WE OF the personal staff were in fairyland now, during the few days that
we waited for the return of the army. We went into society. To our two
knights this was not a novelty, but to us young villagers it was a new
and wonderful life. Any position of any sort near the person of the Maid
of Vaucouleurs conferred high distinction upon the holder and caused
his society to be courted; and so the D’Arc brothers, and Noel, and the
Paladin, humble peasants at home, were gentlemen here, personages
of weight and influence. It was fine to see how soon their country
diffidences and awkwardnesses melted away under this pleasant sun of
deference and disappeared, and how lightly and easily they took to their
new atmosphere. The Paladin was as happy as it was possible for any one
in this earth to be. His tongue went all the time, and daily he got new
delight out of hearing himself talk. He began to enlarge his ancestry
and spread it out all around, and ennoble it right and left, and it was
not long until it consisted almost entirely of dukes. He worked up his
old battles and tricked them out with fresh splendors; also with new
terrors, for he added artillery now. We had seen cannon for the first
time at Blois—a few pieces—here there was plenty of it, and now and then
we had the impressive spectacle of a huge English bastille hidden from
sight in a mountain of smoke from its own guns, with lances of red
flame darting through it; and this grand picture, along with the quaking
thunders pounding away in the heart of it, inflamed the Paladin’s
imagination and enabled him to dress out those ambuscade-skirmishes of
ours with a sublimity which made it impossible for any to recognize them
at all except people who had not been there.
You may suspect that there was a special inspiration for these great
efforts of the Paladin’s, and there was. It was the daughter of the
house, Catherine Boucher, who was eighteen, and gentle and lovely in her
ways, and very beautiful. I think she might have been as beautiful as
Joan herself, if she had had Joan’s eyes. But that could never be. There
was never but that one pair, there will never be another. Joan’s eyes
were deep and rich and wonderful beyond anything merely earthly. They
spoke all the languages—they had no need of words. They produced all
effects—and just by a glance, just a single glance; a glance that could
convict a liar of his lie and make him confess it; that could bring down
a proud man’s pride and make him humble; that could put courage into a
coward and strike dead the courage of the bravest; that could appease
resentments and real hatreds; that could make the doubter believe and
the hopeless hope again; that could purify the impure mind; that could
persuade—ah, there it is—persuasion! that is the word; what or who is
it that it couldn’t persuade? The maniac of Domremy—the fairy-banishing
priest—the reverend tribunal of Toul—the doubting and superstitious
Laxart—the obstinate veteran of Vaucouleurs—the characterless heir
of France—the sages and scholars of the Parliament and University
of Poitiers—the darling of Satan, La Hire—the masterless Bastard of
Orleans, accustomed to acknowledge no way as right and rational but his
own—these were the trophies of that great gift that made her the wonder
and mystery that she was.
We mingled companionably with the great folk who flocked to the big
house to make Joan’s acquaintance, and they made much of us and we lived
in the clouds, so to speak. But what we preferred even to this happiness
was the quieter occasions, when the formal guests were gone and the
family and a few dozen of its familiar friends were gathered together
for a social good time. It was then that we did our best, we five
youngsters, with such fascinations as we had, and the chief object of
them was Catherine. None of us had ever been in love before, and now we
had the misfortune to all fall in love with the same person at the same
time—which was the first moment we saw her. She was a merry heart, and
full of life, and I still remember tenderly those few evenings that I
was permitted to have my share of her dear society and of comradeship
with that little company of charming people.
The Paladin made us all jealous the first night, for when he got fairly
started on those battles of his he had everything to himself, and there
was no use in anybody else’s trying to get any attention. Those people
had been living in the midst of real war for seven months; and to hear
this windy giant lay out his imaginary campaigns and fairly swim in
blood and spatter it all around, entertained them to the verge of the
grave. Catherine was like to die, for pure enjoyment. She didn’t laugh
loud—we, of course, wished she would—but kept in the shelter of a fan,
and shook until there was danger that she would unhitch her ribs from
her spine. Then when the Paladin had got done with a battle and we began
to feel thankful and hope for a change, she would speak up in a way that
was so sweet and persuasive that it rankled in me, and ask him about
some detail or other in the early part of his battle which she said had
greatly interested her, and would he be so good as to describe that part
again and with a little more particularity?—which of course precipitated
the whole battle on us, again, with a hundred lies added that had been
overlooked before.
I do not know how to make you realize the pain I suffered. I had never
been jealous before, and it seemed intolerable that this creature should
have this good fortune which he was so ill entitled to, and I have to
sit and see myself neglected when I was so longing for the least little
attention out of the thousand that this beloved girl was lavishing on
him. I was near her, and tried two or three times to get started on some
of the things that I had done in those battles—and I felt ashamed of
myself, too, for stooping to such a business—but she cared for nothing
but his battles, and could not be got to listen; and presently when
one of my attempts caused her to lose some precious rag or other of
his mendacities and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing on a new
engagement, of course, and increasing the havoc and carnage tenfold, I
felt so humiliated by this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up
and tried no more.
The others were as outraged by the Paladin’s selfish conduct as I
was—and by his grand luck, too, of course—perhaps, indeed, that was the
main hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which was natural,
for rivals become brothers when a common affliction assails them and a
common enemy bears off the victory.
Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it
were not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others no
chance. I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it—a poem in which I
most happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl’s charms, without
mentioning her name, but any one could see who was meant; for the bare
title—“The Rose of Orleans”—would reveal that, as it seemed to me. It
pictured this pure and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude
soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes upon the horrid
machinery of death, and then—note this conceit—it blushes for the sinful
nature of man, and turns red in a single night. Becomes a red rose, you
see—a rose that was white before. The idea was my own, and quite new.
Then it sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city, and when the
beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and wept. This
was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the poem; then
I put her into the similitude of the firmament—not the whole of it, but
only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all the constellations
were following her about, their hearts in flames for love of her, but
she would not halt, she would not listen, for ’twas thought she loved
another. ’Twas thought she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who was upon
the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutilation in the bloody
field, waging relentless war against a heartless foe to save her from
an all too early grave, and her city from destruction. And when the sad
pursuing constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow that
was come upon them—note this idea—their hearts broke and their tears
gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery splendor, for
those tears were falling stars. It was a rash idea, but beautiful;
beautiful and pathetic; wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with
the rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse there was a two-line
refrain pitying the poor earthly lover separated so far, and perhaps
forever, from her he loved so well, and growing always paler and weaker
and thinner in his agony as he neared the cruel grave—the most touching
thing—even the boys themselves could hardly keep back their tears, the
way Noel said those lines. There were eight four-line stanzas in the
first end of the poem—the end about the rose, the horticultural end, as
you may say, if that is not too large a name for such a little poem—and
eight in the astronomical end—sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could
have made it a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so inspired
and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts and fancies; but that
would have been too many to sing or recite before a company that way,
whereas sixteen was just right, and could be done over again if desired.
The boys were amazed that I could make such a poem as that out of my own
head, and so was I, of course, it being as much a surprise to me as it
could be to anybody, for I did not know that it was in me. If any had
asked me a single day before if it was in me, I should have told them
frankly no, it was not.
That is the way with us; we may go on half of our life not knowing such
a thing is in us, when in reality it was there all the time, and all we
needed was something to turn up that would call for it. Indeed, it was
always so without family. My grandfather had a cancer, and they never
knew what was the matter with him till he died, and he didn’t know
himself. It is wonderful how gifts and diseases can be concealed in that
way. All that was necessary in my case was for this lovely and inspiring
girl to cross my path, and out came the poem, and no more trouble to me
to word it and rhyme it and perfect it than it is to stone a dog. No, I
should have said it was not in me; but it was.
The boys couldn’t say enough about it, they were so charmed and
astonished. The thing that pleased them the most was the way it would do
the Paladin’s business for him. They forgot everything in their anxiety
to get him shelved and silenced. Noel Rainguesson was clear beside
himself with admiration of the poem, and wished he could do such a
thing, but it was out of his line, and he couldn’t, of course. He had it
by heart in half an hour, and there was never anything so pathetic and
beautiful as the way he recited it. For that was just his gift—that and
mimicry. He could recite anything better than anybody in the world,
and he could take of La Hire to the very life—or anybody else, for that
matter. Now I never could recite worth a farthing; and when I tried with
this poem the boys wouldn’t let me finish; they would have nobody but
Noel. So then, as I wanted the poem to make the best possible impression
on Catherine and the company, I told Noel he might do the reciting.
Never was anybody so delighted. He could hardly believe that I was in
earnest, but I was. I said that to have them know that I was the author
of it would be enough for me. The boys were full of exultation, and Noel
said if he could just get one chance at those people it would be all he
would ask; he would make them realize that there was something higher
and finer than war-lies to be had here.
But how to get the opportunity—that was the difficulty. We invented
several schemes that promised fairly, and at last we hit upon one
that was sure. That was, to let the Paladin get a good start in a
manufactured battle, and then send in a false call for him, and as
soon as he was out of the room, have Noel take his place and finish the
battle himself in the Paladin’s own style, imitated to a shade. That
would get great applause, and win the house’s favor and put it in the
right mood to hear the poem. The two triumphs together with finish the
Standard-Bearer—modify him, anyway, to a certainty, and give the rest of
us a chance for the future.
So the next night I kept out of the way until the Paladin had got his
start and was sweeping down upon the enemy like a whirlwind at the head
of his corps, then I stepped within the door in my official uniform
and announced that a messenger from General La Hire’s quarters desired
speech with the Standard-Bearer. He left the room, and Noel took his
place and said that the interruption was to be deplored, but that
fortunately he was personally acquainted with the details of the battle
himself, and if permitted would be glad to state them to the company.
Then without waiting for the permission he turned himself to the
Paladin—a dwarfed Paladin, of course—with manner, tones, gestures,
attitudes, everything exact, and went right on with the battle, and it
would be impossible to imagine a more perfectly and minutely ridiculous
imitation than he furnished to those shrieking people. They went into
spasms, convulsions, frenzies of laughter, and the tears flowed down
their cheeks in rivulets. The more they laughed, the more inspired Noel
grew with his theme and the greater marvels he worked, till really the
laughter was not properly laughing any more, but screaming. Blessedest
feature of all, Catherine Boucher was dying with ecstasies, and
presently there was little left of her but gasps and suffocations.
Victory? It was a perfect Agincourt.
The Paladin was gone only a couple of minutes; he found out at once that
a trick had been played on him, so he came back. When he approached
the door he heard Noel ranting in there and recognized the state of
the case; so he remained near the door but out of sight, and heard the
performance through to the end. The applause Noel got when he finished
was wonderful; and they kept it up and kept it up, clapping their hands
like mad, and shouting to him to do it over again.
But Noel was clever. He knew the very best background for a poem of deep
and refined sentiment and pathetic melancholy was one where great and
satisfying merriment had prepared the spirit for the powerful contrast.
So he paused until all was quiet, then his face grew grave and assumed
an impressive aspect, and at once all faces sobered in sympathy and took
on a look of wondering and expectant interest. Now he began in a low
but distinct voice the opening verses of The Rose. As he breathed the
rhythmic measures forth, and one gracious line after another fell upon
those enchanted ears in that deep hush, one could catch, on every hand,
half-audible ejaculations of “How lovely—how beautiful—how exquisite!”
By this time the Paladin, who had gone away for a moment with the
opening of the poem, was back again, and had stepped within the door.
He stood there now, resting his great frame against the wall and gazing
toward the reciter like one entranced. When Noel got to the second part,
and that heart-breaking refrain began to melt and move all listeners,
the Paladin began to wipe away tears with the back of first one hand
and then the other. The next time the refrain was repeated he got to
snuffling, and sort of half sobbing, and went to wiping his eyes with
the sleeves of his doublet. He was so conspicuous that he embarrassed
Noel a little, and also had an ill effect upon the audience. With the
next repetition he broke quite down and began to cry like a calf, which
ruined all the effect and started many to the audience to laughing. Then
he went on from bad to worse, until I never saw such a spectacle; for
he fetched out a towel from under his doublet and began to swab his eyes
with it and let go the most infernal bellowings mixed up with sobbings
and groanings and retchings and barkings and coughings and snortings and
screamings and howlings—and he twisted himself about on his heels and
squirmed this way and that, still pouring out that brutal clamor and
flourishing his towel in the air and swabbing again and wringing it out.
Hear? You couldn’t hear yourself think. Noel was wholly drowned out
and silenced, and those people were laughing the very lungs out of
themselves. It was the most degrading sight that ever was. Now I heard
the clankety-clank that plate-armor makes when the man that is in it
is running, and then alongside my head there burst out the most inhuman
explosion of laughter that ever rent the drum of a person’s ear, and I
looked, and it was La Hire; and the stood there with his gauntlets on
his hips and his head tilted back and his jaws spread to that degree
to let out his hurricanes and his thunders that it amounted to indecent
exposure, for you could see everything that was in him. Only one thing
more and worse could happen, and it happened: at the other door I
saw the flurry and bustle and bowings and scrapings of officials and
flunkeys which means that some great personage is coming—then Joan
of Arc stepped in, and the house rose! Yes, and tried to shut its
indecorous mouth and make itself grave and proper; but when it saw
the Maid herself go to laughing, it thanked God for this mercy and the
earthquake that followed.
Such things make a life of bitterness, and I do not wish to dwell upon
them. The effect of the poem was spoiled.