For Jean Charost, a period of lethargy--I may almost call
it--succeeded the scene last described. A dull, idle, heavy dream--a
torpor of the spirit as well as of the body. It is not the man of many
emotions who has the deepest: it is he who has the power, either from
temperament or force of character, to resist them. His spirit has not
been worn by them; his heart has not been soiled by them; and when at
length they seize upon him, and conquer him, they have something to
grasp.
It was thus with him. In early life he had never known love. The
circumstances in which he had been placed, the constant occupation,
the frequent moving from place to place, and the absence of any of
those little incidents which plant and nourish passion, had left his
life without the record of any thing more than a mere passing
inclination. But when love seized upon him, it took possession of him
entirely, filled him for a few days with hope and joy, and now plunged
him into that spiritless lethargy. The events which were passing
around him in France came upon him as a vision. Like the ancient
prophet, he saw things in a trance, but having his eyes open; and they
must be pictured to the reader in the same way that they appeared to
him.
A large, fine city, on a beautiful river, is besieged by a numerous
army. Its fortifications are old and insufficient, the troops within
it scanty, the preparations small. The cannon thunder upon it, mines
explode beneath its walls, the enemy march to its assault; but they
are driven back, and Orleans remains untaken. There is a bridge, the
key, as it were, to the city. It is attacked, defended, attacked
again. An old castle seems its only protection. The castle is
attacked, and taken by the enemy; and a man of magnificent presence,
calm, and grave, and gentle, mounts the highest tower therein, to
direct his soldiery against the city. Suddenly, the stone ball of a
large cannon strikes the window at which he stands; and Salisbury is
carried away to die a few hours after of his wounds.
The city still holds out; the attacks have diminished in fierceness;
but round about the devoted place the English lines are drawn on every
side, pressing it closer and closer, till famine begins to reign
within the walls. There is a battle in the open fields, some miles
from the besieged place. Wagons and tumbrils are in the midst, and
gallant men, with the lily banner over them, fight bravely; but fight
in vain. They fly--at length they fly. The bravest hearts in France
turn from the fatal field, and all is rout, and slaughter, and defeat.
Surely, surely Orleans must fall, and all the open country beyond the
Loire submit to the invader.
Let us turn away our eyes from this scene to another. The king's
council has assembled at Chinon; the news of the defeat has reached
them. Hope, courage, constancy are lost. They advise their monarch to
abandon Orleans to its fate; to abandon Berri and Touraine, and make
his last struggle in the mountains of Auvergne. The counsels of
despair had been spoken, nor is it wonderful that a young man fond of
pleasure, ruled by favorites, weary of strife, contention, and cabal,
should listen to them with a longing for repose, and tranquillity, and
enjoyment. Oh, how often is it, in this working-day world of ours,
that the most active, the most energetic, the most enduring, thirsts,
with a burning thirst, such as the wanderer of the desert hardly
knows, for the cool refreshment of a little peace. He stands in his
own cabinet, not quite alone; for there is a beautiful figure kneeling
at his feet. She raises her eyes to his face with looks of love and
tenderness, yet full of energy and fire. "Never, never, my Charles!"
she says. "Never, my king and master! Oh, never let it be said that
France's king embraced the counsels of fear, rather than of courage;
fled without need--turned from his enemy before he was defeated! It is
God's will that gives the victory; but it is for you to struggle for
it. What if the courage of the people of Orleans faint? what if a
battle is lost? what if the English pass the Loire!"
"All this is true, or will be true within a month, my Agnes," replied
the king, in a tone of deep despondency. "I can not prevent it.
Suppose it happened; what can I do then?"
"Mount your horse. Set your lance in rest. Give your standard
to the wind. Call France around you. March against the
enemy--fight--fight--and, if need be, die! I will go with you--die
with you, if it must be so. There is nothing for me but you and France
on earth. God pardon us that it is so; but I have given, and you have
taken from me all else."
Charles shook his head mournfully; and Agnes rose slowly from her
knees, and drew a step back. "Then pardon me, my lord," she said, "if
I retire from your royal court to that of his highness the Duke of
Bedford. It was predicted to me long ago, by a learned astrologer,
that I should belong to the greatest prince of my time. I fondly
fancied I had found him; but I must have been mistaken." And she
retired still further, as if to quit the room.
"Stay, Agnes, stay!" cried Charles. "Stay, if you love me!"
Agnes sprang back again, and cast her arms around his neck. "Love
you!" she cried; "God knows I love you but too well; and though our
love has humbled, debased, and dishonored me, if it is to last, it
must raise, and elevate, and animate you. For my sake, Charles, if not
for your own, cast the base thoughts which others have suggested far
away. Take the nobler part which your own heart would prompt; dare
all, encounter all, and save France, yourself, and Agnes; for be sure
I will never outlive the freedom of my country. There is many a noble
heart yet beating in our France. There is many a strong arm yet ready
to strike for her; and it needs but the appearance of the king in the
field, and proofs of strong determination upon his part, to quell the
factions which distract the land, and gather every noble spirit round
his king. Whatever your love may have done to injure me, oh let my
love for you lead you to safety, honor, and renown."
"Well, be it so," cried Charles, infected by her enthusiasm. "I swear
by all I hold most sacred, I will not go back before the enemy. Let
him cross the Loire--let Orleans fall--let every traitor leave me--let
every faint heart counsel flight. I will meet him in the field, peril
all on one last blow, free France, or die!"
Let us back to the besieged city again. Gaunt famine is walking in the
streets; eager-faced men, and hollow-eyed women are seen prowling
about, and vainly seeking food. Closer, closer draw the lines about
the place, the bridge is broken down, as a last resource; but the
enemy's cannon thunder still, and the hands are feeble that point
those upon the walls. Suddenly there is a cry that help is coming,
that food is on the way; food, and an army to force an entrance. There
is a feeble flash of joy and hope; but it soon goes out. Men ask, Who
is it leads the host? who brings the promised succor? A woman--a young
girl of seventeen years of age--some say a saint--and some a fool; and
many weep with bitter disappointment.
Nevertheless, on the day named, the ramparts are crowded, people go up
to the towers and to the belfries. What do they see? A fleet of boats
coming up the river, an army marching up the bank, lances and banners,
pennons and bright arms are there enough. But still the hearts of the
inhabitants, though beating with interest and expectation, hardly give
place to hope. They have seen French armies as bright and gay fly
before those hardy islanders who are now marching out of their lines
to attack the escorting force. They have seen succor as near them
intercepted on the way. But right onward toward them moves the host of
France. Quicker, quicker--at the march, at the trot, at the gallop.
Band mingles with band, spear crosses spear; the flag of France
advances still; the boats sweep on and reach the city; and shouts of
joy ring through the air--shouts, but not shouts so loud, nor warm,
nor triumphant as those which greet that young girl as she rides
through the streets of the city she has succored.
But she was not content to succor; she came to deliver; and forth she
goes again to plant her banner between the walls and the besieging
lines, and there she sleeps, lulled by the roar of the artillery.
Again the Maid of Arc is in the field. Again the standard of France is
in her hand, and on she bears it from success to success. The enemy's
forts are taken, the lines swept, the castle of the bridge recaptured,
Orleans delivered, and her name united with it in everlasting memory.
Joy, hope, confidence returned to France, and men's hearts were opened
to each other which had long been closed.
Gergeau, Beaugency, and many another small town was taken, and across
a country delivered from his enemies, the King of France marched on to
take his crown at Rheims.