THE DAYS began to waste away—and nothing decided, nothing done. The army
was full of zeal, but it was also hungry. It got no pay, the treasury
was getting empty, it was becoming impossible to feed it; under pressure
of privation it began to fall apart and disperse—which pleased the
trifling court exceedingly. Joan’s distress was pitiful to see. She was
obliged to stand helpless while her victorious army dissolved away until
hardly the skeleton of it was left.
At last one day she went to the Castle of Loches, where the King was
idling. She found him consulting with three of his councilors, Robert le
Maton, a former Chancellor of France, Christophe d’Harcourt, and Gerard
Machet. The Bastard of Orleans was present also, and it is through him
that we know what happened. Joan threw herself at the King’s feet and
embraced his knees, saying:
“Noble Dauphin, prithee hold no more of these long and numerous
councils, but come, and come quickly, to Rheims and receive your crown.”
Christophe d’Harcourt asked:
“Is it your Voices that command you to say that to the King?”
“Yes, and urgently.”
“Then will you not tell us in the King’s presence in what way the Voices
communicate with you?”
It was another sly attempt to trap Joan into indiscreet admissions and
dangerous pretensions. But nothing came of it. Joan’s answer was simple
and straightforward, and the smooth Bishop was not able to find any
fault with it. She said that when she met with people who doubted the
truth of her mission she went aside and prayed, complaining of the
distrust of these, and then the comforting Voices were heard at her
ear saying, soft and low, “Go forward, Daughter of God, and I will help
thee.” Then she added, “When I hear that, the joy in my heart, oh, it is
insupportable!”
The Bastard said that when she said these words her face lit up as with
a flame, and she was like one in an ecstasy.
Joan pleaded, persuaded, reasoned; gaining ground little by little, but
opposed step by step by the council. She begged, she implored, leave to
march. When they could answer nothing further, they granted that perhaps
it had been a mistake to let the army waste away, but how could we help
it now? how could we march without an army?
“Raise one!” said Joan.
“But it will take six weeks.”
“No matter—begin! let us begin!”
“It is too late. Without doubt the Duke of Bedford has been gathering
troops to push to the succor of his strongholds on the Loire.”
“Yes, while we have been disbanding ours—and pity ’tis. But we must
throw away no more time; we must bestir ourselves.”
The King objected that he could not venture toward Rheims with those
strong places on the Loire in his path. But Joan said:
“We will break them up. Then you can march.”
With that plan the King was willing to venture assent. He could sit
around out of danger while the road was being cleared.
Joan came back in great spirits. Straightway everything was stirring.
Proclamations were issued calling for men, a recruiting-camp was
established at Selles in Berry, and the commons and the nobles began to
flock to it with enthusiasm.
A deal of the month of May had been wasted; and yet by the 6th of June
Joan had swept together a new army and was ready to march. She had eight
thousand men. Think of that. Think of gathering together such a body
as that in that little region. And these were veteran soldiers, too. In
fact, most of the men in France were soldiers, when you came to that;
for the wars had lasted generations now. Yes, most Frenchmen were
soldiers; and admirable runners, too, both by practice and inheritance;
they had done next to nothing but run for near a century. But that was
not their fault. They had had no fair and proper leadership—at least
leaders with a fair and proper chance. Away back, King and Court got the
habit of being treacherous to the leaders; then the leaders easily
got the habit of disobeying the King and going their own way, each for
himself and nobody for the lot. Nobody could win victories that way.
Hence, running became the habit of the French troops, and no wonder. Yet
all that those troops needed in order to be good fighters was a leader
who would attend strictly to business—a leader with all authority in his
hands in place of a tenth of it along with nine other generals equipped
with an equal tenth apiece. They had a leader rightly clothed with
authority now, and with a head and heart bent on war of the most
intensely businesslike and earnest sort—and there would be results. No
doubt of that. They had Joan of Arc; and under that leadership their
legs would lose the art and mystery of running.
Yes, Joan was in great spirits. She was here and there and everywhere,
all over the camp, by day and by night, pushing things. And wherever she
came charging down the lines, reviewing the troops, it was good to hear
them break out and cheer. And nobody could help cheering, she was such
a vision of young bloom and beauty and grace, and such an incarnation of
pluck and life and go! she was growing more and more ideally beautiful
every day, as was plain to be seen—and these were days of development;
for she was well past seventeen now—in fact, she was getting close upon
seventeen and a half—indeed, just a little woman, as you may say.
The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day—fine young fellows allied
to the greatest and most illustrious houses of France; and they could
not rest till they had seen Joan of Arc. So the King sent for them and
presented them to her, and you may believe she filled the bill of their
expectations. When they heard that rich voice of hers they must have
thought it was a flute; and when they saw her deep eyes and her face,
and the soul that looked out of that face, you could see that the sight
of her stirred them like a poem, like lofty eloquence, like martial
music. One of them wrote home to his people, and in his letter he said,
“It seemed something divine to see her and hear her.” Ah, yes, and it
was a true word. Truer word was never spoken.
He saw her when she was ready to begin her march and open the campaign,
and this is what he said about it:
“She was clothed all in white armor save her head, and in her hand she
carried a little battle-ax; and when she was ready to mount her great
black horse he reared and plunged and would not let her. Then she said,
‘Lead him to the cross.’ This cross was in front of the church close by.
So they led him there. Then she mounted, and he never budged, any more
than if he had been tied. Then she turned toward the door of the church
and said, in her soft womanly voice, ‘You, priests and people of the
Church, make processions and pray to God for us!’ Then she spurred
away, under her standard, with her little ax in her hand, crying
‘Forward—march!’ One of her brothers, who came eight days ago, departed
with her; and he also was clad all in white armor.”
I was there, and I saw it, too; saw it all, just as he pictures it.
And I see it yet—the little battle-ax, the dainty plumed cap, the
white armor—all in the soft June afternoon; I see it just as if it were
yesterday. And I rode with the staff—the personal staff—the staff of
Joan of Arc.
That young count was dying to go, too, but the King held him back for
the present. But Joan had made him a promise. In his letter he said:
“She told me that when the King starts for Rheims I shall go with him.
But God grant I may not have to wait till then, but may have a part in
the battles!”
She made him that promise when she was taking leave of my lady the
Duchess d’Alencon. The duchess was exacting a promise, so it seemed a
proper time for others to do the like. The duchess was troubled for her
husband, for she foresaw desperate fighting; and she held Joan to her
breast, and stroked her hair lovingly, and said:
“You must watch over him, dear, and take care of him, and send him
back to me safe. I require it of you; I will not let you go till you
promise.”
Joan said:
“I give you the promise with all my heart; and it is not just words, it
is a promise; you shall have him back without a hurt. Do you believe?
And are you satisfied with me now?”
The duchess could not speak, but she kissed Joan on the forehead; and so
they parted.
We left on the 6th and stopped over at Romorantin; then on the 9th Joan
entered Orleans in state, under triumphal arches, with the welcoming
cannon thundering and seas of welcoming flags fluttering in the breeze.
The Grand Staff rode with her, clothed in shining splendors of costume
and decorations: the Duke d’Alencon; the Bastard of Orleans; the Sire
de Boussac, Marshal of France; the Lord de Granville, Master of the
Crossbowmen; the Sire de Culan, Admiral of France; Ambroise de Lor;
Etienne de Vignoles, called La Hire; Gautier de Brusac, and other
illustrious captains.
It was grand times; the usual shoutings and packed multitudes, the usual
crush to get sight of Joan; but at last we crowded through to our old
lodgings, and I saw old Boucher and the wife and that dear Catherine
gather Joan to their hearts and smother her with kisses—and my heart
ached for her so! for I could have kissed Catherine better than anybody,
and more and longer; yet was not thought of for that office, and I so
famished for it. Ah, she was so beautiful, and oh, so sweet! I had loved
her the first day I ever saw her, and from that day forth she was sacred
to me. I have carried her image in my heart for sixty-three years—all
lonely thee, yes, solitary, for it never has had company—and I am grown
so old, so old; but it, oh, it is as fresh and young and merry and
mischievous and lovely and sweet and pure and witching and divine as
it was when it crept in there, bringing benediction and peace to its
habitation so long ago, so long ago—for it has not aged a day!