Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, Volume 1
by
Mark Twain
Part 2 out of 5
land. England has armies here; opposition is dead; she can assume
full possession whenever she may choose. In very truth, all France
is gone, France is already lost, France has ceased to exist. What
was France is now but a British province. Is this true?"
Her voice was low, and just touched with emotion, but distinct:
"Yes, it is true."
"Very well. Now add this clinching fact, and surely the sum is
complete: When have French soldiers won a victory? Scotch
soldiers, under the French flag, have won a barren fight or two a
few years back, but I am speaking of French ones. Since eight
thousand Englishmen nearly annihilated sixty thousand Frenchmen
a dozen years ago at Agincourt, French courage has been
paralyzed. And so it is a common saying to-day that if you
confront fifty French soldiers with five English ones, the French
will run."
"It is a pity, but even these things are true."
"Then certainly the day for hoping is past."
I believed the case would be clear to her now. I thought it could
not fail to be clear to her, and that she would say, herself, that
there was no longer any ground for hope. But I was mistaken; and
disappointed also. She said, without any doubt in her tone:
"France will rise again. You shall see."
"Rise?--with this burden of English armies on her back!"
"She will cast it off; she will trample it under foot!" This with
spirit.
"Without soldiers to fight with?"
"The drums will summon them. They will answer, and they will
march."
"March to the rear, as usual?"
"No; to the front--ever to the front--always to the front! You shall
see."
"And the pauper King?"
"He will mount his throne--he will wear his crown."
"Well, of a truth this makes one's head dizzy. Why, if I could
believe that in thirty years from now the English domination would
be broken and the French monarch's head find itself hooped with a
real crown of sovereignty--"
"Both will have happened before two years are sped."
"Indeed? and who is going to perform all these sublime
impossibilities?"
"God."
It was a reverent low note, but it rang clear.
What could have put those strange ideas in her head? This question
kept running in my mind during two or three days. It was
inevitable that I should think of madness. What other way was
there to account for such things? Grieving and brooding over the
woes of France had weakened that strong mind, and filled it with
fantastic phantoms--yes, that must be it.
But I watched her, and tested her, and it was not so. Her eye was
clear and sane, her ways were natural, her speech direct and to the
point. No, there was nothing the matter with her mind; it was still
the soundest in the village and the best. She went on thinking for
others, planning for others, sacrificing herself for others, just as
always before. She went on ministering to her sick and to her poor,
and still stood ready to give the wayfarer her bed and content
herself with the floor. There was a secret somewhere, but madness
was not the key to it. This was plain.
Now the key did presently come into my hands, and the way that it
happened was this. You have heard all the world talk of this matter
which I am about to speak of, but you have not heard an
eyewitness talk of it before.
I was coming from over the ridge, one day--it was the 15th of May,
'28--and when I got to the edge of the oak forest and was about to
step out of it upon the turfy open space in which the haunted beech
tree stood, I happened to cast a glance from cover, first--then I
took a step backward, and stood in the shelter and concealment of
the foliage. For I had caught sight of Joan, and thought I would
devise some sort of playful surprise for her. Think of it--that trivial
conceit was neighbor, with but a scarcely measurable interval of
time between, to an event destined to endure forever in histories
and songs.
The day was overcast, and all that grassy space wherein the Tree
stood lay in a soft rich shadow. Joan sat on a natural seat formed
by gnarled great roots of the Tree. Her hands lay loosely, one
reposing in the other, in her lap. Her head was bent a little toward
the ground, and her air was that of one who is lost to thought,
steeped in dreams, and not conscious of herself or of the world.
And now I saw a most strange thing, for I saw a white shadow
come slowly gliding along the grass toward the Tree. It was of
grand proportions--a robed form, with wings--and the whiteness of
this shadow was not like any other whiteness that we know of,
except it be the whiteness of lightnings, but even the lightnings are
not so intense as it was, for one cal look at them without hurt,
whereas this brilliancy was so blinding that in pained my eyes and
brought the water into them. I uncovered my head, perceiving that
I was in the presence of something not of this world. My breath
grew faint and difficult, because of the terror and the awe that
possessed me.
Another strange thing. The wood had been silent--smitten with that
deep stillness which comes when a storm-cloud darkens a forest,
and the wild creatures lose heart and are afraid; but now all the
birds burst forth into song, and the joy, the rapture, the ecstasy of it
was beyond belief; and was so eloquent and so moving, withal,
that it was plain it was an act of worship. With the first note of
those birds Joan cast herself upon her knees, and bent her head low
and crossed her hands upon her breast.
She had not seen the shadow yet. Had the song of the birds told her
it was coming? It had that look to me. Then the like of this must
have happened before. Yes, there might be no doubt of that.
The shadow approached Joan slowly; the extremity of it reached
her, flowed over her, clothed her in its awful splendor. In that
immortal light her face, only humanly beautiful before, became
divine; flooded with that transforming glory her mean peasant
habit was become like to the raiment of the sun-clothed children of
God as we see them thronging the terraces of the Throne in our
dreams and imaginings.
Presently she rose and stood, with her head still bowed a little, and
with her arms down and the ends of her fingers lightly laced
together in front of her; and standing so, all drenched with that
wonderful light, and yet apparently not knowing it, she seemed to
listen--but I heard nothing. After a little she raised her head, and
looked up as one might look up toward the face of a giant, and
then clasped her hands and lifted them high, imploringly, and
began to plead. I heard some of the words. I heard her say:
"But I am so young! oh, so young to leave my mother and my
home and go out into the strange world to undertake a thing so
great! Ah, how can I talke with men, be comrade with
men?--soldiers! It would give me over to insult, and rude usage,
and contempt. How can I go to the great wars, and lead armies?--I
a girl, and ignorant of such things, knowing nothing of arms, nor
how to mount a horse, nor ride it. . . . Yet--if it is commanded--"
Her voice sank a little, and was broken by sobs, and I made out no
more of her words. Then I came to myself. I reflected that I had
been intruding upon a mystery of God--and what might my
punishment be? I was afraid, and went deeper into the wood. Then
I carved a mark in the bark of a tree, saying to myself, it may be
that I am dreaming and have not seen this vision at all. I will come
again, when I know that I am awake and not dreaming, and see if
this mark is still here; then I shall know.
Chapter 7 She Delivers the Divine Command
I HEARD my name called. It was Joan's voice. It startled me, for
how could she know I was there? I said to myself, it is part of the
dream; it is all dream--voice, vision and all; the fairies have done
this. So I crossed myself and pronounced the name of God, to
break the enchantment. I knew I was awake now and free from the
spell, for no spell can withstand this exorcism. Then I heard my
name called again, and I stepped at once from under cover, and
there indeed was Joan, but not looking as she had looked in the
dream. For she was not crying now, but was looking as she had
used to look a year and a half before, when her heart was light and
her spirits high. Her old-time energy and fire were back, and a
something like exaltation showed itself in her face and bearing. It
was almost as if she had been in a trance all that time and had
come awake again. Really, it was just as if she had been away and
lost, and was come back to us at last; and I was so glad that I felt
like running to call everybody and have them flock around her and
give her welcome. I ran to her excited and said:
"Ah, Joan, I've got such a wonderful thing to tell you about! You
would never imagine it. I've had a dream, and in the dream I saw
you right here where you are standing now, and--"
But she put up her hand and said:
"It was not a dream."
It gave me a shock, and I began to feel afraid again.
"Not a dream?" I said, "how can you know about it, Joan?"
"Are you dreaming now?"
"I--I suppose not. I think I am not."
"Indeed you are not. I know you are not. And yow were not
dreaming when you cut the mark in the tree."
I felt myself turning cold with fright, for now I knew of a certainty
that I had not been dreaming, but had really been in the presence
of a dread something not of this world. Then I remembered that
my sinful feet were upon holy ground--the ground where that
celestial shadow had rested. I moved quickly away, smitten to the
bones with fear. Joan followed, and said:
"Do not be afraid; indeed there is no need. Come with me. We will
sit by the spring and I will tell you all my secret."
When she was ready to begin, I checked her and said:
"First tell me this. You could not see me in the wood; how did you
know I cut a mark in the tree?"
"Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then you will see."
"But tell me one thing now; what was that awful shadow that I
saw?"
"I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you are not in danger. It
was the shadow of an archangel--Michael, the chief and lord of the
armies of heaven."
I could but cross myself and tremble for having polluted that
ground with my feet.
"You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his face--did you see his
form?"
"Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the first time. I was
afraid the first time."
"When was that, Joan?"
"It is nearly three years ago now."
"So long? Have you seen him many times?"
"Yes, many times."
"It is this, then, that has changed you; it was this that made you
thoughtful and not as you were before. I see it now. Why did you
not tell us about it?"
"It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and soon I shall tell all.
But only you, now. It must remain a secret for a few days still."
"Has none seen that white shadow before but me?"
"No one. It has fallen upon me before when you and others were
present, but none could see it. To-day it has been otherwise, and I
was told why; but it will not be visible again to any."
"It was a sign to me, then--and a sign with a meaning of some
kind?"
"Yes, but I may not speak of that."
"Strange--that that dazzling light could rest upon an object before
one's eyes and not be visible."
"With it comes speech, also. Several saints come, attended by
myriads of angels, and they speak to me; I hear their voices, but
others do not. They are very dear to me--my Voices; that is what I
call them to myself."
"Joan, what do they tell you?"
"All manner of things--about France, I mean."
"What things have they been used to tell you?"
She sighed, and said:
"Disasters--only disasters, and misfortunes, and humiliation. There
was naught else to foretell."
"They spoke of them to you beforehand? "Yes. So that I knew what
was going to happen before it happened. It made me grave--as you
saw. It could not be otherwise. But always there was a word of
hope, too. More than that: France was to be rescued, and made
great and free again. But how and by whom--that was not told. Not
until to-day." As she said those last words a sudden deep glow
shone in her eyes, which I was to see there many times in
after-days when the bugles sounded the charge and learn to call it
the battle-light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her face.
"But to-day I know. God has chosen the meanest of His creatures
for this work; and by His command, and in His protection, and by
His strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and win back
France, and set the crown upon the head of His servant that is
Dauphin and shall be King."
I was amazed, and said:
"You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?"
"Yes. For one little moment or two the thought crushed me; for it
is as you say--I am only a child; a child and ignorant--ignorant of
everything that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough life of
camps and the companionship of soldiers. But those weak
moments passed; they will not come again. I am enlisted, I will not
turn back, God helping me, till the English grip is loosed from the
throat of France. My Voices have never told me lies, they have not
lied to-day. They say I am to go to Robert de Baudricourt,
governor of Vaucouleurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for
escort and send me to the King. A year from now a blow will be
struck which will be the beginning of the end, and the end will
follow swiftly."
"Where will it be struck?"
"My Voices have not said; nor what will happen this present year,
before it is struck. It is appointed me to strike it, that is all I know;
and follow it with others, sharp and swift, undoing in ten weeks
England's long years of costly labor, and setting the crown upon
the Dauphin's head--for such is God's will; my Voices have said it,
and shall I doubt it? No; it will be as they have said, for they say
only that which is true."
These were tremendous sayings. They were impossibilities to my
reason, but to my heart they rang true; and so, while my reason
doubted, my heart believed--believed, and held fast to the belief
from that day. Presently I said:
"Joan, I believe the things which you have said, and now I am glad
that I am to march with you to the great wars--that is, if it is with
you I am to march when I go."
She looked surprised, and said:
"It is true that you will be with me when I go to the wars, but how
did you know?"
"I shall march with you, and so also will Jean and Pierre, but not
Jacques."
"All true--it is so ordered, as was revealed to me lately, but I did
not know until to-day that the marching would be with me, or that
I should march at all. How did you know these things?"
I told her when it was that she had said them. But she did not
remember about it. So then I knew that she had been asleep, or in a
trance or an ecstasy of some kind, at that time. She bade me keep
these and the other revelations to myself for the present, and I said
I would, and kept the faith I promised.
None who met Joan that day failed to notice the change that had
come over her. She moved and spoke with energy and decision;
there was a strange new fire in her eye, and also a something
wholly new and remarkable in her carriage and in the set of her
head. This new light in the eye and this new bearing were born of
the authority and leadership which had this day been vested in her
by the decree of God, and they asserted that authority as plainly as
speech could have done it, yet without ostentation or bravado. This
calm consciousness of command, and calm unconscious outward
expression of it, remained with her thenceforth until her mission
was accomplished.
Like the other villagers, she had always accorded me the deference
due my rank; but now, without word said on either side, she and I
changed places; she gave orders, not suggestions. I received them
with the deference due a superior, and obeyed them without
comment. In the evening she said to me:
"I leave before dawn. No one will know it but you. I go to speak
with the governor of Vaucouleurs as commanded, who will
despise me and treat me rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at
this time. I go first to Burey, to persuade my uncle Laxart to go
with me, it not being meet that I go alone. I may need you in
Vaucouleurs; for if the governor will not receive me I will dictate
a letter to him, and so must have some one by me who knows the
art of how to write and spell the words. You will go from here
to-morrow in the afternoon, and remain in Vaucouleurs until I
need you."
I said I would obey, and she went her way. You see how clear a
head she had, and what a just and level judgment. She did not
order me to go with her; no, she would not subject her good name
to gossiping remark. She knew that the governor, being a noble,
would grant me, another noble, audience; but no, you see, she
would not have that, either. A poor peasant-girl presenting a
petition through a young nobleman--how would that look? She
always protected her modesty from hurt; and so, for reward, she
carried her good name unsmirched to the end. I knew what I must
do now, if I would have her approval: go to Vaucouleurs, keep out
of her sight, and be ready when wanted.
I went the next afternoon, and took an obscure lodging; the next
day I called at the castle and paid my respects to the governor, who
invited me to dine with him at noon of the following day. He was
an ideal soldier of the time; tall, brawny, gray-headed, rough, full
of strange oaths acquired here and there and yonder in the wars
and treasured as if they were decorations. He had been used to the
camp all his life, and to his notion war was God's best gift to man.
He had his steel cuirass on, and wore boots that came above his
knees, and was equipped with a huge sword; and when I looked at
this martial figure, and heard the marvelous oaths, and guessed
how little of poetry and sentiment might be looked for in this
quarter, I hoped the little peasant-girl would not get the privilege
of confronting this battery, but would have to content herself with
the dictated letter.
I came again to the castle the next day at noon, and was conducted
to the great dining-hall and seated by the side of the governor at a
small table which was raised a couple of steps higher than the
general table. At the small table sat several other guests besides
myself, and at the general table sat the chief officers of the
garrison. At the entrance door stood a guard of halberdiers, in
morion and breastplate.
As for talk, there was but one topic, of course--the desperate
situation of France. There was a rumor, some one said, that
Salisbury was making preparations to march against Orleans. It
raised a turmoil of excited conversation, and opinions fell thick
and fast. Some believed he would march at once, others that he
could not accomplish the investment before fall, others that the
siege would be long, and bravely contested; but upon one thing all
voices agreed: that Orleans must eventually fall, and with it
France. With that, the prolonged discussion ended, and there was
silence. Every man seemed to sink himself in his own thoughts,
and to forget where he was. This sudden and profound stillness,
where before had been so much animation, was impressive and
solemn. Now came a servant and whispered something to the
governor, who said:
"Would talk with me?"
"Yes, your Excellency."
"H'm! A strange idea, certainly. Bring them in."
It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spectacle of the great
people the courage oozed out of the poor old peasant and he
stopped midway and would come no further, but remained there
with his red nightcap crushed in his hands and bowing humbly
here, there, and everywhere, stupefied with embarrassment and
fear. But Joan came steadily forward, erect and self-possessed, and
stood before the governor. She recognized me, but in no way
indicated it. There was a buzz of admiration, even the governor
contributing to it, for I heard him mutter, "By God's grace, it is a
beautiful creature!" He inspected her critically a moment or two,
then said:
"Well, what is your errand, my child?"
"My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt, governor of
Vaucouleurs, and it is this: that you will send and tell the Dauphin
to wait and not give battle to his enemies, for God will presently
send him help."
This strange speech amazed the company, and many murmured,
"The poor young thing is demented." The governor scowled, and
said:
"What nonsense is this? The King--or the Dauphin, as you call
him--needs no message of that sort. He will wait, give yourself no
uneasiness as to that. What further do you desire to say to me?"
"This. To beg that you will give me an escort of men-at-arms and
send me to the Dauphin."
"What for?"
"That he may make me his general, for it is appointed that I shall
drive the English out of France, and set the crown upon his head."
"What--you? Why, you are but a child!"
"Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless."
"Indeed! And when will all this happen?"
"Next year he will be crowned, and after that will remain master of
France."
There was a great and general burst of laughter, and when it had
subsided the governor said:
"Who has sent you with these extravagant messages?"
"My Lord."
"What Lord?"
"The King of Heaven."
Many murmured, "Ah, poor thing, poor thing!" and others, "Ah,
her mind is but a wreck!" The governor hailed Laxart, and said:
"Harkye!--take this mad child home and whip her soundly. That is
the best cure for her ailment."
As Joan was moving away she turned and said, with simplicity:
"You refuse me the soldiers, I know not why, for it is my Lord that
has commanded you. Yes, it is He that has made the command;
therefore I must come again, and yet again; then I shall have the
men-at-arms."
There was a great deal of wondering talk, after she was gone; and
the guards and servants passed the talk to the town, the town
passed it to the country; Domremy was already buzzing with it
when we got back.
Chapter 8 Why the Scorners Relented
HUMAN NATURE is the same everywhere: it defies success, it
has nothing but scorn for defeat. The village considered that Joan
had disgraced it with her grotesque performance and its ridiculous
failure; so all the tongues were busy with the matter, and as bilious
and bitter as they were busy; insomuch that if the tongues had been
teeth she would not have survived her persecutions. Those persons
who did not scold did what was worse and harder to bear; for they
ridiculed her, and mocked at her, and ceased neither day nor night
from their witticisms and jeerings and laughter. Haumette and
Little Mengette and I stood by her, but the storm was too strong for
her other friends, and they avoided her, being ashamed to be seen
with her because she was so unpopular, and because of the sting of
the taunts that assailed them on her account. She shed tears in
secret, but none in public. In public she carried herself with
serenity, and showed no distress, nor any resentment--conduct
which should have softened the feeling against her, but it did not.
Her father was so incensed that he could not talk in measured
terms about her wild project of going to the wars like a man. He
had dreamed of her doing such a thing, some time before, and now
he remembered that dream with apprehension and anger, and said
that rather than see her unsex herself and go away with the armies,
he would require her brothers to drown her; and that if they should
refuse, he would do it with his own hands.
But none of these things shook her purpose in the least. Her
parents kept a strict watch upon her to keep her from leaving the
village, but she said her time was not yet; that when the time to go
was come she should know it, and then the keepers would watch in
vain.
The summer wasted along; and when it was seen that her purpose
continued steadfast, the parents were glad of a chance which
finally offered itself for bringing her projects to an end through
marriage. The Paladin had the effrontery to pretend that she had
engaged herself to him several years before, and now he claimed a
ratification of the engagement.
She said his statement was not true, and refused to marry him. She
was cited to appear before the ecclesiastical court at Toul to
answer for her perversity; when she declined to have counsel, and
elected to conduct her case herself, her parents and all her
ill-wishers rejoiced, and looked upon her as already defeated. And
that was natural enough; for who would expect that an ignorant
peasant-girl of sixteen would be otherwise than frightened and
tongue-tied when standing for the first time in presence of the
practised doctors of the law, and surrounded by the cold
solemnities of a court? Yet all these people were mistaken. They
flocked to Toul to see and enjoy this fright and embarrassment and
defeat, and they had their trouble for their pains. She was modest,
tranquil, and quite at her ease. She called no witnesses, saying she
would content herself with examining the witnesses for the
prosecution. When they had testified, she rose and reviewed their
testimony in a few words, pronounced it vague, confused, and of
no force, then she placed the Paladin again on the stand and began
to search him. His previous testimony went rag by rag to ruin
under her ingenious hands, until at last he stood bare, so to speak,
he that had come so richly clothed in fraud and falsehood. His
counsel began an argument, but the court declined to hear it, and
threw out the case, adding a few words of grave compliment for
Joan, and referring to her as "this marvelous child."
After this victory, with this high praise from so imposing a source
added, the fickle village turned again, and gave Joan countenance,
compliment, and peace. Her mother took her back to her heart, and
even her father relented and said he was proud of her. But the time
hung heavy on her hands, nevertheless, for the siege of Orleans
was begun, the clouds lowered darker and darker over France, and
still her Voices said wait, and gave her no direct commands. The
winter set in, and wore tgediously along; but at last there was a
change.
BOOK II IN COURT AND CAMP
Chapter 1 Joan Says Good-By
THE 5th of January, 1429, Joan came to me with her uncle Laxart,
and said:
"The time is come. My Voices are not vague now, but clear, and
they have told me what to do. In two months I shall be with the
Dauphin."
Her spirits were high, and her bearing martial. I caught the
infection and felt a great impulse stirring in me that was like what
one feels when he hears the roll of the drums and the tramp of
marching men.
"I believe it," I said.
"I also believe it," said Laxart. "If she had told me before, that she
was commanded of God to rescue France, I should not have
believed; I should have let her seek the governor by her own ways
and held myself clear of meddling in the matter, not doubting she
was mad. But I have seen her stand before those nobles and might
men unafraid, and say her say; and she had not been able to do that
but by the help of God. That I know. Therefore with all
humbleness I am at her command, to do with me as she will."
"My uncle is very good to me," Joan said. "I sent and asked him to
come and persuade my mother to let him take me home with him
to tend his wife, who is not well. It is arranged, and we go at dawn
to-morrow. From his house I shall go soon to Vaucouleurs, and
wait and strive until my prayer is granted. Who were the two
cavaliers who sat to your left at the governor's table that day?"
"One was the Sieur Jean de Novelonpont de Metz, the other the
Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy."
"Good metal--good metal, both. I marked them for men of mine. . .
. What is it I see in your face? Doubt?"
I was teaching myself to speak the truth to her, not trimming it or
polishing it; so I said:
"They considered you out of your head, and said so. It is true they
pitied you for being in such misfortune, but still they held you to
be mad."
This did not seem to trouble her in any way or wound her. She
only said:
"The wise change their minds when they perceive that they have
been in error. These will. They will march with me. I shall see
them presently. . . . You seem to doubt again? Do you doubt?"
"N-no. Not now. I was remembering that it was a year ago, and
that they did not belong here, but only chanced to stop a day on
their journey."
"They will come again. But as to matters now in hand; I came to
leave with you some instructions. You will follow me in a few
days. Order your affairs, for you will be absent long."
"Will Jean and Pierre go with me?"
"No; they would refuse now, but presently they will come, and
with them they will bring my parents' blessing, and likewise their
consent that I take up my mission. I shall be stronger,
then--stronger for that; for lack of it I am weak now." She paused a
little while, and the tears gathered in her eyes; then she went on: "I
would say good-by to Little Mengette. Bring her outside the village
at dawn; she must go with me a little of the way--"
"And Haumette?"
She broke down and began to cry, saying:
"No, oh, no--she is too dear to me, I could not bear it, knowing I
should never look upon her face again."
Next morning I brought Mengette, and we four walked along the
road in the cold dawn till the village was far behind; then the two
girls said their good-bys, clinging about each other's neck, and
pouring out their grief in loving words and tears, a pitiful sight to
see. And Joan took one long look back upon the distant village,
and the Fairy Tree, and the oak forest, and the flowery plain, and
the river, as if she was trying to print these scenes on her memory
so that they would abide there always and not fade, for she knew
she would not see them any more in this life; then she turned, and
went from us, sobbing bitterly. It was her birthday and mine. She
was seventeen years old.
Chapter 2 The Governor Speeds Joan
After a few days, Laxart took Joan to Vaucouleurs, and found
lodging and guardianship for her with Catherine Royer, a
wheelwright's wife, an honest and good woman. Joan went to mass
regularly, she helped do the housework, earning her keep in that
way, and if any wished to talke with her about her mission--and
many did--she talked freely, making no concealments regarding
the matter now. I was soon housed near by, and witnessed the
effects which followed. At once the tidings spread that a young girl
was come who was appointed of God to save France. The common
people flocked in crowds to look at her and speak with her, and
her fair young loveliness won the half of their belief, and her deep
earnestness and transparent sincerity won the other half. The
well-to-do remained away and scoffed, but that is their way.
Next, a prophecy of Merlin's, more than eight hundred years old,
was called to mind, which said that in a far future time France
would be lost by a woman and restored by a woman. France was
now, for the first time, lost--and by a woman, Isabel of Bavaria,
her base Queen; doubtless this fair and pure young girl was
commissioned of Heaven to complete the prophecy.
This gave the growing interest a new and powerful impulse; the
excitement rose higher and higher, and hope and faith along with
it; and so from Vaucouleurs wave after wave of this inspiring
enthusiasm flowed out over the land, far and wide, invading all the
villages and refreshing and revivifying the perishing children of
France; and from these villages came people who wanted to see for
themselves, hear for themselves; and they did see and hear, and
believe. They filled the town; they more than filled it; inns and
lodgings were packed, and yet half of the inflow had to go without
shelter. And still they came, winter as it was, for when a man's soul
is starving, what does he care for meat and roof so he can but get
that nobler hunger fed? Day after day, and still day after day the
great tide rose. Domremy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and said
to itself, "Was this world-wonder in our familiar midst all these
years and we too dull to see it?" Jean and Pierre went out from the
village, stared at and envied like the great and fortunate of the
earth, and their progress to Vaucouleurs was like a triumph, all the
country-side flocking to see and salute the brothers of one with
whom angels had spoken face to face, and into whose hands by
command of God they had delivered the destinies of France.
The brothers brought the parents' blessing and godspeed to Joan,
and their promise to bring it to her in person later; and so, with this
culminating happiness in her heart and the high hope it inspired,
she went and confronted the governor again. But he was no more
tractable than he had been before. He refused to send her to the
King. She was disappointed, but in no degree discouraged. She
said:
"I must still come to you until I get the men-at-arms; for so it is
commanded, and I may not disobey. I must go to the Dauphin,
though I go on my knees."
I and the two brothers were with Joan daily, to see the people that
came and hear what they said; and one day, sure enough, the Sieur
Jean de Metz came. He talked with her in a petting and playful
way, as one talks with children, and said:
"What are you doing here, my little maid? Will they drive the King
out of France, and shall we all turn English?"
She answered him in her tranquil, serious way:
"I am come to bid Robert de Baudricourt take or send me to the
King, but he does not heed my words."
"Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly; a whole year has
not turned you from your wish. I saw you when you came before."
Joan said, as tranquilly as before:
"It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant it. I can wait."
"Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure of that, my child.
These governors are stubborn people to deal with. In case he shall
not grant your prayer--"
"He will grant it. He must. It is not a matter of choice."
The gentleman's playful mood began to disappear--one could see
that, by his face. Joan's earnestness was affecting him. It always
happened that people who began in jest with her ended by being in
earnest. They soon began to perceive depths in her that they had
not suspected; and then her manifest sincerity and the rocklike
steadfastness of her convictions were forces which cowed levity,
and it could not maintain its self-respect in their presence. The
Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or two, then he began,
quite soberly:
"Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?--that is, I mean--"
"Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees!"
She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness that means so much
when a person's heart is in a thing. You could see the response in
that nobleman's face; you could see his eye light up; there was
sympathy there. He said, most earnestly:
"God knows I think you should have the men-at-arms, and that
somewhat would come of it. What is it that you would do? What is
your hope and purpose?"
"To rescue France. And it is appointed that I shall do it. For no one
else in the world, neither kings, nor dukes, no any other, can
recover the kingdom of France, and there is no help but in me."
The words had a pleading and pathetic sound, and they touched
that good nobleman. I saw it plainly. Joan dropped her voice a
little, and said: "But indeed I would rather spin with my poor
mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go and do it, for it is
my Lord's will."
"Who is your Lord?"
"He is God."
Then the Sieur de Metz, following the impressive old feudal
fashion, knelt and laid his hands within Joan's in sign of fealty, and
made oath that by God's help he himself would take her to the
king.
The next day came the Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy, and he also
pledged his oath and knightly honor to abide with her and follower
witherosever she might lead.
This day, too, toward evening, a great rumor went flying abroad
through the town--namely, that the very governor himself was
going to visit the young girl in her humble lodgings. So in the
morning the streets and lanes were packed with people waiting to
see if this strange thing would indeed happen. And happen it did.
The governor rode in state, attended by his guards, and the news of
it went everywhere, and made a great sensation, and modified the
scoffings of the people of quality and raised Joan's credit higher
than ever.
The governor had made up his mind to one thing: Joan was either a
witch or a saint, and he meant to find out which it was. So he
brought a priest with him to exorcise the devil that was in her in
case there was one there. The priest performed his office, but
found no devil. He merely hurt Joan's feelings and offended her
piety without need, for he had already confessed her before this,
and should have known, if he knew anything, that devils cannot
abide the confessional, but utter cries of anguish and the most
profane and furious cursings whenever they are confronted with
that holy office.
The governor went away troubled and full of thought, and not
knowing what to do. And while he pondered and studied, several
days went by and the 14th of February was come. Then Joan went
to the castle and said:
"In God's name, Robert de Baudricourt, you are too slow about
sending me, and have caused damage thereby, for this day the
Dauphin's cause has lost a battle near Orleans, and will suffer yet
greater injury if you do not send me to him soon."
The governor was perplexed by this speech, and said:
"To-day, child, to-day? How can you know what has happened in
that region to-day? It would take eight or ten days for the word to
come."
"My Voices have brought the word to me, and it is true. A battle
was lost to-day, and you are in fault to delay me so."
The governor walked the floor awhile, talking within himself, but
letting a great oath fall outside now and then; and finally he said:
"Harkye! go in peace, and wait. If it shall turn out as you say, I will
give you the letter and send you to the King, and not otherwise."
Joan said with fervor:
"Now God be thanked, these waiting days are almost done. In nine
days you will fetch me the letter."
Already the people of Vaucouleurs had given her a horse and had
armed and equipped her as a soldier. She got no chance to try the
horse and see if she could ride it, for her great first duty was to
abide at her post and lift up the hopes and spirits of all who would
come to talk with her, and prepare them to help in the rescue and
regeneration of the kingdom. This occupied every waking moment
she had. But it was no matter. There was nothing she could not
learn--and in the briefest time, too. Her horse would find this out
in the first hour. Meantime the brothers and I took the horse in turn
and began to learn to ride. And we had teaching in the use of the
sword and other arms also.
On the 20th Joan called her small army together--the two knights
and her two brothers and me--for a private council of war. No, it
was not a council, that is not the right name, for she did not
consult with us, she merely gave us orders. She mapped out the
course she would travel toward the King, and did it like a person
perfectly versed in geography; and this itinerary of daily marches
was so arranged as to avoid here and there peculiarly dangerous
regions by flank movements--which showed that she knew her
political geography as intimately as she knew her physical
geography; yet she had never had a day's schooling, of course, and
was without education. I was astonished, butg thought her Voices
must have taught her. But upon reflection I saw that this was not
so. By her references to what this and that and the other per4son
had told her, I perceived that she had been diligently questioning
those crowds of visiting strangers, and that out of them she had
patiently dug all this mass of invaluable knowledge. The two
knights were filled with wonder at her good sense and sagacity.
She commanded us to make preparations to travel by night and
sleep by day in concealment, as almost the whole of our long
journey would be through the enemy's country.
Also, she commanded that we should keep the date of our
departure a secret, since she meant to get away unobserved.
Otherwise we should be sent off with a grand demonstration which
would advertise us to the enemy, and we should be ambushed and
captured somewhere. Finally she said:
"Nothing remains, now, but that I confide to you the date of our
departure, so that you may make all needful preparation in time,
leaving nothing to be done in haste and badly at the last moment.
We march the 23d, at eleven of the clock at night."
Then we were dismissed. The two knights were startled--yes, and
troubled; and the Sieur Bertrand said:
"Even if the governor shall really furnish the letter and the escort,
he still may not do it in time to meet the date she has chosen. Then
how can she venture to name that date? It is a great risk--a great
risk to select and decide upon the date, in this state of uncertainty.
I said:
"Since she has named the 23d, we may trust her. The Voices have
told her, I think. We shall do best to obey."
We did obey. Joan's parents were notified to come before the 23d,
but prudence forbade that they be told why this limit was named.
All day, the 23d, she glanced up wistfully whenever new bodies of
strangers entered the house, but her parents did not appear. Still
she was not discouraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at last,
her hopes perished, and the tears came; however, she dashed them
away, and said:
"It was to be so, no doubt; no doubt it was so ordered; I must bear
it, and will."
De Metz tried to comfort her by saying:
"The governor sends no word; it may be that they will come
to-morrow, and--"
He got no further, for she interrupted him, saying:
"To what good end? We start at eleven to-night."
And it was so. At ten the governor came, with his guard and arms,
with horses and equipment for me and for the brothers, and gave
Joan a letter to the King. Then he took off his sword, and belted it
about her waist with his own hands, and said:
"You said true, child. The battle was lost, on the day you said. So I
have kept my word. Now go--come of it what may."
Joan gave him thanks, and he went his way.
The lost battle was the famous disaster that is called in history the
Battle of the Herrings.
All the lights in the house were at once put out, and a little while
after, when the streets had become dark and still, we crept
stealthily through them and out at the western gate and rode away
under whip and spur.
Chapter 3 The Paladin Groans and Boasts
WE WERE twenty-five strong, and well equipped. We rode in
double file, Joan and her brothers in the center of the column, with
Jean de Metz at the head of it and the Sieur Bertrand at its extreme
rear. In two or three hours we should be in the enemy's country,
and then none would venture to desert. By and by we began to hear
groans and sobs and execrations from different points along the
line, and upon inquiry found that six of our men were peasants
who had never ridden a horse before, and were finding it very
difficult to stay in their saddles, and moreover were now beginning
to suffer considerable bodily torture. They had been seized by the
governor at the last moment and pressed into the service to make
up the tale, and he had placed a veteran alongside of each with
orders to help him stick to the saddle, and kill him if he tried to
desert.
These poor devils had kept quiet as long as they could, but their
physical miseries were become so sharp by this time that they were
obliged to give them vent. But we were within the enemy's country
now, so there was no help for them, they must continue the march,
though Joan said that if they chose to take the risk they might
depart. They preferred to stay with us. We modified our pace now,
and moved cautiously, and the new men were warned to keep their
sorrows to themselves and not get the command into danger with
their curses and lamentations.
Toward dawn we rode deep into a forest, and soon all but the
sentries were sound asleep in spite of the cold ground and the
frosty air.
I woke at noon out of such a solid and stupefying sleep that at first
my wits were all astray, and I did not know where I was nor what
had been happening. Then my senses cleared, and I remembered.
As I lay there thinking over the strange events of the past month or
two the thought came into my mind, greatly surprising me, that
one of Joan's prophecies had failed; for where were No‰l and the
Paladin, who were to join us at the eleventh hour? By this time,
you see, I had gotten used to expecting everything Joan said to
come true. So, being disturbed and troubled by these thoughts, I
opened my eyes. Well, there stood the Paladin leaning against a
tree and looking down on me! How often that happens; you think
of a person, or speak of a person, and there he stands before you,
and you not dreaming he is near. It looks as if his being near is
really the thing that makes you think of him, and not just an
accident, as people imagine. Well, be that as it may, there was the
Paladin, anyway, looking down in my face and waiting for me to
wake. I was ever so glad to see him, and jumped up and shook him
by the hand, and led him a little way from the camp--he limping
like a cripple--and told him to sit down, and said:
"Now, where have you dropped down from? And how did you
happen to light in this place? And what do the soldier-clothes
mean? Tell me all about it."
He answered:
"I marched with you last night."
"No!" (To myself I said, "The prophecy has not all failed--half of it
has come true.")
"Yes, I did. I hurried up from Domremy to join, and was within a
half a minute of being too late. In fact, I was too late, but I begged
so hard that the governor was touched by my brave devotion to my
country's cause--those are the words he used--and so he yielded,
and allowed me to come."
I thought to myself, this is a lie, he is one of those six the governor
recruited by force at the last moment; I know it, for Joan's
prophecy said he would join at the eleventh hour, but not by his
own desire. Then I said aloud:
"I am glad you came; it is a noble cause, and one should not sit at
home in times like these."
"Sit at home! I could no more do it than the thunderstone could
stay hid in the clouds when the storm calls it."
"That is the right talk. It sounds like you."
That pleased him.
"I'm glad you know me. Some don't. But they will, presently. They
will know me well enough before I get done with this war."
"That is what I think. I believe that wherever danger confronts you
you will make yourself conspicuous."
He was charmed with this speech, and it swelled him up like a
bladder. He said:
"If I know myself--and I think I do--my performances in this
campaign will give you occasion more than once to remember
those words."
"I were a fool to doubt it. That I know."
"I shall not be at my best, being but a common soldier; still, the
country will hear of me. If I were where I belong; if I were in the
place of La Hire, or Saintrailles, or the Bastard of Orleans--well, I
say nothing. I am not of the talking kind, like No‰l Rainguesson
and his sort, I thank God. But it will be something, I take it--a
novelty in this world, I should say--to raise the fame of a private
soldier above theirs, and extinguish the glory of their names with
its shadow."
"Why, look here, my friend," I said, "do you know that you have
hit out a most remarkable idea there? Do you realize the gigantic
proportions of it? For look you; to be a general of vast renown,
what is that? Nothing--history is clogged and confused with them;
one cannot keep their names in his memory, there are so many.
But a common soldier of supreme renown--why, he would stand
alone! He would the be one moon in a firmament of mustard-seed
stars; his name would outlast the human race! My friend, who gave
you that idea?"
He was ready to burst with happiness, but he suppressed betrayal
of it as well as he could. He simply waved the compliment aside
with his hand and said, with complacency:
"It is nothing. I have them often--ideas like that--and even greater
ones. I do not consider this one much."
"You astonish me; you do, indeed. So it is really your own?"
"Quite. And there is plenty more where it came from"--tapping his
head with his finger, and taking occasion at the same time to cant
his morion over his right ear, which gave him a very self-satisfied
air--"I do not need to borrow my ideas, like No‰l Rainguesson."
"Speaking of No‰l, when did you see him last?"
"Half an hour ago. He is sleeping yonder like a corpse. Rode with
us last night."
I felt a great upleap in my heart, and said to myself, now I am at
rest and glad; I will never doubt her prophecies again. Then I said
aloud:
"It gives me joy. It makes me proud of our village. There is not
keeping our lion-hearts at home in these great times, I see that."
"Lion-heart! Who--that baby? Why, he begged like a dog to be let
off. Cried, and said he wanted to go to his mother. Him a
lion-heart!--that tumble-bug!"
"Dear me, why I supposed he volunteered, of course. Didn't he?"
"Oh, yes, he volunteered the way people do to the headsman. Why,
when he found I was coming up from Domremy to volunteer, he
asked me to let him come along in my protection, and see the
crowds and the excitement. Well, we arrived and saw the torches
filing out at the Castle, and ran there, and the governor had him
seized, along with four more, and he begged to be let off, and I
begged for his place, and atg last the governor allowed me to join,
but wouldn't let No‰l off, because he was disgusted with him, he
was such a cry-baby. Yes, and much good he'll do the King's
service; he'll eat for six and run for sixteen. I hate a pygmy with
half a heart and nine stomachs!"
"Why, this is very surprising news to me, and I am sorry and
disappointed to hear it. I thought he was a very manly fellow."
The Paladin gave me an outraged look, and said:
"I don't see how you can talk like that, I'm sure I don't. I don't see
how you could have got such a notion. I don't dislike him, and I'm
not saying these things out of prejudice, for I don't allow myself to
have prejudices against people. I like him, and have always
comraded with him from the cradle, but he must allow me to speak
my mind about his faults, and I am willing he shall speak his about
mine, if I have any. And, true enough, maybe I have; but I reckon
they'll bear inspection--I have that idea, anyway. A manly fellow!
You should have heard him whine and wail and swear, last night,
because the saddle hurt him. Why didn't the saddle hurt me?
Pooh--I was as much at home in it as if I had been born there. And
yet it was the first time I was ever on a horse. All those old soldiers
admired my riding; they said they had never seen anything like it.
But him--why, they had to hold him on, all the time."
An odor as of breakfast came stealing through the wood; the
Paladin unconsciously inflated his nostrils in lustful response, and
got up and limped painfully away, saying he must go and look to
his horse.
At bottom he was all right and a good-hearted giant, without any
harm in him, for it is no harm to bark, if one stops there and does
not bite, and it is no harm to be an ass, if one is content to bray and
not kick. If this vast structure of brawn and muscle and vanity and
foolishness seemed to have a libelous tongue, what of it? There
was no malice behind it; and besides, the defect was not of his
own creation; it was the work of No‰l Rainguesson, who had
nurtured it, fostered it, built it up and perfected it, for the
entertainment he got out of it. His careless light heart had to have
somebody to nag and chaff and make fun of, the Paladin had only
needed development in order to meet its requirements,
consequently the development was taken in hand and diligently
attended to and looked after, gnat-and-bull fashion, for years, to
the neglect and damage of far more important concerns. The result
was an unqualified success. No‰l prized the society of the Paladin
above everybody else's; the Paladin preferred anybody's to No‰l's.
The big fellow was often seen with the little fellow, but it was for
the same reason that the bull is often seen with the gnat.
With the first opportunity, I had a talk with No‰l. I welcomed him
to our expedition, and said:
"It was fine and brave of you to volunteer, No‰l."
His eye twinkled, and he answered:
"Yes, it was rather fine, I think. Still, the credit doesn't all belong
to me; I had help."
"Who helped you?"
"The governor."
"How?"
"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing. I came up from Domremy to
see the crowds and the general show, for I hadn't ever had any
experience of such things, of course, and this was a great
opportunity; but I hadn't any mind to volunteer. I overtook the
Paladin on the road and let him have my company the rest of the
way, although he did not want it and said so; and while we were
gawking and blinking in the glare of the governor's torches they
seized us and four more and added us to the escort, and that is
really how I came to volunteer. But, after all, I wasn't sorry,
remembering how dull life would have been in the village without
the Paladin."
"How did he feel about it? Was he satisfied?"
"I think he was glad."
"Why?"
"Because he said he wasn't. He was taken by surprise, you see, and
it is not likely that he could tell the truth without preparation. Not
that he would have prepared, if he had had the chance, for I do not
think he would. I am not charging him with that. In the same space
of time that he could prepare to speak the truth, he could also
prepare to lie; besides, his judgment would be cool then, and
would warn him against fooling with new methods in an
emergency. No, I am sure he was glad, because he said he wasn't."
"Do you think he was very glad?"
"Yes, I know he was. He begged like a slave, and bawled for his
mother. He said his health was delicate, and he didn't know how to
ride a horse, and he knew he couldn't outlive the first march. But
really he wasn't looking as delicate as he was feeling. There was a
cask of wine there, a proper lift for four men. The governor's
temper got afire, and he delivered an oath at him that knocked up
the dust where it struck the ground, and told him to shoulder that
cask or he would carve him to cutlets and send him home in a
basket. The Paladin did it, and that secured his promotion to a
privacy in the escort without any further debate."
"Yes, you seem to make it quite plain that he was glad to join--that
is, if your premises are right that you start from. How did he stand
the march last night?"
"About as I did. If he made the more noise, it was the privilege of
his bulk. We stayed in our saddles because we had help. We are
equally lame to-day, and if he likes to sit down, let him; I prefer to
stand."
Chapter 4 Joan Leads Us Through the Enemy
WE WERE called to quarters and subjected to a searching
inspection by Joan. Then she made a short little talk in which she
said that even the rude business of war could be conducted better
without profanity and other brutalities of speech than with them,
and that she should strictly require us to remember and apply this
admonition. She ordered half an hour's horsemanship drill for the
novices then, and appointed one of the veterans to conduct it. It
was a ridiculous exhibition, but we learned something, and Joan
was satisfied and complimented us. She did not take any
instruction herself or go through the evolutions and
manœuvers, but merely sat her horse like a martial little
statue and looked on. That was sufficient for her, you see. She
would not miss or forget a detail of the lesson, she would take it all
in with her eye and her mind, and apply it afterward with as much
certainty and confidence as if she had already practised it.
We now made three night marches of twelve or thirteen leagues
each, riding in peace and undisturbed, being taken for a roving
band of Free Companions. Country-folk were glad to have that sort
of people go by without stopping. Still, they were very wearying
marches, and not comfortable, for the bridges were few and the
streams many, and as we had to ford them we found the water
dismally cold, and afterward had to bed ourselves, still wet, on the
frosty or snowy ground, and get warm as we might and sleep if we
could, for it would not have been prudent to build fires. Our
energies languished under these hardships and deadly fatigues, but
Joan's did not. Her step kept its srping and firmness and her eye its
fire. We could only wonder at this, we could not explain it.
But if we had had hard times before, I know not what to call the
five nights that now followed, for the marches were as fatiguing,
the baths as cold, and we were ambuscaded seven times in
addition, and lost two novices and three veterans in the resulting
fights. The news had leaked out and gone abroad that the inspired
Virgin of Vaucouleurs was making for the King with an escort,
and all the roads were being watched now.
These five nights disheartened the command a good deal. This was
aggravated by a discovery which No‰l made, and which he
promptly made known at headquarters. Some of the men had been
trying to understand why Joan continued to be alert, vigorous, and
confident while the strongest men in the company were fagged
with the heavy marches and exposure and were become morose
and irritable. There, it shows you how men can have eyes and yet
not see. All their lives those men had seen their own women-folks
hitched up with a cow and dragging the plow in the fields while
the men did the driving. They had also seen other evidences that
women have far more endurance and patience and fortitude than
men--but what good had their seeing these things been to them?
None. It had taught them nothing. They were still surprised to see a
girl of seventeen bear the fatigues of war better than trained
veterans of the army. Moreover, they did not reflect that a great
soul, with a great purpose, can make a weak body strong and keep
it so; and here was the greatest soul in the universe; but how could
they know that, those dumb creatures? No, they knew nothing, and
their reasonings were of a piece with their ignorance. They argued
and discussed among themselves, with No‰l listening, and arrived
at the decision that Joan was a witch, and had her strange pluck
and strength from Satan; so they made a plan to watch for a safe
opportunity to take her life.
To have secret plottings of this sort going on in our midst was a
very serious business, of course, and the knights asked Joan's
permission to hang the plotters, but she refused without hesitancy.
She said:
"Neither these men nor any others can take my life before my
mission is accomplished, therefore why should I have their blood
upon my hands? I will inform them of this, and also admonish
them. Call them before me."
When the came she made that statement to them in a plain
matter-of-fact way, and just as if the thought never entered her
mind that any one could doubt it after she had given her word that
it was true. The men were evidently amazed and impressed to hear
her say such a thing in such a sure and confident way, for
prophecies boldly uttered never fall barren on superstitious ears.
Yes, this speech certainly impressed them, but her closing remark
impressed them still more. It was for the ringleader, and Joan said
it sorrowfully:
"It is a pity that you should plot another's death when you own is
so close at hand."
That man's horse stumbled and fell on him in the first ford which
we crossed that night, and he was drowned before we could help
him. We had no more conspiracies.
This night was harassed with ambuscades, but we got through
without having any men killed. One more night would carry us
over the hostile frontier if we had good luck, and we saw the night
close down with a good deal of solicitude. Always before, we had
been more or less reluctant to start out into the gloom and the
silence to be frozen in the fords and persecuted by the enemy, but
this time we were impatient to get under way and have it over,
although there was promise of more and harder fighting than any
of the previous nights had furnished. Moreover, in front of us
about three leagues there was a deep stream with a frail wooden
bridge over it, and as a cold rain mixed with snow had been falling
steadily all day we were anxious to find out whether we were in a
trap or not. If the swollen stream had washed away the bridge, we
might properly consider ourselves trapped and cut off from escape.
As soon as it was dark we filed out from the depth of the forest
where we had been hidden and began the march. From the time
that we had begun to encounter ambushes Joan had ridden at the
head of the column, and she took this post now. By the time we
had gone a league the rain and snow had turned to sleet, and under
the impulse of the storm-wind it lashed my face like whips, and I
envied Joan and the knights, who could close their visors and shut
up their heads in their helmets as in a box. Now, out of the pitchy
darkness and close at hand, came the sharp command:
"Halt!"
We obeyed. I made out a dim mass in front of us which might be a
body of horsemen, but one could not be sure. A man rode up and
said to Joan in a tone of reproof:
"Well, you have taken your time, truly. And what have you found
out? Is she still behind us, or in front?"
Joan answered in a level voice:
"She is still behind."
This news softened the stranger's tone. He said:
"If you know that to be true, you have not lost your time, Captain.
But are you sure? How do you know?"
"Because I have seen her."
"Seen her! Seen the Virgin herself?"
"Yes, I have been in her camp."
"Is it possible! Captain Raymond, I ask you to pardon me for
speaking in that tone just now. You have performed a daring and
admirable service. Where was she camped?"
"In the forest, not more than a league from here."
"Good! I was afraid we might be still behind her, but now that we
know she is behind us, everything is safe. She is our game. We will
hang her. You shall hang her yourself. No one has so well earned
the privilege of abolishing this pestilent limb of Satan."
"I do not know how to thank you sufficiently. If we catch her, I--"
"If! I will take care of that; give yourself no uneasiness. All I want
is just a look at her, to see what the imp is like that has been able
to make all this noise, then you and the halter may have her. How
many men has she?"
"I counted but eighteen, but she may have had two or three pickets
out."
"Is that all? It won't be a mouthful for my force. Is it true that she
is only a girl?"
"Yes; she is not more than seventeen."
"It passes belief! Is she robust, or slender?"
"Slender."
The officer pondered a moment or two, then he said:
"Was she preparing to break camp?"
"Not when I had my last glimpse of her."
"What was she doing?"
"She was talking quietly with an officer."
"Quietly? Not giving orders?"
"No, talking as quietly as we are now."
"That is good. She is feeling a false security. She would have been
restless and fussy else--it is the way of her sex when danger is
about. As she was making no preparation to break camp--"
"She certainly was not when I saw her last."
"--and was chatting quietly and at her ease, it means that this
weather is not to her taste. Night-marching in sleet and wind is not
for chits of seventeen. No; she will stay where she is. She has my
thanks. We will camp, ourselves; here is as good a place as any.
Let us get about it."
"If you command it--certainly. But she has two knights with her.
They might force her to march, particularly if the weather should
improve."
I was scared, and impatient to be getting out of this peril, and it
distressed and worried me to have Joan apparently set herself to
work to make delay and increase the danger--still, I thought she
probably knew better than I what to do. The officer said:
"Well, in that case we are here to block the way."
"Yes, if they come this way. But if they should send out spies, and
find out enough to make them want to try for the bridge through
the woods? Is it best to allow the bridge to stand?"
It made me shiver to hear her.
The officer considered awhile, then said:
"It might be well enough to send a force to destroy the bridge. I
was intending to occupy it with the whole command, but that is
not necessary now."
Joan said, tranquilly:
"With your permission, I will go and destroy it myself."
Ah, now I saw her idea, and was glad she had had the cleverness to
invent it and the ability to keep her head cool and think of it in that
tight place. The officer replied:
"You have it, Captain, and my thanks. With you to do it, it will be
well done; I could send another in your place, but not a better."
They saluted, and we moved forward. I breathed freer. A dozen
times I had imagined I heard the hoofbeats of the real Captain
Raymond's troop arriving behind us, and had been sitting on pins
and needles all the while that that conversation was dragging
along. I breathed freer, but was still not comfortable, for Joan had
given only the simple command, "Forward!" Consequently we
moved in a walk. Moved in a dead walk past a dim and
lengthening column of enemies at our side. The suspense was
exhausting, yet it lasted but a short while, for when the enemy's
bugles sang the "Dismount!" Joan gave the word to trot, and that
was a great relief to me. She was always at herself, you see. Before
the command to dismount had been given, somebody might have
wanted the countersign somewhere along that line if we came
flying by at speed, but now wee seemed to be on our way to our
allotted camping position, so we were allowed to pass
unchallenged. The further we went the more formidable was the
strength revealed by the hostile force. Perhaps it was only a
hundred or two, but to me it seemed a thousand. When we passed
the last of these people I was thankful, and the deeper we plowed
into the darkness beyond them the better I felt. I came nearer and
nearer to feeling good, for an hour; then we found the bridge still
standing, and I felt entirely good. We crossed it and destroyed it,
and then I felt--but I cannot describe what I felt. One has to feel it
himself in order to know what it is like.
We had expected to hear the rush of a pursuing force behind us,
for we thought that the real Captain Raymond would arrive and
suggest that perhaps the troop that had been mistaken for his
belonged to the Virgin of Vaucouleurs; but he must have been
delayed seriously, for when we resumed our march beyond the
river there were no sounds behind us except those which the storm
was furnishing.
I said that Joan had harvested a good many compliments intended
for Captain Raymond, and that he would find nothing of a crop left
but a dry stubble of reprimands when he got back, and a
commander just in the humor to superintend the gathering of it in.
Joan said:
"It will be as you say, no doubt; for the commander took a troop
for granted, in the night and unchallenged, and would have
camped without sending a force to destroy the bridge if he had
been left unadvised, and none are so ready to find fault with others
as those who do things worthy of blame themselves."
The Sieur Bertrand was amused at Joan's na‹ve way of referring to
her advice as if it had been a valuable present to a hostile leader
who was saved by it from making a censurable blunder of
omission, and then he went on to admire how ingeniously she had
deceived that man and yet had not told him anything that was not
the truth. This troubled Joan, and she said:
"I thought he was deceiving himself. I forbore to tell him lies, for
that would have been wrong; but if my truths deceived him,
perhaps that made them lies, and I am to blame. I would God I
knew if I have done wrong."
She was assured that she had done right, and that in the perils and
necessities of war deceptions that help one's own cause and hurt
the enemy's were always permissible; but she was not quite
satisfied with that, and thought that even when a great cause was
in danger one ought to have the privilege of trying honorable ways
first. Jean said:
"Joan, you told us yourself that you were going to Uncle Laxart's to
nurse his wife, but you didn't say you were going further, yet you
did go on to Vaucouleurs. There!"
"I see now," said Joan, sorrowfully. "I told no lie, yet I deceived. I
had tried all other ways first, but I could not get away, and I had to
get away. My mission required it. I did wrong, I think, and am to
blame."
She was silent a moment, turning the matter over in her mind, then
she added, with quiet decision, "But the thing itself was right, and I
would do it again."
It seemed an over-nice distinction, but nobody said anything. I few
had known her as well as she knew herself, and as her later history
revealed her to us, we should have perceived that she had a clear
meaning there, and that her position was not identical with ours, as
we were supposing, but occupied a higher plane. She would
sacrifice herself--and her best self; that is, her truthfulness--to save
her cause; but only that; she would not buy her life at that cost;
whereas our war-ethics permitted the purchase of our lives, or any
mere military advantage, small or great, by deception. Her saying
seemed a commonplace at the time, the essence of its meaning
escaping us; but one sees now that it contained a principle which
lifted it above that and made it great and fine.
Presently the wind died down, the sleet stopped falling, and the
cold was less severe. The road was become a bog, and the horses
labored through it at a walk--they could do no better. As the heavy
time wore on, exhaustion overcame us, and we slept in our
saddles. Not even the dangers that threatened us could keep us
awake.
This tenth night seemed longer than any of the others, and of
course it was the hardest, because we had been accumulating
fatigue from the beginning, and had more of it on hand now than at
any previous time. But we were not molested again. When the dull
dawn came at last we saw a river before us and we knew it was the
Loire; we entered the town of Gien, and knew we were in a
friendly land, with the hostiles all behind us. That was a glad
morning for us.
We were a worn and bedraggled and shabby-looking troop; and
still, as always, Joan was the freshest of us all, in both body and
spirits. We had averaged above thirteen leagues a night, by
tortuous and wretched roads. It was a remarkable march, and
shows what men can do when they have a leader with a
determined purpose and a resolution that never flags.
Chapter 5 We Pierce the Last Ambuscades
WE RESTED and otherwise refreshed ourselves two or three
hours at Gien, but by that time the news was abroad that the young
girl commissioned of God to deliver France was come; wherefore,
such a press of people flocked to our quarters to get sight of her
that it seemed best to seek a quieter place; so we pushed on and
halted at a small village called Fierbois.
We were now within six leagues of the King, who was a the Castle
of Chinon. Joan dictated a letter to him at once, and I wrote it. In it
she said she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to bring him
good news, and begged the privilege of delivering it in person. She
added that although she had never seen him she would know him
in any disguise and would point him out.
The two knights rode away at once with the letter. The troop slept
all the afternoon, and after supper we felt pretty fresh and fine,
especially our little group of young Domremians. We had the
comfortable tap-room of the village inn to ourselves, and for the
first time in ten unspeakably long days were exempt from bodings
and terrors and hardships and fatiguing labors. The Paladin was
suddenly become his ancient self again, and was swaggering up
and down, a very monument of self-complacency. No‰l
Rainguesson said:
"I think it is wonderful, the way he has brought us through."
"Who?" asked Jean.
"Why, the Paladin."
The Paladin seemed not to hear.
"What had he to do with it?" asked Pierre d'Arc.
"Everything. It was nothing but Joan's confidence in his discretion
that enabled her to keep up her heart. She could depend on us and
on herself for valor, but discretion is the winning thing in war,
after all; discretion is the rarest and loftiest of qualities, and he has
got more of it than any other man in France--more of it, perhaps,
than any other sixty men in France."
"Now you are getting ready to make a fool of yourself, No‰l
Rainguesson," said the Paladin, "and you want to coil some of that
long tongue of yours around your neck and stick the end of it in
your ear, then you'll be the less likely to get into trouble."
"I didn't know he had more discretion than other people," said
Pierre, "for discretion argues brains, and he hasn't any more brains
than the rest of us, in my opinion."
"No, you are wrong there. Discretion hasn't anything to do with
brains; brains are an obstruction to it, for it does not reason, it
feels. Perfect discretion means absence of brains. Discretion is a
quality of the heart--solely a quality of the heart; it acts upon us
through feeling. We know this because if it were an intellectual
quality it would only perceive a danger, for instance, where a
danger exists; whereas--"
"Hear him twaddle--the damned idiot!" muttered the Paladin.
"--whereas, it being purely a quality of the heart, and proceeding
by feeling, not reason, its reach is correspondingly wider and
sublimer, enabling it to perceive and avoid dangers that haven't
any existence at all; as, for instance, that night in the fog, when the
Paladin took his horse's ears for hostile lances and got off and
climbed a tree--"
"It's a lie! a lie without shadow of foundation, and I call upon you
all to beware you you give credence to the malicious inventions of
this ramshackle slander-mill that has been doing its best to destroy
my character for years, and will grind up your own reputations for
you next. I got off to tighten my saddle-girth--I wish I may die in
my tracks if it isn't so--and whoever wants to believe it can, and
whoever don't can let it alone."
"There, that is the way with him, you see; he never can discuss a
theme temperately, but always flies off the handle and becomes
disagreeable. And you notice his defect of memory. He remembers
getting off his horse, but forgets all the rest, even the tree. But that
is natural; he would remember getting off the horse because he
was so used to doing it. He always did it when there was an alarm
and the clash of arms at the front."
"Why did he choose that time for it?" asked Jean.
"I don't know. To tighten up his girth, he thinks, to climb a tree, I
think; I saw him climb nine trees in a single night."
"You saw nothing of the kind! A person that can lie like that
deserves no one's respect. I ask you all to answer me. Do you
believe what this reptile has said?"
All seemed embarrassed, and only Pierre replied. He said,
hesitatingly:
"I--well, I hardly know what to say. It is a delicate situation. It
seems offensive to me to refuse to believe a person when he makes
so direct a statement, and yet I am obliged to say, rude as it may
appear, that I am not able to believe the whole of it--no, I am not
able to believe that you climbed nine trees."
"There!" cried the Paladin; "now what do you think of yoiurself,
No‰l Rainguesson? How many do you believe I climbed, Pierre?"
"Only eight."
The laughter that followed inflamed the Paladin's anger to white
heat, and he said:
"I bide my time--I bide my time. I will reckon with you all, I
promise you that!"
"Don't get him started," No‰l pleaded; "he is a perfect lion when he
gets started. I saw enough to teach me that, after the third skirmish.
After it was over I saw him come out of the bushes and attack a
dead man single-handed."
"It is another lie; and I give you fair warning that you are going too
far. You will see me attack a live one if you are not careful."
"Meaning me, of course. This wounds me more than any number
of injurious and unkind speeches could do. In gratitude to one's
benefactor--"
"Benefactor? What do I owe you, I should like to know?"
"You owe me your life. I stood between the trees and the foe, and
kept hundreds and thousands of the enemy at bay when they were
thirsting for your blood. And I did not do it to display my daring. I
did it because I loved you and could not live without you."
"There--you have said enough! I will not stay here to listen to these
infamies. I can endure your lies, but not your love. Keep that
corruption for somebody with a stronger stomach than mine. And I
want to say this, before I go. That you people's small performances
might appear the better and win you the more glory, I hid my own
deeds through all the march. I went always to the front, where the
fighting was thickest, to be remote from you in order that you
might not see and be discouraged by the things I did to the enemy.
It was my purpose to keep this a secret in my own breast, but you
force me to reveal it. If you ask for my witnesses, yonder they lie,
on the road we have come. I found that road mud, I paved it with
corpses. I found that country sterile, I fertilized it with blood. Time
and again I was urged to go to the rear because the command could
not proceed on account of my dead. And yet you, you miscreant,
accuse me of climbing trees! Pah!"
And he strode out, with a lofty air, for the recital of his imaginary
deeds had already set him up again and made him feel good.
Next day we mounted and faced toward Chinon. Orleans was at
our back now, and close by, lying in the strangling grip of the
English; soon, please God, we would face about and go to their
relief. From Gien the news had spread to Orleans that the peasant
Maid of Vaucouleurs was on her way, divinely commissioned to
raise the siege. The news made a great excitement and raised a
great hope--the first breath of hope those poor souls had breathed
in five months. They sent commissioners at once to the King to
beg him to consider this matter, and not throw this help lightly
away. These commissioners were already at Chinon by this time.
When we were half-way to Chinon we happened upon yet one
more squad of enemies. They burst suddenly out of the woods, and
in considerable force, too; but we were not the apprentices we
were ten or twelve days before; no, we were seasoned to this kind
of adventure now; our hearts did not jump into our throats and our
weapons tremble in our hands. We had learned to be always in
battle array, always alert, and always ready to deal with any
emergency that might turn up. We were no more dismayed by the
sight of those people than our commander was. Before they could
form, Joan had delivered the order, "Forward!" and we were down
upon them with a rush. They stood no chance; they turned tail and
scattered, we plowing through them as if they had been men of
straw. That was our last ambuscade, and it was probably laid for us
by that treacherous rascal, the King's own minister and favorite, De
la Tremouille.
We housed ourselves in an inn, and soon the town came flocking
to get a glimpse of the Maid.
Ah, the tedious King and his tedious people! Our two good knights
came presently, their patience well wearied, and reported. They
and we reverently stood--as becomes persons who are in the
presence of kings and the superiors of kings--until Joan, troubled
by this mark of homage and respect, and not content with it nor yet
used to it, although we had not permitted ourselves to do otherwise
since the day she prophesied that wretched traitor's death and he
was straightway drowned, thus confirming many previous signs
that she was indeed an ambassador commissioned of God,
commanded us to sit; then the Sieur de Metz said to Joan:
"The King has got the letter, but they will not let us have speech
with him."
"Who is it that forbids?"
"None forbids, but there be three or four that are nearest his
person--schemers and traitors every one--that put obstructions in
the way, and seek all ways, by lies and pretexts, to make delay.
Chiefest of these are Georges de la Tremouille and that plotting
fox, the Archbishop of Rheims. While they keep the King idle and
in bondage to his sports and follies, they are great and their
importance grows; whereas if ever he assert himself and rise and
strike for crown and country like a man, their reign is done. So
they but thrive, they care not if the crown go to destruction and the
King with it."
"You have spoken with others besides these?"
"Not of the Court, no--the Court are the meek slaves of those
reptiles, and watch their mouths and their actions, acting as they
act, thinking as they think, saying as they say; wherefore they are
cold to us, and turn aside and go another way when we appear. But
we have spoken with the commissioners from Orleans. They said
with heat: 'It is a marvel that any man in such desperate case as is
the King can moon around in this torpid way, and see his all go to
ruin without lifting a finger to stay the disaster. What a most
strange spectacle it is! Here he is, shut up in this wee corner of the
realm like a rat in a trap; his royal shelter this huge gloomy tomb
of a castle, with wormy rags for upholstery and crippled furniture
for use, a very house of desolation; in his treasure forty francs, and
not a farthing more, God be witness! no army, nor any shadow of
one; and by contrast with his hungry poverty you behold this
crownless pauper and his shoals of fools and favorites tricked out
in the gaudiest silks and velvets you shall find in any Court in
Christendom. And look you, he knows that when our city falls--as
fall it surely will except succor come swiftly--France falls; he
knows that when that day comes he will be an outlaw and a
fugitive, and that behind him the English flag will float
unchallenged over every acre of his great heritage; he knows these
things, he knows that our faithful city is fighting all solitary and
alone against disease, starvation, and the sword to stay this awful
calamity, yet he will not strike one blow to save her, he will not
hear our prayers, he will not even look upon our faces.' That is
what the commissioners said, and they are in despair."
Joan said, gently:
"It is pity, but they must not despair. The Dauphin will hear them
presently. Tell them so."
She almost always called the King the Dauphin. To her mind he
was not King yet, not being crowned.
"We will tell them so, and it will content them, for they believe
you come from God. The Archbishop and his confederate have for
backer that veteran soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Grand Master of
the Palace, a worthy man, but simply a soldier, with no head for
any greater matter. He cannot make out to see how a country-girl,
ignorant of war, can take a sword in her small hand and win
victories where the trained generals of France have looked for
defeats only, for fifty years--and always found them. And so he
lifts his frosty mustache and scoffs."
"When God fights it is but small matter whether the hand that
bears His sword is big or little. He will perceive this in time. Is
there none in that Castle of Chinon who favors us?"
"Yes, the King's mother-in-law, Yolande, Queen of Sicily, who is
wise and good. She spoke with the Sieur Bertrand."
"She favors us, and she hates those others, the King's beguilers,"
said Bertrand. "She was full of interest, and asked a thousand
questions, all of which I answered according to my ability. Then
she sat thinking over these replies until I thought she was lost in a
dream and would wake no more. But it was not so. At last she said,
slowly, and as if she were talking to herself: 'A child of
seventeen--a girl--country-bred--untaught--ignorant of war, the use
of arms, and the conduct of battles--modest, gentle, shrinking--yet
throws away her shepherd's crook and clothes herself in steel, and
fights her way through a hundred and fifty leagues of fear, and
comes--she to whom a king must be a dread and awful
presence--and will stand up before such an one and say, Be not
afraid, God has sent me to save you! Ah, whence could come a
courage and conviction so sublime as this but from very God
Himself!' She was silent again awhile, thinking and making up her
mind; then she said, 'And whether she comes of God or no, there is
that in her heart that raises her above men--1high above all men
that breathe in France to-day--for in her is that mysterious
something that puts heart into soldiers, and turns mobs of cowards
into armies of fighters that forget what fear is when they are in that
presence--fighters who go into battle with joy in their eyes and
songs on their lips, and sweep over the field like a storm --that is
the spirit that can save France, and that alone, come it whence it
may! It is in her, I do truly believe, for what else could have borne
up that child on that great march, and made her despise its dangers
and fatigues? The King must see her face to face--and shall!' She
dismissed me with those good words, and I know her promise will
be kept. They will delay her all they can--those animals--bu she
will not fail in the end."
"Would she were King!" said the other knight, fervently. "For there
is little hope that the King himself can be stirred out of his
lethargy. He is wholly without hope, and is only thinking of
throwing away everything and flying to some foreign land. The
commissioners say there is a spell upon him that makes him
hopeless--yes, and that it is shut up in a mystery which they cannot
fathom."
"I know the mystery," said Joan, with quiet confidence; "I know it,
and he knows it, but no other but God. When I see him I will tell
him a secret that will drive away his trouble, then he will hold up
his head again."
I was miserable with curiosity to know what it was that she would
tell him, but she did not say, and I did not expect she would. She
was but a child, it is true; but she was not a chatterer to tell great
matters and make herself important to little people; no, she was
reserved, and kept things to herself, as the truly great always do.
The next day Queen Yolande got one victory over the King's
keepers, for, in spite of their protestations and obstructions, she
procured an audience for our two knights, and they made the most
they could out of their opportunity. They told the King what a
spotless and beautiful character Joan was, and how great and noble
a spirit animated her, and they implored him to trust in her, believe
in her, and have faith that she was sent to save France. They
begged him to consent to see her. He was strongly moved to do
this, and promised that he would not drop the matter out of his
mind, but would consult with his council about it. This began to
look encouraging. Two hours later there was a great stir below,
and the innkeeper came flying up to say a commission of
illustrious ecclesiastics was come from the King--from the King
his very self, understand!--think of this vast honor to his humble
little hostelry!--and he was so overcome with the glory of it that he
could hardly find breath enough in his excited body to put the facts
into words. They were come from the King to speak with the Maid
of Vaucouleurs. Then he flew downstairs, and presently appeared
again, backing into the room, and bowing to the ground with every
step, in front of four imposing and austere bishops and their train
of servants.
Joan rose, and we all stood. The bishops took seats, and for a while
no word was said, for it was their prerogative to speak first, and
they were so astonished to see what a child it was that was making
such a noise in the world and degrading personages of their dignity
to the base function of ambassadors to her in her plebeian tavern,
that they could not find any words to say at first. Then presently
their spokesman told Joan they were aware that she had a message
for the King, wherefore she was now commanded to put it into
words, briefly and without waste of time or embroideries of
speech.
As for me, I could hardly contain my joy--our message was to
reach the King at last! And there was the same joy and pride and
exultation in the faces of our knights, too, and in those of Joan's
brothers. And I knew that they were all praying--asI was--that the
awe which we felt in the presence of these great dignitaries, and
which would have tied our tongues and locked our jaws, would not
affect her in the like degree, but that she would be enabled to word
her message well, and with little stumbling, and so make a
favorable impression here, where it would be so valuable and so
important.
Ah, dear, how little we were expecting what happened then! We
were aghast to hear her say what she said. She was standing in a
reverent attitude, with her head down and her hands clasped in
front of her; for she was always reverent toward the consecrated
servants of God. When the spokesman had finished, she raised her
head and set her calm eye on those faces, not any more disturbed
by their state and grandeur than a princess would have been, and
said, with all her ordinary simplicity and modesty of voice and
manner:
"Ye will forgive me, reverend sirs, but I have no message save for
the King's ear alone."
Those surprised men were dumb for a moment, and their faces
flushed darkly; then the spokesman said:
"Hark ye, to you fling the King's command in his face and refuse to
deliver this message of yours to his servants appointed to receive
it?"
"God has appointed me to receive it, and another's commandment
may not take precedence of that. I pray you let me have speech for
his grace the Dauphin."
"Forbear this folly, and come at your message! Deliver it, and
waste no more time about it."
"You err indeed, most reverend fathers in God, and it is not well. I
am not come hither to talk, but to deliver Orleans, and lead the
Dauphin to his good city of Rheims, and set the crown upon his
head."
"Is that the message you send to the King?"
But Joan only said, in the simple fashion which was her wont:
"Ye will pardon me for reminding you again--but I have no
message to send to any one."
The King's messengers rose in deep anger and swept out of the
place without further words, we and Joan kneeling as they passed.
Our countenances were vacant, our hearts full of a sense of
disaster. Our precious opportunity was thrown away; we could not
understand Joan's conduct, she who had ben so wise until this fatal
hour. At last the Sieur Bertrand found courage to ask her why she
had let this great chance to get her message to the King go by.
"Who sent them here?" she asked.
"The King."
"Who moved the King to send them?" She waited for an answer;
none came, for we began to see what was in her mind--so she
answered herself: "The Dauphin's council moved him to it. Are
they enemies to me and to the Dauphin's weal, or are they
friends?"
"Enemies," answered the Sieur Bertrand.
"If one would have a message go sound and ungarbled, does one
choose traitors and tricksters to send it by?"
I saw that we had been fools, and she wise. They saw it too, so
none found anything to say. Then she went on:
"They had but small wit that contrived this trap. They thought to
get my message and seem to deliver it straight, yet deftly twist it
from its purpose. You know that one part of my message is but
this--to move the Dauphin by argument and reasonings to give me
men-at-arms and send me to the siege. If an enemy carried these in
the right words, the exact words, and no word missing, yet left out
the persuasions of gesture and supplicating tone and beseeching
looks that inform the words and make them live, where were the
value of that argument--whom could it convince? Be patient, the
Dauphin will hear me presently; have no fear."
The Sieur de Metz nodded his head several times, and muttered as
to himself:
"She was right and wise, and we are but dull fools, when all is
said."
It was just my thought; I could have said it myself; and indeed it
was the thought of all there present. A sort of awe crept over us, to
think how that untaught girl, taken suddenly and unprepared, was
yet able to penetrate the cunning devices of a King's trained
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