GILLON THE FURTIVE.
On a brilliant summer day the sun was westering behind the Castle of
Ile, a small fortress raised between the two arms of the Meuse at a
considerable distance from Domremy. James Darc inhabited a house near
the church, the garden of which bordered on that of his own habitation.
The laborer's family, gathered before the door of their lodging, were
enjoying the coolness of the evening; some were seated on a bench and
others on the floor. James Darc, a robust man of severe countenance,
spare of face and grey of hair, was in the group resting from his day's
labor; his wife, Isabelle, spun; Jeannette was sewing. Large and strong
for her age, lissom and well proportioned, her hair was black, as were
also her large brilliant eyes. The ensemble of her features made promise
of a virile and yet tender beauty.[4] She wore, after the fashion of
Lorraine, a skirt of coarse scarlet fabric, with a corsage that, looped
over her shoulders, allowed the short sleeves of her skirt to escape at
her upper arms, the rest of which remained bare and were well built and
slightly tanned by the sun.
Darc's family were listening to the account of a stranger dressed in a
brown coat, shod in tall and spurred boots, holding a whip in his hands
and carrying on his shoulder a tin box held by a leather strap. The
stranger, Gillon the Furtive, was in the habit of traversing long
distances on horseback in the capacity of "flying messenger", carrying
the correspondence of important personages. He had just returned from
one of these errands to the Duke of Lorraine and was going back to
Charles VII, who then resided at Bourges. While crossing Domremy, Gillon
the Furtive had asked James Darc to direct him to some inn where he
could sup and feed his horse.
"Share my meal; my sons will take your horse to the stable," the
hospitable laborer answered the messenger. The offer being accepted,
supper was taken and the stranger, desirous to pay his reckoning in his
own way by giving the latest news of France to the family of Darc,
reported how the English, masters of Paris and of almost all the
provinces, governed despotically, terrorizing the inhabitants by their
continuous acts of violence and rapine; how the King of England, still a
boy and under the guardianship of the Duke of Bedford, had inherited the
crown of France; while poor Charles VII, the King by right, deserted by
almost all his seigneurs and relegated to Touraine, the last shred of
his domains, did not even entertain the hope of ever being able to
redeem those provinces from the domination of the English. Being a court
messenger and therefore, naturally, a royalist of the Armagnac party,
Gillon the Furtive professed, after the fashion of inferior courtiers, a
sort of stupid, false, blind and grovelling adoration for Charles VII.
That young prince, unnerved by his early debaucheries, selfish, greedy,
envious and, above all, cowardly, never appeared at the head of the
troops still left to him; and consoled himself for their defeats and
his disgrace by drinking deep and singing with his mistresses. In his
royalist fervor, however, Gillon the Furtive forgot his master's vices
and saw only his misfortunes.
"Poor young King! It is a pity to see what he has to endure!" said the
messenger at the close of his report. "His accursed mother, Isabelle of
Bavaria, is the cause of it all. Her misconduct with the Duke of Orleans
and her hatred for the Duke of Burgundy have brought on the frightful
feud between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs. The English, already
masters of several of our provinces since the battle of Poitiers, easily
took possession of almost all France, torn in factions as the country
was. They now impose upon the country an intolerable yoke, sack and burn
it right and left and butcher its people. Finally, the Duke of Bedford,
tutor of a king in his cradle, reigns in the place of our gentle
Dauphin! A curse upon Isabelle of Bavaria! That woman was the ruin of
the kingdom. We are no longer French. We are English!"
"God be praised! We, at least," said James Darc, "still remain French,
all of us in this valley. We have not experienced the disasters that you
describe, friend messenger. You say that Charles VII, our young prince,
is a worthy sire?"
"Just heaven!" cried Gillon the Furtive, a flatterer and liar, like all
court valets, "Charles VII is an angel! All who approach him admire him,
revere and bless him! He has the meekness of a lamb, the beauty of a
swan and the courage of a lion!"
"The courage of a lion!" exclaimed James Darc with admiration. "Then our
young Sire has fought bravely?"
"If he had had his will he would by this time have been killed at the
head of the troops that have remained faithful," promptly answered
Gillon the Furtive, puffing out his cheeks. "But the life of our august
master is so precious that the seigneurs of his family and council were
bound to oppose his risking his precious days in a fashion that I shall
be bold to call--uselessly heroic. The soldiers who still follow the
royal banners are completely discouraged by the defeats that they have
sustained. The larger number of bishops and seigneurs have declared
themselves for the party of the Burgundians and the English; everybody
is deserting our young Sire; and soon perhaps, forced to abandon France,
he will not find in the whole kingdom of his fathers a place to rest his
head! Oh, accursed, triply accursed be his wicked mother, Isabella of
Bavaria!"
With nightfall Gillon the Furtive thanked the laborer of Domremy for his
hospitality, mounted his horse and pursued his route. After mutually
expressing their sorrow at the fate of the young King, the family of
Darc joined in evening prayer and its members retired to sleep.