else, but only this alone.”
The King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if trying to
comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange unselfishness.
Then he raised his head and said:
“Who has won a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks and all
she will take is this poor grace--and even this is for others, not for
herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the dignity of
one who carries in her head and heart riches which outvalue any that
any King could add, though he gave his all. She shall have her way. Now,
therefore, it is decreed that from this day forth Domremy, natal village
of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, called the Maid of Orleans, is
freed from all taxation forever.” Whereat the silver horns blew a
jubilant blast.
There, you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she was
in a trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to name to boon
she would demand of the King if he should ever chance to tell her she
might claim one. But whether she had the vision or not, this act showed
that after all the dizzy grandeurs that had come upon her, she was still
the same simple, unselfish creature that she was that day.
Yes, Charles VII. remitted those taxes “forever.” Often the gratitude of
kings and nations fades and their promises are forgotten or deliberately
violated; but you, who are children of France, should remember with
pride that France has kept this one faithfully. Sixty-three years have
gone by since that day. The taxes of the region wherein Domremy lies
have been collected sixty-three times since then, and all the villages
of that region have paid except that one--Domremy. The tax-gatherer
never visits Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread
sorrow-sowing apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been filed
meantime, and they lie yonder with the other public records, and any
may see them that desire it. At the top of every page in the sixty-three
books stands the name of a village, and below that name its weary burden
of taxation is figured out and displayed; in the case of all save one.
It is true, just as I tell you. In each of the sixty-three books there
is a page headed “Domremi,” but under that name not a figure appears.
Where the figures should be, there are three words written; and the same
words have been written every year for all these years; yes, it is a
blank page, with always those grateful words lettered across the face of
it--a touching memorial. Thus:
DOMREMI | | | | RIEN--LA PUCELLE
“NOTHING--THE MAID OF ORLEANS.”
How brief it is; yet how much it says! It is the nation speaking. You
have the spectacle of that unsentimental thing, a Government, making
reverence to that name and saying to its agent, “Uncover, and pass on;
it is France that commands.” Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be
kept always; “forever” was the King's word. (1) At two o'clock in the
afternoon the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end; then
the procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at its head,
and took up its solemn march through the midst of the church, all
instruments and all people making such clamor of rejoicing noises as
was, indeed, a marvel to hear. An so ended the third of the great days
of Joan's life. And how close together they stand--May 8th, June 18th,
July 17th!
(1) IT was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and
more; then the over-confident octogenarian's prophecy failed. During the
tumult of the French Revolution the promise was forgotten and the grace
withdrawn. It has remained in disuse ever since. Joan never asked to be
remembered, but France has remembered her with an inextinguishable love
and reverence; Joan never asked for a statue, but France has lavished
them upon her; Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France
is building one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is
impending. Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given
her, and with a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which
she did ask for and get has been taken away from her. There is something
infinitely pathetic about this. France owes Domremy a hundred years of
taxes, and could hardly find a citizen within her borders who would vote
against the payment of the debt. -- NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
36 Joan Hears News from Home
WE MOUNTED and rode, a spectacle to remember, a most noble display of
rich vestments and nodding plumes, and as we moved between the banked
multitudes they sank down all along abreast of us as we advanced, like
grain before the reaper, and kneeling hailed with a rousing welcome the
consecrated King and his companion the Deliverer of France. But by and
by when we had paraded about the chief parts of the city and were come
near to the end of our course, we being now approaching the Archbishop's
palace, one saw on the right, hard by the inn that is called the Zebra,
a strange thing--two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in the
front rank of the kneelers; unconscious, transfixed, staring. Yes, and
clothed in the coarse garb of the peasantry, these two. Two halberdiers
sprang at them in a fury to teach them better manners; but just as they
seized them Joan cried out “Forbear!” and slid from her saddle and
flung her arms about one of those peasants, calling him by all manner of
endearing names, and sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was
her uncle, Laxart.
The news flew everywhere, and shouts of welcome were raised, and in just
one little moment those two despised and unknown plebeians were become
famous and popular and envied, and everybody was in a fever to get sight
of them and be able to say, all their lives long, that they had seen the
father of Joan of Arc and the brother of her mother. How easy it was for
her to do miracles like to this! She was like the sun; on whatsoever dim
and humble object her rays fell, that thing was straightway drowned in
glory.
All graciously the King said:
“Bring them to me.”
And she brought them; she radiant with happiness and affection, they
trembling and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands; and there
before all the world the King gave them his hand to kiss, while the
people gazed in envy and admiration; and he said to old D'Arc:
“Give God thanks for that you are father to this child, this dispenser
of immortalities. You who bear a name that will still live in the mouths
of men when all the race of kings has been forgotten, it is not meet
that you bare your head before the fleeting fames and dignities of a
day--cover yourself!” And truly he looked right fine and princely when
he said that. Then he gave order that the Bailly of Rheims be brought;
and when he was come, and stood bent low and bare, the King said to him,
“These two are guests of France;” and bade him use them hospitably.
I may as well say now as later, that Papa D'Arc and Laxart were stopping
in that little Zebra inn, and that there they remained. Finer quarters
were offered them by the Bailly, also public distinctions and brave
entertainment; but they were frightened at these projects, they being
only humble and ignorant peasants; so they begged off, and had peace.
They could not have enjoyed such things. Poor souls, they did not even
know what to do with their hands, and it took all their attention to
keep from treading on them. The Bailly did the best he could in the
circumstances. He made the innkeeper place a whole floor at their
disposal, and told him to provide everything they might desire, and
charge all to the city. Also the Bailly gave them a horse apiece and
furnishings; which so overwhelmed them with pride and delight and
astonishment that they couldn't speak a word; for in their lives they
had never dreamed of wealth like this, and could not believe, at first,
that the horses were real and would not dissolve to a mist and blow
away. They could not unglue their minds from those grandeurs, and were
always wrenching the conversation out of its groove and dragging the
matter of animals into it, so that they could say “my horse” here, and
“my horse” there and yonder and all around, and taste the words and lick
their chops over them, and spread their legs and hitch their thumbs in
their armpits, and feel as the good God feels when He looks out on His
fleets of constellations plowing the awful deeps of space and reflects
with satisfaction that they are His--all His. Well, they were the
happiest old children one ever saw, and the simplest.
The city gave a grand banquet to the King and Joan in mid-afternoon, and
to the Court and the Grand Staff; and about the middle of it Pere D'Arc
and Laxart were sent for, but would not venture until it was promised
that they might sit in a gallery and be all by themselves and see all
that was to be seen and yet be unmolested. And so they sat there and
looked down upon the splendid spectacle, and were moved till the tears
ran down their cheeks to see the unbelievable honors that were paid to
their small darling, and how naively serene and unafraid she sat there
with those consuming glories beating upon her.
But at last her serenity was broken up. Yes, it stood the strain of
the King's gracious speech; and of D'Alencon's praiseful words, and the
Bastard's; and even La Hire's thunder-blast, which took the place by
storm; but at last, as I have said, they brought a force to bear which
was too strong for her. For at the close the King put up his hand to
command silence, and so waited, with his hand up, till every sound was
dead and it was as if one could almost the stillness, so profound it
was. Then out of some remote corner of that vast place there rose
a plaintive voice, and in tones most tender and sweet and rich came
floating through that enchanted hush our poor old simple song “L'Arbre
Fee Bourlemont!” and then Joan broke down and put her face in her
hands and cried. Yes, you see, all in a moment the pomps and grandeurs
dissolved away and she was a little child again herding her sheep with
the tranquil pastures stretched about her, and war and wounds and blood
and death and the mad frenzy and turmoil of battle a dream. Ah, that
shows you the power of music, that magician of magicians, who lifts his
wand and says his mysterious word and all things real pass away and the
phantoms of your mind walk before you clothed in flesh.
That was the King's invention, that sweet and dear surprise. Indeed,
he had fine things hidden away in his nature, though one seldom got a
glimpse of them, with that scheming Tremouille and those others always
standing in the light, and he so indolently content to save himself fuss
and argument and let them have their way.
At the fall of night we the Domremy contingent of the personal staff
were with the father and uncle at the inn, in their private parlor,
brewing generous drinks and breaking ground for a homely talk about
Domremy and the neighbors, when a large parcel arrived from Joan to be
kept till she came; and soon she came herself and sent her guard away,
saying she would take one of her father's rooms and sleep under his
roof, and so be at home again. We of the staff rose and stood, as was
meet, until she made us sit. Then she turned and saw that the two
old men had gotten up too, and were standing in an embarrassed and
unmilitary way; which made her want to laugh, but she kept it in, as
not wishing to hurt them; and got them to their seats and snuggled down
between them, and took a hand of each of them upon her knees and nestled
her own hands in them, and said:
“Now we will nave no more ceremony, but be kin and playmates as in other
times; for I am done with the great wars now, and you two will take
me home with you, and I shall see--” She stopped, and for a moment her
happy face sobered, as if a doubt or a presentiment had flitted through
her mind; then it cleared again, and she said, with a passionate
yearning, “Oh, if the day were but come and we could start!”
The old father was surprised, and said:
“Why, child, are you in earnest? Would you leave doing these wonders
that make you to be praised by everybody while there is still so much
glory to be won; and would you go out from this grand comradeship with
princes and generals to be a drudging villager again and a nobody? It is
not rational.”
“No,” said the uncle, Laxart, “it is amazing to hear, and indeed not
understandable. It is a stranger thing to hear her say she will stop
the soldiering that it was to hear her say she would begin it; and I who
speak to you can say in all truth that that was the strangest word that
ever I had heard till this day and hour. I would it could be explained.”
“It is not difficult,” said Joan. “I was not ever fond of wounds and
suffering, nor fitted by my nature to inflict them; and quarrelings
did always distress me, and noise and tumult were against my liking, my
disposition being toward peace and quietness, and love for all things
that have life; and being made like this, how could I bear to think of
wars and blood, and the pain that goes with them, and the sorrow
and mourning that follow after? But by his angels God laid His great
commands upon me, and could I disobey? I did as I was bid. Did He
command me to do many things? No; only two: to raise the siege of
Orleans, and crown the King at Rheims. The task is finished, and I am
free. Has ever a poor soldier fallen in my sight, whether friend or foe,
and I not felt the pain in my own body, and the grief of his home-mates
in my own heart? No, not one; and, oh, it is such bliss to know that my
release is won, and that I shall not any more see these cruel things or
suffer these tortures of the mind again! Then why should I not go to
my village and be as I was before? It is heaven! and ye wonder that I
desire it. Ah, ye are men--just men! My mother would understand.”
They didn't quite know what to say; so they sat still awhile, looking
pretty vacant. Then old D'Arc said:
“Yes, your mother--that is true. I never saw such a woman. She worries,
and worries, and worries; and wakes nights, and lies so, thinking--that
is, worrying; worrying about you. And when the night storms go raging
along, she moans and says, 'Ah, God pity her, she is out in this with
her poor wet soldiers.' And when the lightning glares and the thunder
crashes she wrings her hands and trembles, saying, 'It is like the awful
cannon and the flash, and yonder somewhere she is riding down upon the
spouting guns and I not there to protect her.”
“Ah, poor mother, it is pity, it is pity!”
“Yes, a most strange woman, as I have noticed a many times. When there
is news of a victory and all the village goes mad with pride and joy,
she rushes here and there in a maniacal frenzy till she finds out the
one only thing she cares to know--that you are safe; then down she goes
on her knees in the dirt and praises God as long as there is any breath
left in her body; and all on your account, for she never mentions
the battle once. And always she says, 'Now it is over--now France is
saved--now she will come home'--and always is disappointed and goes
about mourning.”
“Don't, father! it breaks my heart. I will be so good to her when I get
home. I will do her work for her, and be her comfort, and she shall not
suffer any more through me.”
There was some more talk of this sort, then Uncle Laxart said:
“You have done the will of God, dear, and are quits; it is true, and
none may deny it; but what of the King? You are his best soldier; what
if he command you to stay?”
That was a crusher--and sudden! It took Joan a moment or two to recover
from the shock of it; then she said, quite simply and resignedly:
“The King is my Lord; I am his servant.” She was silent and thoughtful
a little while, then she brightened up and said, cheerily, “But let us
drive such thoughts away--this is no time for them. Tell me about home.”
So the two old gossips talked and talked; talked about everything and
everybody in the village; and it was good to hear. Joan out of her
kindness tried to get us into the conversation, but that failed, of
course. She was the Commander-in-Chief, we were nobodies; her name was
the mightiest in France, we were invisible atoms; she was the comrade
of princes and heroes, we of the humble and obscure; she held rank above
all Personages and all Puissances whatsoever in the whole earth, by
right of baring her commission direct from God. To put it in one word,
she was JOAN OF ARC--and when that is said, all is said. To us she was
divine. Between her and us lay the bridgeless abyss which that word
implies. We could not be familiar with her. No, you can see yourselves
that that would have been impossible.
And yet she was so human, too, and so good and kind and dear and loving
and cheery and charming and unspoiled and unaffected! Those are all the
words I think of now, but they are not enough; no, they are too few and
colorless and meager to tell it all, or tell the half. Those simple old
men didn't realize her; they couldn't; they had never known any people
but human beings, and so they had no other standard to measure her by.
To them, after their first little shyness had worn off, she was just a
girl--that was all. It was amazing. It made one shiver, sometimes, to
see how calm and easy and comfortable they were in her presence, and
hear them talk to her exactly as they would have talked to any other
girl in France.
Why, that simple old Laxart sat up there and droned out the most tedious
and empty tale one ever heard, and neither he nor Papa D'Arc ever gave
a thought to the badness of the etiquette of it, or ever suspected that
that foolish tale was anything but dignified and valuable history. There
was not an atom of value in it; and whilst they thought it distressing
and pathetic, it was in fact not pathetic at all, but actually
ridiculous. At least it seemed so to me, and it seems so yet. Indeed, I
know it was, because it made Joan laugh; and the more sorrowful it got
the more it made her laugh; and the Paladin said that he could have
laughed himself if she had not been there, and Noel Rainguesson said the
same. It was about old Laxart going to a funeral there at Domremy two or
three weeks back. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got
Joan to rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing it,
and comforting him, and trying to say pitying things to him, he told
her how it happened. And first he asked her if she remembered that black
bull calf that she left behind when she came away, and she said indeed
she did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so, and was he well?--and
just drowned him in questions about that creature. And he said it was a
young bull now, and very frisky; and he was to bear a principal hand at
a funeral; and she said, “The bull?” and he said, “No, myself”; but said
the bull did take a hand, but not because of his being invited, for
he wasn't; but anyway he was away over beyond the Fairy Tree, and fell
asleep on the grass with his Sunday funeral clothes on, and a long black
rag on his hat and hanging down his back; and when he woke he saw by the
sun how late it was, and not a moment to lose; and jumped up terribly
worried, and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe he
could ride part way on him and gain time; so he tied a rope around the
bull's body to hold on by, and put a halter on him to steer with,
and jumped on and started; but it was all new to the bull, and he was
discontented with it, and scurried around and bellowed and reared and
pranced, and Uncle Laxart was satisfied, and wanted to get off and go
by the next bull or some other way that was quieter, but he didn't
dare try; and it was getting very warm for him, too, and disturbing and
wearisome, and not proper for Sunday; but by and by the bull lost all
his temper, and went tearing down the slope with his tail in the air and
blowing in the most awful way; and just in the edge of the village
he knocked down some beehives, and the bees turned out and joined the
excursion, and soared along in a black cloud that nearly hid those other
two from sight, and prodded them both, and jabbed them and speared them
and spiked them, and made them bellow and shriek, and shriek and bellow;
and here they came roaring through the village like a hurricane, and
took the funeral procession right in the center, and sent that section
of it sprawling, and galloped over it, and the rest scattered apart and
fled screeching in every direction, every person with a layer of bees on
him, and not a rag of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally
the bull broke for the river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle
Laxart out he was nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding
with raisins in it. And then he turned around, this old simpleton, and
looked a long time in a dazed way at Joan where she had her face in a
cushion, dying, apparently, and says:
“What do you reckon she is laughing at?”
And old D'Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently
scratching his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn't
know--“must have been something that happened when we weren't noticing.”
Yes, both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic;
whereas to my mind it was purely ridiculous, and not in any way valuable
to any one. It seemed so to me then, and it seems so to me yet. And as
for history, it does not resemble history; for the office of history is
to furnish serious and important facts that teach; whereas this strange
and useless event teaches nothing; nothing that I can see, except not
to ride a bull to a funeral; and surely no reflecting person needs to be
taught that.
37 Again to Arms
NOW THESE were nobles, you know, by decree of the King!--these precious
old infants. But they did not realize it; they could not be called
conscious of it; it was an abstraction, a phantom; to them it had no
substance; their minds could not take hold of it. No, they did not
bother about their nobility; they lived in their horses. The horses were
solid; they were visible facts, and would make a mighty stir in Domremy.
Presently something was said about the Coronation, and old D'Arc said
it was going to be a grand thing to be able to say, when they got home,
that they were present in the very town itself when it happened. Joan
looked troubled, and said:
“Ah, that reminds me. You were here and you didn't send me word. In the
town, indeed! Why, you could have sat with the other nobles, and been
welcome; and could have looked upon the crowning itself, and carried
that home to tell. Ah, why did you use me so, and send me no word?”
The old father was embarrassed, now, quite visibly embarrassed, and had
the air of one who does not quite know what to say. But Joan was looking
up in his face, her hands upon his shoulders--waiting. He had to speak;
so presently he drew her to his breast, which was heaving with emotion;
and he said, getting out his words with difficulty:
“There, hide your face, child, and let your old father humble himself
and make his confession. I--I--don't you see, don't you understand?--I
could not know that these grandeurs would not turn your young head--it
would be only natural. I might shame you before these great per--”
“Father!”
“And then I was afraid, as remembering that cruel thing I said once in
my sinful anger. Oh, appointed of God to be a soldier, and the greatest
in the land! and in my ignorant anger I said I would drown you with my
own hands if you unsexed yourself and brought shame to your name and
family. Ah, how could I ever have said it, and you so good and dear
and innocent! I was afraid; for I was guilty. You understand it now, my
child, and you forgive?”
Do you see? Even that poor groping old land-crab, with his skull full of
pulp, had pride. Isn't it wonderful? And more--he had conscience; he had
a sense of right and wrong, such as it was; he was able to find remorse.
It looks impossible, it looks incredible, but it is not. I believe that
some day it will be found out that peasants are people. Yes, beings in
a great many respects like ourselves. And I believe that some day they
will find this out, too--and then! Well, then I think they will rise up
and demand to be regarded as part of the race, and that by consequence
there will be trouble. Whenever one sees in a book or in a king's
proclamation those words “the nation,” they bring before us the upper
classes; only those; we know no other “nation”; for us and the kings no
other “nation” exists. But from the day that I saw old D'Arc the peasant
acting and feeling just as I should have acted and felt myself, I have
carried the conviction in my heart that our peasants are not merely
animals, beasts of burden put here by the good God to produce food
and comfort for the “nation,” but something more and better. You
look incredulous. Well, that is your training; it is the training of
everybody; but as for me, I thank that incident for giving me a better
light, and I have never forgotten it.
Let me see--where was I? One's mind wanders around here and there and
yonder, when one is old. I think I said Joan comforted him. Certainly,
that is what she would do--there was no need to say that. She coaxed him
and petted him and caressed him, and laid the memory of that old hard
speech of his to rest. Laid it to rest until she should be dead. Then
he would remember it again--yes, yes! Lord, how those things sting, and
burn, and gnaw--the things which we did against the innocent dead! And
we say in our anguish, “If they could only come back!” Which is all very
well to say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn't profit anything. In my
opinion the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I am
not alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same thing; and
a man there in Orleans--no, I believe it was at Beaugency, or one
of those places--it seems more as if it was at Beaugency than the
others--this man said the same thing exactly; almost the same words; a
dark man with a cast in his eye and one leg shorter than the other. His
name was--was--it is singular that I can't call that man's name; I had
it in my mind only a moment ago, and I know it begins with--no, I don't
remember what it begins with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of
it presently, and then I will tell you.
Well, pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt when
she was in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades hacking and
flashing all around her, and the blows rapping and slatting on her
shield, and blood gushing on her from the cloven ghastly face and broken
teeth of the neighbor at her elbow, and the perilous sudden back surge
of massed horses upon a person when the front ranks give way before a
heavy rush of the enemy, and men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles
all around, and battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one's
face and hide the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling
and swaying and laboring jumble one's horse's hoofs sink into soft
substances and shrieks of pain respond, and presently--panic! rush!
swarm! flight! and death and hell following after! And the old fellow
got ever so much excited; and strode up and down, his tongue going like
a mill, asking question after question and never waiting for an answer;
and finally he stood Joan up in the middle of the room and stepped off
and scanned her critically, and said:
“No--I don't understand it. You are so little. So little and slender.
When you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion of it;
but in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty page, not
a league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and darkness and
breathing smoke and thunder. I would God I might see you at it and go
tell your mother! That would help her sleep, poor thing! Here--teach me
the arts of the soldier, that I may explain them to her.”
And she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the manual
of arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was incredibly
awkward and slovenly, and so was his drill with the pike; but he didn't
know it, and was wonderfully pleased with himself, and mightily excited
and charmed with the ringing, crisp words of command. I am obliged
to say that if looking proud and happy when one is marching were
sufficient, he would have been the perfect soldier.
And he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course that
was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan handle the
foils, but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid of the things,
and skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a woman who has lost
her mind on account of the arrival of a bat. He was of no good as
an exhibition. But if La Hire had only come in, that would have been
another matter. Those two fenced often; I saw them many times. True,
Joan was easily his master, but it made a good show for all that, for
La Hire was a grand swordsman. What a swift creature Joan was! You would
see her standing erect with her ankle-bones together and her foil arched
over her head, the hilt in one hand and the button in the other--the old
general opposite, bent forward, left hand reposing on his back, his
foil advanced, slightly wiggling and squirming, his watching eye boring
straight into hers--and all of a sudden she would give a spring forward,
and back again; and there she was, with the foil arched over her head as
before. La Hire had been hit, but all that the spectator saw of it was
a something like a thin flash of light in the air, but nothing distinct,
nothing definite.
We kept the drinkables moving, for that would please the Bailly and the
landlord; and old Laxart and D'Arc got to feeling quite comfortable, but
without being what you could call tipsy. They got out the presents which
they had been buying to carry home--humble things and cheap, but they
would be fine there, and welcome. And they gave to Joan a present from
Pere Fronte and one from her mother--the one a little leaden image of
the Holy Virgin, the other half a yard of blue silk ribbon; and she
was as pleased as a child; and touched, too, as one could see plainly
enough. Yes, she kissed those poor things over and over again, as if
they had been something costly and wonderful; and she pinned the Virgin
on her doublet, and sent for her helmet and tied the ribbon on that;
first one way, then another; then a new way, then another new way; and
with each effort perching the helmet on her hand and holding it off
this way and that, and canting her head to one side and then the other,
examining the effect, as a bird does when it has got a new bug. And she
said she could almost wish she was going to the wars again; for then she
would fight with the better courage, as having always with her something
which her mother's touch had blessed.
Old Laxart said he hoped she would go to the wars again, but home first,
for that all the people there were cruel anxious to see her--and so he
went on:
“They are proud of you, dear. Yes, prouder than any village ever was of
anybody before. And indeed it is right and rational; for it is the first
time a village has ever had anybody like you to be proud of and call its
own. And it is strange and beautiful how they try to give your name to
every creature that has a sex that is convenient. It is but half a year
since you began to be spoken of and left us, and so it is surprising to
see how many babies there are already in that region that are named
for you. First it was just Joan; then it was Joan-Orleans; then
Joan-Orleans-Beaugency-Patay; and now the next ones will have a lot
of towns and the Coronation added, of course. Yes, and the animals the
same. They know how you love animals, and so they try to do you honor
and show their love for you by naming all those creatures after you;
insomuch that if a body should step out and call 'Joan of Arc--come!'
there would be a landslide of cats and all such things, each supposing
it was the one wanted, and all willing to take the benefit of the doubt,
anyway, for the sake of the food that might be on delivery. The kitten
you left behind--the last stray you fetched home--bears you name, now,
and belongs to Pere Fronte, and is the pet and pride of the village;
and people have come miles to look at it and pet it and stare at it and
wonder over it because it was Joan of Arc's cat. Everybody will tell you
that; and one day when a stranger threw a stone at it, not knowing it
was your cat, the village rose against him as one man and hanged him!
And but for Pere Fronte--”
There was an interruption. It was a messenger from the King, bearing
a note for Joan, which I read to her, saying he had reflected, and had
consulted his other generals, and was obliged to ask her to remain at
the head of the army and withdraw her resignation. Also, would she
come immediately and attend a council of war? Straightway, at a little
distance, military commands and the rumble of drums broke on the still
night, and we knew that her guard was approaching.
Deep disappointment clouded her face for just one moment and no
more--it passed, and with it the homesick girl, and she was Joan of Arc,
Commander-in-Chief again, and ready for duty.
38 The King Cries “Forward!”
IN MY double quality of page and secretary I followed Joan to the
council. She entered that presence with the bearing of a grieved
goddess. What was become of the volatile child that so lately was
enchanted with a ribbon and suffocated with laughter over the distress
of a foolish peasant who had stormed a funeral on the back of a
bee-stung bull? One may not guess. Simply it was gone, and had left no
sign. She moved straight to the council-table, and stood. Her glance
swept from face to face there, and where it fell, these lit it as with a
torch, those it scorched as with a brand. She knew where to strike. She
indicated the generals with a nod, and said:
“My business is not with you. You have not craved a council of war.”
Then she turned toward the King's privy council, and continued: “No; it
is with you. A council of war! It is amazing. There is but one thing to
do, and only one, and lo, ye call a council of war! Councils of war have
no value but to decide between two or several doubtful courses. But a
council of war when there is only one course? Conceive of a man in a
boat and his family in the water, and he goes out among his friends to
ask what he would better do? A council of war, name of God! To determine
what?”
She stopped, and turned till her eyes rested upon the face of La
Tremouille; and so she stood, silent, measuring him, the excitement in
all faces burning steadily higher and higher, and all pulses beating
faster and faster; then she said, with deliberation:
“Every sane man--whose loyalty is to his King and not a show and a
pretense--knows that there is but one rational thing before us--the
march upon Paris!”
Down came the fist of La Hire with an approving crash upon the table.
La Tremouille turned white with anger, but he pulled himself firmly
together and held his peace. The King's lazy blood was stirred and
his eye kindled finely, for the spirit of war was away down in him
somewhere, and a frank, bold speech always found it and made it tingle
gladsomely. Joan waited to see if the chief minister might wish to
defend his position; but he was experienced and wise, and not a man to
waste his forces where the current was against him. He would wait; the
King's private ear would be at his disposal by and by.
That pious fox the Chancellor of France took the word now. He washed his
soft hands together, smiling persuasively, and said to Joan:
“Would it be courteous, your Excellency, to move abruptly from here
without waiting for an answer from the Duke of Burgundy? You may not
know that we are negotiating with his Highness, and that there is
likely to be a fortnight's truce between us; and on his part a pledge to
deliver Paris into our hands without the cost of a blow or the fatigue
of a march thither.”
Joan turned to him and said, gravely:
“This is not a confessional, my lord. You were not obliged to expose
that shame here.”
The Chancellor's face reddened, and he retorted:
“Shame? What is there shameful about it?”
Joan answered in level, passionless tones:
“One may describe it without hunting far for words. I knew of this poor
comedy, my lord, although it was not intended that I should know. It is
to the credit of the devisers of it that they tried to conceal it--this
comedy whose text and impulse are describable in two words.”
The Chancellor spoke up with a fine irony in his manner:
“Indeed? And will your Excellency be good enough to utter them?”
“Cowardice and treachery!”
The fists of all the generals came down this time, and again the King's
eye sparkled with pleasure. The Chancellor sprang to his feet and
appealed to his Majesty:
“Sire, I claim your protection.”
But the King waved him to his seat again, saying:
“Peace. She had a right to be consulted before that thing was
undertaken, since it concerned war as well as politics. It is but just
that she be heard upon it now.”
The Chancellor sat down trembling with indignation, and remarked to
Joan:
“Out of charity I will consider that you did not know who devised this
measure which you condemn in so candid language.”
“Save your charity for another occasion, my lord,” said Joan, as calmly
as before. “Whenever anything is done to injure the interests and
degrade the honor of France, all but the dead know how to name the two
conspirators-in-chief--”
“Sir, sire! this insinuation--”
“It is not an insinuation, my lord,” said Joan, placidly, “it is
a charge. I bring it against the King's chief minister and his
Chancellor.”
Both men were on their feet now, insisting that the King modify Joan's
frankness; but he was not minded to do it. His ordinary councils were
stale water--his spirit was drinking wine, now, and the taste of it was
good. He said:
“Sit--and be patient. What is fair for one must in fairness be allowed
the other. Consider--and be just. When have you two spared her? What
dark charges and harsh names have you withheld when you spoke of her?”
Then he added, with a veiled twinkle in his eyes, “If these are offenses
I see no particular difference between them, except that she says her
hard things to your faces, whereas you say yours behind her back.”
He was pleased with that neat shot and the way it shriveled those two
people up, and made La Hire laugh out loud and the other generals softly
quake and chuckle. Joan tranquilly resumed:
“From the first, we have been hindered by this policy of shilly-shally;
this fashion of counseling and counseling and counseling where no
counseling is needed, but only fighting. We took Orleans on the 8th of
May, and could have cleared the region round about in three days and
saved the slaughter of Patay. We could have been in Rheims six weeks
ago, and in Paris now; and would see the last Englishman pass out of
France in half a year. But we struck no blow after Orleans, but went off
into the country--what for? Ostensibly to hold councils; really to give
Bedford time to send reinforcements to Talbot--which he did; and Patay
had to be fought. After Patay, more counseling, more waste of precious
time. Oh, my King, I would that you would be persuaded!” She began to
warm up, now. “Once more we have our opportunity. If we rise and strike,
all is well. Bid me march upon Paris. In twenty days it shall be yours,
and in six months all France! Here is half a year's work before us; if
this chance be wasted, I give you twenty years to do it in. Speak the
word, O gentle King--speak but the one--”
“I cry you mercy!” interrupted the Chancellor, who saw a dangerous
enthusiasm rising in the King's face. “March upon Paris? Does your
Excellency forget that the way bristles with English strongholds?”
“That for your English strongholds!” and Joan snapped her fingers
scornfully. “Whence have we marched in these last days? From Gien. And
whither? To Rheims. What bristled between? English strongholds. What are
they now? French ones--and they never cost a blow!” Here applause broke
out from the group of generals, and Joan had to pause a moment to let it
subside. “Yes, English strongholds bristled before us; now French
ones bristle behind us. What is the argument? A child can read it.
The strongholds between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of
English, but by the same breed as those others--with the same fears, the
same questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to see the
heavy hand of God descending upon them. We have but to march!--on the
instant--and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is ours! Give the
word, O my King, command your servant to--”
“Stay!” cried the Chancellor. “It would be madness to put our affront
upon his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty which we have
every hope to make with him--”
“Oh, the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned you for
years, and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that have softened
his manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals? No; it was
blows!--the blows which we gave him! That is the only teaching that
that sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care for wind? The treaty
which we hope to make with him--alack! He deliver Paris! There is no
pauper in the land that is less able to do it. He deliver Paris! Ah, but
that would make great Bedford smile! Oh, the pitiful pretext! the blind
can see that this thin pour-parler with its fifteen-day truce has no
purpose but to give Bedford time to hurry forward his forces against us.
More treachery--always treachery! We call a council of war--with nothing
to council about; but Bedford calls no council to teach him what our
course is. He knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his
traitors and march upon Paris! O gentle King, rouse! The way is open,
Paris beckons, France implores, Speak and we--”
“Sire, it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot, we must
not go back from what we have done; we have proposed to treat, we must
treat with the Duke of Burgundy.”
“And we will!” said Joan.
“Ah? How?”
“At the point of the lance!”
The house rose, to a man--all that had French hearts--and let go a crack
of applause--and kept it up; and in the midst of it one heard La Hire
growl out: “At the point of the lance! By God, that is music!” The King
was up, too, and drew his sword, and took it by the blade and strode to
Joan and delivered the hilt of it into her hand, saying:
“There, the King surrenders. Carry it to Paris.”
And so the applause burst out again, and the historical council of war
that has bred so many legends was over.
39 We Win, But the King Balks
IT WAS away past midnight, and had been a tremendous day in the matter
of excitement and fatigue, but that was no matter to Joan when there was
business on hand. She did not think of bed. The generals followed her to
her official quarters, and she delivered her orders to them as fast as
she could talk, and they sent them off to their different commands as
fast as delivered; wherefore the messengers galloping hither and thither
raised a world of clatter and racket in the still streets; and soon were
added to this the music of distant bugles and the roll of drums--notes
of preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.
The generals were soon dismissed, but I wasn't; nor Joan; for it was my
turn to work, now. Joan walked the floor and dictated a summons to
the Duke of Burgundy to lay down his arms and make peace and exchange
pardons with the King; or, if he must fight, go fight the Saracens.
“Pardonnez-vous l'un--l'autre de bon coeligeur, entierement, ainsi que
doivent faire loyaux chretiens, et, s'il vous plait de guerroyer,
allez contre les Sarrasins.” It was long, but it was good, and had the
sterling ring to it. It is my opinion that it was as fine and simple and
straightforward and eloquent a state paper as she ever uttered.
It was delivered into the hands of a courier, and he galloped away with
it. The Joan dismissed me, and told me to go to the inn and stay, and in
the morning give to her father the parcel which she had left there. It
contained presents for the Domremy relatives and friends and a peasant
dress which she had bought for herself. She said she would say good-by
to her father and uncle in the morning if it should still be their
purpose to go, instead of tarrying awhile to see the city.
I didn't say anything, of course, but I could have said that wild horses
couldn't keep those men in that town half a day. They waste the glory of
being the first to carry the great news to Domremy--the taxes remitted
forever!--and hear the bells clang and clatter, and the people cheer and
shout? Oh, not they. Patay and Orleans and the Coronation were events
which in a vague way these men understood to be colossal; but they were
colossal mists, films, abstractions; this was a gigantic reality!
When I got there, do you suppose they were abed! Quite the reverse.
They and the rest were as mellow as mellow could be; and the Paladin was
doing his battles in great style, and the old peasants were endangering
the building with their applause. He was doing Patay now; and was
bending his big frame forward and laying out the positions and movements
with a rake here and a rake there of his formidable sword on the floor,
and the peasants were stooped over with their hands on their spread
knees observing with excited eyes and ripping out ejaculations of wonder
and admiration all along:
“Yes, here we were, waiting--waiting for the word; our horses fidgeting
and snorting and dancing to get away, we lying back on the bridles till
our bodies fairly slanted to the rear; the word rang out at last--'Go!'
and we went!
“Went? There was nothing like it ever seen! Where we swept by squads of
scampering English, the mere wind of our passage laid them flat in
piles and rows! Then we plunged into the ruck of Fastolfe's frantic
battle-corps and tore through it like a hurricane, leaving a causeway of
the dead stretching far behind; no tarrying, no slacking rein, but on!
on! on! far yonder in the distance lay our prey--Talbot and his host
looming vast and dark like a storm-cloud brooding on the sea! Down we
swooped upon them, glooming all the air with a quivering pall of dead
leaves flung up by the whirlwind of our flight. In another moment
we should have struck them as world strikes world when disorbited
constellations crash into the Milky way, but by misfortune and the
inscrutable dispensation of God I was recognized! Talbot turned white,
and shouting, 'Save yourselves, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of
Arc!' drove his spurs home till they met in the middle of his horse's
entrails, and fled the field with his billowing multitudes at his back!
I could have cursed myself for not putting on a disguise. I saw reproach
in the eyes of her Excellency, and was bitterly ashamed. I had caused
what seemed an irreparable disaster. Another might have gone aside to
grieve, as not seeing any way to mend it; but I thank God I am not of
those. Great occasions only summon as with a trumpet-call the slumbering
reserves of my intellect. I saw my opportunity in an instant--in
the next I was away! Through the woods I vanished--fst!--like an
extinguished light! Away around through the curtaining forest I sped,
as if on wings, none knowing what was become of me, none suspecting my
design. Minute after minute passed, on and on I flew; on, and still on;
and at last with a great cheer I flung my Banner to the breeze and burst
out in front of Talbot! Oh, it was a mighty thought! That weltering
chaos of distracted men whirled and surged backward like a tidal wave
which has struck a continent, and the day was ours! Poor helpless
creatures, they were in a trap; they were surrounded; they could not
escape to the rear, for there was our army; they could not escape to the
front, for there was I. Their hearts shriveled in their bodies, their
hands fell listless at their sides. They stood still, and at our leisure
we slaughtered them to a man; all except Talbot and Fastolfe, whom I
saved and brought away, one under each arm.”
Well, there is no denying it, the Paladin was in great form that night.
Such style! such noble grace of gesture, such grandeur of attitude,
such energy when he got going! such steady rise, on such sure wing, such
nicely graduated expenditures of voice according to the weight of
the matter, such skilfully calculated approaches to his surprises and
explosions, such belief-compelling sincerity of tone and manner, such a
climaxing peal from his brazen lungs, and such a lightning-vivid picture
of his mailed form and flaunting banner when he burst out before that
despairing army! And oh, the gentle art of the last half of his last
sentence--delivered in the careless and indolent tone of one who has
finished his real story, and only adds a colorless and inconsequential
detail because it has happened to occur to him in a lazy way.
It was a marvel to see those innocent peasants. Why, they went all to
pieces with enthusiasm, and roared out applauses fit to raise the roof
and wake the dead. When they had cooled down at last and there was
silence but for the heaving and panting, old Laxart said, admiringly:
“As it seems to me, you are an army in your single person.”
“Yes, that is what he is,” said Noel Rainguesson, convincingly. “He is
a terror; and not just in this vicinity. His mere name carries a shudder
with it to distant lands--just his mere name; and when he frowns, the
shadow of it falls as far as Rome, and the chickens go to roost an hour
before schedule time. Yes; and some say--”
“Noel Rainguesson, you are preparing yourself for trouble. I will say
just one word to you, and it will be to your advantage to--”
I saw that the usual thing had got a start. No man could prophesy when
it would end. So I delivered Joan's message and went off to bed.
Joan made her good-byes to those old fellows in the morning, with loving
embraces and many tears, and with a packed multitude for sympathizers,
and they rode proudly away on their precious horses to carry their
great news home. I had seen better riders, some will say that; for
horsemanship was a new art to them.
The vanguard moved out at dawn and took the road, with bands braying
and banners flying; the second division followed at eight. Then came the
Burgundian ambassadors, and lost us the rest of that day and the whole
of the next. But Joan was on hand, and so they had their journey for
their pains. The rest of us took the road at dawn, next morning, July
20th. And got how far? Six leagues. Tremouille was getting in his sly
work with the vacillating King, you see. The King stopped at St. Marcoul
and prayed three days. Precious time lost--for us; precious time gained
for Bedford. He would know how to use it.
We could not go on without the King; that would be to leave him in the
conspirators' camp. Joan argued, reasoned, implored; and at last we got
under way again.
Joan's prediction was verified. It was not a campaign, it was only
another holiday excursion. English strongholds lined our route; they
surrendered without a blow; we garrisoned them with Frenchmen and passed
on. Bedford was on the march against us with his new army by this time,
and on the 25th of July the hostile forces faced each other and made
preparation for battle; but Bedford's good judgment prevailed, and he
turned and retreated toward Paris. Now was our chance. Our men were in
great spirits.
Will you believe it? Our poor stick of a King allowed his worthless
advisers to persuade him to start back for Gien, whence he had set out
when we first marched for Rheims and the Coronation! And we actually did
start back. The fifteen-day truce had just been concluded with the Duke
of Burgundy, and we would go and tarry at Gien until he should deliver
Paris to us without a fight.
We marched to Bray; then the King changed his mind once more, and with
it his face toward Paris. Joan dictated a letter to the citizens of
Rheims to encourage them to keep heart in spite of the truce, and
promising to stand by them. She furnished them the news herself that the
Kin had made this truce; and in speaking of it she was her usual frank
self. She said she was not satisfied with it, and didn't know whether
she would keep it or not; that if she kept it, it would be solely out of
tenderness for the King's honor. All French children know those famous
words. How naive they are! “De cette treve qui a ete faite, je ne suis
pas contente, et je ne sais si je la tiendrai. Si je la tiens, ce sera
seulement pour garder l'honneur du roi.” But in any case, she said, she
would not allow the blood royal to be abused, and would keep the army in
good order and ready for work at the end of the truce.
Poor child, to have to fight England, Burgundy, and a French conspiracy
all at the same time--it was too bad. She was a match for the others,
but a conspiracy--ah, nobody is a match for that, when the victim that
is to be injured is weak and willing. It grieved her, these troubled
days, to be so hindered and delayed and baffled, and at times she was
sad and the tears lay near the surface. Once, talking with her good old
faithful friend and servant, the Bastard of Orleans, she said:
“Ah, if it might but please God to let me put off this steel raiment
and go back to my father and my mother, and tend my sheep again with my
sister and my brothers, who would be so glad to see me!”
By the 12th of August we were camped near Dampmartin. Later we had a
brush with Bedford's rear-guard, and had hopes of a big battle on the
morrow, but Bedford and all his force got away in the night and went on
toward Paris.
Charles sent heralds and received the submission of Beauvais. The Bishop
Pierre Cauchon, that faithful friend and slave of the English, was not
able to prevent it, though he did his best. He was obscure then, but his
name was to travel round the globe presently, and live forever in the
curses of France! Bear with me now, while I spit in fancy upon his
grave.
Compiegne surrendered, and hauled down the English flag. On the 14th we
camped two leagues from Senlis. Bedford turned and approached, and
took up a strong position. We went against him, but all our efforts to
beguile him out from his intrenchments failed, though he had promised
us a duel in the open field. Night shut down. Let him look out for the
morning! But in the morning he was gone again.
We entered Compiegne the 18th of August, turning out the English
garrison and hoisting our own flag.
On the 23d Joan gave command to move upon Paris. The King and the clique
were not satisfied with this, and retired sulking to Senlis, which had
just surrendered. Within a few days many strong places submitted--Creil,
Pont-Saint-Maxence, Choisy, Gournay-sur-Aronde, Remy, Le
Neufville-en-Hez, Moguay, Chantilly, Saintines. The English power was
tumbling, crash after crash! And still the King sulked and disapproved,
and was afraid of our movement against the capital.
On the 26th of August, 1429, Joan camped at St. Denis; in effect, under
the walls of Paris.
And still the King hung back and was afraid. If we could but have had
him there to back us with his authority! Bedford had lost heart and
decided to waive resistance and go an concentrate his strength in the
best and loyalest province remaining to him--Normandy. Ah, if we
could only have persuaded the King to come and countenance us with his
presence and approval at this supreme moment!
40 Treachery Conquers Joan
COURIER after courier was despatched to the King, and he promised to
come, but didn't. The Duke d'Alencon went to him and got his promise
again, which he broke again. Nine days were lost thus; then he came,
arriving at St. Denis September 7th.
Meantime the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless conduct of
the King could have no other result. Preparations had now been made to
defend the city. Joan's chances had been diminished, but she and her
generals considered them plenty good enough yet. Joan ordered the attack
for eight o'clock next morning, and at that hour it began.
Joan placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which
protected the gate St. Honor. When it was sufficiently crippled the
assault was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then we moved
forward to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves against it again
and again, Joan in the lead with her standard at her side, the smoke
enveloping us in choking clouds, and the missiles flying over us and
through us as thick as hail.
In the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate
sure and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down by
a crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a
panic--for what were they without her? She was the army, herself.
Although disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new assault
be made, saying it must win; and adding, with the battle-light rising in
her eyes, “I will take Paris now or die!” She had to be carried away by
force, and this was done by Gaucourt and the Duke d'Alencon.
But her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming
with enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in the
morning, and in half an hour Paris would be ours without any question.
She could have kept her word. About this there was no doubt. But
she forgot one factor--the King, shadow of that substance named La
Tremouille. The King forbade the attempt!
You see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of Burgundy, and
another sham private trade of some sort was on foot.
You would know, without my telling you, that Joan's heart was nearly
broken. Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at her heart she
slept little that night. Several times the watchers heard muffled
sobs from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis, and many times the
grieving words, “It could have been taken!--it could have been taken!”
which were the only ones she said.
She dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope. D'Alencon
had thrown a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis. Might she not cross
by that and assault Paris at another point? But the King got wind of it
and broke the bridge down! And more--he declared the campaign ended!
And more still--he had made a new truce and a long one, in which he had
agreed to leave Paris unthreatened and unmolested, and go back to the
Loire whence he had come!
Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was defeated by
her own King. She had said once that all she feared for her cause was
treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung up her white
armor in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and asked the King
to relieve her of her functions and let her go home. As usual, she was
wise. Grand combinations, far-reaching great military moves were at an
end, now; for the future, when the truce should end, the war would be
merely a war of random and idle skirmishes, apparently; work suitable
for subalterns, and not requiring the supervision of a sublime military
genius. But the King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all
France; there were French strongholds to be watched and preserved; he
would need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her where he
could balk and hinder her.
Now came her Voices again. They said, “Remain at St. Denis.” There was
no explanation. They did not say why. That was the voice of God; it took
precedence of the command of the King; Joan resolved to stay. But that
filled La Tremouille with dread. She was too tremendous a force to be
left to herself; she would surely defeat all his plans. He beguiled the
King to use compulsion. Joan had to submit--because she was wounded and
helpless. In the Great Trial she said she was carried away against
her will; and that if she had not been wounded it could not have been
accomplished. Ah, she had a spirit, that slender girl! a spirit to brave
all earthly powers and defy them. We shall never know why the Voices
ordered her to stay. We only know this; that if she could have obeyed,
the history of France would not be as it now stands written in the
books. Yes, well we know that.
On the 13th of September the army, sad and spiritless, turned its
face toward the Loire, and marched--without music! Yes, one noted that
detail. It was a funeral march; that is what it was. A long, dreary
funeral march, with never a shout or a cheer; friends looking on in
tears, all the way, enemies laughing. We reached Gien at last--that
place whence we had set out on our splendid march toward Rheims
less than three months before, with flags flying, bands playing, the
victory-flush of Patay glowing in our faces, and the massed multitudes
shouting and praising and giving us godspeed. There was a dull rain
falling now, the day was dark, the heavens mourned, the spectators were
few, we had no welcome but the welcome of silence, and pity, and tears.
Then the King disbanded that noble army of heroes; it furled its flags,
it stored its arms: the disgrace of France was complete. La Tremouille
wore the victor's crown; Joan of Arc, the unconquerable, was conquered.
41 The Maid Will March No More
YES, IT was as I have said: Joan had Paris and France in her grip, and
the Hundred Years' War under her heel, and the King made her open her
fist and take away her foot.
Now followed about eight months of drifting about with the King and his
council, and his gay and showy and dancing and flirting and hawking and
frolicking and serenading and dissipating court--drifting from town to
town and from castle to castle--a life which was pleasant to us of the
personal staff, but not to Joan. However, she only saw it, she didn't
live it. The King did his sincerest best to make her happy, and showed a
most kind and constant anxiety in this matter.
All others had to go loaded with the chains of an exacting court
etiquette, but she was free, she was privileged. So that she paid
her duty to the King once a day and passed the pleasant word, nothing
further was required of her. Naturally, then, she made herself a hermit,
and grieved the weary days through in her own apartments, with her
thoughts and devotions for company, and the planning of now forever
unrealizable military combinations for entertainment. In fancy she moved
bodies of men from this and that and the other point, so calculating the
distances to be covered, the time required for each body, and the nature
of the country to be traversed, as to have them appear in sight of each
other on a given day or at a given hour and concentrate for battle.
It was her only game, her only relief from her burden of sorrow and
inaction. She played it hour after hour, as others play chess; and lost
herself in it, and so got repose for her mind and healing for her heart.
She never complained, of course. It was not her way. She was the sort
that endure in silence.
But--she was a caged eagle just the same, and pined for the free air and
the alpine heights and the fierce joys of the storm.
France was full of rovers--disbanded soldiers ready for anything that
might turn up. Several times, at intervals, when Joan's dull captivity
grew too heavy to bear, she was allowed to gather a troop of cavalry and
make a health-restoring dash against the enemy. These things were a bath
to her spirits.
It was like old times, there at Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, to see her lead
assault after assault, be driven back again and again, but always rally
and charge anew, all in a blaze of eagerness and delight; till at last
the tempest of missiles rained so intolerably thick that old D'Aulon,
who was wounded, sounded the retreat (for the King had charged him on
his head to let no harm come to Joan); and away everybody rushed after
him--as he supposed; but when he turned and looked, there were we of
the staff still hammering away; wherefore he rode back and urged her to
come, saying she was mad to stay there with only a dozen men. Her eye
danced merrily, and she turned upon him crying out:
“A dozen men! name of God, I have fifty-thousand, and will never budge
till this place is taken!
“Sound the charge!”
Which he did, and over the walls we went, and the fortress was ours. Old
D'Aulon thought her mind was wandering; but all she meant was, that
she felt the might of fifty thousand men surging in her heart. It was a
fanciful expression; but, to my thinking, truer word was never said.
Then there was the affair near Lagny, where we charged the intrenched
Burgundians through the open field four times, the last time
victoriously; the best prize of it Franquet d'Arras, the free-booter and
pitiless scourge of the region roundabout.
Now and then other such affairs; and at last, away toward the end of
May, 1430, we were in the neighborhood of Compiegne, and Joan resolved
to go to the help of that place, which was being besieged by the Duke of
Burgundy.
I had been wounded lately, and was not able to ride without help; but
the good Dwarf took me on behind him, and I held on to him and was safe
enough. We started at midnight, in a sullen downpour of warm rain, and
went slowly and softly and in dead silence, for we had to slip through
the enemy's lines. We were challenged only once; we made no answer, but
held our breath and crept steadily and stealthily along, and got through
without any accident. About three or half past we reached Compiegne,
just as the gray dawn was breaking in the east.
Joan set to work at once, and concerted a plan with Guillaume de Flavy,
captain of the city--a plan for a sortie toward evening against the
enemy, who was posted in three bodies on the other side of the Oise, in
the level plain. From our side one of the city gates communicated with
a bridge. The end of this bridge was defended on the other side of the
river by one of those fortresses called a boulevard; and this boulevard
also commanded a raised road, which stretched from its front across the
plain to the village of Marguy. A force of Burgundians occupied Marguy;
another was camped at Clairoix, a couple of miles above the raised road;
and a body of English was holding Venette, a mile and a half below it. A
kind of bow-and-arrow arrangement, you see; the causeway the arrow, the
boulevard at the feather-end of it, Marguy at the barb, Venette at one
end of the bow, Clairoix at the other.
Joan's plan was to go straight per causeway against Marguy, carry it by
assault, then turn swiftly upon Clairoix, up to the right, and capture
that camp in the same way, then face to the rear and be ready for heavy
work, for the Duke of Burgundy lay behind Clairoix with a reserve.
Flavy's lieutenant, with archers and the artillery of the boulevard,
was to keep the English troops from coming up from below and seizing the
causeway and cutting off Joan's retreat in case she should have to
make one. Also, a fleet of covered boats was to be stationed near
the boulevard as an additional help in case a retreat should become
necessary.
It was the 24th of May. At four in the afternoon Joan moved out at the
head of six hundred cavalry--on her last march in this life!
It breaks my heart. I had got myself helped up onto the walls, and from
there I saw much that happened, the rest was told me long afterward by
our two knights and other eye-witnesses. Joan crossed the bridge, and
soon left the boulevard behind her and went skimming away over the
raised road with her horsemen clattering at her heels. She had on a
brilliant silver-gilt cape over her armor, and I could see it flap and
flare and rise and fall like a little patch of white flame.
It was a bright day, and one could see far and wide over that plain.
Soon we saw the English force advancing, swiftly and in handsome order,
the sunlight flashing from its arms.
Joan crashed into the Burgundians at Marguy and was repulsed. Then she
saw the other Burgundians moving down from Clairoix. Joan rallied her
men and charged again, and was again rolled back. Two assaults occupy
a good deal of time--and time was precious here. The English were
approaching the road now from Venette, but the boulevard opened fire on
them and they were checked. Joan heartened her men with inspiring words
and led them to the charge again in great style. This time she carried
Marguy with a hurrah. Then she turned at once to the right and plunged
into the plan and struck the Clairoix force, which was just arriving;
then there was heavy work, and plenty of it, the two armies hurling each
other backward turn about and about, and victory inclining first to the
one, then to the other. Now all of a sudden there was a panic on our
side. Some say one thing caused it, some another. Some say the cannonade
made our front ranks think retreat was being cut off by the English,
some say the rear ranks got the idea that Joan was killed. Anyway our
men broke, and went flying in a wild rout for the causeway. Joan tried
to rally them and face them around, crying to them that victory was
sure, but it did no good, they divided and swept by her like a wave. Old
D'Aulon begged her to retreat while there was yet a chance for safety,
but she refused; so he seized her horse's bridle and bore her along with
the wreck and ruin in spite of herself. And so along the causeway they
came swarming, that wild confusion of frenzied men and horses--and the
artillery had to stop firing, of course; consequently the English and
Burgundians closed in in safety, the former in front, the latter behind
their prey. Clear to the boulevard the French were washed in this
enveloping inundation; and there, cornered in an angle formed by the
flank of the boulevard and the slope of the causeway, they bravely
fought a hopeless fight, and sank down one by one.
Flavy, watching from the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed and
the drawbridge raised. This shut Joan out.
The little personal guard around her thinned swiftly. Both of our good
knights went down disabled; Joan's two brothers fell wounded; then Noel
Rainguesson--all wounded while loyally sheltering Joan from blows aimed
at her. When only the Dwarf and the Paladin were left, they would not
give up, but stood their ground stoutly, a pair of steel towers streaked
and splashed with blood; and where the ax of one fell, and the sword of
the other, an enemy gasped and died.
And so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple souls,
they came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories! they were
very dear to me.
Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still laying
about her with her sword, was seized by her cape and dragged from her
horse. She was borne away a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy's camp, and
after her followed the victorious army roaring its joy.
The awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it flew;
and wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of paralysis;
and they murmured over and over again, as if they were talking to
themselves, or in their sleep, “The Maid of Orleans taken!... Joan of
Arc a prisoner!... the savior of France lost to us!”--and would keep
saying that over, as if they couldn't understand how it could be, or how
God could permit it, poor creatures!
You know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to pavement
with rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was like, and some other
cities. But can any man tell you what the mourning in the hearts of the
peasantry of France was like? No, nobody can tell you that, and,
poor dumb things, they could not have told you themselves, but it was
there--indeed, yes. Why, it was the spirit of a whole nation hung with
crape!
The 24th of May. We will draw down the curtain now upon the most
strange, and pathetic, and wonderful military drama that has been played
upon the stage of the world. Joan of Arc will march no more.