THE AFTERMATH
"_Sweet she is in words and deeds,
Fair and white as the white rose._"
"_La Mystere du Siege d'Orleans._"
There was anguish in the eyes of Isabeau Romee as she crossed the
drawbridge from the castle, and went slowly with her children to the
ruined village. Other women about her wept, or gave vent to their despair
in loud outcries; hers was the deeper grief that knows not tears.
And in what a state of desolation was the hamlet and its surroundings!
The men-at-arms had plundered, ravaged, and burnt. Unable to exact ransom
from the inhabitants, because of their timely arrival at the castle, it
was evidently the design of the marauders to destroy what they could not
carry off. The newly sown fields were trampled; the blossoming orchards
blasted; those houses that had been rescued from the flames were badly
damaged, and the entire village and its neighbour, Greux, had been sacked
and pillaged. Upon what were the people to live? That was the question
that confronted them. Jacques D'Arc came to his wife as she stood in
front of their cottage.
"The house still remains to us, Isabeau," he said comfortingly. "The roof
can be thatched so that we can soon be in it again. We will send to our
market town of Neufchateau for bread and grain. Did you look well to the
money?"
"Yes, Jacques." Isabeau took a bag from the folds of her gown, and handed
it to him. It contained a small sum of money hoarded against just such an
emergency as the present. Her husband took it with brightening
countenance.
"Come now, 'tis not so bad," he said. "We will send at once for the
grain, that the fields may be resown without delay; and for bread that we
may live. We shall do well."
"Yes," agreed his wife, but she looked at her children. And then, as
though with that look her woe must forth, she turned upon him in a
passionate outburst: "In all your life, Jacques, in all my life we have
known naught but war. Must my children too live always in the midst of
strife? Must they too sow for soldiers to reap? Build, for men-at-arms to
burn? Be hunted like wild beasts, and killed if they cannot pay ransom?
Must they too count on nothing; neither their goods, nor their lives? Oh,
Jacques, must France always be torn by war?"
"You are beside yourself with sorrow, Isabeau," chided Jacques but the
gentleness of his tone took away the sting of the words. "'Tis no time to
give way now. There is much to be done. We can but take up our burden,
and do the best we can. With God lies the issue."
"True, Jacques, true." Isabeau pulled herself together sharply. "You are
right; 'tis no time for grief. There is indeed much to be done. Jeanne,
do you take your little sister, and care for her while I see if aught of
our stores has been overlooked. Many will there be for whom provision
must be made."
With this the brave woman gave the little Catherine into Jeanne's
keeping, while she went into the cottage. Resolutely winking back her own
tears Jeanne took the weeping little girl to a tree, and sat down under
it, drawing the child into her lap. Pierre followed her, Jacquemin and
Jean going with their father to help him. Soon Mengette and Hauviette
joined the D'Arc children, and presently all the boys and girls of the
village found their way there, comforting each other and the little ones
in their charge in whispers. Childhood is elastic, and soon under the
familiar companionship fright wore away, and the young folks began to
relate their experiences in subdued but excited tones.
"I saw a black Burgundian as big as a giant," declared Colin. "Had I had
a crossbow and bolt I would have killed him."
"Pouf! You were afraid just as the rest of us were," uttered Pierre
scornfully. "Why, even the men did not try to fight, so many were the
enemy. And if they could do naught neither could you."
"The men could not fight without weapons, Pierre," spoke Jeanne quickly.
"They had none in the fields."
"Myself, I shall be a man-at-arms," went on Colin boastingly. "I shall
wear armour, and ride a horse; and I shall go into France to help drive
the Godons[4] out of it."
Jeanne looked at him with sparkling eyes.
"Yes," she cried eagerly. "'Tis what should be done. Oh! I would like to
go too. Why do they not stay in their own country?"
"You?" Colin began to laugh. "You are a girl, Jeanne D'Arc, and girls go
not to war. They can not fight."
"I could." A resolute light came into the little maid's eyes, and her
lips set in a firm line. "I know I could." At this the others joined
Colin in his laughter, and the boy cried gaily:
"I should like to see you. Oh, wouldn't the Godons run when they saw
you?"
Jeanne opened her lips to reply, but just then she heard the voice of her
mother calling to her. So, shaking her finger at Colin, she rose
obediently and went toward the cottage. Near the door stood her father
gazing intently at a long rod that he held in his hand. So absorbed was
he that he did not heed her approach. The little girl touched him lightly
on the arm.
"What is it, father?" she asked gently. "Are you grieving over the cattle
and the goods?"
Her father looked up with a start.
"I grieve, yes, my little one. But 'tis not so much about present ills as
a future burden which we must bear. I know not how it is to be met. This
rod, as you know, is the taille stick, and in July comes the tax which I
must collect from Domremy and Greux. I like not to think about it, so
heavy will it seem after the misfortune that has come upon these two
villages."
There were many duties that fell to the village elder (doyen), especially
in troubled times. It was for him to summon the mayor and the aldermen to
the council meetings, to cry the decrees, to command the watch day and
night, to guard the prisoners. It was for him also to collect taxes,
rents, and feudal dues. An ungrateful office at any time, but one that
would be doubly so in a ruined country. Jeanne knew that it was her
father's duty to collect the taxes, but she had not known that it might
be a distasteful task. Now she looked curiously at the stick.
"Why does it have the notches upon it, father?" she asked.
"'Tis to show the amount due, my little one. There are two tailles:[5] la
taille seigneuriale, which is paid serfs to their lord; and la taille
royale, which is paid to the King. We, being directly subject to the
King, pay la taille royale. The gentle Dauphin has much need of money,
Sire Robert de Baudricourt of Vaucouleurs has told me. But the impost
will be hard to meet after what has befallen us." He sighed.
At this moment Jacques D'Arc was not a prepossessing sight. His clothes
were dusty and begrimed with soot; his face and hands were black; but
through the soot and grime shone the light of compassion for the burden
which the people would have to bear. Jeanne saw naught of the soiled
clothing or the blackened face and hands; she saw only that her father
was troubled beyond the loss of his goods and cattle. Quickly she threw
her arms about his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
"I would there were no tax, father," she said wistfully.
"I would so too, my little one," sighed he. "But there! wishing will not
make it so. You have comforted me, Jeanne. But your mother is calling.
Let us go to her."
With her hand in his they went into the house, where Jacques deposited the
stick in a corner. Isabeau met them, a pleased expression illuminating
her countenance.
"See," she cried, holding up a great loaf of black bread. "'Twas in the
back part of the oven where it was not seen. Take it to your playmates,
Jeanne, and give to each of them a piece of it. Children bear fasting but
ill, and it will be long ere we have bread from Neufchateau!"
Jeanne took the loaf gladly and hastened to her playmates. She knew that
they were hungry, for none of them had eaten since early morning. Her
appearance with the bread was greeted with cries of joy. Bread was a
commonplace the day before; now it had become something precious. So
little are blessings prized until they are gone.
The loaf was large, but even a large loaf divided into many pieces makes
small portions. These were eaten eagerly by the children, and the
youngest began to cry for more. Jeanne had foreseen that this would be
the case, so had not eaten her share.
Quietly now she divided it among the smallest tots, giving each a morsel.
Shamefacedly Pierre plucked her by the sleeve.
"You have had none," he remonstrated. "And I--I have eaten all that you
gave to me."
"That is well, Pierrelot." His sister smiled at him reassuringly. "I
shall eat when the bread comes from the market town. We must go to the
castle now. Mother said that we were to go there after we had eaten.
Every one is to sleep there to-night."
"But there are no beds," broke in Colin in an aggrieved tone.
"No, Colin; there are no beds, but even so floors are better than the
fields. There would be no safety outside the walls on account of the
wolves."
"Wolves?" Colin whitened perceptibly, and the children huddled closer
together. "I did not think of wolves. Is there in truth danger?"
"The men fear so, because some of the cattle and sheep were trampled to
death by the others, and their carcasses may draw them. We are to use the
castle until the houses are thatched."
The arrangements were as Jeanne had said. The nights were to be spent in
the safety of the castle's confines, while the days were to be devoted to
the rebuilding of the village, and the resowing of the fields. Thus did
the peasants with brave resignation once more take up their lives. For,
no matter how adverse Fate may be, life must be lived; misfortune must be
met and overcome.
And the times that followed were such as to try the endurance of the
unfortunate inhabitants of Domremy to the utmost. It was the season of
the year when there was a scarcity of provisions everywhere. From early
Spring until the reaping of the new crops the stock of food in a rural
community is at its lowest; so, though many villages of the valley shared
their stores with their unfortunate neighbors their own needs had to be
taken into consideration, therefore it came about that Famine reared his
ugly head in the linked villages of Greux and Domremy. Many of the
cruelly despoiled peasants died of hunger.
One day Jacques D'Arc gathered his family about him. They were in their
own home by this time, but its furnishings were of the rudest. Before
Jacques on the table lay a single loaf of bread, and by it stood a pail
of water. He looked at them sadly.
"'Tis our last loaf," he said, "and, of provision we have naught else. So
this is our last meal, for I know not where another can be forthcoming.
We will eat to-day; to-morrow we must do as we can. Take in thankfulness,
therefore, what lies before us."
With this he cut the loaf into seven parts, giving a portion to his wife
first, then one to each of his children except Jeanne. Hers he kept
beside his own. When all had been served he turned to her.
"Come here, my little one," he said.
Timidly, for there was something in his tone that she did not understand,
the little maid went to his side. Jacques encircled her with his arm.
"Have you broken your fast to-day, my child?"
Jeanne blushed, and hung her head as though guilty of wrong doing, but
did not reply.
"You have not," he asserted. "Yesterday Pierre saw you give all of your
portion to your sister. The day before you kept but a small part for
yourself, giving Catherine the rest. Is it not so?"
"Yes, father; but I go to the church and pray; then I do not need food."
Jeanne took courage as she told this, and raising her head looked at him
bravely. "I do not feel very hungry."
"Fasting is good for the soul, my child, but too much of it is ill for
the body. Stay, therefore, beside me that your father may see you eat
your share."
"But, father," she began protestingly. He interrupted her:
"Eat," he commanded. When Jacques spoke in that tone his children knew
that resistance was useless, so silently Jeanne ate her portion. Nor
would he permit her to leave his side until every crumb was swallowed.
She did not sit again at table, but went to the open door and gazed down
the highroad through tear-blinded eyes. Her heart was very full. Father
and child were in close accordance, and she knew that he suffered because
of his family's misery. So down the valley she gazed wishing that she
might do something to help him.
The valley had regained much of its loveliness. The trees had leaved
again; the fields were green with the new crops, and the gardens gave
promise of later abundance. There were still black gaps among the
dwellings, however; significant reminders of the visit of the marauders.
Suddenly as the little maid stood leaning against the door, something
down the road caused her to start violently, and lean forward eagerly.
"Father," she cried shrilly.
"Yes, Jeanne," he answered apathetically.
"There are cattle and sheep coming down the highroad. They look like
ours. What does it mean?"
Instantly Jacques sprang to his feet and hastened to the door. One look
and he gave a great shout.
"They are ours," he cried in ringing tones. "Friends, neighbours, come
and see! The cattle have come back."
From out of the cottages ran the people, incredulity turning to joy as
their sight verified Jacques' cry. The wildest excitement prevailed as
the flocks and herds in charge of a number of soldiers commanded by a
young man-at-arms drew near. From him they learned what had happened.
When the lady of the castle, she who had gone to live with her spouse at
the ducal court of Nancy, heard of the raid that had been made upon the
villages, she protested to her kinsman, the Count of Vaudemont, against
the wrong done to her, as she was the lady of Domremy and Greux.
Now the place to which the chief of the marauding band, Henri d'Orley,
had taken the cattle and plunder was the Chateau of Doulevant, which was
under the immediate suzerainty of the lady's kinsman. As soon, therefore,
as he received her message he sent a man-at-arms with soldiers to
recapture the animals and the booty. This was done; not, however, without
a fight, in which the young commander was victorious; and so he had
brought the cattle home.
With tears and cries of joy the husbandmen welcomed them. There was food
in plenty, too, so the village rejoiced, and life bade fair to be bright
once more. Only the wise ones shook their heads ominously. For were they
not likely to lose the beasts forever on the morrow?
Thus the days passed in the valley; nights of terror; dreams of horror;
with war everywhere around; but Jeanne grew and blossomed as the lily
grows from the muck of a swamp.
------
[4] Godons--A term applied to the English.
[5] From this word we have the English term "tally."