It was on the 7th September that Jeanne and her immediate followers
reached the village of La Chapelle, where they encamped for the night.
The next day was the day of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, a great
festival of the Church. It could scarcely be a matter of choice on the
part of so devout a Catholic as Jeanne to take this day of all others,
when every church bell was tinkling forth a summons to the faithful, for
the day of assault. In all probability she was not now acting on her own
impulse but on that of the other generals and nobles. Had she refused,
might it not have been alleged against her that after all her impatience
it was she who was the cause of delay? The forces with Jeanne were not
very large, a great proportion of the army remaining with Charles no one
seems to know where, either at St. Denis or at some intermediate spot,
possibly to form a reserve force which could be brought up when wanted.
The best informed historian only knows that Charles was not with the
active force. But Alençon was at the head of the troops, along with
many other names well known to us, La Hire, and young Guy de Laval, and
Xantrailles, all mighty men of valour and the devoted friends of Jeanne.
There is a something, a mist, an incertitude in the beginning of the
assault which was unlike the previous achievements of Jeanne, a certain
want of precaution or knowledge of the difficulties which does not
reflect honour upon the generals with her. Absolutely new to warfare as
she was before Orleans she had ridden out at once on her arrival
there to inspect the fortifications of the besiegers. But probably the
continual skirmishing of which we are told made this impossible here,
so that, though the Maid studied the situation of the town in order to
choose the best point for attack, it was only when already engaged that
the army discovered a double ditch round the walls, the inner one of
which was full of water. By sheer impetuosity the French took the gate
of St. Honoré and its "boulevard" or tower, driving its defenders
back into the city: but their further progress was arrested by that
discovery. It was on this occasion that Jeanne is supposed to have
seized from a Burgundian in the mêlée, a sword, of which she boasted
afterwards that it was a good sword capable of good blows, though we
have no certain record that in all her battles she ever gave one blow,
or shed blood at all.
It would seem to have been only after the taking of this gate that the
discovery was made as to the two deep ditches, one dry, the other filled
with water. Jeanne, whose place had always been with her standard at
the immediate foot of the wall, from whence to direct and cheer on her
soldiers, pressed forward to this point of peril, descending into the
first fosse, and climbing up again on the second, the _dos d'ane_, which
separated them, where she stood in the midst of a rain of arrows, fully
exposed to all the enraged crowd of archers and gunners on the ramparts
above, testing with her lance the depth of the water. We seem in the
story to see her all alone or with her standard-bearer only by her
side making this investigation; but that of course is only a pictorial
suggestion, though it might for a moment be the fact. She remained
there, however, from two in the afternoon till night, when she was
forced away. The struggle must have raged around while she stood on the
dark edge of the ditch probing the muddy water to see where it could
best be crossed, shouting directions to her men in that voice _assez
femme_, which penetrated the noise of battle, and summoning the active
and desperate enemy overhead. "_Renty! Renty!_" she cried as she had
done at Orleans--"_surrender to the King of France!_"
We hear nothing now of the white armour; it must have been dimmed and
worn by much fighting, and the banner torn and glorious with the chances
of the war; but it still waved over her head, and she still stood fast,
on the ridge between the two ditches, shouting her summons, cheering
the men, a spot of light still, amid all the steely glimmering of the
mail-coats and the dark downpour of that iron rain. Half a hundred
war cries rending the air, shrieks from the walls of "Witch, Devil,
Ribaude," and names still more insulting to her purity, could not
silence that treble shout, the most wonderful, surely, that ever ran
through such an infernal clamour, so prodigious, the chronicler says,
that it was a marvel to hear it. _De par Dieu, Rendez vous, rendez vous,
au roy de France_. If as we believe she never struck a blow, the aspect
of that wonderful figure becomes more extraordinary still. While the
boldest of her companions struggled across to fling themselves and what
beams and ladders they could drag with them against the wall, she stood
without even such shelter as close proximity to it might have given,
cheering them on, exposed to every shot.
The fight was desperate, and though there was no marked success on
the part of the besiegers, yet there seems to have been nothing
to discourage them, as the fight raged on. Few were wounded,
notwithstanding the noise of the cannons and culverins, "by the grace
of God and the good luck of the Maid." But towards the evening Jeanne
herself suddenly swayed and fell, an arrow having pierced her thigh; she
seems, however, to have struggled to her feet again, undismayed, when a
still greater misfortune befell: her standard-bearer was hit, first in
the foot, and then, as he raised his visor to pull the arrow from the
wound, between his eyes, falling dead at her feet. What happened to
the banner, we are not told; Jeanne most likely herself caught it as it
fell. But at this stroke, more dreadful than her own wound, her strength
failed her, and she crept behind a bush or heap of stones, where she
lay, refusing to quit the place. Some say she managed to slide into the
dry ditch where there was a little shelter, but resisted all attempts
to carry her away, and some add that while she lay there she employed
herself in a vain attempt to throw faggots into the ditch to make it
passable. It is said that she kept calling out to them to persevere, to
go on and Paris would be won. She had promised, they say, to sleep that
night within the conquered city; but this promise comes to us with no
seal of authority. Jeanne knew that it had taken her eight days to free
Orleans, and she could scarcely have promised so sudden a success in
the more formidable achievement. But she was at least determined in her
conviction that perseverance only was needed. She must have lain for
hours on the slope of the outer moat, urging on the troops with such
force as her dauntless voice could give, repeating again and again
that the place could be taken if they but held on. But when night came
Alençon and some other of the captains overcame her resistance, and
there being clearly no further possibility for the moment, succeeded
in setting her upon her horse, and conveyed her back to the camp. While
they rode with her, supporting her on her charger, she did nothing but
repeat "_Quel dommage!_" Oh, what a misfortune, that the siege of Paris
should fail, all for want of constancy and courage. "If they had but
gone on till morning," she cried, "the inhabitants would have known."
It is evident from this that she must have expected a rising within, and
could not yet believe that no such thing was to be looked for. "_Par mon
martin_, the place would have been taken," she said in the hearing one
cannot but feel of the chronicler, who reports so often those homely
words.
Thus Jeanne was led back after the first day's attack. Her wound was not
serious, and she had been repulsed during one of the day's fighting at
Orleans without losing courage. But something had changed her spirit as
well as the spirit of the army she led. There is a curious glimpse given
us into her camp at this point, which indeed comes to us through the
observation of an enemy, yet seems to have in it an unmistakable gleam
of truth. It comes from one of the parties which had been granted a
safe-conduct to carry away the dead of the English and Burgundian side.
They tell us, among other circumstances,--such as that the French burnt
their dead, a manifest falsehood, but admirably calculated to make them
a horror to their neighbours,--that many in the ranks cursed the Maid
who had promised that they should without any doubt sleep that night
in Paris and plunder the wealthy city. The men with their safe-conduct
creeping among the dead, to recover those bodies which had fallen on
their own side, and furtively to count the fallen on the other--who were
delighted to bring a report that the Maid was no longer the fountain
of strength and blessing, but secretly cursed by her own forces--are
sinister figures groping their way through the darkness of the September
night.
Next morning, however, her wound being slight, Jeanne was up early and
in conference with Alençon, begging him to sound his trumpets and set
forth once more. "I shall not budge from here, till Paris is taken," she
said. No doubt her spirit was up, and a determination to recover lost
ground strong in her mind. While the commanders consulted together,
there came a band of joyful augury into the camp, the Seigneur of
Montmorency with sixty gentlemen, who had left the party of Burgundy
in order to take service under the banner of the Maid. No doubt this
important and welcome addition to their number exhilarated the entire
camp, in the commotion of the reveillé, while each man looked to his
weapons, wiping off from breastplate and helmet the heavy dew of the
September morning, greeting the new friends and brothers-in-arms who had
come in, and arranging, with a better knowledge of the ground than that
of yesterday, the mode of attack. Jeanne would not confess that she felt
her wound, in her eagerness to begin the assault a second time. And all
were in good spirits, the disappointment of the night having blown away,
and the determination to do or die being stronger than ever. Were the
men-at-arms perhaps less amenable? Were they whispering to each other
that Jeanne had promised them Paris yesterday, and for the first time
had not kept her word? It would almost require such a fact as this to
explain what follows. For as they began to set out, the whole field
in movement, there was suddenly seen approaching another party of
cavaliers--perhaps another reinforcement like that of Montmorency? This
new band, however, consisted but of two gentlemen and their immediate
attendants, the Duc de Bar and the Comte de Clermont,(1) always a bird
of evil omen, riding hot from St. Denis with orders from the King.
These orders were abrupt and peremptory--to turn back. Jeanne and her
companions were struck dumb for the moment. To turn back, and Paris
at their feet! There must have burst forth a storm of remonstrance
and appeal. We cannot tell how long the indignant parley lasted; the
historians do not enlarge upon the disastrous incident. But at last
the generals yielded to the orders of the King--Jeanne humiliated,
miserable, and almost in despair. We cannot but feel that on no former
occasion would she have given way so completely; she would have rushed
to the King's presence, overwhelmed him with impetuous prayers, extorted
somehow the permission to go on. But Charles was safe at seven miles'
distance, and his envoys were imperious and peremptory, like men able to
enforce obedience if it were not given. She obeyed at last, recovering
courage a little in the hope of being able to persuade Charles to change
his mind, and sanction another assault on Paris from the other side, by
means of a bridge over the Seine towards St. Denis, which Alençon had
constructed. Next morning it appears that without even asking that
permission a portion of the army set out very early for this bridge: but
the King had divined their project, and when they reached the river
side the first thing they saw was their bridge in ruins. It had been
treacherously destroyed in the night, not by their enemies, but by their
King.
It is natural that the French historians should exhaust themselves in
explanation of this fatal change of policy. Quicherat, who was the
first to bring to light all the most important records of this period of
history, lays the entire blame upon La Tremoïlle, the chief adviser of
Charles. But that Charles himself was at heart equally guilty no one
can doubt. He was a man who proved himself in the end of his career to
possess both sense and energy, though tardily developed. It was to him
that Jeanne had given that private sign of the truth of her mission,
by which he was overawed and convinced in the first moment of their
intercourse. Within the few months which had elapsed since she appeared
at Chinon every thing that was wonderful had been done for him by her
means. He was then a fugitive pretender, not even very certain of his
own claim, driven into a corner of his lawful dominions, and fully
prepared to abandon even that small standing ground, to fly into Spain
or Scotland, and give up the attempt to hold his place as King of
France. Now he was the consecrated King, with the holy oil upon
his brows, and the crown of his ancestors on his head, accepted and
proclaimed, all France stirring to her old allegiance, new conquests
falling into his hands every day, and the richest portion of his kingdom
secure under his sway. To check thus peremptorily the career of the
deliverer who had done so much for him, degrading her from her place,
throwing more than doubt upon her inspiration, falsifying by force
the promises which she had made--promises which had never failed
before,--was a worse and deeper sin on the part of a young man, by right
of his kingly office the very head of knighthood and every chivalrous
undertaking, than it could be on the part of an old and subtle
diplomatist who had never believed in such wild measures, and all
through had clogged the steps and endeavoured to neutralise the mission
of the warrior Maid. It is very clear, however, that between them it was
the King and his chamberlain who made this assault upon Paris so evident
and complete a failure. One day's repulse was nothing in a siege. There
had been one great repulse and several lesser ones at Orleans. Jeanne,
even though weakened by her wound, had sprung up that morning full of
confidence and courage. In no way was the failure to be laid to her
charge.
But this could never, perhaps, have been explained to the whole body
of the army, who had believed her word without a doubt and taken her
success for granted. If they had been wavering before, which seems
possible--for they must have been, to a considerable extent, new levies,
the campaigners of the Loire having accomplished their period of feudal
service,--this sudden downfall must have strengthened every doubt and
damped every enthusiasm. The Maid of whom such wonderful tales had been
told, she who had been the angel of triumph, the irresistible, before
whom the English fled, and the very walls fell down--was she after
all only a sorceress, as the others called her, a creature whose
incantations had failed after the flash of momentary success? Such
impressions are too apt to come like clouds over every popular
enthusiasm, quenching the light and chilling the heart.
Jeanne was thus dragged back to St. Denis against her will and every
instinct of her being, and there ensued three days of passionate debate
and discussion. For a moment it appeared as if she would have thrown off
the bonds of loyal obedience and pursued her mission at all hazards. Her
"voices," if they had previously given her uncertain sound, promising
only the support and succour of God, but no success, now spoke more
plainly and urged the continuance of the siege; and the Maid was torn in
pieces between the requirements of her celestial guardians and the force
of authority around her. If she had broken out into open rebellion who
would have followed her? She had never yet done so; when the King was
against her she had pleaded or forced an agreement, and received or
snatched a consent from the malevolent chamberlain, as at Jargeau and
Troyes. Never yet had she set herself in public opposition to the will
of her sovereign. She had submitted to all kinds of tests and trials
rather than this. And to have lain half a day wounded outside Paris and
to stand there pleading her cause with her wound still unhealed were not
likely things to strengthen her powers of resistance. "The Voices
bade me remain at St. Denis," she said afterwards at her trial, "and I
desired to remain; but the seigneurs took me away in spite of myself. If
I had not been wounded I should never have left." Added to the force
of these circumstances, it was no doubt apparent to all that to resume
operations after that forced retreat, and the betrayal it gave of
divided counsels, would be less hopeful than ever. These arguments even
convinced the bold La Hire, who for his part, being no better than a
Free Lance, could move hither and thither as he would; and thus the
first defeat of the Maid, a disaster involving all the misfortunes that
followed in its train, was accomplished.
Jeanne's last act in St. Denis was one to which perhaps the modern
reader gives undue significance, but which certainly must have had a
certain melancholy meaning. Before she left, dragged almost a captive
in the train of the King, we are told that she laid on the altar of the
cathedral the armour she had worn on that evil day before Paris. It was
not an unusual act for a warrior to do this on his return from the wars.
And if she had been about to renounce her mission it would have been
easily comprehensible. But no such thought was in her mind. Was it a
movement of despair, was it with some womanish fancy that the arms in
which she had suffered defeat should not be borne again?--or was it done
in some gleam of higher revelation made to her that defeat, too, was a
part of victory, and that not without that bitterness of failure could
the fame of the soldier of Christ be perfected? I have remarked already
that we hear no more of the white armour, inlaid with silver and
dazzling like a mirror, in which she had begun her career; perhaps it
was the remains of that panoply of triumph which she laid out before the
altar of the patron saint of France, all dim now with hard work and
the shadow of defeat. It must have marked a renunciation of one kind
or another, the sacrifice of some hope. She was no longer Jeanne the
invincible, the triumphant, whose very look made the enemy tremble and
flee, and gave double force to every Frenchman's arm. Was she then and
there abdicating, becoming to her own consciousness Jeanne the champion
only, honest and true, but no longer the inspired Maid, the Envoy of
God? To these questions we can give no answer; but the act is pathetic,
and fills the mind with suggestions. She who had carried every force
triumphantly with her, and quenched every opposition, bitter and
determined though that had been, was now a thrall to be dragged
almost by force in an unworthy train. It is evident that she felt the
humiliation to the bottom of her heart. It is not for human nature to
have the triumph alone: the humiliation, the overthrow, the chill and
tragic shadow must follow. Jeanne had entered into that cloud when she
offered the armour, that had been like a star in front of the battle,
at the shrine of St. Denis.(2) Hers was now to be a sadder, a humbler,
perhaps a still nobler part.
It is enough to trace the further movements of the King to perceive
how at every step the iron must have entered deeper and deeper into the
heart of the Maid. He made his arrangements for the government of each
of the towns which had acknowledged him: Beauvais, Compiègne, Senlis,
and the rest. He appointed commissioners for the due regulation of the
truce with Philip of Burgundy. And then the retreating army took its
march southward towards the mild and wealthy country, all fertility and
quiet, where a recreant prince might feel himself safe and amuse himself
at his leisure--by Lagny, by Provins, by Bercy-sur Seine, where he had
been checked before in his retreat and almost forced to the march on
Paris--by Sens, and Montargis: until at last on the 29th of September,
no doubt diminished by the withdrawal of many a local troop and knight
whose service was over, the forces arrived at Gien, whence they had set
forth at the end of June for a series of victories. It is to be supposed
that the King was well enough satisfied with the conquests accomplished
in three months. And, indeed, in ordinary circumstances they would have
formed a triumphant list. Charles must have felt himself free to play
after the work which he had not done; and to leave his good fortune and
the able negotiators, who hoped to get Paris and other good things from
Philip of Burgundy without paying anything for them, to do the rest.
We can imagine nothing more dreadful for the Maid than the months that
followed. The Court was not ungrateful to her; she received the warmest
welcome from the Queen; she had a _maison_ arranged for her like the
household of a noble chief, with the addition of women and maidens of
rank to her existing staff, and everything which could serve to show
that she was one whom the King delighted to honour. And Charles would
have her apparelled gloriously like the king's daughter in the psalm.
"He gave her a mantle of cloth of gold, open at both sides, to wear over
her armour," and apparently did his best to make her, if not a noble
lady, yet into the semblance of a noble young chevalière, one the
glories of his Court, with all the distinction of her achievements and
all the complacences of a carpet knight. It was said afterwards, in the
absence of any graver possibility of accusation, that she liked her fine
clothes. The tears rise to the eyes at such a suggestion. She was so
natural that let us hope she did, the martyr Maid whose torture had
already begun. If that mantle of gold gave her a moment of pleasure, it
is something to be thankful for in the midst of the dismal shadows that
were already closing round her. They were ready to give her any shining
mantle, any beautiful dress, even a title and a noble name if she would;
but what the King and his counsellors were determined on, was, that she
should no more have the fame of individual triumph, or do anything save
under their orders.
Alençon, the gentle duke, with whom she had taken so much trouble, and
who had grown into a true and noble comrade, made one effort to free his
friend and leader. He planned an expedition into Normandy, where, with
the help of Jeanne, he hoped to inflict upon the English a loss so
tremendous, the destruction of their base of operations, that they would
be compelled to abandon the centre of France altogether, and leave the
way open to Paris and to the recovery of the entire kingdom; but the
King, or La Tremoïlle, as the historians prefer to say, would not
permit Jeanne to accompany him, and this hope came to nothing. Alençon
disbanded his troops, everything in the form of an army was broken
up--the short period of feudal service making this inevitable, unless
new levies were made--and no forces were left under arms except those
bands which formed the body-guard of the King. Nevertheless, there
was plenty of work to be done still, and the breaking up of the French
forces encouraged many a little garrison of English partisans, which
would have yielded naturally and easily to a strong national party.
In the midst of the winter, however, it seemed appropriate to the Court
to launch forth an expedition against some of the unsubdued towns,
perhaps on account of the mortal languishment of Jeanne herself, perhaps
for some other reason of its own. The first necessity was to collect the
necessary forces, and for this reason Jeanne came to Bourges, where she
was lodged in one of the great houses of the city, that of Raynard de
Bouligny, _conseiller de roi_, and his wife, Marguerite, one of the
Queen's ladies. She was there for three weeks collecting her men,
and the noble gentlewoman, who was her hostess, was afterwards in the
Rehabilitation trial, one of the witnesses to the purity of her life.
From this lady and others we have a clear enough view of what the Maid
was in this second chapter of her history. She spent her time in the
most intimate intercourse with Madam Marguerite, sharing even her room,
so that nothing could be more complete than the knowledge of her hostess
of every detail of her young guest's life. And wonderful as was the
difference between the peasant maiden of Domremy and the most famous
woman in France, the life of Jeanne, the Deliverer of her country, is as
the life of Jeanne, the cottage sempstress,--as simple, as devout, and
as pure. She loved to go to church for the early matins, but as it was
not fit that she should go out alone at that hour, she besought Madame
Marguerite to go with her. In the evening she went to the nearest
church, and there with all her old childish love for the church bells,
she had them rung for half an hour, calling together the poor, the
beggars who haunt every Catholic church, the poor friars and bedesmen,
the penniless and forlorn from all the neighbourhood. This custom would,
no doubt, soon become known, and not only her poor pensioners, but the
general crowd would gather to gaze at the Maid as well as to join in
her prayers. It was her great pleasure to sing a hymn to the Virgin,
probably one of the litanies which the unlearned worshipper loves,
with its choruses and constant repetitions, in company with all those
untutored voices, in the dimness of the church, while the twilight
sank into night, and the twinkling stars of candles on the altar made
a radiance in the middle of the gloom. When she had money to give she
divided it, according to the liberal custom of her time, among her poor
fellow-worshippers. These evening services were her recreation. The
days were full of business, of enrolling soldiers, and regulating the
"lances," groups of retainers, headed by their lord, who came to perform
their feudal service.
The ladies of the town who had the advantage of knowing Madame
Marguerite did not fail to avail themselves of this privilege, and
thronged to visit her wonderful guest. They brought her their sacred
medals and rosaries to bless, and asked her a hundred questions. Was
she afraid of being wounded; or was she assured that she would not
be wounded? "No more than others," she said; and she put away their
religious ornaments with a smile, bidding Madame Marguerite touch them,
or the visitors themselves, which would be just as good as if she did
it. She would seem to have been always smiling, friendly, checking with
a laugh the adulation of her visitors, many of whom wore medals with
her own effigy (if only one had been saved for us!) as there were many
banners made after the pattern of hers. But cheerful as she was, a
prevailing tone of sadness now appears to run through her life. On
several occasions she spoke to her confessor and chaplain, who attended
her everywhere, of her death. "If it should be my fate to die soon, tell
the King our master on my part to build chapels where prayer may be made
to the Most High for the salvation of the souls of those who shall die
in the wars for the defence of the kingdom." This was the one thing she
seemed anxious for, and it returned again and again to her mind. Her
thoughts indeed were heavy enough. Her larger enterprises had been
cruelly put a stop to: her companions-in-arms had been dispersed: she
had been separated from her lieutenant Alençon, and from all the friends
between whom and herself great mutual confidence had sprung up. Even the
commission which had at last been put in her hands was a trifling one
and led to nothing, bringing the King no nearer to any satisfactory end:
and the troops were under command of a new captain whom she scarcely
knew, d'Albert, who was the son-in-law of La Tremoïlle, and probably
little inclined to be a friend to Jeanne. In these circumstances there
was little of an exhilarating or promising kind.
Nevertheless as an episode, few things had happened to Jeanne more
memorable than the siege of St. Pierre-le-Moutier. The first assault
upon the town was unsuccessful; the retreat had sounded and the troops
were streaming back from the point of attack, when Jean d'Aulon, the
faithful friend and brave gentleman who was at the head of the Maid's
military household, being himself wounded in the heel and unable to
stand or walk, saw the Maid almost alone before the stronghold, four or
five men only with her. He dragged himself up as well as he could upon
his horse, and hastened towards her, calling out to her to ask what she
did there, and why she did not retire with the rest. She answered him,
taking off her helmet to speak, that she would leave only when the place
was taken--and went on shouting for faggots and beams to make a
bridge across the ditch. It is to be supposed that seeing she paid no
attention, nor budged a step from that dangerous point, this brave man,
wounded though he was, must have made an effort to rally the retiring
besiegers: but Jeanne seems to have taken no notice of her desertion
nor ever to have paused in her shout for planks and gabions. "All to the
bridge," she shouted, "_aux fagots et aux claies tout le monde!_ every
one to the bridge." "Jeanne, withdraw, withdraw! You are alone,"
some one said to her. Bareheaded, her countenance all aglow, the Maid
replied: "I have still with me fifty thousand of my men." Were those
the men whom the prophet's servant saw when his eyes were opened and he
beheld the innumerable company of angels that surrounded his master? But
Jeanne, rapt in the trance and ecstasy of battle, gave no explanation.
"To work, to work!" her clear voice went on, ringing over the startled
head of the good knight who knew war, but not any rapture like this.
History itself, awe-stricken, would almost have us believe that alone
with her own hand the Maid took the city, so entirely does every figure
disappear but that one, and the perplexed and terrified spectator vainly
urging her to give up so desperate an attempt. But no doubt the shouts
of a voice so strange to every such scene, the _vox infantile_, the
amazing and clear voice, silvery and womanly, _assez femme_, and the
efforts of d'Aulon to bring back the retreating troops were successful,
and Jeanne once more, triumphantly kept her word. The place was strongly
fortified, well provisioned, and full of people. Therefore the whole
narrative is little less than miraculous, though very little is said of
it. Had they but persevered, as she had said, a few hours longer before
Paris, who could tell that the same result might not have been obtained?
She was not successful, however, with La Charité, which after a siege of
a month's duration still held out, and had to be abandoned. These
long operations of regular warfare were not in Jeanne's way; and
her coadjutor in command, it must be remembered, was in this case
commissioned by her chief enemy. We are told that she was left without
supplies, and in the depths of winter, in cold and rain and snow, with
every movement hampered, and the ineffective government ever ready to
send orders of retreat, or to cause bewildering and confusing delays by
the want of every munition of war. Finally, at all events, the French
forces withdrew, and again an unsuccessful enterprise was added to
the record of the once victorious Maid. That she went on continually
promising victory as in her early times, is probably the mere rumour
spread by her detractors who were now so many, for there is no real
evidence that she did so. Everything rather points to discouragement,
uncertainty, and to a silent rage against the coercion which she could
not overcome.
(1) Clermont it was who deserted the Scots at the Battle of
the Herrings.
(2) Jeanne's arms, offered at St. Denis, were afterwards
taken by the English and sent to the King of England (all
except the sword with its ornaments of gold) without giving
anything to the church in return: "qui est pur sacrilege et
manifeste," says Jean Chartier.