[Illustration: _“Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed_ (Page 25)]
_Life Stories for Young People_
THE
MAID OF ORLEANS
_Translated from the German of
Frederick Henning_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” etc._
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1904
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published October 1, 1904
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
Preface
The life story of Joan of Arc, as told in this volume, closely follows
the historical facts as well as the official records bearing upon her
trial and burning for “heresy, relapse, apostasy, and idolatry.” It
naturally divides into two parts. First, the simple pastoral life of the
shepherd maiden of Domremy, which is charmingly portrayed; the visions
of her favorite saints; the heavenly voices which commissioned her to
raise the English siege of Orleans and crown the Dauphin; her touching
farewell to her home; and, secondly, the part she played as the Maid of
Orleans in the stirring events of the field; the victories which she
achieved over the English and their Burgundian allies; the raising of
the siege; the coronation of the ungrateful Dauphin at Rheims; her fatal
mistake in remaining in his service after her mission was accomplished;
her capture at Compiègne; her infamous sale to the English by Burgundy;
her more infamous trial by the corrupt and execrable Cauchon; and her
cruel martyrdom at the stake. Another story, the abduction of Marie of
Chafleur, her rescue by Jean Renault, and their final happiness, is
closely interwoven with the movement of the main story, and serves to
lighten up the closing chapters. This episode is pure romance of an
exciting nature; but the life of the Maid of Orleans is a remarkably
faithful historical picture, which is all the more vivid because the
characters are real. In this respect it resembles nearly all the volumes
in the numerous German “libraries for youth.” They are stories of real
lives, concisely, charmingly, and honestly told, and adhere so closely
to fact that the reader forms something like an intimate personal
acquaintance with the characters they introduce.
G. P. U.
Chicago, 1904.
Contents
I The Fairy Tree 11
II The Dauphin and La Hire 28
III The Conspiracy 46
IV In Camp and Court 64
V The Coronation and the Capture 94
VI The Martyrdom 108
VII The Rescue 122
Appendix 135
List of Illustrations
“Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
“Dear uncle, see these beautiful violets,” she cried 53
The last act in the ceremony was Charles’s coronation 101
The flames mounted higher, and the people saw, not a devil’s
witch, but a praying angel with eyes fixed upon heaven 120
The Maid of Orleans
Chapter I
The Fairy Tree
As the traveller, descending the valley from Neufchâteau, approaches the
village of Domremy,[1] he will observe at his right upon an eminence of
the nearest range of hills a stately chestnut-tree, its lower branches
hung with wreaths of flowers, some fresh, some fading. If he does not
mind a little fatigue and climbs to this spot, he will be richly
rewarded for his exertions. The tree in itself is a sufficient
compensation for his efforts, for who does not contemplate with
admiration such a work of nature? Who does not listen with rapture to
the gentle rustle of its leaves and find rest in its cool shade? But
this tree has a still stronger attraction for those who believe its
story. Ofttimes in the twilight they see happy sprites dancing round it
with joyous faces, and the soft rustling of its leaves they declare is
celestial whispers, for it is given to them to understand heavenly
speech.
This tree is the “Fairy Tree.”[2]
The outlook from this spot will still further repay the traveller. A
beautiful valley spreads out before him, bounded on either side by the
forest-crowned heights of Argonne and Ardennes, between which the
Meuse[3] winds its silvery way. Numerous villages dot these heights and
are sprinkled here and there along the lower pasture-land. North and
south gleam the towers of Neufchâteau and Vaucouleurs.[4] The nearest,
and at the same time most pleasant of these villages, is Domremy, whose
cottages, embowered in greenery, cluster about the little church of
Saint Margaret. Many herds of cattle and sheep are feeding in the
pastures between fields luxuriant with growing crops. Looking back, the
eye catches the dusky summits of the Bois de Chêne,[5] and at the
crossroad leading thither stands the chapel of Saint Catherine.
Between the chapel and the Fairy Tree, and somewhat nearer the latter,
sparkles a bubbling spring whose curative powers were believed in by
those of pious faith in the olden times.
Thus the scene appears under pleasant skies. But when the temperature
suddenly changes, and the cold air rushes down into the valley, its
mists are driven and scattered among the mountainous defiles. At such
times superstitious villagers believe they see the fairies dancing round
the tree, and even the saints of heaven in the wavering shapes of the
mist.
Among the mysterious spots which have invested the neighborhood of
Domremy with such fame and sacredness Bois de Chêne is not the least
famous. One cannot enter its dark recesses without that peculiar feeling
of awe which inspires a solitary wanderer in the presence of nature’s
grandeurs,—a feeling which inevitably fills the mind of a superstitious
person with a bewildering array of supernatural fancies. It was from
this very forest that Merlin the wizard predicted the deliverer of
France would come.
Think of a child of susceptible and fanciful nature, fed upon nursery
tales full of superstitions, a child passionately fond of solitary
reveries and fervent appeals to the saints, growing up in such an
environment! Is it remarkable that such a child should see marvels on
the earth and in the air, and the saints themselves in bodily image, and
that she should hear their voices and listen devoutly to angelic music
in the celestial regions?
Just such a child as this sat under the Fairy Tree on a beautiful spring
morning in the year 1424.[6] She was a maiden of twelve years, and was
tending a little flock of sheep grazing on the hillside. Even the casual
observer would have noticed her striking appearance, for while the other
girls were frolicking in the meadow below her, she sat leaning against
the tree, gazing fixedly into space, and evidently thinking of other
things than dance, and sport, and herds. Looking more closely into her
lovely oval face and observing its transparent tints and delicate
features, the question would at once suggest itself—How did such a
slight, ethereal creature happen among the children of peasants? Those
wonderful eyes did not merely reveal the self-unconsciousness of the
visionary and the rapture of supernatural contemplation. They were clear
mirrors of the heart, reflecting its inmost recesses and depths. That
heart was the heart of an angel, the heart of a child so innocent it was
impossible not to love her and sympathize with her.
As she sat there, a flock of little birds flew to the tree, filling the
air with the music of their songs. Apparently she did not notice them,
for she neither moved nor changed the expression of her face. They
fluttered down from the tree and hopped about the dreamer, approaching
her more and more nearly, until at last some of them lit on her head and
shoulder. Now for the first time she was conscious of her little guests.
“Ah!” she exclaimed in a soft melodious voice. “You are here and I did
not know it.” She quickly opened a little basket standing near her,
sprinkled some crumbs upon the ground, and watched with childish delight
the liveliness of her tiny companions. Her pleasure, however, was soon
marred by a saucy and envious fellow in the little crowd, who pecked his
neighbor. Chirping sorrowfully, the victim flew to the maiden’s feet.
“Alas! alas! poor little bird!” she exclaimed, the tears coming into her
eyes. She took the little fellow in her lap and caressed him. “Wait,
now, thou envious ‘wolf,’” she said, addressing the offender. “Did I not
scatter crumbs enough for you all? And did you not know I would have
doubled the amount if that had not been sufficient? You deserve to be
punished for your greediness. Now you shall see how finely this poor
little fellow will fare at his own table.” Thereupon she filled her lap
from the basket, and the little one ate with a relish, while the “wolf”
was not allowed to come near the table, much as he wished to. Suddenly
the flock rose and flew into the branches of the tree in manifest alarm.
Her sheep, which had been feeding below her, rushed up the hill as fast
as they could, and closely huddled together.
“What is the matter?” cried the maiden, as she cast a hasty glance at
the flying herd. “What has driven you away from the meadow in such
fright? Holy Catherine! the cruel wolf must be lurking on the edge of
the wood.”
She quickly sprang up, seized her crook, and flew to the Bois de Chêne,
where a wolf was really lying in wait. One who had seen her then would
hardly have recognized the gentle maiden, the dreamer of a moment
before, in this resolute heroine, her eyes flashing with courage.
Wonderful to relate, the beast fled from her. For an instant it
crouched, ready to spring upon her, and then slunk away into the forest.
Thereupon the little heroine went to the neighboring chapel, knelt
before the image of Saint Catherine, and poured out the thankfulness of
her heart in long and fervent prayers. It was her childish belief that
her patron saint had performed a miracle. She did not know that the
beasts of the wood can be intimidated by the firmness and courage of a
fearless person’s glance, and that even the lion himself will not attack
such a person unless he is in a frenzy of rage.
As the little one left the chapel the spiritual illumination which
irradiated her face when she sat dreaming under the Fairy Tree again
shone in her beautiful eyes. Her route led her to the miraculous
spring.[7] The fresh green of the bushes and turf allured her. She threw
herself down, and soon was lulled by the gentle plashing of the water
into sweet fancies. For a long time she failed to observe that she had
companions who had come there to drink,—a doe and fawns, who fearlessly
approached and drank the clear water undisturbed. After they had
quenched their thirst, the fawns stood watching the dreamer with their
intelligent little eyes as if they were awaiting friendly recognition
from an old acquaintance. Not receiving it, they sported frolicsomely
around her. Suddenly the charming scene was interrupted. The animals
tossed up their heads, listened intently, and then, as if at a word of
command, galloped away to the forest. A bevy of simple, joyous,
sun-browned shepherdesses came running toward her from the meadow.
“Joan, Joan,” cried one, “where are you?”
The maiden rose.
“Aha!” said the one just speaking, “she has been listening again to the
murmurs of the spring. Just see how wondrously her eyes glisten!”
At this all of them came up and gazed with a kind of awe at the strange
maiden.
“Well, what do you wish?” said Joan, gently.
“We have made a wager,” replied the former speaker. “See this beautiful
wreath, Joan. After we had woven it we decided it should go to the
winner in a race to the Fairy Tree. Agnes boasted it would be hers.
Margot was just as sure that she would win it. ‘Ah!’ said I; ‘if Joan
were only here you would not talk this way!’ ‘And why not?’ said Agnes.
‘Because,’ said I, ‘Saint Catherine always helps her.’ ‘Oh,’ interposed
Margot, ‘I will find Joan and she also shall race.’ Then I said, ‘We
will all search for Joan.’ ‘Yes,’ all shouted, ‘let us find Joan!’ And
here we are. Here is the wreath, and there is the Fairy Tree. Will you
run?”
Joan made no reply. She stood absorbed in devotion, and prayed: “Holy
Catherine, give me the victory, not for my sake, but for thy honor.”
“Joan, do you not hear us?”
“Yes, I am ready.”
Gleefully the maidens formed a line. “One, two, three,” a clear voice
counted, and all ran up the hillside. In a few seconds the line was
zig-zag, with Agnes, Margot, and Joan in the lead. Most of the others
gave up the race and followed slowly on, watching the three in eager
suspense. Soon, however, they noticed there was one in the lead, for the
other two had perceptibly fallen back.
“Did I not tell you Joan would win?” said the one who had first spoken.
“But there is some witchcraft about it,” said her neighbor. “Look at
her, look! Holy Margaret! Her feet do not touch the ground.”
“That is so,” all said, as they crossed themselves. “She is flying
through the air.”
It really seemed as if Joan were flying. The mist, the fast-gathering
twilight, and the distance created such an ocular illusion that any
superstitious spectator would have sworn she was flying. All hurried to
the tree, under whose branches the victor was not standing, but devoutly
kneeling. The joyous crowd surrounded her, and no feeling of envy
clouded their joy as they placed the wreath upon her fair head. As the
night was now fast coming on, the girls went homewards with the flocks.
They were all from the village of Domremy.
Joan found Jacques, her father, Pierre, her brother, and Duram Laxart,
her uncle, engaged in earnest conversation with a stranger in the square
in front of the church. A few words which she overheard aroused her
curiosity, and she approached the group and listened.
“I bid you repent,” said the stranger, “lest the wrath of Heaven be
visited upon you, for all the misfortunes of this land are divine
punishments for the sins of the Court and the King’s kindred.”
“Oh, oh, holy father,” said one, “that would be very sad.”
“What do you mean by that, my son?”
“I mean it would be very sad for Heaven to punish poor people who have
done no wrong, for the wrongdoings of the Court.”
“Go home, thou son of Belial who doubtest that which the Spirit reveals
to thee through my lips. Shut thyself up in thy chamber, and three times
repeat seven paternosters, that thy soul may be released from the bonds
of doubt, for doubt is the work of the devil, who is already stretching
out his claws to seize thee.”
“But, holy father—”
“Be quiet, Gamoche,” interposed another villager. “Do not interrupt the
holy father. He will explain it all to us.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the others, “he will explain everything.”
“Well, then, listen to me, children,” resumed the stranger. “But, holy
Mother of God, where shall I begin? The list of the sins of this Court
is so long that if I should go back a century, even then it would not be
the beginning. I will confine myself to the recent ones, which must be
more or less familiar to you all. Have you heard about the last King,
Charles the Sixth?”[8]
“Why should we not have heard? He died insane only two years ago.”
“Yes, insane. He had a few lucid moments after 1392, in which he
recognized in some measure the profligacy of the administration. The
whole royal family, with but few exceptions, acted as if they were
insane. First of all, there was the Queen, the notorious Isabella of
Bavaria, who was as much a stranger to the nobility of human nature as
she was to the divine. Her every purpose and act had no higher motive
than the gratification of her own desires and the discovery how to
accomplish them. It would have mattered nothing to her if a sea of blood
had been shed, if only her interests were advanced. There was the Duke
Louis of Orleans,[9] brother of the insane King, who pandered to
Isabella’s profligacy and lust of power, finally seized the reins of
sovereignty, and plunged the state into direst confusion. There were the
King’s uncles, the dukes of Bourbon, Berry, Burgundy, and Anjou, all
alike avaricious and ambitious for power, who lashed the Duke of Orleans
and the King with the scourge of war, murdered their subjects, and
ravaged the country. Then came numerous factions which contended with
one another, one for this, and one for that, and finally almost
countless great and little lords, robber barons, who, pretending to
espouse the cause of one party, harried the districts of others, leaving
a trail of pillage and blood. To complete the burden of wretchedness,
King Henry the Fifth sent his Englishmen, those hereditary enemies of
France, across the Channel. In alliance with the turbulent dukes,
particularly those of Burgundy and Brittany, they advanced victorious,
captured one place after another, and at last even Rouen and Paris, so
that few provinces were left to the unfortunate King. Frightful
confusion followed when this King died in 1422. Henry the Fifth, to be
sure, died in the same year, but his field marshal, the Duke of Bedford,
guardian of young Henry the Sixth,[10] did not abandon the field. The
infamous treaty of Troyes gave him the semblance of right.”
“How so, holy father?” interposed one of the villagers.
“Be quiet,” replied another. “You ought to have known that Queen
Isabella, out of hate and revenge against her youngest son Charles, who,
after the death of his brother the Dauphin, was crown prince, concluded
that treaty with England whereby the French royal family was barred from
the succession and the King of England was declared successor of Charles
the Sixth.”
“Oh, the disgrace! Oh, the shame!” several exclaimed.
“And this poor Dauphin,” continued the former speaker, “spent a joyless
youth, in which his unnatural mother often forced him as well as his
father to suffer the pangs of hunger; and yet, poor, weak, and
throneless as he is, he is still ready to struggle for that throne which
is his birthright as Charles the Seventh. Is this not so, holy father?”
“Certainly, certainly, God’s pity,” replied the stranger. “He should
rule by his own and by divine right. The treaty of Troyes cannot prevent
it. But where is the hero who will lead him to coronation at Rheims?
Alas, only miraculous interposition can save him from ruin.”
“Saint Catherine,” sighed a gentle voice.
“Joan!” exclaimed Jacques, as he recognized his daughter, “what are you
doing here? Go home.”
“Not yet, father Jacques,” said the stranger. “Let her stay. Do you not
know that the prayers from a pure child’s heart are heard by the dear
saints? And,” he added, “I have never seen eyes so full of innocence and
piety as hers.”
“Ah!” replied Jacques, “of what use are the prayers of a child when the
whole country lies helpless?”
“Are you also an unbeliever?” replied the stranger. “Know you not that
the great God can manifest Himself in a little child?”
These were the last words of the conversation which Joan heard. She
suddenly disappeared, but she did not go home. She wended her way to the
church, which was always open. Never had her heart been so troubled and
full of strange longings, never had she been so powerfully moved to hold
communion with her saint. It was not so much the desire to make a votive
offering of her wreath as it was the unspeakable sorrow of the
fatherland and the wretched plight of the poor Dauphin that urged her to
this sacred spot. And was this strange? If her sympathetic nature made
her shed tears over the slight suffering of a bird, how much more would
it force her to weep over the story of universal misfortune which she
had just heard! Why should not the courage with which she had defended
her sheep from the wolf display itself now even more decidedly? And why
should she not believe in her very soul that her favorite saint would
perform a miracle of rescue?
“Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed from the depth of her heart. “Oh
that I could clothe my limbs in armor and wield the sword for the right!
I would ask for nothing better in life. No sacrifice would be too great
to accomplish it. Then, surely, the beloved saints would not refuse to
help me.”
In such a spirit she entered the sacred house. It was empty. The shadows
of evening, mingling with the clouds of incense smoke which still
lingered in the church, were intensified by the feeble light of a small
lamp. She thrilled with sacred awe as she advanced through the
mysterious gloom. In her exalted mood it seemed to her that Saint
Catherine smiled, as with trembling hand she placed the wreath upon her
altar. In transports of sorrow and gratitude, of divine trust, and of
overwhelming desire for action, she knelt at the altar, and her soul
ascended to the celestial abodes. She knew no prayers except the Lord’s
Prayer, the Credo, and the Ave Maria, but the more she repeated them the
more completely was she spiritually absorbed.
Thus little by little she sank into that species of ecstasy in which the
ordinary spiritual functions are suspended and there remain only the
sacred feeling of heavenly contemplation and the free play of the fancy.
It is a condition which differs from actual dreaming only in its danger,
for there is danger that this ecstatic feeling once aroused may become
real, and its possessor may behold illusive pictures of the fancy. The
enthusiast may believe he sees real objects and hears actual voices. He
may believe them to be messages from heaven, never asking himself
whether such fancies will stand the test of reason. Because of ecstasies
like these, deeds have been committed which have darkened the page of
history with everlasting shame. But when these ecstasies arise from
exalted moral ideas they may achieve results which are far beyond mere
human strength and secure imperishable fame for the enthusiast.
Thus it was with this simple child praying at the altar. In her ecstatic
fancy she saw the roof of the church open, and her favorite Saints
Catherine and Margaret floating down through the clouds of incense. She
heard them saying, “Keep thy heart unsullied, Joan, for Heaven has
chosen thee as the champion of France.”
The vision disappeared. The dream was over. But in that instant the
career of this child was determined. She was the subsequent Maid of
Orleans.