fought a long campaign, solitary and alone, against the
massed
brains and learning of France--and had won it if the fight had
been
fair!"
Evidently
Cauchon had grown afraid of Manchon because of his pretty
apparent
leanings toward Joan, for another recorder was in the chief
place
here, which left my master and me nothing to do but sit idle and
look
on.
Well,
I suppose that everything had been done which could be thought of
to
tire Joan's body and mind, but it was a mistake; one more device
had
been invented. This was to preach a long sermon to her in that
oppressive
heat.
When
the preacher began, she cast up one distressed and disappointed
look,
then dropped her head again. This preacher was Guillaume Erard, an
oratorical
celebrity. He got his text from the Twelve Lies. He emptied
upon
Joan al the calumnies in detail that had been bottled up in that
mass
of venom, and called her all the brutal names that the Twelve were
labeled
with, working himself into a whirlwind of fury as he went on;
but
his labors were wasted, she seemed lost in dreams, she made no sign,
she
did not seem to hear. At last he launched this apostrophe:
"O
France, how hast thou been abused! Thou hast always been the home of
Christianity;
but now, Charles, who calls himself thy King and governor,
indorses,
like the heretic and schismatic that he is, the words and
deeds
of a worthless and infamous woman!" Joan raised her head, and her
eyes
began to burn and flash. The preacher turned to her: "It is to you,
Joan,
that I speak, and I tell you that your King is schismatic and a
heretic!"
Ah,
he might abuse her to his heart's content; she could endure that;
but
to her dying moment she could never hear in patience a word against
that
ingrate, that treacherous dog our King, whose proper place was
here,
at this moment, sword in hand, routing these reptiles and saving
this
most noble servant that ever King had in this world--and he would
have
been there if he had not been what I have called him. Joan's loyal
soul
was outraged, and she turned upon the preacher and flung out a few
words
with a spirit which the crowd recognized as being in accordance
with
the Joan of Arc traditions:
"By
my faith, sir! I make bold to say and swear, on pain of death, that
he is
the most noble Christian of all Christians, and the best lover of
the
faith and the Church!"
There
was an explosion of applause from the crowd--which angered the
preacher,
for he had been aching long to hear an expression like this,
and
now that it was come at last it had fallen to the wrong person:
he
had done all the work; the other had carried off all the spoil. He
stamped
his foot and shouted to the sheriff:
"Make
her shut up!"
That
made the crowd laugh.
A mob
has small respect for a grown man who has to call on a sheriff to
protect
him from a sick girl.
Joan
had damaged the preacher's cause more with one sentence than he had
helped
it with a hundred; so he was much put out, and had trouble to get
a
good start again. But he needn't have bothered; there was no occasion.
It
was mainly an English-feeling mob. It had but obeyed a law of
our
nature--an irresistible law--to enjoy and applaud a spirited and
promptly
delivered retort, no matter who makes it. The mob was with the
preacher;
it had been beguiled for a moment, but only that; it would
soon
return. It was there to see this girl burnt; so that it got that
satisfaction--without
too much delay--it would be content.
Presently
the preacher formally summoned Joan to submit to the Church.
He
made the demand with confidence, for he had gotten the idea from
Loyseleur
and Beaupere that she was worn to the bone, exhausted, and
would
not be able to put forth any more resistance; and, indeed, to look
at
her it seemed that they must be right. Nevertheless, she made one
more
effort to hold her ground, and said, wearily:
"As
to that matter, I have answered my judges before. I have told them
to
report all that I have said and done to our Holy Father the Pope--to
whom,
and to God first, I appeal."
Again,
out of her native wisdom, she had brought those words of
tremendous
import, but was ignorant of their value. But they could have
availed
her nothing in any case, now, with the stake there and these
thousands
of enemies about her. Yet they made every churchman there
blench,
and the preacher changed the subject with all haste. Well
might
those criminals blench, for Joan's appeal of her case to the Pope
stripped
Cauchon at once of jurisdiction over it, and annulled all
that
he and his judges had already done in the matter and all that they
should
do in it henceforth.
Joan
went on presently to reiterate, after some further talk, that she
had
acted by command of God in her deeds and utterances; then, when an
attempt
was made to implicate the King, and friends of hers and his, she
stopped
that. She said:
"I
charge my deeds and words upon no one, neither upon my King nor any
other.
If there is any fault in them, I am responsible and no other."
She
was asked if she would not recant those of her words and deeds which
had
been pronounced evil by her judges. Here answer made confusion and
damage
again:
"I
submit them to God and the Pope."
The
Pope once more! It was very embarrassing. Here was a person who was
asked
to submit her case to the Church, and who frankly consents--offers
to
submit it to the very head of it. What more could any one require?
How
was one to answer such a formidably unanswerable answer as that?
The
worried judges put their heads together and whispered and planned
and
discussed. Then they brought forth this sufficiently shambling
conclusion--but
it was the best they could do, in so close a place: they
said
the Pope was so far away; and it was not necessary to go to him
anyway,
because the present judges had sufficient power and authority
to
deal with the present case, and were in effect "the Church" to th=
at
extent.
At another time they could have smiled at this conceit, but not
now;
they were not comfortable enough now.
The
mob was getting impatient. It was beginning to put on a threatening
aspect;
it was tired of standing, tired of the scorching heat; and the
thunder
was coming nearer, the lightning was flashing brighter. It was
necessary
to hurry this matter to a close. Erard showed Joan a written
form,
which had been prepared and made all ready beforehand, and asked
her
to abjure.
"Abjure?
What is abjure?"
She
did not know the word. It was explained to her by Massieu. She tried
to
understand, but she was breaking, under exhaustion, and she could not
gather
the meaning. It was all a jumble and confusion of strange words.
In
her despair she sent out this beseeching cry:
"I
appeal to the Church universal whether I ought to abjure or not!"
Erard
exclaimed:
"You
shall abjure instantly, or instantly be burnt!"
She
glanced up, at those awful words, and for the first time she saw the
stake
and the mass of red coals--redder and angrier than ever now under
the
constantly deepening storm-gloom. She gasped and staggered up out
of
her seat muttering and mumbling incoherently, and gazed vacantly upon
the
people and the scene about her like one who is dazed, or thinks he
dreams,
and does not know where he is.
The
priests crowded about her imploring her to sign the paper, there
were
many voices beseeching and urging her at once, there was great
turmoil
and shouting and excitement among the populace and everywhere.
"Sign!
sign!" from the priests; "sign--sign and be saved!" And
Loyseleur
was
urging at her ear, "Do as I told you--do not destroy yourself!"
Joan
said plaintively to these people:
"Ah,
you do not do well to seduce me."
The
judges joined their voices to the others. Yes, even the iron in
their
hearts melted, and they said:
"O
Joan, we pity you so! Take back what you have said, or we must
deliver
you up to punishment."
And
now there was another voice--it was from the other platform--pealing
solemnly
above the din: Cauchon's--reading the sentence of death!
Joan's
strength was all spent. She stood looking about her in a
bewildered
way a moment, then slowly she sank to her knees, and bowed
her
head and said:
"I
submit."
They
gave her no time to reconsider--they knew the peril of that. The
moment
the words were out of her mouth Massieu was reading to her the
abjuration,
and she was repeating the words after him mechanically,
unconsciously--and
smiling; for her wandering mind was far away in some
happier
world.
Then
this short paper of six lines was slipped aside and a long one of
many
pages was smuggled into its place, and she, noting nothing, put her
mark
on it, saying, in pathetic apology, that she did not know how to
write.
But a secretary of the King of England was there to take care
of
that defect; he guided her hand with his own, and wrote her
name--Jehanne.
The
great crime was accomplished. She had signed--what? She did not
know--but
the others knew. She had signed a paper confessing herself
a
sorceress, a dealer with devils, a liar, a blasphemer of God and
His
angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of sedition, cruel, wicked,
commissioned
of Satan; and this signature of hers bound her to resume
the
dress of a woman.
There
were other promises, but that one would answer, without the
others;
and that one could be made to destroy her.
Loyseleur
pressed forward and praised her for having done "such a good
day's
work."
But
she was still dreamy, she hardly heard.
Then
Cauchon pronounced the words which dissolved the excommunication
and
restored her to her beloved Church, with all the dear privileges of
worship.
Ah, she heard that! You could see it in the deep gratitude that
rose
in her face and transfigured it with joy.
But
how transient was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a tremor of
pity
in his voice, added these crushing words:
"And
that she may repent of her crimes and repeat them no more, she is
sentenced
to perpetual imprisonment, with the bread of affliction and
the
water of anguish!"
Perpetual
imprisonment! She had never dreamed of that--such a thing had
never
been hinted to her by Loyseleur or by any other. Loyseleur had
distinctly
said and promised that "all would be well with her." And the
very
last words spoken to her by Erard, on that very platform, when he
was
urging her to abjure, was a straight, unqualified promised--that if
she
would do it she should go free from captivity.
She
stood stunned and speechless a moment; then she remembered, with
such
solacement as the thought could furnish, that by another clear
promise
made by Cauchon himself--she would at least be the Church's
captive,
and have women about her in place of a brutal foreign soldiery.
So
she turned to the body of priests and said, with a sad resignation:
"Now,
you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and leave me no
longer
in the hands of the English"; and she gathered up her chains and
prepared
to move.
But
alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon--and with them a
mocking
laugh:
"Take
her to the prison whence she came!"
Poor
abused girl! She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed. It was pitiful to
see.
She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it all now.
The
rumbling of a drum broke upon the stillness, and for just one moment
she
thought of the glorious deliverance promised by her Voices--I read
it in
the rapture that lit her face; then she saw what it was--her
prison
escort--and that light faded, never to revive again. And now her
head
began a piteous rocking motion, swaying slowly, this way and that,
as is
the way when one is suffering unwordable pain, or when one's heart
is
broken; then drearily she went from us, with her face in her hands,
and
sobbing bitterly.
THERE
IS no certainty that any one in all Rouen was in the secret of the
deep
game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal of Winchester.
Then
you can imagine the astonishment and stupefaction of that vast
mob
gathered there and those crowds of churchmen assembled on the
two
platforms, when they saw Joan of Arc moving away, alive and
whole--slipping
out of their grip at last, after all this tedious
waiting,
all this tantalizing expectancy.
Nobody
was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the
universal
astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was
actually
standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.
Then
suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions and
charges
of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones: a stone
came
near killing the Cardinal of Winchester--it just missed his head.
But
the man who threw it was not to blame, for he was excited, and a
person
who is excited never can throw straight.
The
tumult was very great, indeed, for a while. In the midst of it
a
chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to
opprobriously
assail the August Bishop of Beauvais himself, shaking his
fist
in his face and shouting:
"By
God, you are a traitor!"
"You
lie!" responded the Bishop.
He a
traitor! Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman that
any
Briton had a right to bring that charge against.
The
Earl of Warwick lost his temper, too. He was a doughty soldier, but
when
it came to the intellectuals--when it came to delicate chicane, and
scheming,
and trickery--he couldn't see any further through a millstone
than
another. So he burst out in his frank warrior fashion, and swore
that
the King of England was being treacherously used, and that Joan
of Arc
was going to be allowed to cheat the stake. But they whispered
comfort
into his ear:
"Give
yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her again."
Perhaps
the like tidings found their way all around, for good news
travels
fast as well as bad. At any rate, the ragings presently quieted
down,
and the huge concourse crumbled apart and disappeared. And thus we
reached
the noon of that fearful Thursday.
We
two youths were happy; happier than any words can tell--for we were
not
in the secret any more than the rest. Joan's life was saved. We
knew
that, and that was enough. France would hear of this day's infamous
work--and
then! Why, then her gallant sons would flock to her standard
by
thousands and thousands, multitudes upon multitudes, and their wrath
would
be like the wrath of the ocean when the storm-winds sweep it; and
they
would hurl themselves against this doomed city and overwhelm it
like
the resistless tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march
again!
In
six days--seven days--one short week--noble France, grateful France,
indignant
France, would be thundering at these gates--let us count the
hours,
let us count the minutes, let us count the seconds! O happy day,
O day
of ecstasy, how our hearts sang in our bosoms!
For
we were young then, yes, we were very young.
Do
you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep after
she
had spent the small remnant of her strength in dragging her tired
body
back to the dungeon?
No,
there was no rest for her, with those sleuth-hounds on her track.
Cauchon
and some of his people followed her to her lair straightway;
they
found her dazed and dull, her mental and physical forces in a state
of
prostration. They told her she had abjured; that she had made certain
promises--among
them, to resume the apparel of her sex; and that if she
relapsed,
the Church would cast her out for good and all. She heard the
words,
but they had no meaning to her. She was like a person who has
taken
a narcotic and is dying for sleep, dying for rest from nagging,
dying
to be let alone, and who mechanically does everything the
persecutor
asks, taking but dull note of the things done, and but dully
recording
them in the memory. And so Joan put on the gown which Cauchon
and
his people had brought; and would come to herself by and by, and
have
at first but a dim idea as to when and how the change had come
about.
Cauchon
went away happy and content. Joan had resumed woman's dress
without
protest; also she had been formally warned against relapsing. He
had
witnesses to these facts. How could matters be better?
But
suppose she should not relapse?
Why,
then she must be forced to do it.
Did
Cauchon hint to the English guards that thenceforth if they chose
to
make their prisoner's captivity crueler and bitterer than ever, no
official
notice would be taken of it? Perhaps so; since the guards did
begin
that policy at once, and no official notice was taken of it.
Yes,
from that moment Joan's life in that dungeon was made almost
unendurable.
Do not ask me to enlarge upon it. I will not do it.
22
Joan Gives the Fatal Answer
FRIDAY
and Saturday were happy days for Noel and me. Our minds were full
of
our splendid dream of France aroused--France shaking her mane--France
on
the march--France at the gates--Rouen in ashes, and Joan free! Our
imagination
was on fire; we were delirious with pride and joy. For we
were
very young, as I have said.
We
knew nothing about what had been happening in the dungeon in the
yester-afternoon.
We supposed that as Joan had abjured and been taken
back
into the forgiving bosom of the Church, she was being gently used
now,
and her captivity made as pleasant and comfortable for her as the
circumstances
would allow. So, in high contentment, we planned out our
share
in the great rescue, and fought our part of the fight over and
over
again during those two happy days--as happy days as ever I have
known.
Sunday
morning came. I was awake, enjoying the balmy, lazy weather, and
thinking.
Thinking of the rescue--what else? I had no other thought now.
I was
absorbed in that, drunk with the happiness of it.
I
heard a voice shouting far down the street, and soon it came nearer,
and I
caught the words:
"Joan
of Arc has relapsed! The witch's time has come!"
It
stopped my heart, it turned my blood to ice. That was more than sixty
years
ago, but that triumphant note rings as clear in my memory to-day
as it
rang in my ear that long-vanished summer morning. We are so
strangely
made; the memories that could make us happy pass away; it is
the
memories that break our hearts that abide.
Soon
other voices took up that cry--tens, scores, hundreds of voices;
all
the world seemed filled with the brutal joy of it. And there were
other
clamors--the clatter of rushing feet, merry congratulations,
bursts
of coarse laughter, the rolling of drums, the boom and crash of
distant
bands profaning the sacred day with the music of victory and
thanksgiving.
About
the middle of the afternoon came a summons for Manchon and me to
go to
Joan's dungeon--a summons from Cauchon. But by that time distrust
had
already taken possession of the English and their soldiery again,
and
all Rouen was in an angry and threatening mood. We could see plenty
of
evidences of this from our own windows--fist-shaking, black looks,
tumultuous
tides of furious men billowing by along the street.
And
we learned that up at the castle things were going very badly,
indeed;
that there was a great mob gathered there who considered the
relapse
a lie and a priestly trick, and among them many half-drunk
English
soldiers. Moreover, these people had gone beyond words. They
had
laid hands upon a number of churchmen who were trying to enter the
castle,
and it had been difficult work to rescue them and save their
lives.
And
so Manchon refused to go. He said he would not go a step without
a
safeguard from Warwick. So next morning Warwick sent an escort of
soldiers,
and then we went. Matters had not grown peacefuler meantime,
but
worse. The soldiers protected us from bodily damage, but as we
passed
through the great mob at the castle we were assailed with insults
and
shameful epithets. I bore it well enough, though, and said to
myself,
with secret satisfaction, "In three or four short days, my lads,
you
will be employing your tongues in a different sort from this--and I
shall
be there to hear."
To my
mind these were as good as dead men. How many of them would still
be
alive after the rescue that was coming? Not more than enough to amuse
the
executioner a short half-hour, certainly.
It
turned out that the report was true. Joan had relapsed. She was
sitting
there in her chains, clothed again in her male attire.
She
accused nobody. That was her way. It was not in her character to
hold
a servant to account for what his master had made him do, and her
mind
had cleared now, and she knew that the advantage which had been
taken
of her the previous morning had its origin, not in the subordinate
but
in the master--Cauchon.
Here
is what had happened. While Joan slept, in the early morning of
Sunday,
one of the guards stole her female apparel and put her male
attire
in its place. When she woke she asked for the other dress, but
the
guards refused to give it back. She protested, and said she was
forbidden
to wear the male dress. But they continued to refuse. She had
to
have clothing, for modesty's sake; moreover, she saw that she could
not
save her life if she must fight for it against treacheries like
this;
so she put on the forbidden garments, knowing what the end would
be.
She was weary of the struggle, poor thing.
We
had followed in the wake of Cauchon, the Vice-Inquisitor, and the
others--six
or eight--and when I saw Joan sitting there, despondent,
forlorn,
and still in chains, when I was expecting to find her situation
so
different, I did not know what to make of it. The shock was very
great.
I had doubted the relapse perhaps; possibly I had believed in it,
but
had not realized it.
Cauchon's
victory was complete. He had had a harassed and irritated
and
disgusted look for a long time, but that was all gone now, and
contentment
and serenity had taken its place. His purple face was full
of
tranquil and malicious happiness. He went trailing his robes and
stood
grandly in front of Joan, with his legs apart, and remained so
more
than a minute, gloating over her and enjoying the sight of this
poor
ruined creature, who had won so lofty a place for him in the
service
of the meek and merciful Jesus, Saviour of the World, Lord
of
the Universe--in case England kept her promise to him, who kept no
promises
himself.
Presently
the judges began to question Joan. One of them, named
Marguerie,
who was a man with more insight than prudence, remarked upon
Joan's
change of clothing, and said:
"There
is something suspicious about this. How could it have come about
without
connivance on the part of others? Perhaps even something worse?"
"Thousand
devils!" screamed Cauchon, in a fury. "Will you shut your
mouth?"
"Armagnac!
Traitor!" shouted the soldiers on guard, and made a rush for
Marguerie
with their lances leveled. It was with the greatest difficulty
that
he was saved from being run through the body. He made no more
attempts
to help the inquiry, poor man. The other judges proceeded with
the
questionings.
"Why
have you resumed this male habit?"
I did
not quite catch her answer, for just then a soldier's halberd
slipped
from his fingers and fell on the stone floor with a crash; but
I
thought I understood Joan to say that she had resumed it of her own
motion.
"But
you have promised and sworn that you would not go back to it."
I was
full of anxiety to hear her answer to that question; and when it
came
it was just what I was expecting. She said--quiet quietly:
"I
have never intended and never understood myself to swear I would not
resume
it."
There--I
had been sure, all along, that she did not know what she was
doing
and saying on the platform Thursday, and this answer of hers was
proof
that I had not been mistaken. Then she went on to add this:
"But
I had a right to resume it, because the promises made to me have
not
been kept--promises that I should be allowed to go to mass and
receive
the communion, and that I should be freed from the bondage of
these
chains--but they are still upon me, as you see."
"Nevertheless,
you have abjured, and have especially promised to return
no
more to the dress of a man."
Then
Joan held out her fettered hands sorrowfully toward these unfeeling
men
and said:
"I
would rather die than continue so. But if they may be taken off, and
if I
may hear mass, and be removed to a penitential prison, and have a
woman
about me, I will be good, and will do what shall seem good to you
that
I do."
Cauchon
sniffed scoffingly at that. Honor the compact which he and his
had
made with her?
Fulfil
its conditions? What need of that? Conditions had been a good
thing
to concede, temporarily, and for advantage; but they have served
their
turn--let something of a fresher sort and of more consequence
be
considered. The resumption of the male dress was sufficient for all
practical
purposes, but perhaps Joan could be led to add something to
that
fatal crime. So Cauchon asked her if her Voices had spoken to her
since
Thursday--and he reminded her of her abjuration.
"Yes,"
she answered; and then it came out that the Voices had talked
with
her about the abjuration--told her about it, I suppose. She
guilelessly
reasserted the heavenly origin of her mission, and did it
with
the untroubled mien of one who was not conscious that she had ever
knowingly
repudiated it. So I was convinced once more that she had had
no
notion of what she was doing that Thursday morning on the platform.
Finally
she said, "My Voices told me I did very wrong to confess
that
what I had done was not well." Then she sighed, and said with
simplicity,
"But it was the fear of the fire that made me do so."
That
is, fear of the fire had made her sign a paper whose contents she
had
not understood then, but understood now by revelation of her Voices
and
by testimony of her persecutors.
She
was sane now and not exhausted; her courage had come back, and
with
it her inborn loyalty to the truth. She was bravely and serenely
speaking
it again, knowing that it would deliver her body up to that
very
fire which had such terrors for her.
That
answer of hers was quite long, quite frank, wholly free from
concealments
or palliations. It made me shudder; I knew she was
pronouncing
sentence of death upon herself. So did poor Manchon. And he
wrote
in the margin abreast of it:
"RESPONSIO
MORTIFERA." Fatal answer. Yes, all present knew that it was,
indeed,
a fatal answer. Then there fell a silence such as falls in a
sick-room
when the watchers of the dying draw a deep breath and say
softly
one to another, "All is over."
Here,
likewise, all was over; but after some moments Cauchon, wishing to
clinch
this matter and make it final, put this question:
"Do
you still believe that your Voices are St. Marguerite and St.
Catherine?"
"Yes--and
that they come from God."
"Yet
you denied them on the scaffold?"
Then
she made direct and clear affirmation that she had never had any
intention
to deny them; and that if--I noted the if--"if she had made
some
retractions and revocations on the scaffold it was from fear of the
fire,
and it was a violation of the truth."
There
it is again, you see. She certainly never knew what it was she had
done
on the scaffold until she was told of it afterward by these people
and
by her Voices.
And
now she closed this most painful scene with these words; and there
was a
weary note in them that was pathetic:
"I
would rather do my penance all at once; let me die. I cannot endure
captivity
any longer."
The
spirit born for sunshine and liberty so longed for release that it
would
take it in any form, even that.
Several
among the company of judges went from the place troubled and
sorrowful,
the others in another mood. In the court of the castle we
found
the Earl of Warwick and fifty English waiting, impatient for
news.
As soon as Cauchon saw them he shouted--laughing--think of a man
destroying
a friendless poor girl and then having the heart to laugh at
it:
"Make
yourselves comfortable--it's all over with her!"
THE
YOUNG can sink into abysses of despondency, and it was so with Noel
and
me now; but the hopes of the young are quick to rise again, and it
was
so with ours. We called back that vague promise of the Voices, and
said
the one to the other that the glorious release was to happen at
"the last moment"--"that other time was not the last moment, but this<= o:p>
is;
it will happen now; the King will come, La Hire will come, and with
them
our veterans, and behind them all France!" And so we were full of
heart
again, and could already hear, in fancy, that stirring music the
clash
of steel and the war-cries and the uproar of the onset, and in
fancy
see our prisoner free, her chains gone, her sword in her hand.
But
this dream was to pass also, and come to nothing. Late at night,
when
Manchon came in, he said:
"I
am come from the dungeon, and I have a message for you from that poor
child."
A
message to me! If he had been noticing I think he would have
discovered
me--discovered that my indifference concerning the prisoner
was a
pretense; for I was caught off my guard, and was so moved and so
exalted
to be so honored by her that I must have shown my feeling in my
face
and manner.
"A
message for me, your reverence?"
"Yes.
It is something she wishes done. She said she had noticed the
young
man who helps me, and that he had a good face; and did I think he
would
do a kindness for her? I said I knew you would, and asked her what
it
was, and she said a letter--would you write a letter to her mother?
"And
I said you would. But I said I would do it myself, and gladly; but
she
said no, that my labors were heavy, and she thought the young man
would
not mind the doing of this service for one not able to do it for
herself,
she not knowing how to write. Then I would have sent for you,
and
at that the sadness vanished out of her face. Why, it was as if
she
was going to see a friend, poor friendless thing. But I was not
permitted.
I did my best, but the orders remain as strict as ever,
the
doors are closed against all but officials; as before, none but
officials
may speak to her. So I went back and told her, and she sighed,
and
was sad again. Now this is what she begs you to write to her mother.
It is
partly a strange message, and to me means nothing, but she said
her
mother would understand. You will 'convey her adoring love to her
family
and her village friends, and say there will be no rescue, for
that
this night--and it is the third time in the twelvemonth, and is
final--she
has seen the Vision of the Tree.'"
"How
strange!"
"Yes,
it is strange, but that is what she said; and said her parents
would
understand. And for a little time she was lost in dreams and
thinkings,
and her lips moved, and I caught in her muttering these
lines,
which she said over two or three times, and they seemed to bring
peace
and contentment to her. I set them down, thinking they might have
some
connection with her letter and be useful; but it was not so; they
were
a mere memory, floating idly in a tired mind, and they have no
meaning,
at least no relevancy."
I
took the piece of paper, and found what I knew I should find:
And
when in exile wand'ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of
thee,
Oh, rise upon our sight!
There
was no hope any more. I knew it now. I knew that Joan's letter was
a
message to Noel and me, as well as to her family, and that its object
was
to banish vain hopes from our minds and tell us from her own mouth
of
the blow that was going to fall upon us, so that we, being her
soldiers,
would know it for a command to bear it as became us and her,
and
so submit to the will of God; and in thus obeying, find assuagement
of
our grief. It was like her, for she was always thinking of others,
not
of herself. Yes, her heart was sore for us; she could find time to
think
of us, the humblest of her servants, and try to soften our pain,
lighten
the burden of our troubles--she that was drinking of the bitter
waters;
she that was walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I
wrote the letter. You will know what it cost me, without my telling
you.
I wrote it with the same wooden stylus which had put upon parchment
the
first words ever dictated by Joan of Arc--that high summons to
the
English to vacate France, two years past, when she was a lass of
seventeen;
it had now set down the last ones which she was ever to
dictate.
Then I broke it. For the pen that had served Joan of Arc could
not
serve any that would come after her in this earth without abasement.
The
next day, May 29th, Cauchon summoned his serfs, and forty-two
responded.
It is charitable to believe that the other twenty were
ashamed
to come. The forty-two pronounced her a relapsed heretic, and
condemned
her to be delivered over to the secular arm. Cauchon thanked
them.
Then
he sent orders that Joan of Arc be conveyed the next morning to
the
place known as the Old Market; and that she be then delivered to the
civil
judge, and by the civil judge to the executioner. That meant she
would
be burnt.
All
the afternoon and evening of Tuesday, the 29th, the news was
flying,
and the people of the country-side flocking to Rouen to see the
tragedy--all,
at least, who could prove their English sympathies and
count
upon admission. The press grew thicker and thicker in the streets,
the
excitement grew higher and higher. And now a thing was noticeable
again
which had been noticeable more than once before--that there was
pity
for Joan in the hearts of many of these people. Whenever she had
been
in great danger it had manifested itself, and now it was apparent
again--manifest
in a pathetic dumb sorrow which was visible in many
faces.
Early
the next morning, Wednesday, Martin Ladvenu and another friar
were
sent to Joan to prepare her for death; and Manchon and I went
with
them--a hard service for me. We tramped through the dim corridors,
winding
this way and that, and piercing ever deeper and deeper into that
vast
heart of stone, and at last we stood before Joan. But she did not
know
it. She sat with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, thinking,
and
her face was very sad. One might not know what she was thinking of.
Of
her home, and the peaceful pastures, and the friends she was no more
to
see? Of her wrongs, and her forsaken estate, and the cruelties which
had
been put upon her? Or was it of death--the death which she had
longed
for, and which was now so close?
Or
was it of the kind of death she must suffer? I hoped not; for she
feared
only one kind, and that one had for her unspeakable terrors. I
believed
she so feared that one that with her strong will she would shut
the
thought of it wholly out of her mind, and hope and believe that
God
would take pity on her and grant her an easier one; and so it
might
chance that the awful news which we were bringing might come as a
surprise
to her at last.
We
stood silent awhile, but she was still unconscious of us, still deep
in
her sad musings and far away. Then Martin Ladvenu said, softly:
"Joan."
She
looked up then, with a little start and a wan smile, and said:
"Speak.
Have you a message for me?"
"Yes,
my poor child. Try to bear it. Do you think you can bear it?"
"Yes"--very
softly, and her head drooped again.
"I
am come to prepare you for death."
A
faint shiver trembled through her wasted body. There was a pause. In
the
stillness we could hear our breathings. Then she said, still in that
low
voice:
"When
will it be?"
The
muffled notes of a tolling bell floated to our ears out of the
distance.
"Now.
The time is at hand."
That
slight shiver passed again.
"It
is so soon--ah, it is so soon!"
There
was a long silence. The distant throbbings of the bell pulsed
through
it, and we stood motionless and listening. But it was broken at
last:
"What
death is it?"
"By
fire!"
"Oh,
I knew it, I knew it!" She sprang wildly to her feet, and wound her
hands
in her hair, and began to writhe and sob, oh, so piteously, and
mourn
and grieve and lament, and turn to first one and then another of
us,
and search our faces beseechingly, as hoping she might find help and
friendliness
there, poor thing--she that had never denied these to any
creature,
even her wounded enemy on the battle-field.
"Oh,
cruel, cruel, to treat me so! And must my body, that has never been
defiled,
be consumed today and turned to ashes? Ah, sooner would I that
my
head were cut off seven times than suffer this woeful death. I had
the
promise of the Church's prison when I submitted, and if I had but
been
there, and not left here in the hands of my enemies, this miserable
fate
had not befallen me.
"Oh,
I appeal to God the Great Judge, against the injustice which has
been
done me."
There
was none there that could endure it. They turned away, with the
tears
running down their faces. In a moment I was on my knees at her
feet.
At once she thought only of my danger, and bent and whispered in
my
hear: "Up!--do not peril yourself, good heart. There--God bless you
always!"
and I felt the quick clasp of her hand. Mine was the last hand
she
touched with hers in life. None saw it; history does not know of it
or
tell of it, yet it is true, just as I have told it. The next moment
she
saw Cauchon coming, and she went and stood before him and reproached
him,
saying:
"Bishop,
it is by you that I die!"
He
was not shamed, not touched; but said, smoothly:
"Ah,
be patient, Joan. You die because you have not kept your promise,
but
have returned to your sins."
"Alas,"
she said, "if you had put me in the Church's prison, and given
me
right and proper keepers, as you promised, this would not have
happened.
And for this I summon you to answer before God!"
Then
Cauchon winced, and looked less placidly content than before, and
he
turned him about and went away.
Joan
stood awhile musing. She grew calmer, but occasionally she wiped
her
eyes, and now and then sobs shook her body; but their violence
was
modifying now, and the intervals between them were growing longer.
Finally
she looked up and saw Pierre Maurice, who had come in with the
Bishop,
and she said to him:
"Master
Peter, where shall I be this night?"
"Have
you not good hope in God?"
"Yes--and
by His grace I shall be in Paradise."
Now
Martin Ladvenu heard her in confession; then she begged for the
sacrament.
But how grant the communion to one who had been publicly cut
off
from the Church, and was now no more entitled to its privileges
than
an unbaptized pagan? The brother could not do this, but he sent
to
Cauchon to inquire what he must do. All laws, human and divine, were
alike
to that man--he respected none of them. He sent back orders to
grant
Joan whatever she wished. Her last speech to him had reached his
fears,
perhaps; it could not reach his heart, for he had none.
The
Eucharist was brought now to that poor soul that had yearned for it
with
such unutterable longing all these desolate months. It was a solemn
moment.
While we had been in the deeps of the prison, the public courts
of
the castle had been filling up with crowds of the humbler sort of
men
and women, who had learned what was going on in Joan's cell, and had
come
with softened hearts to do--they knew not what; to hear--they knew
not
what. We knew nothing of this, for they were out of our view. And
there
were other great crowds of the like caste gathered in
masses
outside the castle gates. And when the lights and the other
accompaniments
of the Sacrament passed by, coming to Joan in the prison,
all
those multitudes kneeled down and began to pray for her, and many
wept;
and when the solemn ceremony of the communion began in Joan's
cell,
out of the distance a moving sound was borne moaning to our
ears--it
was those invisible multitudes chanting the litany for a
departing
soul.
The
fear of the fiery death was gone from Joan of Arc now, to come
again
no more, except for one fleeting instant--then it would pass, and
serenity
and courage would take its place and abide till the end.
AT
NINE o'clock the Maid of Orleans, Deliverer of France, went forth in
the
grace of her innocence and her youth to lay down her life for
the
country she loved with such devotion, and for the King that had
abandoned
her. She sat in the cart that is used only for felons. In one
respect
she was treated worse than a felon; for whereas she was on her
way
to be sentenced by the civil arm, she already bore her judgment
inscribed
in advance upon a miter-shaped cap which she wore:
HERETIC,
RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER In the cart with her sat the friar
Martin
Ladvenu and Maetre Jean Massieu. She looked girlishly fair and
sweet
and saintly in her long white robe, and when a gush of sunlight
flooded
her as she emerged from the gloom of the prison and was yet
for a
moment still framed in the arch of the somber gate, the massed
multitudes
of poor folk murmured "A vision! a vision!" and sank to their
knees
praying, and many of the women weeping; and the moving invocation
for
the dying arose again, and was taken up and borne along, a majestic
wave
of sound, which accompanied the doomed, solacing and blessing her,
all
the sorrowful way to the place of death. "Christ have pity! Saint
Margaret
have pity! Pray for her, all ye saints, archangels, and blessed
martyrs,
pray for her! Saints and angels intercede for her! From thy
wrath,
good Lord, deliver her! O Lord God, save her! Have mercy on her,
we
beseech Thee, good Lord!"
It is
just and true what one of the histories has said: "The poor and
the
helpless had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of Arc; but
these
we may believe were not unavailing. There are few more pathetic
events
recorded in history than this weeping, helpless, praying crowd,
holding
their lighted candles and kneeling on the pavement beneath the
prison
walls of the old fortress."
And
it was so all the way: thousands upon thousands massed upon their
knees
and stretching far down the distances, thick-sown with the faint
yellow
candle-flames, like a field starred with golden flowers.
But
there were some that did not kneel; these were the English soldiers.
They
stood elbow to elbow, on each side of Joan's road, and walled it in
all
the way; and behind these living walls knelt the multitudes.
By
and by a frantic man in priest's garb came wailing and lamenting, and
tore
through the crowd and the barriers of soldiers and flung himself
on
his knees by Joan's cart and put up his hands in supplication, crying
out:
"O
forgive, forgive!"
It
was Loyseleur!
And
Joan forgave him; forgave him out of a heart that knew nothing
but
forgiveness, nothing but compassion, nothing but pity for all that
suffer,
let their offense be what it might. And she had no word of
reproach
for this poor wretch who had wrought day and night with deceits
and
treacheries and hypocrisies to betray her to her death.
The
soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved his
life.
What became of him is not known. He hid himself from the world
somewhere,
to endure his remorse as he might.
In
the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the stake
that
had stood before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The platforms were
occupied
as before, the one by Joan and her judges, the other by
great
dignitaries, the principal being Cauchon and the English
Cardinal--Winchester.
The square was packed with people, the windows and
roofs
of the blocks of buildings surrounding it were black with them.
When
the preparations had been finished, all noise and movement
gradually
ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was solemn and
impressive.
And
now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas Midi
preached
a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch of the
vine--which
is the Church--becomes diseased and corrupt, it must be cut
away
or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine. He made it appear
that
Joan, through her wickedness, was a menace and a peril to the
Church's
purity and holiness, and her death therefore necessary. When he
was
come to the end of his discourse he turned toward her and paused a
moment,
then he said:
"Joan,
the Church can no longer protect you. Go in peace!"
Joan
had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the
Church's
abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness,
waiting
in patience and resignation for the end. Cauchon addressed her
now.
He had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to her, and
had
brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing that she would
proclaim
the truth--that she had never knowingly abjured--and so bring
shame
upon him and eternal infamy. He contented himself with admonishing
her to
keep in mind her wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of
her
salvation. Then he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate and cut off
from
the body of the Church. With a final word he delivered her over to
the
secular arm for judgment and sentence.
Joan,
weeping, knelt and began to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh, no--for
the
King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, and penetrated all
hearts
with its passionate pathos. She never thought of his treacheries
to
her, she never thought of his desertion of her, she never remembered
that
it was because he was an ingrate that she was here to die a
miserable
death; she remembered only that he was her King, that she was
his
loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his
cause
with evil reports and false charges, and he not by to defend
himself.
And so, in the very presence of death, she forgot her own
troubles
to implore all in her hearing to be just to him; to believe
that
he was good and noble and sincere, and not in any way to blame
for any
acts of hers, neither advising them nor urging them, but being
wholly
clear and free of all responsibility for them. Then, closing, she
begged
in humble and touching words that all here present would pray
for
her and would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might look
friendly
upon her and feel pity for her in their hearts.
There
was hardly one heart there that was not touched--even the English,
even
the judges showed it, and there was many a lip that trembled
and
many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even the English
Cardinal's--that
man with a political heart of stone but a human heart
of
flesh.
The
secular judge who should have delivered judgment and pronounced
sentence
was himself so disturbed that he forgot his duty, and Joan went
to
her death unsentenced--thus completing with an illegality what had
begun
illegally and had so continued to the end. He only said--to the
guards:
"Take
her"; and to the executioner, "Do your duty."
Joan
asked for a cross. None was able to furnish one. But an English
soldier
broke a stick in two and crossed the pieces and tied them
together,
and this cross he gave her, moved to it by the good heart that
was
in him; and she kissed it and put it in her bosom. Then Isambard de
la
Pierre went to the church near by and brought her a consecrated one;
and
this one also she kissed, and pressed it to her bosom with rapture,
and
then kissed it again and again, covering it with tears and pouring
out
her gratitude to God and the saints.
And
so, weeping, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed up the
cruel
steps to the face of the stake, with the friar Isambard at her
side.
Then she was helped up to the top of the pile of wood that was
built
around the lower third of the stake and stood upon it with her
back
against the stake, and the world gazing up at her breathless. The
executioner
ascended to her side and wound chains around her slender
body,
and so fastened her to the stake. Then he descended to finish his
dreadful
office; and there she remained alone--she that had had so many
friends
in the days when she was free, and had been so loved and so
dear.
All
these things I saw, albeit dimly and blurred with tears; but I could
bear
no more. I continued in my place, but what I shall deliver to you
now I
got by others' eyes and others' mouths. Tragic sounds there were
that
pierced my ears and wounded my heart as I sat there, but it is as
I
tell you: the latest image recorded by my eyes in that desolating hour
was
Joan of Arc with the grace of her comely youth still unmarred; and
that
image, untouched by time or decay, has remained with me all my
days.
Now I will go on.
If
any thought that now, in that solemn hour when all transgressors
repent
and confess, she would revoke her revocation and say her great
deeds
had been evil deeds and Satan and his fiends their source, they
erred.
No such thought was in her blameless mind. She was not thinking
of
herself and her troubles, but of others, and of woes that might
befall
them. And so, turning her grieving eyes about her, where rose the
towers
and spires of that fair city, she said:
"Oh,
Rouen, Rouen, must I die here, and must you be my tomb? Ah, Rouen,
Rouen,
I have great fear that you will suffer for my death."
A
whiff of smoke swept upward past her face, and for one moment terror
seized her and she cried out, "Water! Give me holy water!" but the next<= o:p>
moment
her fears were gone, and they came no more to torture her.
She
heard the flames crackling below her, and immediately distress for
a
fellow-creature who was in danger took possession of her. It was the
friar
Isambard. She had given him her cross and begged him to raise it
toward
her face and let her eyes rest in hope and consolation upon it
till
she was entered into the peace of God. She made him go out from the
danger
of the fire. Then she was satisfied, and said:
"Now
keep it always in my sight until the end."
Not
even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, endure to let her
die
in peace, but went toward her, all black with crimes and sins as he
was,
and cried out:
"I
am come, Joan, to exhort you for the last time to repent and seek the
pardon
of God."
"I
die through you," she said, and these were the last words she spoke
to
any upon earth.
Then
the pitchy smoke, shot through with red flashes of flame, rolled
up in
a thick volume and hid her from sight; and from the heart of
this
darkness her voice rose strong and eloquent in prayer, and when by
moments
the wind shredded somewhat of the smoke aside, there were veiled
glimpses
of an upturned face and moving lips. At last a mercifully swift
tide
of flame burst upward, and none saw that face any more nor that
form,
and the voice was still.
Yes,
she was gone from us: JOAN OF ARC! What little words they are, to
tell
of a rich world made empty and poor!
JOAN'S
BROTHER Jacques died in Domremy during the Great Trial at Rouen.
This
was according to the prophecy which Joan made that day in the
pastures
the time that she said the rest of us would go to the great
wars.
When
her poor old father heard of the martyrdom it broke his heart, and
he
died.
The
mother was granted a pension by the city of Orleans, and upon this
she
lived out her days, which were many. Twenty-four years after her
illustrious
child's death she traveled all the way to Paris in the
winter-time
and was present at the opening of the discussion in the
Cathedral
of Notre Dame which was the first step in the Rehabilitation.
Paris
was crowded with people, from all about France, who came to get
sight
of the venerable dame, and it was a touching spectacle when she
moved
through these reverent wet-eyed multitudes on her way to the grand
honors
awaiting her at the cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no
longer
the light-hearted youths who marched with us from Vaucouleurs,
but
war-torn veterans with hair beginning to show frost.
After
the martyrdom Noel and I went back to Domremy, but presently when
the
Constable Richemont superseded La Tremouille as the King's chief
adviser
and began the completion of Joan's great work, we put on our
harness
and returned to the field and fought for the King all through
the
wars and skirmishes until France was freed of the English. It was
what
Joan would have desired of us; and, dead or alive, her desire was
law
for us. All the survivors of the personal staff were faithful to
her
memory and fought for the King to the end. Mainly we were well
scattered,
but when Paris fell we happened to be together. It was a
great
day and a joyous; but it was a sad one at the same time, because
Joan
was not there to march into the captured capital with us.
Noel
and I remained always together, and I was by his side when death
claimed
him. It was in the last great battle of the war. In that battle
fell
also Joan's sturdy old enemy Talbot. He was eighty-five years old,
and
had spent his whole life in battle. A fine old lion he was, with his
flowing
white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and his indestructible
energy
as well; for he fought as knightly and vigorous a fight that day
as
the best man there.
La
Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always fighting, of
course,
for that was all he enjoyed in life. I did not see him in all
that
time, for we were far apart, but one was always hearing of him.
The
Bastard of Orleans and D'Alencon and D'Aulon lived to see France
free,
and to testify with Jean and Pierre d'Arc and Pasquerel and me at
the
Rehabilitation. But they are all at rest now, these many years.
I
alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan of Arc in the
great
wars.
She
said I would live until those wars were forgotten--a prophecy which
failed.
If I should live a thousand years it would still fail. For
whatsoever
had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.
Members
of Joan's family married, and they have left descendants. Their
descendants
are of the nobility, but their family name and blood bring
them
honors which no other nobles receive or may hope for. You have seen
how
everybody along the way uncovered when those children came yesterday
to
pay their duty to me. It was not because they are noble, it is
because
they are grandchildren of the brothers of Joan of Arc.
Now
as to the Rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims. For
reward
he allowed her to be hunted to her death without making one
effort
to save her. During the next twenty-three years he remained
indifferent
to her memory; indifferent to the fact that her good name
was
under a damning blot put there by the priest because of the deeds
which
she had done in saving him and his scepter; indifferent to the
fact
that France was ashamed, and longed to have the Deliverer's fair
fame
restored. Indifferent all that time. Then he suddenly changed and
was
anxious to have justice for poor Joan himself. Why? Had he become
grateful
at last? Had remorse attacked his hard heart? No, he had a
better
reason--a better one for his sort of man. This better reason was
that,
now that the English had been finally expelled from the country,
they
were beginning to call attention to the fact that this King had
gotten
his crown by the hands of a person proven by the priests to
have
been in league with Satan and burned for it by them as a
sorceress--therefore,
of what value or authority was such a Kingship as
that?
Of no value at all; no nation could afford to allow such a king to
remain
on the throne.
It
was high time to stir now, and the King did it. That is how Charles
VII.
came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done the memory of
his
benefactress.
He
appealed to the Pope, and the Pope appointed a great commission of
churchmen
to examine into the facts of Joan's life and award judgment.
The
Commission sat at Paris, at Domremy, at Rouen, at Orleans, and at
several
other places, and continued its work during several months.
It
examined the records of Joan's trials, it examined the Bastard
of
Orleans, and the Duke d'Alencon, and D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and
Courcelles,
and Isambard de la Pierre, and Manchon, and me, and many
others
whose names I have made familiar to you; also they examined
more
than a hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you--the
friends
of Joan in Domremy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and other places,
and a
number of judges and other people who had assisted at the Rouen
trials,
the abjuration, and the martyrdom. And out of this exhaustive
examination
Joan's character and history came spotless and perfect, and
this
verdict was placed upon record, to remain forever.
I was
present upon most of these occasions, and saw again many faces
which
I have not seen for a quarter of a century; among them some
well-beloved
faces--those of our generals and that of Catherine Boucher
(married,
alas!), and also among them certain other faces that filled me
with
bitterness--those of Beaupere and Courcelles and a number of their
fellow-fiends.
I saw Haumette and Little Mengette--edging along toward
fifty
now, and mothers of many children. I saw Noel's father, and the
parents
of the Paladin and the Sunflower.
It
was beautiful to hear the Duke d'Alencon praise Joan's splendid
capacities
as a general, and to hear the Bastard indorse these praises
with
his eloquent tongue and then go on and tell how sweet and good Joan
was,
and how full of pluck and fire and impetuosity, and mischief, and
mirthfulness,
and tenderness, and compassion, and everything that was
pure
and fine and noble and lovely. He made her live again before me,
and
wrung my heart.
I
have finished my story of Joan of Arc, that wonderful child, that
sublime
personality, that spirit which in one regard has had no peer
and
will have none--this: its purity from all alloy of self-seeking,
self-interest,
personal ambition. In it no trace of these motives can
be
found, search as you may, and this cannot be said of any other person
whose
name appears in profane history.
With
Joan of Arc love of country was more than a sentiment--it was a
passion.
She was the Genius of Patriotism--she was Patriotism embodied,
concreted,
made flesh, and palpable to the touch and visible to the eye.
Love,
Mercy, Charity, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music--these may be
symbolized
as any shall prefer: by figures of either sex and of any age;
but a
slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr's crown
upon
her head, and in her hand the sword that severed her country's
bonds--shall
not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all
the
ages until time shall end?