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 so did I); then she gazed long at Joan like one
in a trance, murmuring “four days--four days,” as if to herself and
unconsciously. Finally she asked, in a low voice that had something of
awe in it:
“Joan, tell me--how is it that you know that? For you do know it, I
think.”
“Yes,” said Joan, dreamily, “I know--I know. I shall strike--and strike
again. And before the fourth day is finished I shall strike yet again.”
She became silent. We sat wondering and still. This was for a whole
minute, she looking at the floor and her lips moving but uttering
nothing. Then came these words, but hardly audible: “And in a thousand
years the English power in 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 thought old age
valuable. I do not know why, but I thought so. All young people think
it, I believe, they being ignorant and full of superstitions. She
had seen the Tree. All that miserable night those ancient verses went
floating back and forth through my brain:
And when, in 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 I and the Constable of France will join
you before dawn with his men.”
She kept her word. Her guard mounted and we rode off through the
puttering rain, taking with us a captured English officer to confirm
Joan's news. We soon covered the journey and summoned the castle.
Richard Guetin, Talbot's lieutenant, being convinced that he and his
five hundred men were left helpless, conceded that it would be useless
to try to hold out. He could not expect easy terms, yet Joan granted
them nevertheless. His garrison could keep their horses and arms, and
carry away property to the value of a silver mark per man. They could go
whither they pleased, but must not take arms against 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,
there was no enemy discoverable anywhere, as I have said. But that did
not trouble me. I knew we should find him, and that we should strike
him; strike him the promised blow--the one from which the English power
in 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 paens
of victory; but now there was nothing of that. But for one impressive
sound, one could have closed his eyes and imagined himself in a world
of the dead. That one sound was all that visited the ear in the summer
stillness--just that one sound--the muffled tread of the marching host.
As the serried masses drifted by, the men put their right hands up to
their temples, palms to the front, in military salute, turning their
eyes upon Joan's face in mute God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping
them there while they could. They still kept their hands up in reverent
salute many steps after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her
handkerchief to her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion
crinkle along the faces of the files.
The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad with
jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.
We rode now to the King's lodgings, which was the Archbishop's country
palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off and took
position at the head of the army. By this time the country-people were
arriving in multitudes from every direction and massing themselves on
both sides of the road to get sight of Joan--just as had been done every
day since our first day's march began. Our march now lay through the
grassy plain, and those peasants made a dividing double border for that
plain. They stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright
colors on each side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it
had a white jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her.
Endless borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front of
us--that is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we had
been marching through all these days. Not a lane between multitudinous
flowers standing upright on their stems--no, these flowers were always
kneeling; kneeling, these human flowers, with their hands and faces
lifted toward Joan of Arc, and the grateful tears streaming down. And
all along, those closest to the road hugged her feet and kissed them
and laid their wet cheeks fondly against them. I never, during all those
days, saw any of either sex stand while she passed, nor any man keep his
head covered. Afterward in the Great Trial these touching scenes were
used as a weapon against her. She had been made an object of adoration
by the people, and this was proof that she was a heretic--so claimed
that unjust court.
As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and towers
was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of people; and
all the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and gloomed with
drifting clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in state and moved in
procession through the city, with all the guilds and industries in
holiday costume marching in our rear with their banners; and all the
route was hedged with a huzzaing crush of people, and all the windows
were full and all the roofs; and from the balconies hung costly stuffs
of rich colors; and the waving of handkerchiefs, seen in perspective
through a long vista, was like a snowstorm.
Joan's name had been introduced into the prayers of the Church--an honor
theretofore restricted to royalty. But she had a dearer honor and an
honor more to be proud of, from a humbler source: the common people had
had leaden medals struck which bore her effigy and her escutcheon, and
these they wore as charms. One saw them everywhere.
From the Archbishop's Palace, where we halted, and where the King and
Joan were to lodge, the King sent to the Abbey Church of St. Remi,
which was over toward the gate by which we had entered the city, for the
Sainte Ampoule, or flask of holy oil. This oil was not earthly oil; it
was made in heaven; the flask also. The flask, with the oil in it, was
brought down from heaven by a dove. It was sent down to St. Remi just as
he was going to baptize King Clovis, who had become a Christian. I know
this to be true. I had known it long before; for Pere Fronte told me in
Domremy. I cannot tell you how strange and awful it made me feel when
I saw that flask and knew I was looking with my own eyes upon a thing
which had actually been in heaven, a thing which had been seen by
angels, perhaps; and by God Himself of a certainty, for He sent it. And
I was looking upon it--I. At one time I could have touched it. But I
was afraid; for I could not know but that God had touched it. It is most
probable that He had.
From this flask 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 Abby of St. Remi hereditary guardian in
perpetuity of the oil, would not deliver it. So, in accordance with
custom, the King deputed five great nobles to ride in solemn state and
richly armed and accoutered, they and their steeds, to the 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.”