It was another sly attempt to trap Joan into indiscreet admissions and

dangerous pretensions. But nothing came of it. Joan's answer was simple

and straightforward, and the smooth Bishop was not able to find any fault

with it. She said that when she met with people who doubted the truth of

her mission she went aside and prayed, complaining of the distrust of

these, and then the comforting Voices were heard at her ear saying, soft

and low, "Go forward, Daughter of God, and I will help thee." Then she

added, "When I hear that, the joy in my heart, oh, it is insupportable!"

The Bastard said that when she said these words her face lit up as with a

flame, and she was like one in an ecstasy.

Joan pleaded, persuaded, reasoned; gaining ground little by little, but

opposed step by step by the council. She begged, she implored, leave to

march. When they could answer nothing further, they granted that perhaps

it had been a mistake to let the army waste away, but how could we help

it now? how could we march without an army?

"Raise one!" said Joan.

"But it will take six weeks."

"No matter--begin! let us begin!"

"It is too late. Without doubt the Duke of Bedford has been gathering

troops to push to the succor of his strongholds on the Loire."

"Yes, while we have been disbanding ours--and pity 'tis. But we must

throw away no more time; we must bestir ourselves."

The King objected that he could not venture toward Rheims with those

strong places on the Loire in his path. But Joan said:

"We will break them up. Then you can march."

With that plan the King was willing to venture assent. He could sit

around out of danger while the road was being cleared.

Joan came back in great spirits. Straightway everything was stirring.

Proclamations were issued calling for men, a recruiting-camp was

established at Selles in Berry, and the commons and the nobles began to

flock to it with enthusiasm.

A deal of the month of May had been wasted; and yet by the 6th of June

Joan had swept together a new army and was ready to march. She had eight

thousand men. Think of that. Think of gathering together such a body as

that in that little region. And these were veteran soldiers, too. In

fact, most of the men in France were soldiers, when you came to that; for

the wars had lasted generations now. Yes, most Frenchmen were soldiers;

and admirable runners, too, both by practice and inheritance; they had

done next to nothing but run for near a century. But that was not their

fault. They had had no fair and proper leadership--at least leaders with

a fair and proper chance. Away back, King and Court got the habit of

being treacherous to the leaders; then the leaders easily got the habit

of disobeying the King and going their own way, each for himself and

nobody for the lot. Nobody could win victories that way. Hence, running

became the habit of the French troops, and no wonder. Yet all that those

troops needed in order to be good fighters was a leader who would attend

strictly to business--a leader with all authority in his hands in place

of a tenth of it along with nine other generals equipped with an equal

tenth apiece. They had a leader rightly clothed with authority now, and

with a head and heart bent on war of the most intensely businesslike and

earnest sort--and there would be results. No doubt of that. They had Joan

of Arc; and under that leadership their legs would lose the art and

mystery of running.

Yes, Joan was in great spirits. She was here and there and everywhere,

all over the camp, by day and by night, pushing things. And wherever she

came charging down the lines, reviewing the troops, it was good to hear

them break out and cheer. And nobody could help cheering, she was such a

vision of young bloom and beauty and grace, and such an incarnation of

pluck and life and go! she was growing more and more ideally beautiful

every day, as was plain to be seen--and these were days of development;

for she was well past seventeen now--in fact, she was getting close upon

seventeen and a half--indeed, just a little woman, as you may say.

The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day--fine young fellows allied

to the greatest and most illustrious houses of France; and they could not

rest till they had seen Joan of Arc. So the King sent for them and

presented them to her, and you may believe she filled the bill of their

expectations. When they heard that rich voice of hers they must have

thought it was a flute; and when they saw her deep eyes and her face, and

the soul that looked out of that face, you could see that the sight of

her stirred them like a poem, like lofty eloquence, like martial music.

One of them wrote home to his people, and in his letter he said, "It

seemed something divine to see her and hear her." Ah, yes, and it was a

true word. Truer word was never spoken.

He saw her when she was ready to begin her march and open the campaign,

and this is what he said about it:

"She was clothed all in white armor save her head, and in her hand she

carried a little battle-ax; and when she was ready to mount her great

black horse he reared and plunged and would not let her. Then she said,

'Lead him to the cross.' This cross was in front of the church close by.

So they led him there. Then she mounted, and he never budged, any more

than if he had been tied. Then she turned toward the door of the church

and said, in her soft womanly voice, 'You, priests and people of the

Church, make processions and pray to God for us!' Then she spurred away,

under her standard, with her little ax in her hand, crying

'Forward--march!' One of her brothers, who came eight days ago, departed

with her; and he also was clad all in white armor."

I was there, and I saw it, too; saw it all, just as he pictures it. And I

see it yet--the little battle-ax, the dainty plumed cap, the white

armor--all in the soft June afternoon; I see it just as if it were

yesterday. And I rode with the staff--the personal staff--the staff of

Joan of Arc.

That young count was dying to go, too, but the King held him back for the

present. But Joan had made him a promise. In his letter he said:

"She told me that when the King starts for Rheims I shall go with him.

But God grant I may not have to wait till then, but may have a part in

the battles!"

She made him that promise when she was taking leave of my lady the

Duchess d'Alencon. The duchess was exacting a promise, so it seemed a

proper time for others to do the like. The duchess was troubled for her

husband, for she foresaw desperate fighting; and she held Joan to her

breast, and stroked her hair lovingly, and said:

"You must watch over him, dear, and take care of him, and send him back

to me safe. I require it of you; I will not let you go till you promise."

Joan said:

"I give you the promise with all my heart; and it is not just words, it

is a promise; you shall have him back without a hurt. Do you believe? And

are you satisfied with me now?"

The duchess could not speak, but she kissed Joan on the forehead; and so

they parted.

We left on the 6th and stopped over at Romorantin; then on the 9th Joan

entered Orleans in state, under triumphal arches, with the welcoming

cannon thundering and seas of welcoming flags fluttering in the breeze.

The Grand Staff rode with her, clothed in shining splendors of costume

and decorations: the Duke d'Alencon; the Bastard of Orleans; the Sire de

Boussac, Marshal of France; the Lord de Granville, Master of the

Crossbowmen; the Sire de Culan, Admiral of France; Ambroise de Lor;

Etienne de Vignoles, called La Hire; Gautier de Brusac, and other

illustrious captains.

It was grand times; the usual shoutings and packed multitudes, the usual

crush to get sight of Joan; but at last we crowded through to our old

lodgings, and I saw old Boucher and the wife and that dear Catherine

gather Joan to their hearts and smother her with kisses--and my heart

ached for her so! for I could have kissed Catherine better than anybody,

and more and longer; yet was not thought of for that office, and I so

famished for it. Ah, she was so beautiful, and oh, so sweet! I had loved

her the first day I ever saw her, and from that day forth she was sacred

to me. I have carried her image in my heart for sixty-three years--all

lonely thee, yes, solitary, for it never has had company--and I am grown

so old, so old; but it, oh, it is as fresh and young and merry and

mischievous and lovely and sweet and pure and witching and divine as it

was when it crept in there, bringing benediction and peace to its

habitation so long ago, so long ago--for it has not aged a day!

Chapter 26 The Last Doubts Scattered

THIS TIME, as before, the King's last command to the generals was this:

"See to it that you do nothing without the sanction of the Maid." And

this time the command was obeyed; and would continue to be obeyed all

through the coming great days of the Loire campaign.

That was a change! That was new! It broke the traditions. It shows you

what sort of a reputation as a commander-in-chief the child had made for

herself in ten days in the field. It was a conquering of men's doubts and

suspicions and a capturing and solidifying of men's belief and confidence

such as the grayest veteran on the Grand Staff had not been able to

achieve in thirty years. Don't you remember that when at sixteen Joan

conducted her own case in a grim court of law and won it, the old judge

spoke of her as "this marvelous child"? It was the right name, you see.

These veterans were not going to branch out and do things without the

sanction of the Maid--that is true; and it was a great gain. But at the

same time there were some among them who still trembled at her new and

dashing war tactics and earnestly desired to modify them. And so, during

the 10th, while Joan was slaving away at her plans and issuing order

after order with tireless industry, the old-time consultations and

arguings and speechifyings were going on among certain of the generals.

In the afternoon of that day they came in a body to hold one of these

councils of war; and while they waited for Joan to join them they

discussed the situation. Now this discussion is not set down in the

histories; but I was there, and I will speak of it, as knowing you will

trust me, I not being given to beguiling you with lies.

Gautier de Brusac was spokesman for the timid ones; Joan's side was

resolutely upheld by d'Alencon, the Bastard, La Hire, the Admiral of

France, the Marshal de Boussac, and all the other really important

chiefs.

De Brusac argued that the situation was very grave; that Jargeau, the

first point of attack, was formidably strong; its imposing walls

bristling with artillery; with seven thousand picked English veterans

behind them, and at their head the great Earl of Suffolk and his two

redoubtable brothers, the De la Poles. It seemed to him that the proposal

of Joan of Arc to try to take such a place by storm was a most rash and

over-daring idea, and she ought to be persuaded to relinquish it in favor

of the soberer and safer procedure of investment by regular siege. It

seemed to him that this fiery and furious new fashion of hurling masses

of men against impregnable walls of stone, in defiance of the established

laws and usages of war, was--

But he got no further. La Hire gave his plumed helm an impatient toss and

burst out with:

"By God, she knows her trade, and none can teach it her!"

And before he could get out anything more, D'Alencon was on his feet, and

the Bastard of Orleans, and a half a dozen others, all thundering at

once, and pouring out their indignant displeasure upon any and all that

mid hold, secretly or publicly, distrust of the wisdom of the

Commander-in-Chief. And when they had said their say, La Hire took a

chance again, and said:

"There are some that never know how to change. Circumstances may change,

but those people are never able to see that they have got to change too,

to meet those circumstances. All that they know is the one beaten track

that their fathers and grandfathers have followed and that they

themselves have followed in their turn. If an earthquake come and rip the

land to chaos, and that beaten track now lead over precipices and into

morasses, those people can't learn that they must strike out a new

road--no; they will march stupidly along and follow the old one, to death

and perdition. Men, there's a new state of things; and a surpassing

military genius has perceived it with her clear eye. And a new road is

required, and that same clear eye has noted where it must go, and has

marked it out for us. The man does not live, never has lived, never will

live, that can improve upon it! The old state of things was defeat,

defeat, defeat--and by consequence we had troops with no dash, no heart,

no hope. Would you assault stone walls with such? No--there was but one

way with that kind: sit down before a place and wait, wait--starve it

out, if you could. The new case is the very opposite; it is this: men all

on fire with pluck and dash and vim and fury and energy--a restrained

conflagration! What would you do with it? Hold it down and let it smolder

and perish and go out? What would Joan of Arc do with it? Turn it loose,

by the Lord God of heaven and earth, and let it swallow up the foe in the

whirlwind of its fires! Nothing shows the splendor and wisdom of her

military genius like her instant comprehension of the size of the change

which has come about, and her instant perception of the right and only

right way to take advantage of it. With her is no sitting down and

starving out; no dilly-dallying and fooling around; no lazying, loafing,

and going to sleep; no, it is storm! storm! storm! and still storm!

storm! storm! and forever storm! storm! storm! hunt the enemy to his

hole, then turn her French hurricanes loose and carry him by storm! And

that is my sort! Jargeau? What of Jargeau, with its battlements and

towers, its devastating artillery, its seven thousand picked veterans?

Joan of Arc is to the fore, and by the splendor of God its fate is

sealed!"

Oh, he carried them. There was not another word said about persuading

Joan to change her tactics. They sat talking comfortably enough after

that.

By and by Joan entered, and they rose and saluted with their swords, and

she asked what their pleasure might be. La Hire said:

"It is settled, my General. The matter concerned Jargeau. There were some

who thought we could not take the place."

Joan laughed her pleasant laugh, her merry, carefree laugh; the laugh

that rippled so buoyantly from her lips and made old people feel young

again to hear it; and she said to the company:

"Have no fears--indeed, there is no need nor any occasion for them. We

will strike the English boldly by assault, and you will see." Then a

faraway look came into her eyes, and I think that a picture of her home

drifted across the vision of her mind; for she said very gently, and as

one who muses, "But that I know God guides us and will give us success, I

had liefer keep sheep than endure these perils."

We had a homelike farewell supper that evening--just the personal staff

and the family. Joan had to miss it; for the city had given a banquet in

her honor, and she had gone there in state with the Grand Staff, through

a riot of joy-bells and a sparkling Milky Way of illuminations.

After supper some lively young folk whom we knew came in, and we

presently forgot that we were soldiers, and only remembered that we were

boys and girls and full of animal spirits and long-pent fun; and so there

was dancing, and games, and romps, and screams of laughter--just as

extravagant and innocent and noisy a good time as ever I had in my life.

Dear, dear, how long ago it was!--and I was young then. And outside, all

the while, was the measured tramp of marching battalions, belated odds

and ends of the French power gathering for the morrow's tragedy on the

grim stage of war. Yes, in those days we had those contrasts side by

side. And as I passed along to bed there was another one: the big Dwarf,

in brave new armor, sat sentry at Joan's door--the stern Spirit of War

made flesh, as it were--and on his ample shoulder was curled a kitten

asleep.

Chapter 27 How Joan Took Jargeau

WE MADE a gallant show next day when we filed out through the frowning

gates of Orleans, with banners flying and Joan and the Grand Staff in the

van of the long column. Those two young De Lavals were come now, and were

joined to the Grand Staff. Which was well; war being their proper trade,

for they were grandsons of that illustrious fighter Bertrand du Guesclin,

Constable of France in earlier days. Louis de Bourbon, the Marshal de

Rais, and the Vidame de Chartres were added also. We had a right to feel

a little uneasy, for we knew that a force of five thousand men was on its

way under Sir John Fastolfe to reinforce Jargeau, but I think we were not

uneasy, nevertheless. In truth, that force was not yet in our

neighborhood. Sir John was loitering; for some reason or other he was not

hurrying. He was losing precious time--four days at Etampes, and four

more at Janville.

We reached Jargeau and began business at once. Joan sent forward a heavy

force which hurled itself against the outworks in handsome style, and

gained a footing and fought hard to keep it; but it presently began to

fall back before a sortie from the city. Seeing this, Joan raised her

battle-cry and led a new assault herself under a furious artillery fire.

The Paladin was struck down at her side wounded, but she snatched her

standard from his failing hand and plunged on through the ruck of flying

missiles, cheering her men with encouraging cries; and then for a good

time one had turmoil, and clash of steel, and collision and confusion of

struggling multitudes, and the hoarse bellowing of the guns; and then the

hiding of it all under a rolling firmament of smoke--a firmament through

which veiled vacancies appeared for a moment now and then, giving fitful

dim glimpses of the wild tragedy enacting beyond; and always at these

times one caught sight of that slight figure in white mail which was the

center and soul of our hope and trust, and whenever we saw that, with its

back to us and its face to the fight, we knew that all was well. At last

a great shout went up--a joyous roar of shoutings, in fact--and that was

sign sufficient that the faubourgs were ours.

Yes, they were ours; the enemy had been driven back within the walls. On

the ground which Joan had won we camped; for night was coming on.

Joan sent a summons to the English, promising that if they surrendered

she would allow them to go in peace and take their horses with them.

Nobody knew that she could take that strong place, but she knew it --knew

it well; yet she offered that grace--offered it in a time when such a

thing was unknown in war; in a time when it was custom and usage to

massacre the garrison and the inhabitants of captured cities without pity

or compunction--yes, even to the harmless women and children sometimes.

There are neighbors all about you who well remember the unspeakable

atrocities which Charles the Bold inflicted upon the men and women and

children of Dinant when he took that place some years ago. It was a

unique and kindly grace which Joan offered that garrison; but that was

her way, that was her loving and merciful nature--she always did her best

to save her enemy's life and his soldierly pride when she had the mastery

of him.

The English asked fifteen days' armistice to consider the proposal in.

And Fastolfe coming with five thousand men! Joan said no. But she offered

another grace: they might take both their horses and their side-arms--but

they must go within the hour.

Well, those bronzed English veterans were pretty hard-headed folk. They

declined again. Then Joan gave command that her army be made ready to

move to the assault at nine in the morning. Considering the deal of

marching and fighting which the men had done that day, D'Alencon thought

the hour rather early; but Joan said it was best so, and so must be

obeyed. Then she burst out with one of those enthusiasms which were

always burning in her when battle was imminent, and said:

"Work! work! and God will work with us!"

Yes, one might say that her motto was "Work! stick to it; keep on

working!" for in war she never knew what indolence was. And whoever will

take that motto and live by it will likely to succeed. There's many a way

to win in this world, but none of them is worth much without good hard

work back out of it.

I think we should have lost our big Standard-Bearer that day, if our

bigger Dwarf had not been at hand to bring him out of the melee when he

was wounded. He was unconscious, and would have been trampled to death by

our own horse, if the Dwarf had not promptly rescued him and haled him to

the rear and safety. He recovered, and was himself again after two or

three hours; and then he was happy and proud, and made the most of his

wound, and went swaggering around in his bandages showing off like an

innocent big-child--which was just what he was. He was prouder of being

wounded than a really modest person would be of being killed. But there

was no harm in his vanity, and nobody minded it. He said he was hit by a

stone from a catapult--a stone the size of a man's head. But the stone

grew, of course. Before he got through with it he was claiming that the

enemy had flung a building at him.

"Let him alone," said Noel Rainguesson. "Don't interrupt his processes.

To-morrow it will be a cathedral."

He said that privately. And, sure enough, to-morrow it was a cathedral. I

never saw anybody with such an abandoned imagination.

Joan was abroad at the crack of dawn, galloping here and there and

yonder, examining the situation minutely, and choosing what she

considered the most effective positions for her artillery; and with such

accurate judgment did she place her guns that her Lieutenant-General's

admiration of it still survived in his memory when his testimony was

taken at the Rehabilitation, a quarter of a century later.

In this testimony the Duke d'Alencon said that at Jargeau that morning of

the 12th of June she made her dispositions not like a novice, but "with

the sure and clear judgment of a trained general of twenty or thirty

years' experience."

The veteran captains of the armies of France said she was great in war in

all ways, but greatest of all in her genius for posting and handling

artillery.

Who taught the shepherd-girl to do these marvels--she who could not read,

and had had no opportunity to study the complex arts of war? I do not

know any way to solve such a baffling riddle as that, there being no

precedent for it, nothing in history to compare it with and examine it

by. For in history there is no great general, however gifted, who arrived

at success otherwise than through able teaching and hard study and some

experience. It is a riddle which will never be guessed. I think these

vast powers and capacities were born in her, and that she applied them by

an intuition which could not err.

At eight o'clock all movement ceased, and with it all sounds, all noise.

A mute expectancy reigned. The stillness was something awful --because it

meant so much. There was no air stirring. The flags on the towers and

ramparts hung straight down like tassels. Wherever one saw a person, that

person had stopped what he was doing, and was in a waiting attitude, a

listening attitude. We were on a commanding spot, clustered around Joan.

Not far from us, on every hand, were the lanes and humble dwellings of

these outlying suburbs. Many people were visible--all were listening, not

one was moving. A man had placed a nail; he was about to fasten something

with it to the door-post of his shop--but he had stopped. There was his

hand reaching up holding the nail; and there was his other hand n the act

of striking with the hammer; but he had forgotten everything--his head

was turned aside listening. Even children unconsciously stopped in their

play; I saw a little boy with his hoop-stick pointed slanting toward the

ground in the act of steering the hoop around the corner; and so he had

stopped and was listening--the hoop was rolling away, doing its own

steering. I saw a young girl prettily framed in an open window, a

watering-pot in her hand and window-boxes of red flowers under its

spout--but the water had ceased to flow; the girl was listening.

Everywhere were these impressive petrified forms; and everywhere was

suspended movement and that awful stillness.

Joan of Arc raised her sword in the air. At the signal, the silence was

torn to rags; cannon after cannon vomited flames and smoke and delivered

its quaking thunders; and we saw answering tongues of fire dart from the

towers and walls of the city, accompanied by answering deep thunders, and

in a minute the walls and the towers disappeared, and in their place

stood vast banks and pyramids of snowy smoke, motionless in the dead air.

The startled girl dropped her watering-pot and clasped her hands

together, and at that moment a stone cannon-ball crashed through her fair

body.

The great artillery duel went on, each side hammering away with all its

might; and it was splendid for smoke and noise, and most exalting to

one's spirits. The poor little town around about us suffered cruelly. The

cannon-balls tore through its slight buildings, wrecking them as if they

had been built of cards; and every moment or two one would see a huge

rock come curving through the upper air above the smoke-clouds and go

plunging down through the roofs. Fire broke out, and columns of flame and

smoke rose toward the sky.

Presently the artillery concussions changed the weather. The sky became

overcast, and a strong wind rose and blew away the smoke that hid the

English fortresses.

Then the spectacle was fine; turreted gray walls and towers, and

streaming bright flags, and jets of red fire and gushes of white smoke in

long rows, all standing out with sharp vividness against the deep leaden

background of the sky; and then the whizzing missiles began to knock up

the dirt all around us, and I felt no more interest in the scenery. There

was one English gun that was getting our position down finer and finer

all the time. Presently Joan pointed to it and said:

"Fair duke, step out of your tracks, or that machine will kill you."

The Duke d'Alencon did as he was bid; but Monsieur du Lude rashly took

his place, and that cannon tore his head off in a moment.

Joan was watching all along for the right time to order the assault. At

last, about nine o'clock, she cried out:

"Now--to the assault!" and the buglers blew the charge.

Instantly we saw the body of men that had been appointed to this service

move forward toward a point where the concentrated fire of our guns had

crumbled the upper half of a broad stretch of wall to ruins; we saw this

force descend into the ditch and begin to plant the scaling-ladders. We

were soon with them. The Lieutenant-General thought the assault

premature. But Joan said:

"Ah, gentle duke, are you afraid? Do you not know that I have promised to

send you home safe?"

It was warm work in the ditches. The walls were crowded with men, and

they poured avalanches of stones down upon us. There was one gigantic

Englishman who did us more hurt than any dozen of his brethren. He always

dominated the places easiest of assault, and flung down exceedingly

troublesome big stones which smashed men and ladders both --then he would

near burst himself with laughing over what he had done. But the duke

settled accounts with him. He went and found the famous cannoneer, Jean

le Lorrain, and said:

"Train your gun--kill me this demon."

He did it with the first shot. He hit the Englishman fair in the breast

and knocked him backward into the city.

The enemy's resistance was so effective and so stubborn that our people

began to show signs of doubt and dismay. Seeing this, Joan raised her

inspiring battle-cry and descended into the fosse herself, the Dwarf

helping her and the Paladin sticking bravely at her side with the

standard. She started up a scaling-ladder, but a great stone flung from

above came crashing down upon her helmet and stretched her, wounded and

stunned, upon the ground. But only for a moment. The Dwarf stood her upon

her feet, and straightway she started up the ladder again, crying:

"To the assault, friends, to the assault--the English are ours! It is the

appointed hour!"

There was a grand rush, and a fierce roar of war-cries, and we swarmed

over the ramparts like ants. The garrison fled, we pursued; Jargeau was

ours!

The Earl of Suffolk was hemmed in and surrounded, and the Duke d'Alencon

and the Bastard of Orleans demanded that he surrender himself. But he was

a proud nobleman and came of a proud race. He refused to yield his sword

to subordinates, saying:

"I will die rather. I will surrender to the Maid of Orleans alone, and to

no other."

And so he did; and was courteously and honorably used by her.

His two brothers retreated, fighting step by step, toward the bridge, we

pressing their despairing forces and cutting them down by scores. Arrived

on the bridge, the slaughter still continued. Alexander de la Pole was

pushed overboard or fell over, and was drowned. Eleven hundred men had

fallen; John de la Pole decided to give up the struggle. But he was

nearly as proud and particular as his brother of Suffolk as to whom he

would surrender to. The French officer nearest at hand was Guillaume

Renault, who was pressing him closely. Sir John said to him:

"Are you a gentleman?"

"Yes."

"And a knight?"

"No."

Then Sir John knighted him himself there on the bridge, giving him the

accolade with English coolness and tranquillity in the midst of that

storm of slaughter and mutilation; and then bowing with high courtesy

took the sword by the blade and laid the hilt of it in the man's hand in

token of surrender. Ah, yes, a proud tribe, those De la Poles.

It was a grand day, a memorable day, a most splendid victory. We had a

crowd of prisoners, but Joan would not allow them to be hurt. We took

them with us and marched into Orleans next day through the usual tempest

of welcome and joy.

And this time there was a new tribute to our leader. From everywhere in

the packed streets the new recruits squeezed their way to her side to

touch the sword of Joan of Arc and draw from it somewhat of that

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PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC VOL. 2

by Mark Twain

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC

by THE SIEUR LOUIS DE CONTE

(her page and secretary)

In Two Volumes

Volume 2.

Freely translated out of the ancient French into modern English

from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives

of France

Contents

Book II -- IN COURT AND CAMP Continued

28 Joan Foretells Her Doom

29 Fierce Talbot Reconsiders

30 The Red Field of Patay

31 France Begins to Live Again

32 The Joyous News Flies Fast

33 Joan's Five Great Deeds

34 The Jests of the Burgundians

35 The Heir of France is Crowned

36 Joan Hears News from Home

37 Again to Arms

38 The King Cries "Forward!"

39 We Win, but the King Balks

40 Treachery Conquers Joan

41 The Maid Will March No More

Book III -- TRIAL AND MARTYRDOM

1 The Maid in Chains

2 Joan Sold to the English

3 Weaving the Net About Her

4 All Ready to Condemn

5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice

6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors

7 Craft That Was in Vain

8 Joan Tells of Her Visions

9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold

10 The Inquisitors at Their Wit's End

11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination

12 Joan's Master-Stroke Diverted

13 The Third Trial Fails

14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies

15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning

16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack

17 Supreme in Direst Peril

18 Condemned Yet Unafraid

19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail

20 The Betrayal

21 Respited Only for Torture

22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer

23 The Time Is at Hand

24 Joan the Martyr

Conclusion

Chapter 28 Joan Foretells Her Doom

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 Providence. I

want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise me 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 France will gather another trophy like the redemption

of Orleans and make her second long step toward freedom!"

Catherine started (and do 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 France will not rise up from that blow."

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 France!"

29 Fierce Talbot Reconsiders

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 though 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 exile wand'ring, we

Shall fainting yearn 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 Orleans; but the foolish King, slave of those paltry advisers 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 France took precedence of all minor things--even 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 castle of Beaugency and keep its garrison 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 Loire, thus securing them against capture; then be

patient and wait--wait for more levies from Paris; let Joan exhaust her

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 Orleans and since, and he swore by God and Saint George that he 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 bridge of Meung under the Marshal de Rais, fifteen

hundred with the Constable of France keeping the bridge and watching the

castle of Beaugency."

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 France at any time. I pray you question me not as to 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 divine

the purpose of it."

"Yes," responded Joan. "Talbot has reflected. His rash brain has cooled.

He thinks to take the bridge of Meung and escape to the other side of 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 to

his army and break for Paris. Then we shall have our bridge force with 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 Ii 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 France again under 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 Paris. When daylight came he had disappeared; and with him Lord

Scales and the garrison of Meung.

What a harvest of English strongholds we had reaped in those three

days!--strongholds which had defied France with quite cool confidence and

plenty of it until we came.

30 The Red Field of Patay

WHEN THE morning broke at last on that forever memorable 18th of June,

thee 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

France would not rise up in a thousand years, as Joan had said in her

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 France will not rise up from this blow." 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? France is on the

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 Joan,

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.

31 France Begins to Live Again

JOAN HAD said true: France was on the way to be free.

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 France lay gasping out the remnant of an exhausted life, 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 France, and that battle Patay.

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 France neglect Patay and 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 England stretched

France prone with that fearful blow at Crecy. But she rose and struggled

on, year after year, and at last again she went down under another

devastating blow--Poitiers. She gathered her crippled strength once 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 France struck down again; this time under the

incredible disaster of Agincourt--and still the war raged on, year after

year, and in time these children married in their turn.

France was a wreck, a ruin, a desolation. The half of it belonged to

England, with none to dispute or deny the truth; the other half belonged

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 Orleans she struck it a staggering blow; on

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--Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt--near a

hundred thousand Frenchmen fell, without counting 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.

32 The Joyous News Flies Fast

THE GREAT news of Patay was carried over the whole of France in twenty

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 France had lain in 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

Mont Pipeau, to Saint Simon, and to this, that, and the other English

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 Orleans that tow was as much as fifty times insaner with

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 FRANCE!"

And there was another cry: "Crecy is avenged! Poitiers is avenged!

Agincourt is avenged!--Patay shall live forever!"

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.

33 Joan's Five Great Deeds

YES, ORLEANS was in a delirium of felicity. She invited the King, and

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 castle of Sully-sur-Loire.

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 Rheims, and thence to the gates of Paris, capturing 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

France. His loyalty was sincere; his probity was above suspicion--(and it

made him sufficiently conspicuous in that trivial and conscienceless

Court).

In restoring Richemont to France, Joan made thoroughly secure the

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 France.

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 Bedford,

representative of the English crown? No. An advantage of incalculable

importance was here under the eyes of the King and of Bedford; the King

could get it by a bold stroke, Bedford could get it without an effort;

but, being ignorant of its value, neither of them put forth his hand. Of

all the wise people in high office in France, only one knew 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 France were

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. Bedford realized this by and by, and tried to patch up

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 Orleans and Patay--check.

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.

34 The Jests of the Burgundians

THE CAMPAIGN of the Loire had as good as opened the road to Rheims. 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 Rheims, because the road was mile-posted

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 Rheims was nothing but

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 Orleans,

the Marshal de Boussac, and the Admiral of France. After these 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 Troyes before

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

Troyes--that treaty which gave France to England, and a daughter of our

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 Paris. Before

night we camped before its gates and made rough work with a sortie which

marched out against us.

Joan summoned Troyes to surrender. Its commandant, seeing that she had 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 Troyes surrendered without firing a shot.

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 Troyes a calf was worth 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."

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 France. The 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.

35 The Heir of France is Crowned

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 Troyes

now by the King's permission.

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

Rheims rise out of the distance! Huzza after huzza swept the army from

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 Rheims was hard at work, hammering away, decorating 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," "Victory'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 p'ans 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 heave, 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 Clovis had been anointed; and from it all the kings of

France had been anointed since. Yes, ever since the time of Clovis, and

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 Abb, 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 Abbey Church

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 France; it consisted of three princes of the blood, and

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,

Orleans, and one other.

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

France upon a cushion, and kneeling offered it. The King seemed 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 France in his

hand, and right finely and right royally lifted it up and 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 Rheims and receive the crown that

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 France, should remember with pride

that France has kept this one faithfully. Sixty-three years have 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. 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 ORLEANS."

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 France that commands." Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be kept

always; "forever" was the King's word. [1] At two o'clock in the

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 France has remembered her with an inextinguishable love

and reverence; Joan never asked for a statue, but France has lavished

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. France owes Domremy a hundred years of taxes, and

could hardly find a citizen within her borders who would vote against the

payment of the debt. -- NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.

36 Joan Hears News from Home

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 t--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 France;" and bade him use them hospitably.

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

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 Orleans, and crown the

King at Rheims. The task is finished, and I am 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 France is 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 France, we were invisible atoms; she was the comrade 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

France.

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.

37 Again to Arms

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 ben

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 peasant 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 Orleans--no, I believe it was at Beaugency, or one 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: