AT DOMREMY
"_To our Holy Father, the Pope, to whom, and to God
first, I appeal._"
JEANNE'S _own words in the Square of St. Ouen_.
There were many signs and wonders told of the execution after Jeanne's
death. It was said that a dove was seen to fly upward toward Heaven at
the moment that her spirit took its flight; that the executioner later in
the day went weeping to Friar Isambard, confessing that he was lost, for
he had burnt a saint; that an English soldier who had sworn to light a
faggot on the pyre had fallen in a swoon as he threw the burning brand;
that her heart, that great heart that beat only for France, was not
consumed by the flame: these and many other things were told. The truth
of the matter was that even her enemies were not easy in their minds
about her death. There was more than a suspicion that what she had said
might be true: that she was sent from God.
The news of her death swept over France, bringing grief and consternation
to those who loved her, and satisfaction to those that feared.
In the afternoon of a gracious day in June, some two weeks after the
tragedy at Rouen, two young women might have been seen coming through the
forest down the hill path beyond Greux from the Chapel of Our Lady of
Bermont. It was Saturday, the Holy Virgin's day, and the two had been to
make their orisons at the shrine. But though the Valley of Colours had
never seemed so lovely, so flowery, so fragrant as it did on this golden
afternoon, a young matron and her maiden companion, the two, walked in
silence and with lagging steps through the tangle of vines and grasses
that grew along the pathway.
"It is more than two years since Jeanne went away," spoke the younger one
suddenly, voicing the name that was in both their hearts. "Oh, Mengette,
it grieves me to think of her shut up in a gloomy dungeon when she loved
the fields so."
"Yes, Hauviette. And how strange it is that Jeanne D'Arc, who was always
so good and pious, is up before the Church charged with heresy. Jeanne a
heretic? Pouf! The very idea of such a thing!" Mengette laughed
scornfully, then caught her breath with a sob. "To think of it, when she
loves the Church so. It's my belief that those who try her are the
heretics."
"Mengette, if any one should hear you!" Hauviette cast a fearful glance
about her. "It would go hard with you."
"I care not who hears me," declared Mengette with a toss of her head.
"Have we not boldly told all who came to Domremy to inquire concerning
her of her goodness and purity? Ay! even though they were Burgundians or
English they were told the truth though some of them would fain have
heard otherwise. Beside, should any chance to hear me, Robert, my
husband, would not let harm come to me."
In spite of her sadness Hauviette could not repress a smile. Mengette had
been married two years, and her belief in her husband's all powerfulness
had become a proverb in the village. But the maiden only remarked:
"I would that we could hear how it fares with Jeanne. It is a long
trial." She sighed.
"Yes." Mengette sighed also, and silence fell once more between them.
Long before Domremy had heard that Jeanne was held in durance, and at
length that she was on trial before the learned men of the University.
All feared for the result, for what chance would a peasant maid stand
with such wise men?
Down the hillside path, through Greux, and on through the Bois Chesnu
went the two friends, until presently they emerged into the clearing
where stood the Fairy Tree in solitary grandeur. With one accord they
paused under its spreading branches.
"The commissioners from Rouen were so curious about the tree," commented
Mengette, glancing up at it lovingly. "So many questions did they ask
concerning it, and the Gooseberry Spring. And, Hauviette, did Isabeau
tell you that they wanted to know whether Jeanne ever carried a
mandrake?"
"Yes, she told me," answered Hauviette. "As though Jeanne would do such a
thing! Look, Mengette!" she broke off suddenly. "Something has happened,
for the people are running all about the streets of the village."
"And the most of them are going toward the D'Arc house," cried Mengette
excitedly. "There must be news of Jeanne. Let us hurry, Hauviette."
Quickly the intervening space between the forest and the village was
passed, and Jeanne's two friends soon entered the dooryard of the
cottage. Colin de Greux left the crowd of villagers who clustered about
the yard talking in low tones, and came to meet them.
"There is news," he told them in trembling accents. "It is all over. Poor
Jeanne!" He paused abruptly, and covered his face with his hands.
"What do you mean, Colin?" cried Mengette, while Hauviette grew white,
and clasping her hands over her heart stood waiting the answer with bated
breath. "Is she--is she dead?"
Colin nodded. "Burned," he said briefly. "As a heretic and a sorceress.
The Cure has just received word."
"Oh," gasped Mengette. "It can't be true; it can't be!" But Hauviette
could not speak. More than the others had she loved Jeanne.
"Yes; it's true," affirmed Colin with emotion. "And to think that I
teased her so. And made her go to Toul, and, and--" His voice broke.
At this Hauviette recovered herself a little, and laid her hand softly on
his arm.
"She forgave that, Colin, I know," she said comfortingly. "Jeanne would
harbour naught against you."
"I know," he said. "For when she left Domremy for Vaucouleurs she stopped
as she passed through Greux, and said: 'I go to Vaucouleurs, Colin. God
give you good fortune.' And He has," continued the young man, "for I have
prospered beyond any other in the village. 'Tis as though her mere wish
had brought it to pass."
"Perhaps it did," said the maiden gently, finding comfort for her own
grief in consoling him. "But see! Mengette has gone to Jacques and
Isabeau. Let us go also, that we may comfort them. Jeanne would like us
to do that."
"You are like her," he said, looking up at her suddenly, and taking the
little hand that lay so lightly upon his sleeve. "You think of others
before yourself. Yes; let us go to them."
Hand in hand they made their way through the sorrowing people into the
cottage. Jacques D'Arc lay upon the open cupboard bed, completely
prostrated by grief, and Isabeau bent over him, ministering to him in woe
too deep for tears. Beside them stood the good Cure, the tears flowing
unrestrainedly down his cheeks.
"Grieve not," he said. "I believe that the child went straight into
Paradise. I confessed her too often not to know that she was pure as a
lily flower. In Paradise she dwells beyond all trouble. We who are left
behind must not grieve. You have other children left you. Jean and Pierre
are held to ransom, and they will soon return."
And so he tried to comfort them, but for some griefs there is no
consolation. Jacques D'Arc's was one for which there was no cure. His
heart broke under its weight of anguish, and a few days thereafter he
died.
Some time later Pierre and Jean returned to their mother, and took her
with them to Orleans, where she resided the rest of her long life, the
recipient of many honours from the city that did not forget its Maid.
Twenty years later there came a day when the long dormant manhood of
Charles Seventh was stirred to action, and he was minded to make amends
to the memory of her who had done so much for him. At his instigation
Isabeau carried her daughter's appeal to Rome.
"I have told your doctors that all my deeds and words should be sent to
Rome to our Holy Father, the Pope, to whom, and to God first, I appeal,"
Jeanne had cried on the platform at St. Ouen on the day of her
abjuration. She had been told then that the Pope was too far off; so now
Isabeau carried that appeal to him, asking for justice to be done to her
daughter's memory.
The case was reopened, witnesses examined, even some of the assessors who
had sat with Cauchon testifying in her favour, and Jeanne's name was
cleared by the Church of every charge against her. Thankful that her
child would no longer rest under the ban of the Church she loved so well,
Isabeau returned to Orleans, and spent the remainder of her days in
peace.
In peace, for at last the land was cleared of the English and only at
Calais had the invader a foothold, and Charles dwelt in his own capitol
at Paris. All of Jeanne's prophecies had come to pass.
Jean, her brother, was made captain of Vaucouleurs when bluff old Robert
de Baudricourt was gathered to his fathers. Pierre married, and lived
with his wife and mother at Orleans. Both brothers took the name of Du
Lys, which the King had conferred upon them through Jeanne, and were
ranked among the nobility, honoured and revered for the sake of one who
coveted no honour save that of serving her country--plain Jeanne D'Arc.
THE END
Transcriber Notes:
Spelling and punctuation inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Accented and hyphenated words were standardized.
The author's punctuation style has not been changed.
Archaic and variable spelling has been retained.
Footnotes 16 and 17 reference the same note and it has been duplicated.
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).