IN THE earliest dawn of morning, Talbot and his English forces evacuated
their bastilles and marched away, not stopping to burn, destroy, or
carry off anything, but leaving their fortresses just as they were,
provisioned, armed, and equipped for a long siege. It was difficult for
the people to believe that this great thing had really happened; that
they were actually free once more, and might go and come through any
gate they pleased, with none to molest or forbid; that the terrible
Talbot, that scourge of the French, that man whose mere name had been
able to annul the effectiveness of French armies, was gone, vanished,
retreating—driven away by a girl.
The city emptied itself. Out of every gate the crowds poured. They
swarmed about the English bastilles like an invasion of ants, but
noisier than those creatures, and carried off the artillery and stores,
then turned all those dozen fortresses into monster bonfires, imitation
volcanoes whose lofty columns of thick smoke seemed supporting the arch
of the sky.
The delight of the children took another form. To some of the younger
ones seven months was a sort of lifetime. They had forgotten what
grass was like, and the velvety green meadows seemed paradise to their
surprised and happy eyes after the long habit of seeing nothing but
dirty lanes and streets. It was a wonder to them—those spacious reaches
of open country to run and dance and tumble and frolic in, after their
dull and joyless captivity; so they scampered far and wide over the fair
regions on both sides of the river, and came back at eventide weary,
but laden with flowers and flushed with new health drawn from the fresh
country air and the vigorous exercise.
After the burnings, the grown folk followed Joan from church to church
and put in the day in thanksgivings for the city’s deliverance, and at
night they feted her and her generals and illuminated the town, and high
and low gave themselves up to festivities and rejoicings. By the time
the populace were fairly in bed, toward dawn, we were in the saddle and
away toward Tours to report to the King.
That was a march which would have turned any one’s head but Joan’s. We
moved between emotional ranks of grateful country-people all the way.
They crowded about Joan to touch her feet, her horse, her armor, and
they even knelt in the road and kissed her horse’s hoof-prints.
The land was full of her praises. The most illustrious chiefs of the
church wrote to the King extolling the Maid, comparing her to the
saints and heroes of the Bible, and warning him not to let “unbelief,
ingratitude, or other injustice” hinder or impair the divine help sent
through her. One might think there was a touch of prophecy in that,
and we will let it go at that; but to my mind it had its inspiration
in those great men’s accurate knowledge of the King’s trivial and
treacherous character.
The King had come to Tours to meet Joan. At the present day this poor
thing is called Charles the Victorious, on account of victories which
other people won for him, but in our time we had a private name for
him which described him better, and was sanctified to him by personal
deserving—Charles the Base. When we entered the presence he sat throned,
with his tinseled snobs and dandies around him. He looked like a forked
carrot, so tightly did his clothing fit him from his waist down; he wore
shoes with a rope-like pliant toe a foot long that had to be hitched up
to the knee to keep it out of the way; he had on a crimson velvet cape
that came no lower than his elbows; on his head he had a tall felt thing
like a thimble, with a feather it its jeweled band that stuck up like a
pen from an inkhorn, and from under that thimble his bush of stiff hair
stuck down to his shoulders, curving outward at the bottom, so that
the cap and the hair together made the head like a shuttlecock. All the
materials of his dress were rich, and all the colors brilliant. In his
lap he cuddled a miniature greyhound that snarled, lifting its lip and
showing its white teeth whenever any slight movement disturbed it. The
King’s dandies were dressed in about the same fashion as himself,
and when I remembered that Joan had called the war-council of Orleans
“disguised ladies’ maids,” it reminded me of people who squander all
their money on a trifle and then haven’t anything to invest when they
come across a better chance; that name ought to have been saved for
these creatures.
Joan fell on her knees before the majesty of France, and the other
frivolous animal in his lap—a sight which it pained me to see. What
had that man done for his country or for anybody in it, that she or any
other person should kneel to him? But she—she had just done the only
great deed that had been done for France in fifty years, and had
consecrated it with the libation of her blood. The positions should have
been reversed.
However, to be fair, one must grant that Charles acquitted himself very
well for the most part, on that occasion—very much better than he was
in the habit of doing. He passed his pup to a courtier, and took off his
cap to Joan as if she had been a queen. Then he stepped from his throne
and raised her, and showed quite a spirited and manly joy and gratitude
in welcoming her and thanking her for her extraordinary achievement
in his service. My prejudices are of a later date than that. If he had
continued as he was at that moment, I should not have acquired them.
He acted handsomely. He said:
“You shall not kneel to me, my matchless General; you have wrought
royally, and royal courtesies are your due.” Noticing that she was pale,
he said, “But you must not stand; you have lost blood for France, and
your wound is yet green—come.” He led her to a seat and sat down by her.
“Now, then, speak out frankly, as to one who owes you much and freely
confesses it before all this courtly assemblage. What shall be your
reward? Name it.”
I was ashamed of him. And yet that was not fair, for how could he be
expected to know this marvelous child in these few weeks, when we who
thought we had known her all her life were daily seeing the clouds
uncover some new altitudes of her character whose existence was not
suspected by us before? But we are all that way: when we know a thing we
have only scorn for other people who don’t happen to know it. And I was
ashamed of these courtiers, too, for the way they licked their chops,
so to speak, as envying Joan her great chance, they not knowing her any
better than the King did. A blush began to rise in Joan’s cheeks at the
thought that she was working for her country for pay, and she dropped
her head and tried to hide her face, as girls always do when they find
themselves blushing; no one knows why they do, but they do, and the more
they blush the more they fail to get reconciled to it, and the more they
can’t bear to have people look at them when they are doing it. The King
made it a great deal worse by calling attention to it, which is the
unkindest thing a person can do when a girl is blushing; sometimes, when
there is a big crowd of strangers, it is even likely to make her cry if
she is as young as Joan was. God knows the reason for this, it is hidden
from men. As for me, I would as soon blush as sneeze; in fact, I would
rather. However, these meditations are not of consequence: I will go
on with what I was saying. The King rallied her for blushing, and this
brought up the rest of the blood and turned her face to fire. Then he
was sorry, seeing what he had done, and tried to make her comfortable by
saying the blush was exceeding becoming to her and not to mind it—which
caused even the dog to notice it now, so of course the red in Joan’s
face turned to purple, and the tears overflowed and ran down—I could
have told anybody that that would happen. The King was distressed, and
saw that the best thing to do would be to get away from this subject,
so he began to say the finest kind of things about Joan’s capture of
the Tourelles, and presently when she was more composed he mentioned the
reward again and pressed her to name it. Everybody listened with anxious
interest to hear what her claim was going to be, but when her answer
came their faces showed that the thing she asked for was not what they
had been expecting.
“Oh, dear and gracious Dauphin, I have but one desire—only one. If—”
“Do not be afraid, my child—name it.”
“That you will not delay a day. My army is strong and valiant, and eager
to finish its work—march with me to Rheims and receive your crown.” You
could see the indolent King shrink, in his butterfly clothes.
“To Rheims—oh, impossible, my General! We march through the heart of
England’s power?”
Could those be French faces there? Not one of them lighted in response
to the girl’s brave proposition, but all promptly showed satisfaction in
the King’s objection. Leave this silken idleness for the rude contact of
war? None of these butterflies desired that. They passed their jeweled
comfit-boxes one to another and whispered their content in the head
butterfly’s practical prudence. Joan pleaded with the King, saying:
“Ah, I pray you do not throw away this perfect opportunity. Everything
is favorable—everything. It is as if the circumstances were specially
made for it. The spirits of our army are exalted with victory, those of
the English forces depressed by defeat. Delay will change this. Seeing
us hesitate to follow up our advantage, our men will wonder, doubt, lose
confidence, and the English will wonder, gather courage, and be bold
again. Now is the time—pritheee let us march!”
The King shook his head, and La Tremouille, being asked for an opinion,
eagerly furnished it:
“Sire, all prudence is against it. Think of the English strongholds
along the Loire; think of those that lie between us and Rheims!”
He was going on, but Joan cut him short, and said, turning to him:
“If we wait, they will all be strengthened, reinforced. Will that
advantage us?”
“Why—no.”
“Then what is your suggestion?—what is it that you would propose to do?”
“My judgment is to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
The minister was obliged to hesitate, for he knew of no explanation that
would sound well. Moreover, he was not used to being catechized in this
fashion, with the eyes of a crowd of people on him, so he was irritated,
and said:
“Matters of state are not proper matters for public discussion.”
Joan said placidly:
“I have to beg your pardon. My trespass came of ignorance. I did not
know that matters connected with your department of the government were
matters of state.”
The minister lifted his brows in amused surprise, and said, with a touch
of sarcasm:
“I am the King’s chief minister, and yet you had the impression that
matters connected with my department are not matters of state? Pray, how
is that?”
Joan replied, indifferently:
“Because there is no state.”
“No state!”
“No, sir, there is no state, and no use for a minister. France is shrunk
to a couple of acres of ground; a sheriff’s constable could take care of
it; its affairs are not matters of state. The term is too large.”
The King did not blush, but burst into a hearty, careless laugh, and the
court laughed too, but prudently turned its head and did it silently. La
Tremouille was angry, and opened his mouth to speak, but the King put up
his hand, and said:
“There—I take her under the royal protection. She has spoken the truth,
the ungilded truth—how seldom I hear it! With all this tinsel on me and
all this tinsel about me, I am but a sheriff after all—a poor shabby
two-acre sheriff—and you are but a constable,” and he laughed his
cordial laugh again. “Joan, my frank, honest General, will you name your
reward? I would ennoble you. You shall quarter the crown and the lilies
of France for blazon, and with them your victorious sword to defend
them—speak the word.”
It made an eager buzz of surprise and envy in the assemblage, but Joan
shook her head and said:
“Ah, I cannot, dear and noble Dauphin. To be allowed to work for France,
to spend one’s self for France, is itself so supreme a reward that
nothing can add to it—nothing. Give me the one reward I ask, the dearest
of all rewards, the highest in your gift—march with me to Rheims and
receive your crown. I will beg it on my knees.”
But the King put his hand on her arm, and there was a really brave
awakening in his voice and a manly fire in his eye when he said:
“No, sit. You have conquered me—it shall be as you—”
But a warning sign from his minister halted him, and he added, to the
relief of the court:
“Well, well, we will think of it, we will think it over and see. Does
that content you, impulsive little soldier?”
The first part of the speech sent a glow of delight to Joan’s face, but
the end of it quenched it and she looked sad, and the tears gathered
in her eyes. After a moment she spoke out with what seemed a sort of
terrified impulse, and said:
“Oh, use me; I beseech you, use me—there is but little time!”
“But little time?”
“Only a year—I shall last only a year.”
“Why, child, there are fifty good years in that compact little body
yet.”
“Oh, you err, indeed you do. In one little year the end will come. Ah,
the time is so short, so short; the moments are flying, and so much to
be done. Oh, use me, and quickly—it is life or death for France.”
Even those insects were sobered by her impassioned words. The King
looked very grave—grave, and strongly impressed. His eyes lit suddenly
with an eloquent fire, and he rose and drew his sword and raised it
aloft; then he brought it slowly down upon Joan’s shoulder and said:
“Ah, thou art so simple, so true, so great, so noble—and by this
accolade I join thee to the nobility of France, thy fitting place! And
for thy sake I do hereby ennoble all thy family and all thy kin; and all
their descendants born in wedlock, not only in the male but also in the
female line. And more!—more! To distinguish thy house and honor it
above all others, we add a privilege never accorded to any before in the
history of these dominions: the females of thy line shall have and hold
the right to ennoble their husbands when these shall be of inferior
degree.” [Astonishment and envy flared up in every countenance when the
words were uttered which conferred this extraordinary grace. The
King paused and looked around upon these signs with quite evident
satisfaction.] “Rise, Joan of Arc, now and henceforth surnamed Du Lis,
in grateful acknowledgment of the good blow which you have struck
for the lilies of France; and they, and the royal crown, and your own
victorious sword, fit and fair company for each other, shall be grouped
in you escutcheon and be and remain the symbol of your high nobility
forever.”
As my Lady Du Lis rose, the gilded children of privilege pressed forward
to welcome her to their sacred ranks and call her by her new name; but
she was troubled, and said these honors were not meet for one of her
lowly birth and station, and by their kind grace she would remain simple
Joan of Arc, nothing more—and so be called.
Nothing more! As if there could be anything more, anything higher,
anything greater. My Lady Du Lis—why, it was tinsel, petty, perishable.
But, JOAN OF ARC! The mere sound of it sets one’s pulses leaping.