But, unlike Baudricourt, he was touched by her words. In the old
feudal fashion, he laid his hands within hers and vowed that, by God's
help, he would take her to the King. Another worthy gentleman,
Bertrand de Poulengy, gave a like promise.
Baudricourt was now forced to listen to Joan. The people of
Vaucouleurs believed in her with the ready faith of that time, and she
had at least two of his own class to take her part. But those voices
of hers, were they of God or of the Devil? Was she witch or saint? The
governor, like many another good soldier, had some weakness of
superstition. He went to see her, taking with him a priest, who began
to exorcise her, bidding her avaunt if she were of the Evil One. Joan
approached the priest and knelt before him, honouring not him, but his
office; for, as she said afterwards, he had not done well; he should
have known that no evil spirit spoke by her.
While she was waiting Baudricourt's pleasure, the Duke of Lorraine,
who was ill at Nancy, heard of her, and, hoping for the revelation of
some cure, desired to see her. He sent her a safe-conduct, and she
went to Nancy under care of her uncle. But she knew only what her
voices taught, and she had no power to cure any ills but those of
France. This she told the Duke, promising him her prayers, and begging
him to aid in her enterprise. He sent her back honourably, but did not
pledge himself to the royal cause.
The people of Vaucouleurs came forward to help Joan. They gave her a
horse, and the dress and equipment of a soldier; for as she was to
travel with men, she wisely chose to wear man's attire. Baudricourt
still doubted and delayed. The people she was sojourning with pitied
her anxiety. On the day of the battle of Rouvray she went to the
governor.
"In God's name," she said, "you are too slow about sending me. To-day
the Dauphin has suffered great loss near Orleans, and he is in danger
of yet greater if you do not send me to him soon."
At last he yielded to her urgency. He gave her a sword and a letter to
the King, and let her prepare to depart. Bertrand de Poulengy, Jean de
Novelonpont, and four armed men of lesser rank were to accompany her.
She did not see her parents to bid them farewell, but she sent them a
letter, entreating them to pardon her. She spoke cheerily to those who
were afraid for her safety. God and "her brothers of Paradise" would
guard her and her little escort on their dangerous journey.
On February 23, 1429, they set out, Baudricourt bidding her "Go, come
of it what may."
Her most timid well-wisher could hardly have exaggerated the perils of
the journey. More than half of it was through the enemy's country,
where there was continual risk of being stopped and questioned. The
rivers, swollen by the winter rains, were unfordable; therefore the
travellers had to cross over bridges in full sight of fortified towns.
On the eleventh day of their journey the Maid and her party reached
St. Catherine de Fierbois, near Chinon, where they rested, and Joan
heard three masses. She sent a letter to Charles requesting an
audience, and telling him she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to
help him.
An interview with Charles was no such simple affair as she had
fancied. Between her and him were doubts, jealousies, intrigues. But
her friends prevailed, and after two days' waiting she was admitted to
the castle. As she was passing through the gate, a man-at-arms called
out,
"What, is that the Maid?" and added a coarse jest and an oath.
Joan turned and looked gravely at him.
"Alas!" she said, "you blaspheme God, and you are so near your death!"
Within an hour the man was drowned by accident, and those words of
hers were repeated far and wide as a proof of her prophetic power.
The Count of Vendome led her into the royal presence. She entered
meekly, but undismayed; in her visions she had seen finer company
than any earthly court could show her. Charles stood among the crowd
of nobles, and when she knelt before him he pointed to a
richly-dressed lord, saying:
"That is the King, not I."
But she knew the King, probably from descriptions she had heard of
him, and answered:
"In God's name, gracious Prince, you are he, and none other." She then
repeated to him the words which, like a charm, had brought her so far
and overcome so much; "I am Joan the Maid, sent by God to save
France," and she asked him for troops, that she might go and raise the
siege of Orleans.
Presently the Duke of Alencon came in, and the King having told her
who he was, she bade him welcome.
"The more there are of the blood-royal of France," she said, "the
better it will be."
Alencon, who had lately returned from a three years' captivity in
England, and was still paying a ruinous ransom, sympathised with the
girl-champion, and was inclined to believe in her.
The King and his advisers went cautiously to work.
They sent two monks to Domremy to inquire into Joan's character and
past life. They called her now and again to Court, where statesmen and
churchmen questioned her closely. Meanwhile, she was honourably
treated. She was given to the charge of Bellier, the King's
lieutenant, whose wife was a lady of virtue and piety, and many
distinguished persons visited her at the castle where she was lodged.
One day she rode with the lance before the King, and acquitted herself
so well that the Duke of Alencon rewarded her with the gift of a
beautiful horse. Could she have at all forgotten her mission, the
time would have passed pleasantly; as it was, she wearied for action.
At last she sought the King, and said to him:
"Gracious Dauphin"--until Charles was anointed at Reims with the
sacred oil, he was no real king in her eyes--"Gracious Dauphin, why
will you not believe me? I tell you, God has pity on you, your kingdom
and people."
To satisfy all doubts about Joan, it was settled that she should be
taken to Poitiers, where the Parliament was assembled, and be there
questioned by a royal commission.
"In God's name, let us go," she said; "I shall have hard work, but my
Lord will help me."
She was lodged in the house of the advocate-general to the Parliament,
and committed to his wife's care. The Archbishop of Reims called
together churchmen and learned doctors. The Commissioners met, and,
having called Joan, showed her "by good and fair arguments" that she
was unworthy of belief. They reasoned with her for more than two
hours, and she answered them so well that they were amazed. In spite
of their expressed distrust, she spoke to them freely and fully, told
how her voices had bidden her go into France, how she had wept at
their command and yet obeyed it, how she had come safely, because she
was doing the will of God.
"You require an army," said one, "saying it is God's will that the
English shall quit France. If that be so, there is no need for
men-at-arms, because God can drive them away by His pleasure."
"The men-at-arms shall fight," she answered, "and God shall give the
victory"; and the monk confessed that she had answered well.
When the examination had dragged on for three weeks, two of the
doctors came one day to question her, bringing with them the King's
equerry, whom she had known at Chinon. She clapped him, comrade-like,
on the shoulder, exclaiming:
"Would that I had many more men of as good will as you!" Then turning
to the doctors, she said, "I believe you are come to catechise me.
Listen!--I know neither A nor B, but there is more in God's books than
in yours. He has sent me to save Orleans and crown the King."
She demanded paper and ink. "Write what I tell you!" she said, and
dictated to the amazed scholars the famous letter which soon after was
sent to the English.
The grave and stern commissioners were won by the young peasant. None
of them bore her any grudge for the occasional sharpness of her
replies. Many of them believed firmly that she was inspired, and
quoted the old prophecy of Merlin, who had foretold the coming of a
maid who should deliver France. All of them trusted in her good faith,
and appreciated more or less the influence she would have over the
people. They advised, almost commanded, Charles to employ her. Her
life, they said, has been carefully inquired into; for six weeks she
has been kept near the King; persons of all ranks, men and women, have
seen and talked with her, and have found in her only "goodness,
humility, chastity, devotion, seemliness and simplicity." She has
promised to show her sign before Orleans: let the King send her there,
for to reject her would be to reject the Holy Spirit.
Besides her learned judges, she had others, whom had she been an
impostor, she would have found hard to deceive. Keen women's eyes had
been set to watch her, and had seen no fault in her. The ladies who
came to see the warrior-damsel were amazed to find her a mere girl,
"very simple, and speaking little." Her goodness and innocence moved
them to tears. She prayed them to pardon her for the man's attire she
wore; but in that lawless day the most modest women must have well
understood that such a dress was fittest and safest for her who had to
live among men.
Towards the end of April she was sent to Tours, where a military staff
was appointed her. Her brothers, Jean and Pierre, who had followed
her, were included in her retinue. A suit of beautiful armour was made
for her. She was provided with a banner after her own device--white,
embroidered with lilies: on one side of it, a picture of God enthroned
on clouds and holding a globe in His hand; on the other, the shield of
France, supported by two angels. She had also a pennon, whereon was
represented the Annunciation. The King would have given her a sword,
but her voices, she said, had told her of the only one she might use,
an ancient weapon with five crosses on its blade, which was lying
buried behind the altar in the church of St. Catherine de Fierbois. A
messenger was sent, and in the place she had told of was found an old
rusty sword such as she had described. After being polished, it was
brought to her with two rich scabbards, one of crimson velvet, the
other of cloth-of-gold; but the practical Maid got herself yet another
of strong leather for daily wear.
Joan, being accepted, the National party made rapid preparations for
the relief of Orleans.
Her first care was that the army given her by God should be worthy of
His favour. For the priests attached to it, she had a banner made with
a picture of the Crucifixion, beneath which they said mass and sang
hymns to the Virgin morning and evening.
On Thursday, April 28th, the relieving army set out from Blois, the
priests going before and singing the _Veni Creator_ round their banner
of the Cross. Joan wished to march along the north bank of the Loire,
and through the line of English forts; her voices, she said, had told
her that the convoy would pass them without hurt. But the captains,
who had little faith in her revelations, preferred keeping the river
between themselves and the chief bastiles of the enemy. They had
orders, however, to obey the Maid, so, to avoid contradicting her,
they misled her as to the position of Orleans; crossing the bridge at
Blois, they advanced by the south bank of the stream. When night came,
the army encamped on the plain, and Joan, who lay down in her armour,
arose bruised and weary for the next day's march. But all her fatigue
was forgotten when she saw how she had been deceived.
Dunois, with a following of knights and citizens, came up the river to
welcome the convoy. When he approached Joan, she asked him:
"Are you the bastard of Orleans?"
"Yes," he replied, "and I am glad of your coming."
"And did you advise that I should be brought by this side of the
river, and not straight to the English?"
He answered that it was so, he and the council having judged it
safest.
"In God's name," she said, "my Lord's counsel is safer and wiser than
yours. You thought to deceive me, but you have deceived yourselves,
for I bring you the best help that ever knight or city had; for it is
God's help, not sent for love of me, but by God's pleasure."
At eight that evening she entered Orleans, riding a white horse, her
standard carried before her. The people thronged to meet her, wild
with joy, "as if she had been an angel of God." "They felt comforted
and, as it were, dis-besieged by the divine virtue there was said to
be in that simple Maid." They crowded so upon her, that one of their
torches set fire to the border of her standard, and when she bent
forward and crushed out the flame, the little brave action seemed a
miracle to the excited multitude. After returning thanks to God in the
cathedral, she rode to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer to the
Duke of Orleans, and was hospitably received by his wife and his young
daughter Charlotte, whom she took to share her chamber during her stay
in the city.
The next Sunday, May 1st, Dunois went to fetch the army from Blois.
The Maid rode with him a little way, and he and his following passed
unmolested by the English forts. The days of his absence were spent by
Joan in making friends with the citizens, in attending mass and riding
out to reconnoitre the enemy's siege-works. The enthusiastic people
followed her everywhere, fearing nothing so long as they were near
her. On Tuesday some reinforcements arrived, and news came that the
army was on its way.
This time they took the northern side of the river, and on May 4th
Joan went a league out of the city to meet them. The whole army passed
the line of forts and entered Orleans. The besiegers made no sign, and
it is not wonderful that the English soldiers, seeing that strange
apathy of their leaders, believed Joan to be a witch, whose arts it
would be useless to resist.
The same day, towards evening she lay down to rest, but suddenly she
started up and called her squire, saying, "My counsel tells me to go
against the English." While he was arming her, she heard voices in the
street shouting that the French were suffering loss. She rushed out,
and meeting her page on the way:
"Ah, graceless boy!" she exclaimed, "you never told me the blood of
France was being spilt."
Her hostess finished arming her, then she sprang upon her horse, took
her standard which the page handed her out of a window, and galloped
to the eastern gate, her horse's hoofs striking sparks as she passed.
For the first time she now saw real war, and her courage did not fail.
Standing at the edge of the fosse, she urged her men on to the
assault. This first success, moderate in itself, was of immense value
to the National party, for it restored to the French that faith in
themselves of which the long series of their defeats had almost
deprived them. And their reverse had as great an effect upon the
English. Their failure appeared to them out of the natural course of
events, a wicked miracle, a thing brought about by sorcery. The brave
yeomen of Henry V were learning to fear.
On Friday, May 6th, Joan and about 3,000 men crossed to an island, in
the Loire, passed from it to the shore by an extempore bridge of two
boats, and planted her standard before the rampart of the Augustins.
But her troops had not all crossed from Orleans, and those who were
with her, seeing that the English were coming to reinforce their
fellows, were seized with fear, and hurried back to the boats. The
garrison rushed out and pursued the fugitives with jeers and insults.
The defeat of the French appeared certain, but Joan, who had been
trying to cover the retreat, faced round, and with a small brave
company charged the pursuers. The panic was on their side now. They
saw the Witch of France riding down upon them, her charmed standard
flying, her eyes flashing with terrible wrath, and they turned and
fled before her. Once more she planted her flag before the rampart,
and this time she was well supported. The bastile was taken after an
obstinate defence, and to prevent riot and pillage she ordered it to
be set on fire.
She would gladly have stayed with her soldiers who were left that
night to be ready for the next day's assault, but the chiefs, seeing
that she was very weary, persuaded her to return with them into
Orleans. They had another reason for parting her from the troops.
While she was resting they held a council, and agreed not to renew the
attack on the morrow, but recall the troops into the city, which was
now well victualled, and there await reinforcements. A knight was sent
to tell her of their over-cautious decision:
"God had already done much to help them; now they would wait."
Wait!--how Joan must have hated that word! "You have been in your
council," she said, "and I have been in mine. Be sure that God's
counsel will hold good and come to pass, and that all other counsel
shall perish."
Then she turned to Pasquerel, who was standing near.
"Rise early to-morrow," she said, "and keep near me all day, for I
shall have much to do, and blood shall flow above my breast."
She rose at dawn, and after hearing mass, started for the assault. Her
host urged her to take food before going; a shad was being got ready,
he told her.
"Keep it till evening," she said, gaily, "I will come back over the
bridge."
If the French fought for the deliverance of Orleans and the kingdom,
the English were defending their ancient glory and their own lives;
the fort once taken, there would be small chance of escape for any of
its garrison. Under cannon-fire and through flights of arrows, the
assailants leaped into the fosse and swarmed up the escarpment, "as if
they believed themselves immortal."
The English met them at the top; again and again they were driven
back, again and again the Maid cheered them on, crying:
"Fear not!--the place is yours!"
At last, as if to force victory, she sprang into the fosse, and was
setting a scaling-ladder against the wall when an arrow pierced her
between the neck and shoulder. She was carried to a place of shelter,
weeping for pain and fright; but her strong courage soon reasserted
itself; she drew out the arrow with her own hand, and had the wound
dressed with oil, forbidding the men-at-arms to "charm" it, as they in
their superstitious kindness wanted to do. She then confessed herself,
and so, hastened back to the rampart.
There was no success yet for the French, and the captains came to
Joan, telling her they intended to retire and suspend the attack until
next day. She besought them to persevere. She tried to break their
resolve with brave words. She went to Dunois with prayers and
promises.
"In God's name, you shall enter shortly. Doubt not, and the English
shall have no more power over you!"
Her entreaties prevailed. Then she ordered the men to rest a while,
eat and drink, and when they had done so, bade them renew the attack
"in God's name."
She mounted her horse again and rode to a vineyard a little way off,
where, out of the turmoil of battle, she prayed a few minutes. On her
return she stationed herself near the rampart, holding her standard.
"Watch until my banner touches the fort," she said to a gentleman who
stood near. Presently the wind caught it and blew it against the wall.
"It touches, Joan, it touches!" exclaimed the gentleman.
She cried to the troops:
"Go in now, all is yours!"
By evening Joan reentered Orleans, where she and her men were received
with great joy, all the bells of the city ringing out the news of
victory. The Maid's wound was dressed carefully, and after her usual
supper of bread with a little wine and water, she lay down to sleep.
Very early next morning, those watching in Orleans saw the English
quit their bastiles and set themselves before the walls in order of
battle. The alarm was given, and the French, led by Joan, came out of
the city and ranged themselves in front of their enemies. While the
armies stood face to face, as it were waiting for a signal to begin to
fight, Joan had a camp-altar brought, and the priests said mass. Then
she asked:
"Are the faces of the English towards us, or their backs?"
She was told that they were retreating, and at that moment flames shot
up from some of their forts which they had set on fire.
"In God's name," said Joan, "let them go. My Lord does not choose
that we shall fight to-day. You shall have them another time."
Crowds rushed out from Orleans to destroy the unburnt bastiles, and
dragged back the stores and cannon the English had been obliged to
leave. But soon the excitement of victory gave way to the enthusiasm
of thankfulness. A few days ago the city had been surrounded by
enemies, threatened with the sword, more than threatened by famine.
But in one marvellous week God and the Maid had delivered it. Now let
her who had led the people to victory lead them also to give thanks.
They thronged after her. They followed her from church to church,
praising God and the saints, God and the Maid, before their rescued
altars. Night fell on their rejoicings, and early next morning the
Maid left them, eager to rejoin the King, and render an account of her
success. Her time for rest was not yet. She had as yet only given the
sign promised to the doctors of Poitiers--only begun the great work
she was sent to do.
Scholars, high in place, great in learning, paid her their tribute of
praise. But the common people were her most eager admirers and lovers.
During her journey from Orleans to Tours, they crowded about her,
trying to touch her hands, her dress, the trappings of her horse--even
stooping down to kiss the hoof-prints of her horse on the road.
Charles came to meet her at Tours. When she knelt before him, he took
off his cap, as to a queen, raised her, and seemed "as if he gladly
would have kissed her, for the joy he had." He would have ennobled her
at once, and he desired her to take for her arms the lilies of France,
with a royal crown and a sword drawn to defend it. Empty honours and
easy lip-gratitude were at her service, but she, who had only one
noble ambition, cared nothing for them. She wanted but one boon from
the King--ready action. Now was the time to go to Reims, while the
English were weakened and disheartened. Let the King come--she would
conduct him there safely and without hindrance--but let him come at
once, for she had much to do, and little time wherein to do it.
"Make use of me," she pleaded, "for I shall last only one year."
Her bold proposal amazed Charles and his council. Go to Reims, to a
city held by the English, through a country guarded by hostile troops!
The King, half-persuaded, agreed to go, but not until the English had
been driven from the Loire. The captains declared that it would be
unwise to march northward while the southern provinces remained so
exposed to the enemy, and Joan, whose good sense equalled her courage,
deferred to their judgment. An army was assembled, and put under
command of the Duke of Alencon, but the King required him to do
nothing without the Maid's advice. While she was near Charles, and her
brave words were in his ears, he almost believed in her.
On the 9th of June, just a month after her departure from Orleans,
Joan returned there with her army. During the campaign she made the
city her headquarters, to the delight of its people, who "could not
have enough of gazing at her." On the 11th she led the troops against
Jargeau, a strong town, bravely defended, but the assailants had the
advantage of numbers, and, once their fears were forgotten, went
boldly to the attack. Joan and the Duke, commanders though they were,
went down into the fosse like the rest, and the Maid was climbing a
scaling-ladder, when a stone hurled from the rampart struck her to the
earth. But she was up in a moment, shouting:
"Friends, friends, go on! Our Lord has condemned the English! They are
ours! Be of good courage!" The men swarmed over the walls, and the
place was taken. The more important captives were sent down the Loire
to Orleans, where Joan and Alencon returned the day after their
victory. Soon after, near Patay they came upon the English, who had
been warned of their approach, and were getting ready for battle. The
Duke asked Joan what was to be done.
"Have you good spurs?" she inquired.
"What!" exclaimed some who stood by; "should we turn our backs?"
"Not so, in God's name!" she answered. "The English shall do that.
They will be beaten, and you will want your spurs to pursue them."
Some of the chiefs hung back.
"In God's name, we must fight them!" she cried. "Though they were hung
to the clouds, we should have them. To-day the King shall have the
greatest victory he has won for long. My counsel tells me they are
ours."
In slain and prisoners the English lost nearly 3,000 men. Joan was
very indignant at the cruelty of the victors. Seeing one of them
strike down a wounded prisoner she sprang from her horse, raised the
poor soldier in her arms, and held him thus while he confessed to a
priest whom she had sent for, tenderly comforting him until he died.
It was always so with her. Before and during the fight she was the
stern champion of France; but when it was over she became again a
pitying woman, weeping for her dead enemies, and praying for their
souls.
Now Joan held her rightful place in the army. Every true and honest
man believed in her; even those who had doubted her at Orleans
confessed now not only her goodness and courage, but also the
instinctive military skill she had shown both in sieges and in the
field. Soldiers and leaders were alike eager to follow her to Reims.
With nothing to consult and combat but their frank likes and dislikes,
her task would have been an easy one; but to do her voices' bidding,
she had to hew or wind her way through the intrigues of a court.
Charles demurred at going to Reims at all. He hated trouble, and his
life in the south had been pleasant enough. All Joan's victories had
as yet done him no substantial good. He was as poor as ever, and the
excited men who flocked to the Maid's banner were to him objects less
of pride than of distrust.
The Maid, foreseeing more delays, sick at heart of his apathy, could
not control her tears, and he, bewildered by a grief he could not
understand, spoke to her kindly, paid her many compliments, and
advised her to take some rest. Still weeping, she besought him to have
faith, promising that he should recover his kingdom and be crowned
before long.
On Friday, June 24th, she brought the army of the Loire to Gien,
whence she sent a letter to the loyal city of Tournay, telling its
people of her late successes, and praying them to come to the
coronation.
Two days after her arrival at Gien, the justly impatient girl quitted
the town with some of her troops and encamped in the fields beyond it.
Her persistence carried the day. On the 29th, the King and an army of
12,000 men set out for Reims.
On July 5th it reached Troyes. Joan had written to the citizens,
requiring them to receive the King, and Charles also bade them
surrender, promising them amnesty and easy terms. But the place was
well garrisoned, and they determined to resist.
A council was held, and nearly all who were at it advised returning
southward. But among those faint hearts was one man who believed in
Joan--the old chancellor--and he spoke boldly for her. "When the King
undertook this journey, he did it not because of the great might of
the men-at-arms, nor because of the great wealth he had, nor because
the journey seemed possible to him, but because Joan told him to go
forward and be crowned at Reims, such being the good pleasure of God."
While he was yet speaking, Joan herself knocked at the door. She was
let in, and the Archbishop told her the cause of the debate.
She turned to the King.
"Will you believe me?" she asked.
"Speak," he replied, "and if you speak reasonably and profitably, we
will gladly believe you."
"Will you believe me?" she said again.
"Yes," repeated Charles, "according to what you say."
That cold answer might well have checked her, but she spoke on:
"Gracious King of France, if you will remain before your city of
Troyes, it shall be yours within three days by force or by love--doubt
it not."
"We would wait six, if we could be sure of having it," said the
Archbishop.
"Doubt not," she insisted, "you shall have it to-morrow."
It was then evening, but she at once mounted her horse and began
preparations for an assault. Her energy cheered the soldiers, who were
weary of inaction. They dragged the cannons into position, and brought
bundles of wood, doors, furniture, everything they could lay hands on,
to fill up the fosse. They worked far into the night--leaders, pages,
men-at-arms alike--Joan directing them "better than two of the best
captains could have done."
Through that night there was great excitement within Troyes. The
people had heard of Orleans and Jargeau; they could see and hear
Joan's preparations. At last they asked loudly why they, French by
birth, should risk their city and their lives for England. A council
was held, and the heads of the garrison and the city agreed to
surrender. Early next morning, just as Joan was giving the signal for
the assault, the city gates were opened.
The next day, Sunday, the King entered the town in state, attended by
Joan and his nobles.
They left Troyes, and approached Chalons on the 15th, and at some
distance from the town were met by a number of citizens who had come
to offer their submission. At Chalons, Joan had the great joy of
meeting friends from Domremy. She asked them many questions about her
home, and they looked with wonder at the girl who lived familiarly
with princes, and yet spoke and behaved as simply as ever she had done
in the days of her obscurity. One of them inquired whether she feared
nothing.
"Nothing but treachery," was her foreboding answer.
When the people of Reims heard that Chalons had submitted, and that
Charles was within four leagues, they sent deputies to tender their
obedience, and that same day, Saturday, July 16th, Charles entered the
city.
Preparations were at once made for his coronation, and early next
morning four nobles went to the abbey of St. Remi to escort thence the
ampulla containing the sacred oil which a dove had brought from heaven
to the saint. The abbot, in full canonicals, carried it to the
cathedral, where the Archbishop of Reims received it from him, and set
it on the high altar. Below the altar stood the Dauphin, attended by
the nobles and clergy who acted as proxies for the peers of France who
should have been with him. By his side was Joan, holding her sacred
banner. The ceremony was performed according to the ancient rites, and
when it was over, Joan knelt at the feet of Charles, her King indeed
now, crowned and anointed.
"Gracious King," she said, "now is fulfilled the pleasure of God,
whose will it was that you should come to Reims to receive your worthy
coronation, showing that you are the true King to whom the kingdom
should belong." As she spoke she wept, and all who were in the church
wept for sympathy. Among those who witnessed her triumph was her
father, who had come to Reims to see her. The good man was honourably
treated; the corporation of the town paid his expenses, and when he
returned to Domremy, gave him a horse for the journey.
After his coronation, when Charles was bestowing honours and rewards
on his followers, Joan asked him for one favour, which he granted
readily--freedom from taxation for her native Domremy and the
adjoining village of Greux. For herself she wanted nothing, except
what she had already claimed and failed to receive, what the King
never gave her--his trust.
She had given a king to France, now she had to give France to her
King. She longed to be again at work. Every day of waiting was a day
of pain to her. Now that her King was crowned, she would have him
press forward to Paris, defy the English, and startle the disloyal
French into loyalty; but the evil advice of his courtiers and his own
indolence made him catch at every excuse for delay.
During the northward march of the army, people from every place on the
road crowded to welcome Joan and the King, crying, Noel, Noel, and
singing _Te Deums_ before them. Joan was first. They were glad to have
a French King again, but their chief love and enthusiasm were for her,
the heroic girl in shining armour, with her calm face and gentle
voice. The common folk called her "the angelic"; they sang songs about
her; images of her were put up in little country churches; a special
collect was said at mass, thanking God for her having saved France;
medals were struck in her honour, and worn as amulets. The people
pressed about her horse, and kissed her hands and feet. She was often
vexed by this excess of homage, which brought upon her the displeasure
of many churchmen.
Near Crespy, as she, riding between Dunois and Regnault de Chartres,
passed through the welcoming crowd, she said:
"What good people! I have yet seen none so joyful at the coming of
their prince. May I be so happy as to die and be buried in this land!"
"Oh, Joan," said the Archbishop, "in what place do you expect to
die?"
"Wherever it shall please God," she answered, "for I know not the
place nor the hour any more than yourself. Would to God that I might
return now, and lay down my arms, and go back to serve my parents, and
guard their flocks with my sister and brothers, who would be right
glad to see me." She must often have longed for her home, but never
except this once did she express her longing. She had a rare reticence
for one so young and simple. "She spoke little, and showed a
marvellous prudence in her words."
Joan greatly desired the King's arrival before Paris, believing that
his mere presence would make its gates fly open like those of Reims
and Soissons. The King's folly and the ill-will of his favourites were
not Joan's only troubles. The army before Paris was not like that
chosen army she had led to Orleans, a company of men "confessed,
penitent," who for the time seemed purified from evil desires, and
followed her as to a holy war. Such a state of things, fair to the
eye, but born only of the froth and ecstasy of religion, could not
last, as the Maid in her young confidence perhaps expected. She had
now to grieve because of her soldiers' habits of blasphemy and
pillage.
On the morning of September 8th, the festival of the Virgin's
nativity, they advanced to attack the city. They were divided into two
corps. One, led by Joan, Gaucourt, and Retz, went at once to the
assault. The attack began about noon; the bastion of the St. Honore
gate having been set on fire, its defenders were forced to abandon it,
and the assailants, headed by Joan, passed the outer fosse. She
climbed the ridge separating it from the inner fosse, which was full
of water, and from that place summoned the city to surrender. She was
answered with jeers and insults and a shower of missiles, amid which
she carefully sounded the fosse with her lance, and found that it was
of unusual depth. At her bidding the men brought faggots and hurdles
to fill it up and make a resting-place for their ladders, but while
she was directing them, an arrow wounded her in the thigh so severely
that she was forced to lie down at the edge of the fosse. She
suffered, as she afterwards confessed, agonies of pain, but she never
ceased to encourage her men, bidding them advance boldly, for the
place would be taken. The place would have been taken, but the
captains who were with Joan, seeing that the hours went by and the men
were struck down without achieving much, ordered a retreat. The
trumpets sounded; the men withdrew, Joan, desperate in her sorrow,
clung to the ground, declaring she would not go until the place was
won. At about ten o'clock Gaucourt had her removed by force and set
upon her horse. She was carried back to La Chapelle, suffering in
body, suffering more in mind, but still resolute.
"The city would have been taken!" she insisted. "It would have been
taken!"
Joan spent four weary months--how weary we conjecture chiefly from
what we know of her character and her aspirations. Occasionally she
rode with a few followers to visit some town where she was known, but
generally she was with the Court, a sad and unwilling spectator of its
festivities. Sad only because of her unfulfilled mission: had she been
suffered to work it out, to see France delivered, she would doubtless
have taken pleasure in show and gaiety. She was at home and happy with
knights and ladies, and took a frank delight in rich garments and fine
armour. She was no bigot, her sanctity was altogether wholesome: it
was an exalted love for God, for France and the King, unsoured by any
contempt for the common life of humanity.
Wherever she went she visited the sick, she gave all she could in
alms, she was devoted to the services of the church and to prayer. The
people, who knew of her greatness and saw her goodness, treated her
with a reverence that was akin to superstition. They brought rings and
crosses for her to touch, and so turn into amulets. "Touch them
yourselves," she would say, laughing, "they will be just as good."
Some believed that she had a charmed life, and need never fear going
into battle.
Joan grew desperate. Sad voices from beyond the Loire were calling
her. She was greatly wanted there, and the King--her King whom she had
crowned--did not want her, cared nothing for her nor for his people's
trouble. She asked counsel of her other voices, of her saints, and
they neither bade her go nor stay; they told her only one certain
thing, that before St. John's day she would be taken. If so--if
indeed, as she herself had said, she was to last only a year--then the
more need to hasten with her work. One day at the end of March she
left Sully with a small company, as if going for one of her usual
rides. She did not bid farewell to the King, and she never saw him
again.
It was a time of sad forebodings for her. A story goes, that one
morning, after hearing mass in the church of St. Jacques, she went
apart and leaned dejectedly against a pillar. Some grown people and a
crowd of children came about her--she was always gentle to
children--and she said to them:
"My children and dear friends, I tell you that I am sold and betrayed,
and that I shall soon be given up to death. Therefore I entreat you
to pray for me, for never again shall I have any power to serve the
King or the Kingdom of France." She was not "sold and betrayed" yet;
that was to come.
Depression could not make her inactive. She went to Crespy for
reinforcements, but hearing that the siege of Compiegne had begun, she
hurried back there on the night of April 23rd, with about four hundred
men. She entered the place at sunrise, and spent the chief part of the
day in arranging a sortie, to be made before evening. Compiegne,
situated on the south bank of the Oise, was connected with the
opposite shore by a bridge, from which a raised causeway went over the
low river meadows to the hill-slopes of Picardy.
Late in the afternoon, Joan, with five hundred foot and horsemen, made
a short charge. Then Joan's troops feared to be cut off from
Compiegne, to be left in a country dotted with the enemy's camps, and
most of them turned, panic-stricken, and fled towards the city.
The English gained the causeway, and the archers stationed there dared
not shoot on them for fear of hurting their own people. The guns of
Compiegne were useless, for friends and foes were mingled in a
confused struggle. Joan tried to rally her men:
"Hold your peace!" she cried to some who spoke of retreating. "It
depends on you to discomfit them! Think only of falling upon them!"
But her words were in vain. All she could do was to cover the retreat,
and that she did valiantly, riding last, and charging back often.
Thanks to her a great part of the fugitives got safely into the city,
while others reached the boats; but the English pressed towards the
gate to cut off the retreat of the remainder, and Guillaume de Flavy,
afraid, as he said, lest in the confusion they might rush into the
town itself, ordered the draw-bridge to be raised, and the portcullis
lowered. There was no escape for the Maid now. She and a little
devoted band that kept with her fought desperately, but they were
driven into an angle of the fortifications; many fell in defending
her.
Compiegne remained shut. The city to whose help she had come at dawn
saw her lost at its very gates before sundown, and made no effort to
save her. Five or six men rushed on her at once, each crying:
"Yield to me! Pledge your faith to me!"
"I have sworn and pledged my faith to another than you," she said,
"and I will keep my oath."
She still struck at those who tried to seize her; but an archer came
behind her, and, grasping the gold-embroidered surcoat that she wore,
dragged her from her horse. She fell, exhausted and overcome at last,
and the man who had pulled her down carried her to his master.
She was taken to Margny, and thither flocked the English and
Burgundian captains, "more joyful than if they had taken five hundred
fighting men." In this very month of her capture, it had been found
needful to issue proclamations against English soldiers, men of the
old conquering race, who had refused to come over to France for fear
of the Witch. And now here was the Witch, vanquished, powerless, her
armour soiled in the fight, her magic banner fallen away from her. The
chiefs could hardly believe their good fortune, but her sad presence
was there to assure them of it, and they came and gazed on her.
The weeks went by, and no one stirred to help her. Her captors'
scruples were overcome, and before winter she was bought and sold.
John of Luxembourg got ten thousand livres--two thousand dollars.
* * * * *
Hitherto we have seen Joan, a gracious figure always--better always
and nobler than her surroundings--but never yet solitary in goodness
and nobleness. Other figures have been grouped about her, gracious
also in their degree, worthy to divide with her our sympathy, and to
have some share in our love. Now they are all gone from her. Father
and mother, village friends and kinsfolk, devoted comrades and adoring
people, are all shut away from her for ever. The old life is over.
She is desolate, and worse than alone; to the darling of the saints,
loneliness would be no such terrible punishment. Wrong and horror
crowd upon her. Her honour and her life are in the hands of men evil
by nature, or turned to evil by hatred, or greed, or fear. Here and
there a judge speaks some word in favour of banished justice, but
those feeble flashes leave no light in the gloom. The light shines all
on Joan. The pure maiden, the noble heroine, stands out,
heaven-illumined, against the darkness. Her sorrow and her endurance
of it crown and sanctify her. Piteous though her fate be, we almost
forget to pity her, for compassion is well-nigh lost in reverence and
wonder.
On her arrival at Rouen, Joan was taken to the castle, and put into an
iron cage that had been made to receive her; and, as if its bars were
not enough, she was chained in it by her neck, her hands and her feet.
After being kept thus for several days, she was transferred to a
gloomy chamber in one of the towers, where she was fettered to a great
log of wood during the day, and to her bed at night. Both by night
and day she was guarded by five English soldiers of the lowest and
rudest class, three of whom were always with her, while the other two
kept the door outside.
Once given over to the Church, she should have been placed in an
ecclesiastical prison, and guarded by women. For this right she
pleaded often, and her plea was supported by several of her judges.
But the English would not lose their grip of a captive who had cost
them and lost them so much, and Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais,
had too great fear of displeasing them to advise such a simple measure
of decency and justice.
Joan had visitors in her prison. English nobles whose nobility did not
keep them from insulting a woman and a helpless captive, came to stare
and jest at her. Warwick and Stafford came one day, and with them a
man who might well have shrunk from looking her in the face--the Judas
of Luxembourg. He told her he had come to ransom her, on condition
that she would not again take up arms against England. She answered
him scornfully, as he deserved:
"In God's name, you but mock me, for I know you have neither the will
nor the power to do it;" and she added, "I know that the English will
kill me, thinking to have the kingdom of France after my death; but
were they a hundred thousand Goddams more than they are, they should
not have the kingdom."
Cauchon refused the Maid's just request for counsel to advise and
defend her during her examination. But he was not merciful enough to
leave her to the guidance of her own wise brain and true heart.
According to the bad custom of the Inquisition, he sent her a sham
confidant, a creature even more abject than himself--his friend and
tool, the Canon Loyseleur. This man went to Joan in disguise, and told
her that he, too, was a prisoner, a loyal subject of King Charles, and
a native of her own province. The guards left them together, and she,
poor child! being glad to see a friendly face, talked to him with a
trustfulness that might have touched even such a heart as his. The
bishop listened in an adjoining room, and stationed two scribes there
to report Joan's words; but the men were too honest for such work, and
refused to do it. To gain her fuller confidence, Loyseleur made known
to her that he was a priest, and heard her in confession. He also gave
her counsel how to answer her judges--bad and crooked counsel, of
which she availed herself little, but still enough for us to trace
here and there the influence of an evil mind over hers.
On Tuesday, February 20th, she was summoned to appear next day before
her judges. Having heard and seen what they were, she demanded that an
equal number of assessors of the French party should be associated
with them. She also entreated the Bishop of Beauvais to let her hear
religious service. The prayer was denied.
Joan appeared before them a youthful, girlish creature in her
masculine dress. The dress was all black, relieved only by the pale
prison-worn face, from which the dark eyes looked out fearlessly.
The bishop began by briefly stating the crimes she was accused of, and
explaining to her how he came to be her judge. He then exhorted her,
"with gentleness and charity," to answer truly all questions put to
her. From the first moment of the trial she was on her guard. She
felt her judges' falsehood and malevolence in the very air around her.
The Gospels were brought, and she was ordered to swear upon them that
she would speak the truth. She hesitated.
"I do not know what questions you may put to me," she said. "Perhaps
you will ask me things I cannot tell you."
"Will you swear," insisted Cauchon, "to speak the truth about whatever
you are asked concerning the faith, and whatever you know?" She
answered that she would willingly speak of her parents, and of all her
own actions since she had left Domremy.
Jean Beaupere took up the examination. His first question was, when
she had last eaten and drunk. It was the season of Lent; if she had
taken food as usual, she might be accused of contempt for the Church;
if she had fasted, she gave colour to a theory of Beaupere's, that her
visions were induced chiefly by physical causes. She told him she had
fasted since noon the day before. He inquired at what hour she had
last heard the voice.
"I heard it yesterday and to-day," she said. "I was asleep, and it
woke me.... I do not know whether it was in my room, but it was in the
castle.... I thanked it, sitting up in my bed, with clasped hands, and
implored its counsel.... I had asked God to teach me by its counsel
how to answer."
"And what did the voice say?"
"It told me to answer boldly, and God would help me." Here she turned
to the bishop. "You say that you are my judge. Take heed what you do,
for indeed I am sent by God, and you are putting yourself in great
peril."
Beaupere asked her if the voice never varied in its counsel.
"No," she said; "it has never contradicted itself. Last night again it
bade me answer boldly."
Her dress, her banner and pennon, were inquired about. Had not the
Knights, her companions, their pennons made after the pattern of hers?
Had she not told them that such pennons would be lucky? To this she
answered:
"I said to my men--'Go in boldly among the English!'--_and I went
myself_."
"Did you not tell them to carry their pennons boldly, and they would
have good luck?"
"I indeed told them what came to pass, and will come to pass again."
Had she not ordered pictures or images of herself to be made? No, nor
had she ever seen any image in her likeness. She had seen a picture of
herself at Arras. She was represented kneeling on one knee, and
presenting letters to the King.
Did she know that those of her party had caused masses and prayers to
be said in her honour?
"I know nothing of it," she answered, "and if they did so, it was not
by my command. Nevertheless, if they prayed for me, I think they did
no wrong."
"Do those of your party believe firmly that you are sent by God?"
"I do not know. I leave that to their consciences. But if they do not
believe it, I am none the less sent by Him."
"Do you think them right in believing it?"
"If they believe that I am sent by God, they are not deceived."
"Did you understand the feelings of those who kissed your feet, your
hands and your garments?"
"Many were glad to see me. I let them kiss my hands as little as
possible; but the poor people came to me gladly, because I did them no
unkindness, but helped them as much as I could."
"Did not the women touch their rings with the ring you wore?"
"Many women touched my hands and my rings, but I do not know why they
did so."
* * * * *
For more than three months her trial went on. But her fate was settled
now. The Inquisition had no pardon for her. The judges left her, a few
daring to be sorry for the brave creature, but most of them openly and
indecently glad. In the courtyard they found a number of English
waiting for news, among them the Earl of Warwick.
"Farewell, farewell!" cried the bishop, as he passed him; "be of good
cheer--it is done!"
Her guilt was proved; let her be given over to the secular power; but
first let her be charitably exhorted for her soul's welfare, and
warned that she had nothing more to hope for in this world.
The bishop ordered a citation to be drawn up, summoning Joan to appear
next morning in the Old Market Place of Rouen, to receive her final
sentence. She did not hear her doom that night (May 30, 1431), but the
grave faces and grave words of the monks showed her the dreadful
reality, and for a little while youth and womanhood and human weakness
had their own way with her. She wept piteously.
"Alas," she cried, "will they treat me so horribly and cruelly? Must
my body be consumed to-day and turned to ashes? Ah! I would sooner
seven times be beheaded than be burnt! Oh, I appeal to God, the great
Judge, against the wrong and injustice done to me!"
While she was thus lamenting Cauchon came in, with Pierre Maurice, and
two or three others. Seeing him, she cried:
"Bishop, I die by you!"
Maurice looked kindly at her as he went, and she said to him:
"Master Pierre, where shall I be to-night?"
"Have you not a good hope in God?" he asked.
"Ah, yes, and by God's grace, I shall be in Paradise."
She received the sacrament with tears, and with deep penitence and
devotion. Thenceforth her faith was unshaken, and she failed no more.
Next morning at nine o'clock she left the prison, clothed now in a
woman's long gown, and wearing a mitre, inscribed with the words,
_Heretic_, _Relapsed_, _Apostate_, _Idolatress_. A cart was waiting
for her, and she got into it, accompanied by Brother Martin and the
usher Massieu. A guard of about eight hundred soldiers surrounded her
to keep off the crowd, but suddenly there rushed through their ranks a
haggard and miserable figure. It was Nicolaus Loyseleur, who, seized
by late and vain remorse, had come to ask forgiveness of her whom he
had betrayed. But before he could reach her, the soldiers drove him
back, and Joan probably neither saw nor heard him, for she was weeping
and praying, her head bowed upon her hands.
When she looked up, she saw beyond the soldiers a dense throng of
people, most of them grieving for her, many of them lamenting that
this thing should be done in their city.
"O Rouen, Rouen!" she cried, "is it here that I must die?"
At last she reached the Old Market Place, a very large space, where
had been raised three scaffolds: one for the Bishop of Beauvais and
his colleagues, and for all the prelates and nobles who desired to see
the show; another for Joan and some priests and officials; the third,
also for Joan--a pile of stone and plaster, raised high above the
heads of the crowd, and heaped with faggots. In front of it was a
tablet bearing this inscription:
_Joan, who has called herself The Maid--liar, pernicious, deceiver of
the people, sorceress, superstitious, blasphemer of God, presumptuous,
disbeliever of the faith of Christ, boaster, idolatress, dissolute,
invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic, heretic._
Master Nicolas Midi, a famous doctor from Paris, preached Joan's last
sermon, on the text, "If one member suffer, all the members suffer
with it."
At its close, he addressed her:
"Joan, go in peace! The Church can no longer defend you; it gives you
up to the secular power."
Then the bishop spoke to her. He did not read the form of abjuration,
as had been advised, for she would have boldly disavowed it, and would
so have spoilt a scheme he had concocted. But he admonished her to
think of her salvation, to remember her misdeeds, and repent of them.
Finally, after the usual inquisitorial form, he declared her cut off
from the Church, and delivered over to secular justice.
She needed no exhortation to prayer and penitence. For a while she
seemed to forget the gazing crowd and the cruel judges. She knelt and
prayed fervently--prayed aloud with such passionate pathos, that all
who heard her were moved to tears. Even Cauchon wept. Even the
Cardinal was touched. She forgave her enemies; she remembered the
King, who had forgotten her; she asked pardon of all, imploring all to
pray for her, and especially entreating the priests to say a mass for
her soul. Presently she asked for a cross. An English soldier broke a
stick in two and made a rough cross, which he gave her. She kissed it
and put it in her bosom, weeping, calling upon God and the saints.
But the men-at-arms were growing impatient. "Come, you priests!"
shouted one of them, "are you going to make us dine here?"
The bailiff of Rouen, as representing the secular power, should have
now pronounced sentence of death, but he seemed afraid of delaying the
soldiers, two of whom came up and seized Joan.
"Take her! take her!" he said, hurriedly, and he bade the executioner
"do his duty." The bishop's trial had, after all, an illegal and
informal ending.
The soldiers dragged Joan to the pile, and as she climbed it, some of
her judges left their platform and rushed away, fearing to behold what
they had helped to bring about. She was fastened to the stake, high
up, that the flames might gain slowly upon her, and that the
executioner might not be able to reach her and mercifully shorten her
agony.
"Ah, Rouen!" she cried again, as she looked over the city, bright in
the May sunshine--"Ah, Rouen, Rouen! I fear thou wilt have to suffer
for my death!"
The executioner set fire to the pile. The confessor was by Joan's
side, praying with her, comforting her so earnestly, that he took no
notice of the ascending flames. It was she who saw them and bade him
leave her.
"But hold up the cross," she said, "that I may see it."
Now Cauchon went to the foot of the pile, hoping perhaps that his
victim might say some word of recantation. Perceiving him there, she
cried aloud:
"Bishop, I die by you!"
And now the flames reached her, and she shrank from them in terror,
calling for water--holy water! But as they rose and rose and wrapped
her round, she seemed to draw strength from their awful contact. She
still spoke. Brother Martin, standing in the heat and glare of the
fire, holding the cross aloft for her comfort, heard her dying words:
"Jesus! Jesus! Mary! My voices! My voices!"
Did she hear them, those voices that had said, "Fret not thyself
because of thy martyrdom; thou shalt come at last to the Kingdom of
Paradise"?
"Yes," she said, "my voices were from God! My voices have not deceived
me!" Then, uttering one great cry--"Jesus!" she drooped her head upon
her breast, and died.
* * * * *
The common folk soon added their tale of signs and wonders to the
simple and terrible truth. An English soldier, who greatly hated the
Maid, had sworn to bring a faggot to her burning, and he threw it on
the pile just as she gave that last cry. Suddenly he fell senseless to
the earth, and when he recovered, he told how at that moment he had
looked up, and had seen a white dove fly heavenward out of the fire.
Others declared that they had seen the word Jesus--her dying
word--written in the flames. The executioner rushed to a confessor
crying that he feared to be damned, for he had burned a holy woman.
But her heart would not burn, he told the priest; the rest of her body
he had found consumed to ashes, but her heart was left whole and
unharmed.
Many, not of the populace, were moved by her death to recognise what
she had been in life.
"I would that my soul were where I believe the soul of that woman is!"
exclaimed Jean Alespee, one of the judges.
"We are all lost; we have burnt a saint!" cried Tressart, a secretary
of the King of England. Winchester--determined that, though she might
be called a saint, there should be no relics of her--had her ashes
carefully collected and thrown into the Seine.
The tidings of her death went speedily through France. They found
Charles in his southern retirement, and nowise disturbed the ease of
mind and body that was more to him than honour. They reached Domremy,
and broke the heart of Joan's stern, loving father. Isabelle Romee
lived to see her child's memory righted and her prophecies fulfilled.
* * * * *
In June, 1455, Pope Calixtus, named a commission to inquire into the
trial of Joan of Arc.
Joan's aged mother came before them, supported by her sons, and
followed by a great procession of nobles, scholars, and honourable
ladies. She presented the petition she had made to the Pope, and the
letter whereby he granted it, and the commissioners took her aside,
heard her testimony, and promised to do her justice.
And now the dead heroine was confronted with her dead judges, to their
shame and her enduring honour. Messengers were sent into her country
to hear the story of her innocent childhood and pure, unselfish youth.
Through her whole life went the inquiry, gathering testimony from
people of all ranks. The peasants whom she had loved and tended in her
early girlhood, the men who had fought by her side, the women who had
known and honoured her, the officers of the trial, and many who had
watched her sufferings and beheld her death--all were called to speak
for her now. They testified to her goodness, her purity, her
single-hearted love for France, her piety, her boldness in war, and
her good sense in counsel. All were for her--not one voice was raised
against her. Rouen, the place of her martyrdom, became the place of
her triumph.
The judges pronounced the whole trial to be polluted by wrong and
calumny, and therefore null and void; finally, they proclaimed that
neither Joan nor any of her kindred had incurred any blot of infamy,
and freed them from every shadow of disgrace.
By order of the tribunal, this new verdict was read publicly in all
the cities of France, and first at Rouen, and in the Old Market Place,
where she had been cruelly burnt. This was done with great solemnity;
processions were made, sermons were preached, and on the site of her
martyrdom a stone cross was soon raised to her memory.
The world has no relic of Joan. Her armour, her banner, the picture of
herself that she saw at Arras, have all disappeared. We possess but
the record of a fair face framed in plentiful dark hair, of a strong
and graceful shape, of a sweet woman's voice. And it seems--and yet,
indeed, hardly is--a wonder that no worthy poem has been made in her
honour. She is one of the few for whom poet and romancer can do
little; for as there is nothing in her life that needs either to be
hidden or adorned, we see her best in the clear and searching light of
history.