WE RESTED and otherwise refreshed ourselves two or three hours at Gien,
but by that time the news was abroad that the young girl commissioned
of God to deliver France was come; wherefore, such a press of people
flocked to our quarters to get sight of her that it seemed best to seek
a quieter place; so we pushed on and halted at a small village called
Fierbois.
We were now within six leagues of the King, who was at the Castle of
Chinon. Joan dictated a letter to him at once, and I wrote it. In it she
said she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to bring him good news,
and begged the privilege of delivering it in person. She added that
although she had never seen him she would know him in any disguise and
would point him out.
The two knights rode away at once with the letter. The troop slept
all the afternoon, and after supper we felt pretty fresh and fine,
especially our little group of young Domremians. We had the comfortable
tap-room of the village inn to ourselves, and for the first time in ten
unspeakably long days were exempt from bodings and terrors and hardships
and fatiguing labors. The Paladin was suddenly become his ancient
self again, and was swaggering up and down, a very monument of
self-complacency. Noel Rainguesson said:
“I think it is wonderful, the way he has brought us through.”
“Who?” asked Jean.
“Why, the Paladin.”
The Paladin seemed not to hear.
“What had he to do with it?” asked Pierre d’Arc.
“Everything. It was nothing but Joan’s confidence in his discretion that
enabled her to keep up her heart. She could depend on us and on herself
for valor, but discretion is the winning thing in war, after all;
discretion is the rarest and loftiest of qualities, and he has got more
of it than any other man in France—more of it, perhaps, than any other
sixty men in France.”
“Now you are getting ready to make a fool of yourself, Noel
Rainguesson,” said the Paladin, “and you want to coil some of that long
tongue of yours around your neck and stick the end of it in your ear,
then you’ll be the less likely to get into trouble.”
“I didn’t know he had more discretion than other people,” said Pierre,
“for discretion argues brains, and he hasn’t any more brains than the
rest of us, in my opinion.”
“No, you are wrong there. Discretion hasn’t anything to do with brains;
brains are an obstruction to it, for it does not reason, it feels.
Perfect discretion means absence of brains. Discretion is a quality
of the heart—solely a quality of the heart; it acts upon us through
feeling. We know this because if it were an intellectual quality it
would only perceive a danger, for instance, where a danger exists;
whereas—”
“Hear him twaddle—the damned idiot!” muttered the Paladin.
“—whereas, it being purely a quality of the heart, and proceeding by
feeling, not reason, its reach is correspondingly wider and sublimer,
enabling it to perceive and avoid dangers that haven’t any existence at
all; as, for instance, that night in the fog, when the Paladin took his
horse’s ears for hostile lances and got off and climbed a tree—”
“It’s a lie! a lie without shadow of foundation, and I call upon you
all to beware you give credence to the malicious inventions of this
ramshackle slander-mill that has been doing its best to destroy my
character for years, and will grind up your own reputations for you
next. I got off to tighten my saddle-girth—I wish I may die in my tracks
if it isn’t so—and whoever wants to believe it can, and whoever don’t
can let it alone.”
“There, that is the way with him, you see; he never can discuss a theme
temperately, but always flies off the handle and becomes disagreeable.
And you notice his defect of memory. He remembers getting off his horse,
but forgets all the rest, even the tree. But that is natural; he would
remember getting off the horse because he was so used to doing it.
He always did it when there was an alarm and the clash of arms at the
front.”
“Why did he choose that time for it?” asked Jean.
“I don’t know. To tighten up his girth, he thinks, to climb a tree, I
think; I saw him climb nine trees in a single night.”
“You saw nothing of the kind! A person that can lie like that deserves
no one’s respect. I ask you all to answer me. Do you believe what this
reptile has said?”
All seemed embarrassed, and only Pierre replied. He said, hesitatingly:
“I—well, I hardly know what to say. It is a delicate situation. It seems
offensive to me to refuse to believe a person when he makes so direct a
statement, and yet I am obliged to say, rude as it may appear, that I
am not able to believe the whole of it—no, I am not able to believe that
you climbed nine trees.”
“There!” cried the Paladin; “now what do you think of yourself, Noel
Rainguesson? How many do you believe I climbed, Pierre?”
“Only eight.”
The laughter that followed inflamed the Paladin’s anger to white heat,
and he said:
“I bide my time—I bide my time. I will reckon with you all, I promise
you that!”
“Don’t get him started,” Noel pleaded; “he is a perfect lion when he
gets started. I saw enough to teach me that, after the third skirmish.
After it was over I saw him come out of the bushes and attack a dead man
single-handed.”
“It is another lie; and I give you fair warning that you are going too
far. You will see me attack a live one if you are not careful.”
“Meaning me, of course. This wounds me more than any number of injurious
and unkind speeches could do. In gratitude to one’s benefactor—”
“Benefactor? What do I owe you, I should like to know?”
“You owe me your life. I stood between the trees and the foe, and kept
hundreds and thousands of the enemy at bay when they were thirsting for
your blood. And I did not do it to display my daring. I did it because I
loved you and could not live without you.”
“There—you have said enough! I will not stay here to listen to
these infamies. I can endure your lies, but not your love. Keep that
corruption for somebody with a stronger stomach than mine. And I want to
say this, before I go. That you people’s small performances might appear
the better and win you the more glory, I hid my own deeds through all
the march. I went always to the front, where the fighting was thickest,
to be remote from you in order that you might not see and be discouraged
by the things I did to the enemy. It was my purpose to keep this a
secret in my own breast, but you force me to reveal it. If you ask for
my witnesses, yonder they lie, on the road we have come. I found that
road mud, I paved it with corpses. I found that country sterile, I
fertilized it with blood. Time and again I was urged to go to the rear
because the command could not proceed on account of my dead. And yet
you, you miscreant, accuse me of climbing trees! Pah!”
And he strode out, with a lofty air, for the recital of his imaginary
deeds had already set him up again and made him feel good.
Next day we mounted and faced toward Chinon. Orleans was at our back
now, and close by, lying in the strangling grip of the English; soon,
please God, we would face about and go to their relief. From Gien the
news had spread to Orleans that the peasant Maid of Vaucouleurs was on
her way, divinely commissioned to raise the siege. The news made a great
excitement and raised a great hope—the first breath of hope those poor
souls had breathed in five months. They sent commissioners at once to
the King to beg him to consider this matter, and not throw this help
lightly away. These commissioners were already at Chinon by this time.
When we were half-way to Chinon we happened upon yet one more squad
of enemies. They burst suddenly out of the woods, and in considerable
force, too; but we were not the apprentices we were ten or twelve days
before; no, we were seasoned to this kind of adventure now; our hearts
did not jump into our throats and our weapons tremble in our hands. We
had learned to be always in battle array, always alert, and always ready
to deal with any emergency that might turn up. We were no more dismayed
by the sight of those people than our commander was. Before they could
form, Joan had delivered the order, “Forward!” and we were down upon
them with a rush. They stood no chance; they turned tail and scattered,
we plowing through them as if they had been men of straw. That was our
last ambuscade, and it was probably laid for us by that treacherous
rascal, the King’s own minister and favorite, De la Tremouille.
We housed ourselves in an inn, and soon the town came flocking to get a
glimpse of the Maid.
Ah, the tedious King and his tedious people! Our two good knights
came presently, their patience well wearied, and reported. They and we
reverently stood—as becomes persons who are in the presence of kings and
the superiors of kings—until Joan, troubled by this mark of homage and
respect, and not content with it nor yet used to it, although we had not
permitted ourselves to do otherwise since the day she prophesied that
wretched traitor’s death and he was straightway drowned, thus confirming
many previous signs that she was indeed an ambassador commissioned of
God, commanded us to sit; then the Sieur de Metz said to Joan:
“The King has got the letter, but they will not let us have speech with
him.”
“Who is it that forbids?”
“None forbids, but there be three or four that are nearest his
person—schemers and traitors every one—that put obstructions in the
way, and seek all ways, by lies and pretexts, to make delay. Chiefest of
these are Georges de la Tremouille and that plotting fox, the Archbishop
of Rheims. While they keep the King idle and in bondage to his sports
and follies, they are great and their importance grows; whereas if ever
he assert himself and rise and strike for crown and country like a man,
their reign is done. So they but thrive, they care not if the crown go
to destruction and the King with it.”
“You have spoken with others besides these?”
“Not of the Court, no—the Court are the meek slaves of those reptiles,
and watch their mouths and their actions, acting as they act, thinking
as they think, saying as they say; wherefore they are cold to us, and
turn aside and go another way when we appear. But we have spoken with
the commissioners from Orleans. They said with heat: ‘It is a marvel
that any man in such desperate case as is the King can moon around in
this torpid way, and see his all go to ruin without lifting a finger to
stay the disaster. What a most strange spectacle it is! Here he is,
shut up in this wee corner of the realm like a rat in a trap; his
royal shelter this huge gloomy tomb of a castle, with wormy rags for
upholstery and crippled furniture for use, a very house of desolation;
in his treasure forty francs, and not a farthing more, God be witness!
no army, nor any shadow of one; and by contrast with his hungry poverty
you behold this crownless pauper and his shoals of fools and favorites
tricked out in the gaudiest silks and velvets you shall find in any
Court in Christendom. And look you, he knows that when our city falls—as
fall it surely will except succor come swiftly—France falls; he knows
that when that day comes he will be an outlaw and a fugitive, and that
behind him the English flag will float unchallenged over every acre of
his great heritage; he knows these things, he knows that our faithful
city is fighting all solitary and alone against disease, starvation, and
the sword to stay this awful calamity, yet he will not strike one blow
to save her, he will not hear our prayers, he will not even look
upon our faces.’ That is what the commissioners said, and they are in
despair.”
Joan said, gently:
“It is pity, but they must not despair. The Dauphin will hear them
presently. Tell them so.”
She almost always called the King the Dauphin. To her mind he was not
King yet, not being crowned.
“We will tell them so, and it will content them, for they believe you
come from God. The Archbishop and his confederate have for backer that
veteran soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Grand Master of the Palace, a worthy
man, but simply a soldier, with no head for any greater matter. He
cannot make out to see how a country-girl, ignorant of war, can take a
sword in her small hand and win victories where the trained generals of
France have looked for defeats only, for fifty years—and always found
them. And so he lifts his frosty mustache and scoffs.”
“When God fights it is but small matter whether the hand that bears His
sword is big or little. He will perceive this in time. Is there none in
that Castle of Chinon who favors us?”
“Yes, the King’s mother-in-law, Yolande, Queen of Sicily, who is wise
and good. She spoke with the Sieur Bertrand.”
“She favors us, and she hates those others, the King’s beguilers,” said
Bertrand. “She was full of interest, and asked a thousand questions, all
of which I answered according to my ability. Then she sat thinking over
these replies until I thought she was lost in a dream and would wake no
more. But it was not so. At last she said, slowly, and as if she
were talking to herself: ‘A child of seventeen—a
girl—country-bred—untaught—ignorant of war, the use of arms, and
the conduct of battles—modest, gentle, shrinking—yet throws away her
shepherd’s crook and clothes herself in steel, and fights her way
through a hundred and fifty leagues of fear, and comes—she to whom a
king must be a dread and awful presence—and will stand up before such
an one and say, Be not afraid, God has sent me to save you! Ah, whence
could come a courage and conviction so sublime as this but from very God
Himself!’ She was silent again awhile, thinking and making up her mind;
then she said, ‘And whether she comes of God or no, there is that in
her heart that raises her above men—high above all men that breathe in
France to-day—for in her is that mysterious something that puts heart
into soldiers, and turns mobs of cowards into armies of fighters that
forget what fear is when they are in that presence—fighters who go into
battle with joy in their eyes and songs on their lips, and sweep over
the field like a storm—that is the spirit that can save France, and that
alone, come it whence it may! It is in her, I do truly believe, for what
else could have borne up that child on that great march, and made her
despise its dangers and fatigues? The King must see her face to face—and
shall!’ She dismissed me with those good words, and I know her promise
will be kept. They will delay her all they can—those animals—but she
will not fail in the end.”
“Would she were King!” said the other knight, fervently. “For there is
little hope that the King himself can be stirred out of his lethargy. He
is wholly without hope, and is only thinking of throwing away everything
and flying to some foreign land. The commissioners say there is a
spell upon him that makes him hopeless—yes, and that it is shut up in a
mystery which they cannot fathom.”
“I know the mystery,” said Joan, with quiet confidence; “I know it,
and he knows it, but no other but God. When I see him I will tell him a
secret that will drive away his trouble, then he will hold up his head
again.”
I was miserable with curiosity to know what it was that she would tell
him, but she did not say, and I did not expect she would. She was but a
child, it is true; but she was not a chatterer to tell great matters and
make herself important to little people; no, she was reserved, and kept
things to herself, as the truly great always do.
The next day Queen Yolande got one victory over the King’s keepers,
for, in spite of their protestations and obstructions, she procured an
audience for our two knights, and they made the most they could out
of their opportunity. They told the King what a spotless and beautiful
character Joan was, and how great and noble a spirit animated her, and
they implored him to trust in her, believe in her, and have faith that
she was sent to save France. They begged him to consent to see her. He
was strongly moved to do this, and promised that he would not drop the
matter out of his mind, but would consult with his council about it.
This began to look encouraging. Two hours later there was a great
stir below, and the innkeeper came flying up to say a commission of
illustrious ecclesiastics was come from the King—from the King his
very self, understand!—think of this vast honor to his humble little
hostelry!—and he was so overcome with the glory of it that he could
hardly find breath enough in his excited body to put the facts
into words. They were come from the King to speak with the Maid of
Vaucouleurs. Then he flew downstairs, and presently appeared again,
backing into the room, and bowing to the ground with every step, in
front of four imposing and austere bishops and their train of servants.
Joan rose, and we all stood. The bishops took seats, and for a while
no word was said, for it was their prerogative to speak first, and they
were so astonished to see what a child it was that was making such a
noise in the world and degrading personages of their dignity to the base
function of ambassadors to her in her plebeian tavern, that they could
not find any words to say at first. Then presently their spokesman told
Joan they were aware that she had a message for the King, wherefore she
was now commanded to put it into words, briefly and without waste of
time or embroideries of speech.
As for me, I could hardly contain my joy—our message was to reach the
King at last! And there was the same joy and pride and exultation in the
faces of our knights, too, and in those of Joan’s brothers. And I knew
that they were all praying—as I was—that the awe which we felt in the
presence of these great dignitaries, and which would have tied our
tongues and locked our jaws, would not affect her in the like degree,
but that she would be enabled to word her message well, and with little
stumbling, and so make a favorable impression here, where it would be so
valuable and so important.
Ah, dear, how little we were expecting what happened then! We were
aghast to hear her say what she said. She was standing in a reverent
attitude, with her head down and her hands clasped in front of her; for
she was always reverent toward the consecrated servants of God. When
the spokesman had finished, she raised her head and set her calm eye on
those faces, not any more disturbed by their state and grandeur than a
princess would have been, and said, with all her ordinary simplicity and
modesty of voice and manner:
“Ye will forgive me, reverend sirs, but I have no message save for the
King’s ear alone.”
Those surprised men were dumb for a moment, and their faces flushed
darkly; then the spokesman said:
“Hark ye, to you fling the King’s command in his face and refuse to
deliver this message of yours to his servants appointed to receive it?”
“God has appointed me to receive it, and another’s commandment may not
take precedence of that. I pray you let me have speech for his grace the
Dauphin.”
“Forbear this folly, and come at your message! Deliver it, and waste no
more time about it.”
“You err indeed, most reverend fathers in God, and it is not well. I am
not come hither to talk, but to deliver Orleans, and lead the Dauphin to
his good city of Rheims, and set the crown upon his head.”
“Is that the message you send to the King?”
But Joan only said, in the simple fashion which was her wont:
“Ye will pardon me for reminding you again—but I have no message to send
to any one.”
The King’s messengers rose in deep anger and swept out of the place
without further words, we and Joan kneeling as they passed.
Our countenances were vacant, our hearts full of a sense of disaster.
Our precious opportunity was thrown away; we could not understand Joan’s
conduct, she who had been so wise until this fatal hour. At last the
Sieur Bertrand found courage to ask her why she had let this great
chance to get her message to the King go by.
“Who sent them here?” she asked.
“The King.”
“Who moved the King to send them?” She waited for an answer; none came,
for we began to see what was in her mind—so she answered herself: “The
Dauphin’s council moved him to it. Are they enemies to me and to the
Dauphin’s weal, or are they friends?”
“Enemies,” answered the Sieur Bertrand.
“If one would have a message go sound and ungarbled, does one choose
traitors and tricksters to send it by?”
I saw that we had been fools, and she wise. They saw it too, so none
found anything to say. Then she went on:
“They had but small wit that contrived this trap. They thought to get
my message and seem to deliver it straight, yet deftly twist it from its
purpose. You know that one part of my message is but this—to move the
Dauphin by argument and reasonings to give me men-at-arms and send me
to the siege. If an enemy carried these in the right words, the exact
words, and no word missing, yet left out the persuasions of gesture and
supplicating tone and beseeching looks that inform the words and make
them live, where were the value of that argument—whom could it convince?
Be patient, the Dauphin will hear me presently; have no fear.”
The Sieur de Metz nodded his head several times, and muttered as to
himself:
“She was right and wise, and we are but dull fools, when all is said.”
It was just my thought; I could have said it myself; and indeed it was
the thought of all there present. A sort of awe crept over us, to think
how that untaught girl, taken suddenly and unprepared, was yet able to
penetrate the cunning devices of a King’s trained advisers and defeat
them. Marveling over this, and astonished at it, we fell silent and
spoke no more. We had come to know that she was great in courage,
fortitude, endurance, patience, conviction, fidelity to all duties—in
all things, indeed, that make a good and trusty soldier and perfect
him for his post; now we were beginning to feel that maybe there
were greatnesses in her brain that were even greater than these great
qualities of the heart. It set us thinking.
What Joan did that day bore fruit the very day after. The King was
obliged to respect the spirit of a young girl who could hold her own and
stand her ground like that, and he asserted himself sufficiently to put
his respect into an act instead of into polite and empty words. He moved
Joan out of that poor inn, and housed her, with us her servants, in the
Castle of Courdray, personally confiding her to the care of Madame de
Bellier, wife of old Raoul de Gaucourt, Master of the Palace. Of course,
this royal attention had an immediate result: all the great lords
and ladies of the Court began to flock there to see and listen to the
wonderful girl-soldier that all the world was talking about, and who had
answered the King’s mandate with a bland refusal to obey. Joan charmed
them every one with her sweetness and simplicity and unconscious
eloquence, and all the best and capablest among them recognized that
there was an indefinable something about her that testified that she was
not made of common clay, that she was built on a grander plan than the
mass of mankind, and moved on a loftier plane. These spread her fame.
She always made friends and advocates that way; neither the high nor the
low could come within the sound of her voice and the sight of her face
and go out from her presence indifferent.