A TRYING TIME
"_A Prophet is not without honour, save in his own
country, and in his own house._"
ST. MATTHEW 13:57.
At the end of the week Lassois took Jeanne home. It was a return fraught
with unpleasantness.
The girl's visit to Sire Robert and her claim that she would lead the
Dauphin to his anointing had been discussed and made a matter of sport by
the soldiers of the garrison. From them it passed to the townspeople;
from the townspeople to the country, and thence to Domremy. The whole
valley buzzed with talk of it. Jacques heard the gossip in a passion of
shame and anger. Therefore, when Lassois and his daughter entered the
cottage he met them with scowling brow.
"What is this that I hear about your visiting Sire Robert de Baudricourt?"
he demanded of Jeanne wrathfully. "Why did you go there? What business
had you with him?"
Jeanne faced him bravely.
"I had to go," she told him calmly. "It was commanded. Sire Robert has
been appointed to give me men-at-arms to take me to the Dauphin that I
may lead him to his anointing. I am to save France, father. It is so
commanded by Messire, the King of Heaven."
Her father's jaw dropped. He stood staring at her for a long moment, then
turned to his wife with a groan.
"She is out of her senses, Isabeau," he cried. "Our daughter's wits are
wandering. This comes of so much church going and prayer. I will have no
more of it."
"Shame upon you, Jacques, for speaking against the church," exclaimed
Isabeau. "Say rather it hath come from the tales of bloodshed she hath
heard. Too many have been told about the fireside. 'Tis talk, talk of the
war all the time. I warned you of it."
"Whatever be the cause I will have no more of it," reiterated Jacques
with vehemence. "Nay; nor will I have any more going to Vaucouleurs, nor
talk of seeking the Dauphin. Do you hear, Jeanne?"
"Yes, father," she answered quietly. "I grieve to go against your will,
but I must do the work the Lord has appointed. Let me tell you--"
"Naught! You shall tell me naught," cried Jacques almost beside himself
with rage. "Go to your room, and stay there for the rest of the day. And
hark ye all!" including his wife and sons in a wide sweeping gesture,
"wherever Jeanne goes one of you must be with her. See to it. At any time
she may go off with some roaming band of Free Lances. Rather than have
that happen I would rather she were dead." He turned upon Lassois
fiercely as Jeanne, weeping bitterly at his harsh words, obediently
withdrew into her own little room.
"And you, Lassois! why did you not keep her from going to Vaucouleurs?
You knew that I would not like it. You knew also that it would cause
talk. Why, why did you permit it?"
"Aye, I knew all that, Jacques," responded Lassois, shifting uneasily
from one foot to the other. "But Jeanne really believed that she had
received a divine command to go to Sire Robert. So believing, she would
have gone to him in spite of all that I could have done. Therefore, was
it not better that I should take her?"
"Durand speaks truly, Jacques," spoke Isabeau. "The child is clearly
daft. I have heard that such are always set in their fancies. What is
past, is past. She has been to Vaucouleurs; therefore, it can not be
undone. What remains to be done is to guard against any future
wanderings." The mother was as greatly distressed as the father, but out
of sympathy for his woe she forced herself to speak of the occurrence
with calmness.
"True," muttered Jacques. "True. No doubt you could not do other than you
did, Durand; but I wonder that you did it."
"Jeanne does not seem out of her senses to me," observed Lassois. "There
is a saying, as you well know, that a maid from the Bois Chesnu shall
redeem France. It might be she as well as another. She is holy enough."
"Pouf!" Jacques snapped his fingers derisively. "It is as Isabeau says:
she has heard too much of the state of the realm, and of the wonderful
Maid who is to restore it. The country is full of the talk. It could not
mean her. She is but a peasant girl, and when hath a villein's daughter
ever ridden a horse, or couched a lance? Let her keep to her station.
Don't let such wild talk addle your wits, too, Durand. Now tell me
everything that occurred at Vaucouleurs. The village rings with the
affair. I want the whole truth."
Lassois did as requested, and told all of the happening. Finding the
girl's parents so incredulous concerning her mission had somewhat shaken
his belief in his niece, but the germ that remained caused him to soften
the narrative a little. Jacques heard him through in silence. When Durand
had finished the telling he bowed his head upon his arms as though the
recital were beyond his strength to bear.
He was an upright man, just and honorable in his dealings with others. He
stood well in the village, being esteemed next to the mayor himself. He
was fond of his children, and had looked after their upbringing strictly.
He wanted nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual, nothing but what
was conventional and right to occur among them. He did not believe that
his daughter had received a divine command. He did not know of her
Heavenly visitants, nor would he have believed in them had he known. He
thought that someway, somehow, she had become imbued with a wild fancy to
be among men-at-arms; that, in consequence, she might become a worthless
creature. The mere idea was agony. After a time he raised his head to ask
brokenly,
"She told the Sire Captain that she would come again, Durand?"
"Yes, Jacques. She believes that she has been commanded so to do. She
told you that; and whatever Jeanne thinks is the will of God that she
will do."
"She deludes herself," spoke the father shortly, detecting the hint of
faith underlying Lassois' tone. "Think you that the Governor would listen
to her if she were to go to him again?"
Lassois reflected.
"No," he said presently. "I think he will not pay any attention to her."
Jacques brightened. "That is well," he nodded. "She shall not go if I can
prevent it. She shall be guarded well. I shall see to it."
Thereafter a strict watch was kept upon Jeanne's every movement. One of
her brothers, or Jacques D'Arc himself, was always with her. Instead of
the tenderness that her father had always shown toward her there was now
harshness and severity. Her mother too, though far from being cruel, was
querulous and often spoke sharply to her. Isabeau knew her child's pure
heart too well to believe that the girl was actuated by any but the
highest motives. She did think, however, that the child's wits wandered,
though the maiden performed her customary duties with care and exactness,
and was worried and distressed in consequence.
In the village Jeanne found herself avoided. With the exception of
Mengette and Hauviette her friends shunned her. The little hamlet was in
a ferment of tattle. Whenever she appeared in any of the narrow streets
heads were bent together and fingers pointed mockingly. Often the
whispers reached her.
"There goes she who is to save France."
"Jeanne D'Arc says she is to lead the Dauphin to his anointing."
It was a trying time. Jeanne often shed tears over the jeers and taunts,
but she wept in secret. Outwardly serene she submitted meekly to the
espionage of her own people, and to the gibes of her neighbors. Had it
not been for the consolation received from "Her Voices," life would have
been unendurable.
"Be patient, Daughter of God," they said. "It will not be long. All will
be well. Thy time will come soon."
"Your father grieves over you, Jeanne," spoke Isabeau one day after
Jacques, stung beyond endurance by some remark he had heard against his
daughter, was taking her severely to task. "He is cut to the heart that
you should have gone to Vaucouleurs, and by your talk of the Dauphin. You
must not be angry with him."
"I am not, mother," said the maiden sadly. "I know that he does not
understand. Nor do you; but you will--in time." She loved her parents
dearly, and excused their rigorousness because she knew that they did not
believe in her inspiration. Often had she tried to explain matters, but
they would not listen.
"We understand only too well, little one," responded Isabeau. "Jacques
fears that you are bent upon seeking Sire Robert again. I have told him
that you will not." She gave Jeanne a questioning glance as she finished
speaking.
"I must, mother. It is commanded."
"Jeanne, give o'er such talk," exclaimed her mother sharply. "Where did
you get such notions? The neighbors say that you got your affliction at
l'Arbre-des-Fees. That you have been seen there alone, bewreathing the
tree with garlands, and that while so doing you met a wicked fairy who
was your fate. Is it true?"
"If there be fairies, mother, I have never seen them, and not in years
have I carried wreaths to l'Arbre-des-Fees. I used to go there on Laetare
Sunday with the boys and girls, but I go no longer. As to flowers,
mother; I carry them only to the altar of Our Lady of Belmont, or offer
them here to the Saints."
"There is naught but good in that, so what makes the people talk so?"
ejaculated the mother fretfully. "If you would but give up your talk of
helping the Dauphin this tittle-tattle might be stopped. As it is,
Jacques is distressed that you are so obdurate. He spoke to the Cure
about exorcising you for the evil spirit."
"Mother, did my father do that?" exclaimed the girl, the tears springing
to her eyes.
"Oh, it is not to be." The good dame herself had not approved this
measure. She was in truth almost as much exercised over her husband as
she was over her daughter. "Messire Guillaume Frontey would not hear of
it, saying, that whatever might be the state of your wits your soul was
as pure as a lily, because he confessed you almost daily. I advised
Jacques--" Isabeau paused and subjected her daughter to a keen scrutiny,
scarcely knowing how to proceed. She was in truth puzzled and a little
awed by Jeanne's new attitude and demeanor. Presently she continued
abruptly:
"I was married when I was your age, Jeanne."
"Were you, mother?" A slight smile stirred the corners of the girl's
mouth. She saw what was coming.
"Yes; and Mengette hath been betrothed since Eastertide. She is to be
married after the harvest."
"She told me, mother."
"And of all of the girls of your age you and Hauviette alone remain
unplighted. Hauviette hath the excuse of being a little young, but
you--you are sixteen, and quite old enough for a home and a husband,
Jeanne."
"Mother!" There was such appeal in the maiden's voice that Isabeau,
deeming it caused by the suddenness of the announcement, turned quickly
with outstretched hands. "You must not talk of marriage to me. I shall
remain unwed until my task is finished. I have vowed it to 'My Voices.'"
"Pouf, child! A home of your own, and a husband to look after will soon
make you forget such notions, and so I told Jacques. Come now, be
reasonable! I know some one who would gladly provide such a home. Let--"
"While France writhes in agony under the heel of the invader there shall
be no marriage for me," spoke Jeanne firmly, turning to leave the room.
"Nathless, whether you like it or not, you shall be married," cried
Isabeau, nettled by the girl's words. "Your father has determined on it.
Your plighted husband comes this evening to see you."
Jeanne stood aghast. She had not dreamed that her parents would go so
far. She stood for a moment without speaking, then she said quietly:
"My faith is plighted to none but my Lord. No man has it, nor shall have
it until Messire's mission is completed. 'Tis useless to speak of it."
Again she started to leave the room.
"Nathless, Colin de Greux will be here this evening," exclaimed Isabeau
thoroughly out of patience.
Colin? The merry nature that lay under Jeanne's gravity surged upward,
and a twinkle came into her eyes. All at once she laughed outright. Her
mother glanced at her quickly, surprised and relieved.
"There! That's better," she said. "He will be here after supper,
Jeanne."
"It matters not, mother."
Isabeau's relief changed to perplexity at the words. There was something
in the tone that did not satisfy her, but as it was nearer to an
affirmative than she had hoped for she was fain to make the best of the
matter; so made no further remark.
Colin de Greux came with the evening. He had grown tall with the years,
and was not ill looking. He was still the same easy-going, lumbering,
dull sort of fellow whose good opinion of himself rendered him impervious
to rebuffs or coldness. He was not the youth that ordinarily Isabeau
would have chosen for her child, but Jeanne had never encouraged
attentions from the village lads, who now fought shy of her because of
her extreme piety. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Jacques
and Isabeau judged that marriage even with Colin was better than the
fancies that filled their daughter's mind. Beside, where another might be
easily repulsed Colin could be induced to continue his wooing. Jeanne saw
through this reasoning. She determined to make short shrift of Colin.
When the evening came, therefore, she took a hoe and went into the
garden. Colin found her there industriously at work among the artichokes.
"How do you do, Jeanne?" he said sheepishly.
"Very well indeed, Colin." Jeanne wielded the hoe vigorously, and gave no
indication of quitting her seemingly absorbing task.
There came a silence. Had they been with the sheep on the uplands Colin
would have been thoroughly at ease. As it was there was something about
the maiden's manner that disturbed his assurance. He had not been wont to
feel so in her presence.
"It's warm out here," he ventured presently.
"Perchance you will find it cooler in the house," intimated the girl
sweetly.
"The family will be there," he objected, looking suggestively at a bench
under an apple tree. The youths and the maidens of Domremy always sat
together when the suitor was approved by the parents. Jeanne's cool,
steadfast gaze disconcerted him.
"Why, yes, Colin, they will be there. You will find them all, I think.
Jean and Pierre are with mother. Did you wish to see them?"
This roused Colin.
"No; I don't wish to see them," he said angrily. "I wish to talk to you,
Jeanne D'Arc."
"I am listening, Colin." Jeanne quietly finished the hill which she was
hoeing, then began on the next row, which was further removed from the
youth, the tall heads of the artichokes nodding stiffly between them.
"But I can't talk while you are hoeing," he exclaimed. "And your father
told me that I might talk to you."
Jeanne laid down the hoe, and confronted him.
"Colin," she said gravely, "mother told me that you would come, and why;
but it is of no use. There are other girls in the village who would
gladly marry you. I am resolved not to wed."
"I don't want any other girl for a wife but you, Jeanne. I have always
liked you, and you know it. Besides, your father--"
"You cannot wed a girl against her will, Colin, and I shall not marry
you. I am talking plainly, so that you will understand, and not waste
your time."
"But you shall," muttered the boy wrathfully. "Your father tells me that
you shall."
Without a word Jeanne turned from him, and flitted swiftly into the
church. It was her sanctuary, for Isabeau would not allow her devotions
to be interrupted. Sulkily Colin re-entered the cottage.
Urged on by the girl's parents, he was thereafter a frequent visitor, but
his wooing did not speed. Somehow all his pretty speeches, all his
self-assurance shriveled into nothingness when he was face to face with
Jeanne. And serenely the maiden went her way, ignoring alike her father's
mandates, and her mother's entreaties to marry the lad.
So sped the days.