This is a modern-English version of Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc — Volume 2, originally written by Twain, Mark.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
JOAN OF ARCJoan of Arc
VOLUME 2 (of 2)
by Mark Twain
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
by The Sieur Louis De Conte
(her page and secretary)
In Two Volumes
Freely translated out of the ancient French into modern English from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives of France
Translated from old French into modern English from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives of France
CONTENTS
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
BOOK II — IN COURT AND CAMP (Continued)
31 France Begins to Live Again
34 The Jests of the Burgundians
35 The Heir of France is Crowned
41 The Maid Will March No More
5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice
6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors
9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold
10 The Inquisitors at Their Wits’ End
11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination
12 Joan’s Master-Stroke Diverted
14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies
15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning
16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack
19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail
22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer
CONTENTS
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC
BOOK II — IN COURT AND CAMP (Continued)
31 France Begins to Live Again
34 The Jests of the Burgundians
35 The Heir of France is Crowned
41 The Maid Will March No More
5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice
6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors
9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold
10 The Inquisitors at Their Wits’ End
11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination
12 Joan’s Master-Stroke Diverted
14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies
15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning
16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack
19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail
22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer
BOOK II — IN COURT AND CAMP (Continued)
28 Joan Foretells Her Doom

THE TROOPS must have a rest. Two days would be allowed for this. The morning of the 14th I was writing from Joan’s dictation in a small room which she sometimes used as a private office when she wanted to get away from officials and their interruptions. Catherine Boucher came in and sat down and said:
THE TROOPS need to take a break. Two days are set aside for this. On the morning of the 14th, I was writing from Joan’s dictation in a small room she occasionally used as a private office when she wanted to escape from officials and their interruptions. Catherine Boucher came in, sat down, and said:
“Joan, dear, I want you to talk to me.”
“Joan, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me.”
“Indeed, I am not sorry for that, but glad. What is in your mind?”
“Actually, I’m not sorry about that; I’m glad. What are you thinking?”
“This. I scarcely slept last night, for thinking of the dangers you are running. The Paladin told me how you made the duke stand out of the way when the cannon-balls were flying all about, and so saved his life.”
“This. I hardly slept last night, worrying about the dangers you’re facing. The Paladin told me how you got the duke to move out of the way when the cannonballs were flying everywhere, and that saved his life.”
“Well, that was right, wasn’t it?”
“Well, that was true, wasn’t it?”
“Right? Yes; but you stayed there yourself. Why will you do like that? It seems such a wanton risk.”
“Right? Yes; but you stayed there yourself. Why would you do that? It seems like such a reckless risk.”
“Oh, no, it was not so. I was not in any danger.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true. I wasn’t in any danger.”
“How can you say that, Joan, with those deadly things flying all about you?”
“How can you say that, Joan, with those dangerous things flying all around you?”
Joan laughed, and tried to turn the subject, but Catherine persisted. She said:
Joan laughed and tried to change the subject, but Catherine kept at it. She said:
“It was horribly dangerous, and it could not be necessary to stay in such a place. And you led an assault again. Joan, it is tempting Providence. I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise me that you will let others lead the assaults, if there must be assaults, and that you will take better care of yourself in those dreadful battles. Will you?”
“It was really dangerous, and there’s no reason to stay in such a place. And you went into battle again. Joan, it’s tempting fate. I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise that you’ll let others take the lead in the battles, if there have to be battles, and that you’ll take better care of yourself in those awful fights. Will you?”
But Joan fought away from the promise and did not give it. Catherine sat troubled and discontented awhile, then she said:
But Joan pushed away the promise and didn’t make it. Catherine sat there, troubled and dissatisfied for a moment, then she said:
“Joan, are you going to be a soldier always? These wars are so long—so long. They last forever and ever and ever.”
“Joan, are you really going to be a soldier forever? These wars go on for so long—so long. They seem never-ending.”
There was a glad flash in Joan’s eye as she cried:
There was a happy spark in Joan's eye as she exclaimed:
“This campaign will do all the really hard work that is in front of it in the next four days. The rest of it will be gentler—oh, far less bloody. Yes, in four days France will gather another trophy like the redemption of Orleans and make her second long step toward freedom!”
“This campaign will handle all the tough work ahead in the next four days. The rest will be easier—oh, much less violent. Yes, in four days France will claim another victory like the liberation of Orleans and take her second big step toward freedom!”
Catherine started (and so did I); then she gazed long at Joan like one in a trance, murmuring “four days—four days,” as if to herself and unconsciously. Finally she asked, in a low voice that had something of awe in it:
Catherine began (and so did I); then she stared at Joan for a long time, like she was in a trance, whispering "four days—four days," as if to herself and without really realizing it. Finally, she asked in a quiet voice that held a hint of awe:
“Joan, tell me—how is it that you know that? For you do know it, I think.”
“Joan, tell me—how do you know that? Because I think you do know it.”
“Yes,” said Joan, dreamily, “I know—I know. I shall strike—and strike again. And before the fourth day is finished I shall strike yet again.” She became silent. We sat wondering and still. This was for a whole minute, she looking at the floor and her lips moving but uttering nothing. Then came these words, but hardly audible: “And in a thousand years the English power in France will not rise up from that blow.”
“Yes,” Joan said dreamily, “I know—I understand. I will strike—and strike again. And by the end of the fourth day, I will strike once more.” She fell silent. We sat in wonder and stillness. This went on for a full minute, her gaze on the floor, her lips moving but making no sound. Then she spoke these words, barely above a whisper: “And in a thousand years, the English power in France will never recover from that blow.”
It made my flesh creep. It was uncanny. She was in a trance again—I could see it—just as she was that day in the pastures of Domremy when she prophesied about us boys in the war and afterward did not know that she had done it. She was not conscious now; but Catherine did not know that, and so she said, in a happy voice:
It sent chills down my spine. It was eerie. She was in a trance again—I could tell—just like that day in the fields of Domremy when she predicted things about us boys in the war and afterward didn’t even realize she had done it. She wasn’t aware now; but Catherine didn’t know that, so she said, in a cheerful voice:
“Oh, I believe it, I believe it, and I am so glad! Then you will come back and bide with us all your life long, and we will love you so, and honor you!”
“Oh, I believe it, I believe it, and I’m so happy! Then you’ll come back and stay with us for the rest of your life, and we’ll love you so much and honor you!”
A scarcely perceptible spasm flitted across Joan’s face, and the dreamy voice muttered:
A barely noticeable twitch crossed Joan’s face, and the dreamy voice murmured:
“Before two years are sped I shall die a cruel death!”
“Before two years pass, I will die a cruel death!”
I sprang forward with a warning hand up. That is why Catherine did not scream. She was going to do that—I saw it plainly. Then I whispered her to slip out of the place, and say nothing of what had happened. I said Joan was asleep—asleep and dreaming. Catherine whispered back, and said:
I jumped forward with my hand up to signal warning. That’s why Catherine didn’t scream. She was about to—I could see it clearly. Then I quietly told her to sneak out of there and not say anything about what had happened. I said Joan was asleep—sleeping and dreaming. Catherine whispered back and said:
“Oh, I am so grateful that it is only a dream! It sounded like prophecy.” And she was gone.
“Oh, I’m so glad it was just a dream! It felt like a prophecy.” And then she was gone.
Like prophecy! I knew it was prophecy; and I sat down crying, as knowing we should lose her. Soon she started, shivering slightly, and came to herself, and looked around and saw me crying there, and jumped out of her chair and ran to me all in a whirl of sympathy and compassion, and put her hand on my head, and said:
Like a prophecy! I knew it was a prophecy; and I sat down crying, knowing that we would lose her. Soon she stirred, shivering a bit, came to her senses, looked around, saw me there crying, jumped out of her chair, and rushed to me in a whirlwind of sympathy and compassion. She put her hand on my head and said:
“My poor boy! What is it? Look up and tell me.”
“My poor boy! What’s wrong? Look up and tell me.”
I had to tell her a lie; I grieved to do it, but there was no other way. I picked up an old letter from my table, written by Heaven knows who, about some matter Heaven knows what, and told her I had just gotten it from Pere Fronte, and that in it it said the children’s Fairy Tree had been chopped down by some miscreant or other, and— I got no further. She snatched the letter from my hand and searched it up and down and all over, turning it this way and that, and sobbing great sobs, and the tears flowing down her cheeks, and ejaculating all the time, “Oh, cruel, cruel! how could any be so heartless? Ah, poor Arbre Fee de Bourlemont gone—and we children loved it so! Show me the place where it says it!”
I had to tell her a lie; it broke my heart to do it, but there was no other option. I picked up an old letter from my table, written by someone I couldn’t identify, about something I couldn't remember, and told her I had just received it from Pere Fronte. I said it mentioned that the children’s Fairy Tree had been chopped down by some awful person, and—I couldn't say more. She grabbed the letter from my hand and searched it frantically, examining it from every angle, sobbing loudly, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and crying out the whole time, “Oh, so cruel! How could anyone be so heartless? Ah, poor Arbre Fee de Bourlemont is gone—and we loved it so much! Show me where it says that!”
And I, still lying, showed her the pretended fatal words on the pretended fatal page, and she gazed at them through her tears, and said she could see herself that they were hateful, ugly words—they “had the very look of it.”
And I, still lying there, pointed out the fake deadly words on the fake deadly page, and she looked at them through her tears, saying she could see for herself that they were awful, ugly words—they "had the very look of it."
Then we heard a strong voice down the corridor announcing:
Then we heard a loud voice down the hallway announcing:
“His majesty’s messenger—with despatches for her Excellency the Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of France!”
“His Majesty’s messenger—with urgent documents for Her Excellency the Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of France!”
29 Fierce Talbot Reconsiders
I KNEW she had seen the wisdom of the Tree. But when? I could not know. Doubtless before she had lately told the King to use her, for that she had but one year left to work in. It had not occurred to me at the time, but the conviction came upon me now that at that time she had already seen the Tree. It had brought her a welcome message; that was plain, otherwise she could not have been so joyous and light-hearted as she had been these latter days. The death-warning had nothing dismal about it for her; no, it was remission of exile, it was leave to come home.
I knew she had realized the wisdom of the Tree. But when? I couldn’t tell. Surely, it was before she recently told the King to use her, since she had only one year left to work with. I hadn’t thought about it then, but now I was convinced that she had already seen the Tree at that time. It had delivered a welcome message; that was obvious, or else she wouldn't have been so joyful and carefree in these last few days. The warning of death didn’t seem grim for her; no, it was a release from exile, a chance to come home.
Yes, she had seen the Tree. No one had taken the prophecy to heart which she made to the King; and for a good reason, no doubt; no one wanted to take it to heart; all wanted to banish it away and forget it. And all had succeeded, and would go on to the end placid and comfortable. All but me alone. I must carry my awful secret without any to help me. A heavy load, a bitter burden; and would cost me a daily heartbreak. She was to die; and so soon. I had never dreamed of that. How could I, and she so strong and fresh and young, and every day earning a new right to a peaceful and honored old age? For at that time I thought old age valuable. I do not know why, but I thought so. All young people think it, I believe, they being ignorant and full of superstitions. She had seen the Tree. All that miserable night those ancient verses went floating back and forth through my brain:
Yes, she had seen the Tree. No one took the prophecy she shared with the King seriously, and for good reason, I guess; no one wanted to acknowledge it; everyone wanted to push it away and forget it. And everyone succeeded, and would continue to live comfortably and calmly until the end. All but me alone. I had to carry my terrible secret without anyone to help me. A heavy load, a bitter burden; and it would cost me daily heartache. She was going to die; and very soon. I had never imagined that. How could I, when she was so strong, fresh, and young, earning a new right to a peaceful and respected old age every day? At that time, I thought old age had value. I don't know why, but I did. I believe all young people think that, being ignorant and full of superstitions. She had seen the Tree. All that miserable night, those ancient verses kept running through my mind:
And when, in exile wand’ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee, Oh, rise upon our sight!
And when we’re wandering in exile, longing to catch a glimpse of you, Oh, appear before our eyes!
But at dawn the bugles and the drums burst through the dreamy hush of the morning, and it was turn out all! mount and ride. For there was red work to be done.
But at dawn the bugles and drums broke through the peaceful quiet of the morning, and everyone had to turn out! Get on your horses and ride. There was serious work to be done.
We marched to Meung without halting. There we carried the bridge by assault, and left a force to hold it, the rest of the army marching away next morning toward Beaugency, where the lion Talbot, the terror of the French, was in command. When we arrived at that place, the English retired into the castle and we sat down in the abandoned town.
We marched to Meung without stopping. There, we took the bridge by force and left some troops to secure it while the rest of the army moved on the next morning toward Beaugency, where the fierce Talbot, the fear of the French, was in charge. When we got there, the English retreated into the castle, and we settled down in the deserted town.
Talbot was not at the moment present in person, for he had gone away to watch for and welcome Fastolfe and his reinforcement of five thousand men.
Talbot wasn't physically there at the moment because he had gone to look out for and greet Fastolfe and his extra five thousand troops.
Joan placed her batteries and bombarded the castle till night. Then some news came: Richemont, Constable of France, this long time in disgrace with the King, largely because of the evil machinations of La Tremouille and his party, was approaching with a large body of men to offer his services to Joan—and very much she needed them, now that Fastolfe was so close by. Richemont had wanted to join us before, when we first marched on Orleans; but the foolish King, slave of those paltry advisers of his, warned him to keep his distance and refused all reconciliation with him.
Joan set up her artillery and bombarded the castle until nightfall. Then some news arrived: Richemont, the Constable of France, who had been in disgrace with the King for quite some time, largely due to the devious schemes of La Tremouille and his allies, was coming with a large group of men to offer his support to Joan—and she desperately needed it, especially with Fastolfe so close by. Richemont had wanted to join us earlier when we first marched on Orleans; however, the foolish King, influenced by his petty advisors, warned him to stay away and refused any chance of reconciliation.
I go into these details because they are important. Important because they lead up to the exhibition of a new gift in Joan’s extraordinary mental make-up—statesmanship. It is a sufficiently strange thing to find that great quality in an ignorant country-girl of seventeen and a half, but she had it.
I get into these details because they matter. They matter because they highlight a new facet of Joan's incredible mind—her statesmanship. It's pretty unusual to find such a remarkable quality in a clueless country girl who's only seventeen and a half, but she had it.
Joan was for receiving Richemont cordially, and so was La Hire and the two young Lavals and other chiefs, but the Lieutenant-General, d’Alencon, strenuously and stubbornly opposed it. He said he had absolute orders from the King to deny and defy Richemont, and that if they were overridden he would leave the army. This would have been a heavy disaster, indeed. But Joan set herself the task of persuading him that the salvation of France took precedence of all minor things—even the commands of a sceptered ass; and she accomplished it. She persuaded him to disobey the King in the interest of the nation, and to be reconciled to Count Richemont and welcome him. That was statesmanship; and of the highest and soundest sort. Whatever thing men call great, look for it in Joan of Arc, and there you will find it.
Joan was all for welcoming Richemont, and so were La Hire, the two young Lavals, and other leaders. However, the Lieutenant-General, d’Alencon, strongly and stubbornly opposed it. He claimed he had strict orders from the King to refuse and stand against Richemont, and that if those orders were ignored, he would leave the army. That would have been a serious disaster. But Joan set out to convince him that the salvation of France was more important than any minor issues—even the commands of a foolish king; and she succeeded. She convinced him to disobey the King for the sake of the nation and to reconcile with Count Richemont and welcome him. That was true statesmanship, and of the highest quality. Whatever men consider great, you will find it in Joan of Arc.
In the early morning, June 17th, the scouts reported the approach of Talbot and Fastolfe with Fastolfe’s succoring force. Then the drums beat to arms; and we set forth to meet the English, leaving Richemont and his troops behind to watch the castle of Beaugency and keep its garrison at home. By and by we came in sight of the enemy. Fastolfe had tried to convince Talbot that it would be wisest to retreat and not risk a battle with Joan at this time, but distribute the new levies among the English strongholds of the Loire, thus securing them against capture; then be patient and wait—wait for more levies from Paris; let Joan exhaust her army with fruitless daily skirmishing; then at the right time fall upon her in resistless mass and annihilate her. He was a wise old experienced general, was Fastolfe. But that fierce Talbot would hear of no delay. He was in a rage over the punishment which the Maid had inflicted upon him at Orleans and since, and he swore by God and Saint George that he would have it out with her if he had to fight her all alone. So Fastolfe yielded, though he said they were now risking the loss of everything which the English had gained by so many years’ work and so many hard knocks.
On the early morning of June 17th, the scouts reported that Talbot and Fastolfe were coming with Fastolfe’s reinforcements. Then the drums sounded to alert us, and we set off to confront the English, leaving Richemont and his troops behind to guard the castle of Beaugency and keep its garrison occupied. Eventually, we spotted the enemy. Fastolfe had tried to persuade Talbot that it would be smarter to retreat and avoid a battle with Joan right now, suggesting they should distribute the new troops among the English strongholds in the Loire to protect them; then, they could wait patiently for more reinforcements from Paris and let Joan wear down her army with pointless skirmishes. When the time was right, they could strike her with overwhelming force and defeat her. Fastolfe was a wise, experienced general. But that hot-headed Talbot wouldn't consider any delay. He was furious over the defeat the Maid had inflicted on him at Orleans and beyond, and he swore by God and Saint George that he would settle the score with her, even if it meant fighting her alone. So, Fastolfe reluctantly agreed, although he warned that they were now risking everything the English had achieved through years of effort and hardship.
The enemy had taken up a strong position, and were waiting, in order of battle, with their archers to the front and a stockade before them.
The enemy had secured a strong position and was waiting in formation, with their archers at the front and a barricade in front of them.
Night was coming on. A messenger came from the English with a rude defiance and an offer of battle. But Joan’s dignity was not ruffled, her bearing was not discomposed. She said to the herald:
Night was approaching. A messenger arrived from the English with a harsh challenge and a proposal for battle. But Joan remained composed, her demeanor was steady. She spoke to the herald:
“Go back and say it is too late to meet to-night; but to-morrow, please God and our Lady, we will come to close quarters.”
“Go back and say it’s too late to meet tonight; but tomorrow, God willing and our Lady willing, we will get down to business.”
The night fell dark and rainy. It was that sort of light steady rain which falls so softly and brings to one’s spirit such serenity and peace. About ten o’clock D’Alencon, the Bastard of Orleans, La Hire, Pothon of Saintrailles, and two or three other generals came to our headquarters tent, and sat down to discuss matters with Joan. Some thought it was a pity that Joan had declined battle, some thought not. Then Pothon asked her why she had declined it. She said:
The night was dark and rainy. It was that kind of light, steady rain that falls softly and brings a sense of calm and peace. Around ten o’clock, D’Alencon, the Bastard of Orleans, La Hire, Pothon of Saintrailles, and a couple of other generals came to our headquarters tent and sat down to talk with Joan. Some believed it was a shame that Joan had turned down the battle, while others disagreed. Then Pothon asked her why she had chosen not to fight. She replied:
“There was more than one reason. These English are ours—they cannot get away from us. Wherefore there is no need to take risks, as at other times. The day was far spent. It is good to have much time and the fair light of day when one’s force is in a weakened state—nine hundred of us yonder keeping the bridge of Meung under the Marshal de Rais, fifteen hundred with the Constable of France keeping the bridge and watching the castle of Beaugency.”
“There was more than one reason. These English are ours—they can't escape us. So, there's no need to take risks like before. The day was almost over. It's good to have plenty of time and the daylight when our strength is weakened—nine hundred of us over there holding the bridge of Meung under Marshal de Rais, and fifteen hundred with the Constable of France securing the bridge and watching the castle of Beaugency.”
Dunois said:
Dunois stated:
“I grieve for this decision, Excellency, but it cannot be helped. And the case will be the same the morrow, as to that.”
“I regret this decision, Your Excellency, but it can't be changed. And it will be the same tomorrow, regarding that.”
Joan was walking up and down just then. She laughed her affectionate, comrady laugh, and stopping before that old war-tiger she put her small hand above his head and touched one of his plumes, saying:
Joan was pacing back and forth at that moment. She let out her warm, friendly laugh, and stopping in front of that old war-tiger, she placed her small hand above his head and touched one of his feathers, saying:
“Now tell me, wise man, which feather is it that I touch?”
“Now tell me, wise guy, which feather am I touching?”
“In sooth, Excellency, that I cannot.”
"In truth, Your Excellency, I cannot."
“Name of God, Bastard, Bastard! you cannot tell me this small thing, yet are bold to name a large one—telling us what is in the stomach of the unborn morrow: that we shall not have those men. Now it is my thought that they will be with us.”
“Name of God, Bastard, Bastard! You can't tell me this small thing, yet you're bold enough to claim a big one—saying what’s in the mind of tomorrow: that we won’t have those men. I believe that they will be with us.”
That made a stir. All wanted to know why she thought that. But La Hire took the word and said:
That caused a commotion. Everyone wanted to know why she felt that way. But La Hire spoke up and said:
“Let be. If she thinks it, that is enough. It will happen.”
“Let it be. If she believes it, that’s enough. It will happen.”
Then Pothon of Santrailles said:
Then Pothon of Santrailles said:
“There were other reasons for declining battle, according to the saying of your Excellency?”
“There were other reasons for avoiding battle, according to your Excellency’s saying?”
“Yes. One was that we being weak and the day far gone, the battle might not be decisive. When it is fought it must be decisive. And it shall be.”
“Yes. One concern was that since we were weak and the day was getting late, the battle might not be decisive. When we fight, it has to be decisive. And it will be.”
“God grant it, and amen. There were still other reasons?”
“God grant it, and amen. Were there any other reasons?”
“One other—yes.” She hesitated a moment, then said: “This was not the day. To-morrow is the day. It is so written.”
“One other—yes.” She paused for a moment, then said: “This isn’t the day. Tomorrow is the day. It’s written that way.”
They were going to assail her with eager questionings, but she put up her hand and prevented them. Then she said:
They were about to bombard her with eager questions, but she held up her hand and stopped them. Then she said:
“It will be the most noble and beneficent victory that God has vouchsafed for France at any time. I pray you question me not as to whence or how I know this thing, but be content that it is so.”
“It will be the most noble and generous victory that God has granted to France at any time. Please don’t ask me where or how I know this, but just accept that it’s true.”
There was pleasure in every face, and conviction and high confidence. A murmur of conversation broke out, but that was interrupted by a messenger from the outposts who brought news—namely, that for an hour there had been stir and movement in the English camp of a sort unusual at such a time and with a resting army, he said. Spies had been sent under cover of the rain and darkness to inquire into it. They had just come back and reported that large bodies of men had been dimly made out who were slipping stealthily away in the direction of Meung.
There was joy on every face, along with a sense of certainty and strong confidence. A whisper of conversation started up, but it was cut short by a messenger from the outposts who brought news—specifically, that for an hour there had been unusual activity in the English camp at this time, especially with a resting army, he said. Spies had been sent out under the cover of rain and darkness to investigate. They had just returned and reported that large groups of men had been vaguely spotted making their way quietly toward Meung.
The generals were very much surprised, as any might tell from their faces.
The generals looked very surprised, as anyone could see from their faces.
“It is a retreat,” said Joan.
"It’s a getaway," Joan said.
“It has that look,” said D’Alencon.
“It has that look,” D’Alencon said.
“It certainly has,” observed the Bastard and La Hire.
“It definitely has,” remarked the Bastard and La Hire.
“It was not to be expected,” said Louis de Bourbon, “but one can divine the purpose of it.”
“It wasn't expected,” said Louis de Bourbon, “but you can figure out the reason behind it.”
“Yes,” responded Joan. “Talbot has reflected. His rash brain has cooled. He thinks to take the bridge of Meung and escape to the other side of the river. He knows that this leaves his garrison of Beaugency at the mercy of fortune, to escape our hands if it can; but there is no other course if he would avoid this battle, and that he also knows. But he shall not get the bridge. We will see to that.”
“Yes,” replied Joan. “Talbot has thought it over. His impulsive mind has settled down. He plans to take the bridge at Meung and cross to the other side of the river. He understands that this puts his garrison in Beaugency at the mercy of fate, hoping to escape our grasp if it can; but there’s no other option if he wants to avoid this battle, and he knows that too. But he won't seize the bridge. We'll make sure of that.”
“Yes,” said D’Alencon, “we must follow him, and take care of that matter. What of Beaugency?”
“Yes,” said D’Alencon, “we need to follow him and handle that issue. What about Beaugency?”
“Leave Beaugency to me, gentle duke; I will have it in two hours, and at no cost of blood.”
“Leave Beaugency to me, kind duke; I'll have it in two hours, and without any bloodshed.”
“It is true, Excellency. You will but need to deliver this news there and receive the surrender.”
“It’s true, Excellency. You just need to take this news there and accept the surrender.”
“Yes. And I will be with you at Meung with the dawn, fetching the Constable and his fifteen hundred; and when Talbot knows that Beaugency has fallen it will have an effect upon him.”
“Yes. And I will be with you at Meung at dawn, bringing the Constable and his fifteen hundred; and when Talbot finds out that Beaugency has fallen, it will impact him.”
“By the mass, yes!” cried La Hire. “He will join his Meung garrison to his army and break for Paris. Then we shall have our bridge force with us again, along with our Beaugency watchers, and be stronger for our great day’s work by four-and-twenty hundred able soldiers, as was here promised within the hour. Verily this Englishman is doing our errands for us and saving us much blood and trouble. Orders, Excellency—give us orders!”
“Absolutely!” shouted La Hire. “He’ll add his Meung troops to his army and push for Paris. Then we’ll have our bridge force back with us, along with our Beaugency watchers, and be reinforced for our big day’s work by twenty-four hundred capable soldiers, just as promised within the hour. Honestly, this Englishman is doing our work for us and saving us a lot of bloodshed and trouble. Orders, Excellency—please give us orders!”
“They are simple. Let the men rest three hours longer. At one o’clock the advance-guard will march, under our command, with Pothon of Saintrailles as second; the second division will follow at two under the Lieutenant-General. Keep well in the rear of the enemy, and see to it that you avoid an engagement. I will ride under guard to Beaugency and make so quick work there that I and the Constable of France will join you before dawn with his men.”
“They're straightforward. Let the men rest for three more hours. At one o’clock, the advance guard will march under our command, with Pothon of Saintrailles as second-in-command; the second division will follow at two under the Lieutenant-General. Stay well behind the enemy and make sure to avoid any engagement. I’ll ride under guard to Beaugency and get things done quickly so that I and the Constable of France can join you before dawn with his men.”
She kept her word. Her guard mounted and we rode off through the puttering rain, taking with us a captured English officer to confirm Joan’s news. We soon covered the journey and summoned the castle. Richard Guetin, Talbot’s lieutenant, being convinced that he and his five hundred men were left helpless, conceded that it would be useless to try to hold out. He could not expect easy terms, yet Joan granted them nevertheless. His garrison could keep their horses and arms, and carry away property to the value of a silver mark per man. They could go whither they pleased, but must not take arms against France again under ten days.
She kept her promise. Her guard got ready and we rode off through the drizzling rain, taking a captured English officer with us to confirm Joan’s news. We quickly completed the journey and called on the castle. Richard Guetin, Talbot’s lieutenant, realizing that he and his five hundred men were in a tough spot, agreed it would be pointless to try to hold out. He couldn’t expect easy terms, but Joan granted them anyway. His soldiers could keep their horses and weapons, and take away belongings worth a silver mark per man. They could go wherever they wanted, but couldn’t take up arms against France again for at least ten days.
Before dawn we were with our army again, and with us the Constable and nearly all his men, for we left only a small garrison in Beaugency castle. We heard the dull booming of cannon to the front, and knew that Talbot was beginning his attack on the bridge. But some time before it was yet light the sound ceased and we heard it no more.
Before dawn, we were with our army again, along with the Constable and almost all his men, since we only left a small force in Beaugency castle. We heard the low rumbling of cannon fire in the distance, knowing that Talbot was starting his assault on the bridge. But long before it was light, the noise stopped and we didn’t hear it again.
Guetin had sent a messenger through our lines under a safe-conduct given by Joan, to tell Talbot of the surrender. Of course this poursuivant had arrived ahead of us. Talbot had held it wisdom to turn now and retreat upon Paris. When daylight came he had disappeared; and with him Lord Scales and the garrison of Meung.
Guetin had sent a messenger through our lines under a safe-conduct provided by Joan to inform Talbot of the surrender. Naturally, this messenger arrived before us. Talbot decided it was wise to turn back and retreat to Paris. By dawn, he had vanished, along with Lord Scales and the garrison of Meung.
What a harvest of English strongholds we had reaped in those three days!—strongholds which had defied France with quite cool confidence and plenty of it until we came.
What a bounty of English strongholds we had gathered in those three days!—strongholds that had confidently stood up to France without a worry until we arrived.
30 The Red Field of Patay

WHEN THE morning broke at last on that forever memorable 18th of June, there was no enemy discoverable anywhere, as I have said. But that did not trouble me. I knew we should find him, and that we should strike him; strike him the promised blow—the one from which the English power in France would not rise up in a thousand years, as Joan had said in her trance.
WHEN the morning finally arrived on that unforgettable 18th of June, there was no sign of the enemy anywhere, as I mentioned before. But that didn't bother me. I knew we would find him, and that we would hit him; hit him with the promised blow—the one from which English power in France wouldn't recover for a thousand years, just as Joan said during her trance.
The enemy had plunged into the wide plains of La Beauce—a roadless waste covered with bushes, with here and there bodies of forest trees—a region where an army would be hidden from view in a very little while. We found the trail in the soft wet earth and followed it. It indicated an orderly march; no confusion, no panic.
The enemy had cut into the vast plains of La Beauce—a treeless wasteland filled with bushes, dotted with patches of forest—a place where an army could quickly disappear from sight. We spotted the trail in the soft, muddy ground and tracked it. It showed a disciplined movement; no chaos, no panic.
But we had to be cautious. In such a piece of country we could walk into an ambush without any trouble. Therefore Joan sent bodies of cavalry ahead under La Hire, Pothon, and other captains, to feel the way. Some of the other officers began to show uneasiness; this sort of hide-and-go-seek business troubled them and made their confidence a little shaky. Joan divined their state of mind and cried out impetuously:
But we had to be careful. In this kind of terrain, we could easily walk into an ambush. So, Joan sent groups of cavalry ahead with La Hire, Pothon, and other captains to scout the area. Some of the other officers started to feel uneasy; this game of hide-and-seek was worrying them and shaking their confidence. Joan sensed their mindset and shouted impulsively:
“Name of God, what would you? We must smite these English, and we will. They shall not escape us. Though they were hung to the clouds we would get them!”
“By the name of God, what do you want? We need to take down these English, and we will. They won’t get away. Even if they were hung to the clouds, we would still catch them!”
By and by we were nearing Patay; it was about a league away. Now at this time our reconnaissance, feeling its way in the bush, frightened a deer, and it went bounding away and was out of sight in a moment. Then hardly a minute later a dull great shout went up in the distance toward Patay. It was the English soldiery. They had been shut up in a garrison so long on moldy food that they could not keep their delight to themselves when this fine fresh meat came springing into their midst. Poor creature, it had wrought damage to a nation which loved it well. For the French knew where the English were now, whereas the English had no suspicion of where the French were.
By and by we were getting close to Patay; it was about a mile away. At that moment, our scouts, moving carefully through the bushes, startled a deer, which bounded off and disappeared in an instant. Then, just a minute later, a loud, deep shout erupted in the distance toward Patay. It was the English soldiers. They had been cooped up in a garrison for so long, eating stale food, that they couldn't contain their excitement when this fresh meat appeared right in front of them. Poor animal, it had caused trouble for a nation that cared for it deeply. The French knew exactly where the English were now, while the English had no idea where the French were.
La Hire halted where he was, and sent back the tidings. Joan was radiant with joy. The Duke d’Alencon said to her:
La Hire stopped where he was and sent back the news. Joan was beaming with joy. The Duke d’Alencon said to her:
“Very well, we have found them; shall we fight them?”
“Alright, we’ve found them; should we fight them?”
“Have you good spurs, prince?”
"Do you have good spurs, prince?"
“Why? Will they make us run away?”
“Why? Are they going to make us run away?”
“Nenni, en nom de Dieu! These English are ours—they are lost. They will fly. Who overtakes them will need good spurs. Forward—close up!”
“Nenni, in the name of God! These English are ours—they're done for. They will run. Anyone who wants to catch them will need good spurs. Let’s go—get closer!”
By the time we had come up with La Hire the English had discovered our presence. Talbot’s force was marching in three bodies. First his advance-guard; then his artillery; then his battle-corps a good way in the rear. He was now out of the bush and in a fair open country. He at once posted his artillery, his advance-guard, and five hundred picked archers along some hedges where the French would be obliged to pass, and hoped to hold this position till his battle-corps could come up. Sir John Fastolfe urged the battle-corps into a gallop. Joan saw her opportunity and ordered La Hire to advance—which La Hire promptly did, launching his wild riders like a storm-wind, his customary fashion.
By the time we had regrouped with La Hire, the English had noticed us. Talbot's troops were advancing in three groups. First was his advance guard, followed by his artillery, and finally his main force a good distance behind. He was now out of the bushes and in open country. He quickly positioned his artillery, advance guard, and five hundred elite archers along some hedges where the French would have to pass, hoping to hold the position until his main force could catch up. Sir John Fastolfe urged the main force into a gallop. Joan saw her chance and ordered La Hire to move forward—which La Hire immediately did, sending his wild riders charging ahead like a fierce wind, as was his usual style.
The duke and the Bastard wanted to follow, but Joan said:
The duke and the Bastard wanted to go along, but Joan said:
“Not yet—wait.”
“Not yet—hold on.”
So they waited—impatiently, and fidgeting in their saddles. But she was ready—gazing straight before her, measuring, weighing, calculating—by shades, minutes, fractions of minutes, seconds—with all her great soul present, in eye, and set of head, and noble pose of body—but patient, steady, master of herself—master of herself and of the situation.
So they waited—impatiently, fidgeting in their saddles. But she was ready—gazing straight ahead, measuring, weighing, calculating—by shades, minutes, fractions of minutes, seconds—with all her determination present, in her eyes, the way she held her head, and her confident posture—but patient, steady, in control of herself—master of herself and of the situation.
And yonder, receding, receding, plumes lifting and falling, lifting and falling, streamed the thundering charge of La Hire’s godless crew, La Hire’s great figure dominating it and his sword stretched aloft like a flagstaff.
And there, moving back, moving back, plumes rising and falling, rising and falling, surged the thunderous charge of La Hire’s ruthless crew, with La Hire’s towering figure leading it and his sword raised high like a flagpole.
“Oh, Satan and his Hellions, see them go!” Somebody muttered it in deep admiration.
“Oh, Satan and his Hellions, look at them go!” someone murmured in deep admiration.
And now he was closing up—closing up on Fastolfe’s rushing corps.
And now he was approaching—getting closer to Fastolfe’s fast-moving troops.
And now he struck it—struck it hard, and broke its order. It lifted the duke and the Bastard in their saddles to see it; and they turned, trembling with excitement, to Joan, saying:
And now he hit it—hit it hard, and shattered its order. It lifted the duke and the Bastard in their saddles to see it; and they turned, shaking with excitement, to Joan, saying:
“Now!”
“Right now!”
But she put up her hand, still gazing, weighing, calculating, and said again:
But she raised her hand, still looking, assessing, and said again:
“Wait—not yet.”
"Hold on—not yet."
Fastolfe’s hard-driven battle-corps raged on like an avalanche toward the waiting advance-guard. Suddenly these conceived the idea that it was flying in panic before Joan; and so in that instant it broke and swarmed away in a mad panic itself, with Talbot storming and cursing after it.
Fastolfe’s relentless battle corps surged forward like an avalanche toward the waiting advance guard. Suddenly, they had the impression that they were retreating in fear of Joan; in that instant, they broke formation and fled in a frenzied panic, with Talbot shouting and cursing after them.
Now was the golden time. Joan drove her spurs home and waved the advance with her sword. “Follow me!” she cried, and bent her head to her horse’s neck and sped away like the wind!
Now was the golden time. Joan dug her spurs in and signaled the charge with her sword. “Follow me!” she shouted, leaning down against her horse's neck and raced away like the wind!
We went down into the confusion of that flying rout, and for three long hours we cut and hacked and stabbed. At last the bugles sang “Halt!”
We jumped into the chaos of that wild retreat, and for three long hours, we slashed and stabbed. Finally, the bugles sounded “Halt!”
The Battle of Patay was won.
The Battle of Patay was won.
Joan of Arc dismounted, and stood surveying that awful field, lost in thought. Presently she said:
Joan of Arc got off her horse and looked over that terrible battlefield, deep in thought. After a moment, she said:
“The praise is to God. He has smitten with a heavy hand this day.” After a little she lifted her face, and looking afar off, said, with the manner of one who is thinking aloud, “In a thousand years—a thousand years—the English power in France will not rise up from this blow.” She stood again a time thinking, then she turned toward her grouped generals, and there was a glory in her face and a noble light in her eye; and she said:
“The praise is to God. He has dealt a heavy blow today.” After a moment, she lifted her face and, looking into the distance, said, as if thinking out loud, “In a thousand years—a thousand years—the English power in France won’t recover from this strike.” She stood for a moment, deep in thought, then turned toward her assembled generals, a glow on her face and a noble light in her eyes; and she said:
“Oh, friends, friends, do you know?—do you comprehend? France is on the way to be free!”
“Oh, friends, friends, do you know?—do you understand? France is on its way to being free!”
“And had never been, but for Joan of Arc!” said La Hire, passing before her and bowing low, the other following and doing likewise; he muttering as he went, “I will say it though I be damned for it.” Then battalion after battalion of our victorious army swung by, wildly cheering. And they shouted, “Live forever, Maid of Orleans, live forever!” while Joan, smiling, stood at the salute with her sword.
“And it would have never happened if it weren't for Joan of Arc!” said La Hire, walking past her and bowing deeply, with the others following suit; he muttered under his breath as he went, “I’ll say it even if I end up damn for it.” Then battalion after battalion of our victorious army marched by, cheering wildly. They shouted, “Live forever, Maid of Orleans, live forever!” while Joan, smiling, stood at attention with her sword.
This was not the last time I saw the Maid of Orleans on the red field of Patay. Toward the end of the day I came upon her where the dead and dying lay stretched all about in heaps and winrows; our men had mortally wounded an English prisoner who was too poor to pay a ransom, and from a distance she had seen that cruel thing done; and had galloped to the place and sent for a priest, and now she was holding the head of her dying enemy in her lap, and easing him to his death with comforting soft words, just as his sister might have done; and the womanly tears running down her face all the time. (1)
This wasn’t the last time I saw the Maid of Orleans on the red field of Patay. Toward the end of the day, I found her where the dead and dying lay scattered in heaps and rows; our men had mortally wounded an English prisoner who couldn’t afford a ransom, and from a distance, she had witnessed that cruel act; she had rushed to the spot and called for a priest. Now, she was cradling the head of her dying enemy in her lap, comforting him with gentle words, just as his sister might have done, with tears streaming down her face the whole time. (1)
(1) Lord Ronald Gower (Joan of Arc, p. 82) says: “Michelet discovered this story in the deposition of Joan of Arc’s page, Louis de Conte, who was probably an eye-witness of the scene.” This is true. It was a part of the testimony of the author of these “Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc,” given by him in the Rehabilitation proceedings of 1456. —TRANSLATOR.
(1) Lord Ronald Gower (Joan of Arc, p. 82) says: “Michelet found this story in the testimony of Joan of Arc’s page, Louis de Conte, who was likely an eyewitness of the event.” This is accurate. It was part of the testimony from the writer of these “Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc,” provided during the Rehabilitation proceedings of 1456. —TRANSLATOR.
31 France Begins to Live Again
JOAN HAD said true: France was on the way to be free.
The war called the Hundred Years’ War was very sick to-day. Sick on its English side—for the very first time since its birth, ninety-one years gone by.
The war known as the Hundred Years' War was seriously unwell today. Unwell on the English side—for the first time since it started, ninety-one years ago.
Shall we judge battles by the numbers killed and the ruin wrought? Or shall we not rather judge them by the results which flowed from them? Any one will say that a battle is only truly great or small according to its results. Yes, any one will grant that, for it is the truth.
Shall we evaluate battles based on the number of casualties and the destruction caused? Or should we judge them instead by the outcomes they produced? Everyone would agree that a battle is only genuinely great or small based on its results. Yes, everyone will acknowledge that, because it’s true.
Judged by results, Patay’s place is with the few supremely great and imposing battles that have been fought since the peoples of the world first resorted to arms for the settlement of their quarrels. So judged, it is even possible that Patay has no peer among that few just mentioned, but stand alone, as the supremest of historic conflicts. For when it began France lay gasping out the remnant of an exhausted life, her case wholly hopeless in the view of all political physicians; when it ended, three hours later, she was convalescent. Convalescent, and nothing requisite but time and ordinary nursing to bring her back to perfect health. The dullest physician of them all could see this, and there was none to deny it.
Judged by the outcome, Patay’s place is among the few truly great and significant battles fought since nations first took up arms to resolve their disputes. In that sense, it’s even possible that Patay stands alone, ranking as the greatest of historical conflicts. When it started, France was barely alive, her situation completely hopeless in the eyes of all political experts; when it ended, three hours later, she was on the mend. On the road to recovery, needing only time and basic care to return to full health. Even the dullest physician could see this, and no one could deny it.
Many death-sick nations have reached convalescence through a series of battles, a procession of battles, a weary tale of wasting conflicts stretching over years, but only one has reached it in a single day and by a single battle. That nation is France, and that battle Patay.
Many nations that were on the brink of death have recovered through a long series of battles, a lengthy saga of exhausting conflicts that lasted for years, but only one has achieved it in just one day and through a single battle. That nation is France, and that battle is Patay.
Remember it and be proud of it; for you are French, and it is the stateliest fact in the long annals of your country. There it stands, with its head in the clouds! And when you grow up you will go on pilgrimage to the field of Patay, and stand uncovered in the presence of—what? A monument with its head in the clouds? Yes. For all nations in all times have built monuments on their battle-fields to keep green the memory of the perishable deed that was wrought there and of the perishable name of him who wrought it; and will France neglect Patay and Joan of Arc? Not for long. And will she build a monument scaled to their rank as compared with the world’s other fields and heroes? Perhaps—if there be room for it under the arch of the sky.
Remember this and take pride in it; you are French, and that’s the most significant truth in the long history of your country. It stands tall, with its head in the clouds! When you grow up, you will take a pilgrimage to the field of Patay and stand respectfully before—what? A monument with its head in the clouds? Yes. Because every nation throughout history has built monuments in their battlefields to honor the fleeting acts done there and the fleeting name of the one who did them; will France overlook Patay and Joan of Arc? Not for long. And will she create a monument worthy of their importance compared to the world’s other fields and heroes? Perhaps—if there’s space for it beneath the arch of the sky.
But let us look back a little, and consider certain strange and impressive facts. The Hundred Years’ War began in 1337. It raged on and on, year after year and year after year; and at last England stretched France prone with that fearful blow at Crecy. But she rose and struggled on, year after year, and at last again she went down under another devastating blow—Poitiers. She gathered her crippled strength once more, and the war raged on, and on, and still on, year after year, decade after decade. Children were born, grew up, married, died—the war raged on; their children in turn grew up, married, died—the war raged on; their children, growing, saw France struck down again; this time under the incredible disaster of Agincourt—and still the war raged on, year after year, and in time these children married in their turn.
But let’s take a moment to look back and consider some strange and striking facts. The Hundred Years’ War started in 1337. It dragged on endlessly, year after year, until finally England dealt a heavy blow to France at Crecy. But France rose and fought back, year after year, only to be struck down again by another crushing defeat—Poitiers. France mustered its weakened strength once again, and the war continued on and on, year after year, decade after decade. Children were born, grew up, married, and died—as the war continued; their children grew up, married, and died—while the war raged on; their children witnessed France fall again, this time under the incredible disaster of Agincourt—and still the war dragged on, year after year, and eventually these children married in their turn.
France was a wreck, a ruin, a desolation. The half of it belonged to England, with none to dispute or deny the truth; the other half belonged to nobody—in three months would be flying the English flag; the French King was making ready to throw away his crown and flee beyond the seas.
France was a disaster, a mess, a wasteland. Half of it belonged to England, and no one could argue or deny that; the other half belonged to no one—within three months, the English flag would be flying there; the French King was preparing to ditch his crown and escape across the seas.
Now came the ignorant country-maid out of her remote village and confronted this hoary war, this all-consuming conflagration that had swept the land for three generations. Then began the briefest and most amazing campaign that is recorded in history. In seven weeks it was finished. In seven weeks she hopelessly crippled that gigantic war that was ninety-one years old. At Orleans she struck it a staggering blow; on the field of Patay she broke its back.
Now came the clueless country maid from her distant village and faced this long-standing war, this all-consuming fire that had ravaged the land for three generations. What followed was the shortest and most remarkable campaign in history. In seven weeks, it was done. In those seven weeks, she utterly disabled the massive war that was ninety-one years old. At Orleans, she dealt a crushing blow; on the field of Patay, she broke its back.
Think of it. Yes, one can do that; but understand it? Ah, that is another matter; none will ever be able to comprehend that stupefying marvel.
Think about it. Yes, one can do that; but understanding it? Ah, that's a different story; no one will ever truly grasp that incredible wonder.
Seven weeks—with her and there a little bloodshed. Perhaps the most of it, in any single fight, at Patay, where the English began six thousand strong and left two thousand dead upon the field. It is said and believed that in three battles alone—Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt—near a hundred thousand Frenchmen fell, without counting the thousand other fights of that long war. The dead of that war make a mournful long list—an interminable list. Of men slain in the field the count goes by tens of thousands; of innocent women and children slain by bitter hardship and hunger it goes by that appalling term, millions.
Seven weeks—with some bloodshed here and there. The most casualties in any single battle occurred at Patay, where the English started with six thousand troops and left two thousand dead on the field. It's said and believed that in just three battles—Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt—nearly a hundred thousand Frenchmen were killed, not including the thousands of other skirmishes in that long war. The death toll from that war creates a heartbreaking, extensive list—an endless list. The number of men killed in battle reaches into the tens of thousands; for innocent women and children who died from extreme hardship and starvation, the figure is an appalling millions.
It was an ogre, that war; an ogre that went about for near a hundred years, crunching men and dripping blood from its jaws. And with her little hand that child of seventeen struck him down; and yonder he lies stretched on the field of Patay, and will not get up any more while this old world lasts.
It was a monster, that war; a monster that went on for nearly a hundred years, crushing men and dripping blood from its jaws. And with her small hand, that seventeen-year-old girl took him down; and there he lies, sprawled out on the field of Patay, and won't get up again as long as this old world lasts.
32 The Joyous News Flies Fast
THE GREAT news of Patay was carried over the whole of France in twenty hours, people said. I do not know as to that; but one thing is sure, anyway: the moment a man got it he flew shouting and glorifying God and told his neighbor; and that neighbor flew with it to the next homestead; and so on and so on without resting the word traveled; and when a man got it in the night, at what hour soever, he jumped out of his bed and bore the blessed message along. And the joy that went with it was like the light that flows across the land when an eclipse is receding from the face of the sun; and, indeed, you may say that France had lain in an eclipse this long time; yes, buried in a black gloom which these beneficent tidings were sweeping away now before the onrush of their white splendor.
THE GREAT news of Patay spread throughout all of France in twenty hours, or so people said. I can't confirm that, but one thing is clear: as soon as someone heard it, they rushed out shouting and praising God, sharing it with their neighbors; those neighbors then ran to the next household with the news, and it continued like that without a pause. When someone received the news at night, no matter the hour, they jumped out of bed to share the blessed message. The joy that accompanied it was like the light that floods the land when an eclipse begins to fade from the sun; indeed, you could say that France had been in an eclipse for a long time, buried in darkness, which these wonderful tidings were now sweeping away with their bright radiance.
The news beat the flying enemy to Yeuville, and the town rose against its English masters and shut the gates against their brethren. It flew to Mont Pipeau, to Saint Simon, and to this, that, and the other English fortress; and straightway the garrison applied the torch and took to the fields and the woods. A detachment of our army occupied Meung and pillaged it.
The news reached Yeuville before the enemy did, and the town rebelled against its English rulers, closing the gates against their fellow countrymen. It spread to Mont Pipeau, Saint Simon, and various other English strongholds; immediately, the garrison set fire to things and fled into the fields and woods. A unit from our army took over Meung and looted it.
When we reached Orleans that tow was as much as fifty times insaner with joy than we had ever seen it before—which is saying much. Night had just fallen, and the illuminations were on so wonderful a scale that we seemed to plow through seas of fire; and as to the noise—the hoarse cheering of the multitude, the thundering of cannon, the clash of bells—indeed, there was never anything like it. And everywhere rose a new cry that burst upon us like a storm when the column entered the gates, and nevermore ceased: “Welcome to Joan of Arc—way for the SAVIOR OF FRANCE!” And there was another cry: “Crecy is avenged! Poitiers is avenged! Agincourt is avenged!—Patay shall live forever!”
When we arrived in Orleans, the town was fifty times more insane with joy than we had ever seen it before—which is saying a lot. Night had just fallen, and the lights were so dazzling that it felt like we were sailing through seas of fire; and as for the noise—the loud cheers of the crowd, the booming of cannons, the ringing of bells—there had never been anything like it. And everywhere a new cry erupted like a storm as the column entered the gates, and it never stopped: “Welcome to Joan of Arc—make way for the SAVIOR OF FRANCE!” And there was another shout: “Crecy is avenged! Poitiers is avenged! Agincourt is avenged!—Patay shall live forever!”
Mad? Why, you never could imagine it in the world. The prisoners were in the center of the column. When that came along and the people caught sight of their masterful old enemy Talbot, that had made them dance so long to his grim war-music, you may imagine what the uproar was like if you can, for I can not describe it. They were so glad to see him that presently they wanted to have him out and hang him; so Joan had him brought up to the front to ride in her protection. They made a striking pair.
Mad? You could never even imagine it. The prisoners were in the center of the column. When that passed by and the crowd spotted their formidable old enemy Talbot, who had made them dance to his harsh war-music for so long, you can only imagine the chaos that erupted, because I can’t describe it. They were so happy to see him that soon they wanted to pull him out and hang him; so Joan had him brought to the front to ride under her protection. They were quite the striking pair.
33 Joan’s Five Great Deeds

YES, ORLEANS was in a delirium of felicity. She invited the King, and made sumptuous preparations to receive him, but—he didn’t come. He was simply a serf at that time, and La Tremouille was his master. Master and serf were visiting together at the master’s castle of Sully-sur-Loire.
YES, ORLEANS was in a state of pure happiness. She invited the King and made lavish preparations to welcome him, but—he didn’t show up. At that time, he was just a serf, and La Tremouille was his master. Both the master and the serf were visiting together at the master’s castle of Sully-sur-Loire.
At Beaugency Joan had engaged to bring about a reconciliation between the Constable Richemont and the King. She took Richemont to Sully-sur-Loire and made her promise good.
At Beaugency, Joan had committed to bringing together Constable Richemont and the King. She took Richemont to Sully-sur-Loire and fulfilled her promise.
The great deeds of Joan of Arc are five:
The remarkable achievements of Joan of Arc are five:
1. The Raising of the Siege.
1. The Lifting of the Siege.
2. The Victory of Patay.
The Battle of Patay.
3. The Reconciliation at Sully-sur-Loire.
3. The Reconciliation at Sully-sur-Loire.
4. The Coronation of the King.
4. The Coronation of the King.
5. The Bloodless March.
The Bloodless March.
We shall come to the Bloodless March presently (and the Coronation). It was the victorious long march which Joan made through the enemy’s country from Gien to Rheims, and thence to the gates of Paris, capturing every English town and fortress that barred the road, from the beginning of the journey to the end of it; and this by the mere force of her name, and without shedding a drop of blood—perhaps the most extraordinary campaign in this regard in history—this is the most glorious of her military exploits.
We will get to the Bloodless March soon (and the Coronation). It was the successful long march that Joan made through enemy territory from Gien to Rheims, and then to the gates of Paris, capturing every English town and fortress that stood in her way, from start to finish; all of this was done simply by the power of her name, without shedding a drop of blood—perhaps the most remarkable campaign in this respect in history—this is the most glorious of her military achievements.
The Reconciliation was one of Joan’s most important achievements. No one else could have accomplished it; and, in fact, no one else of high consequence had any disposition to try. In brains, in scientific warfare, and in statesmanship the Constable Richemont was the ablest man in France. His loyalty was sincere; his probity was above suspicion—(and it made him sufficiently conspicuous in that trivial and conscienceless Court).
The Reconciliation was one of Joan’s key accomplishments. No one else could have pulled it off; in fact, no one else of significance even wanted to try. In intellect, in military strategy, and in political skills, Constable Richemont was the most capable man in France. His loyalty was genuine; his integrity was beyond question—(and that made him stand out in that shallow and unscrupulous Court).
In restoring Richemont to France, Joan made thoroughly secure the successful completion of the great work which she had begun. She had never seen Richemont until he came to her with his little army. Was it not wonderful that at a glance she should know him for the one man who could finish and perfect her work and establish it in perpetuity? How was it that that child was able to do this? It was because she had the “seeing eye,” as one of our knights had once said. Yes, she had that great gift—almost the highest and rarest that has been granted to man. Nothing of an extraordinary sort was still to be done, yet the remaining work could not safely be left to the King’s idiots; for it would require wise statesmanship and long and patient though desultory hammering of the enemy. Now and then, for a quarter of a century yet, there would be a little fighting to do, and a handy man could carry that on with small disturbance to the rest of the country; and little by little, and with progressive certainty, the English would disappear from France.
In restoring Richemont to France, Joan ensured that the great work she had started would be successfully completed. She had never met Richemont until he arrived with his small army. Wasn’t it amazing that, at first glance, she recognized him as the one man who could finish and perfect her work and make it enduring? How was it that this young girl could do this? It was because she had the “seeing eye,” as one of our knights once said. Yes, she possessed that incredible gift—one of the greatest and rarest that has been given to humanity. Nothing extraordinary needed to be done anymore, but the remaining tasks couldn’t be safely entrusted to the King’s fools; they would require wise leadership and long, patient, and somewhat erratic effort against the enemy. For about a quarter of a century, there would still be some fighting to manage, and a capable person could handle that with minimal disruption to the rest of the country; gradually and increasingly, the English would fade away from France.
And that happened. Under the influence of Richemont the King became at a later time a man—a man, a king, a brave and capable and determined soldier. Within six years after Patay he was leading storming parties himself; fighting in fortress ditches up to his waist in water, and climbing scaling-ladders under a furious fire with a pluck that would have satisfied even Joan of Arc. In time he and Richemont cleared away all the English; even from regions where the people had been under their mastership for three hundred years. In such regions wise and careful work was necessary, for the English rule had been fair and kindly; and men who have been ruled in that way are not always anxious for a change.
And that happened. With Richemont's influence, the King eventually became a man—a man, a king, a brave, capable, and determined soldier. Within six years after Patay, he was personally leading assault teams; fighting in moats up to his waist in water, and climbing ladders under intense fire with a courage that would have impressed even Joan of Arc. Over time, he and Richemont drove out all the English, even from areas where the people had been under their rule for three hundred years. In those areas, careful and wise work was essential, because the English rule had been fair and kind; and people who have experienced that kind of governance aren't always eager for a change.
Which of Joan’s five chief deeds shall we call the chiefest? It is my thought that each in its turn was that. This is saying that, taken as a whole, they equalized each other, and neither was then greater than its mate.
Which of Joan’s five main accomplishments should we consider the greatest? I believe that each one, in its own time, was the greatest. This means that, when viewed as a whole, they balanced each other out, and none was greater than the others.
Do you perceive? Each was a stage in an ascent. To leave out one of them would defeat the journey; to achieve one of them at the wrong time and in the wrong place would have the same effect.
Do you see? Each was a step in a climb. Skipping any one of them would ruin the journey; achieving any one of them at the wrong time and in the wrong place would have the same result.
Consider the Coronation. As a masterpiece of diplomacy, where can you find its superior in our history? Did the King suspect its vast importance? No. Did his ministers? No. Did the astute Bedford, representative of the English crown? No. An advantage of incalculable importance was here under the eyes of the King and of Bedford; the King could get it by a bold stroke, Bedford could get it without an effort; but, being ignorant of its value, neither of them put forth his hand. Of all the wise people in high office in France, only one knew the priceless worth of this neglected prize—the untaught child of seventeen, Joan of Arc—and she had known it from the beginning as an essential detail of her mission.
Consider the Coronation. As a masterclass in diplomacy, where can you find anything better in our history? Did the King realize its immense significance? No. Did his ministers? No. Did the clever Bedford, representing the English crown? No. An opportunity of immeasurable importance was right in front of the King and Bedford; the King could seize it with a bold move, and Bedford could obtain it effortlessly; but, unaware of its value, neither of them took action. Of all the wise people in high positions in France, only one recognized the priceless worth of this overlooked treasure—the untrained seventeen-year-old girl, Joan of Arc—and she had understood it from the very beginning as a fundamental part of her mission.
How did she know it? It was simple: she was a peasant. That tells the whole story. She was of the people and knew the people; those others moved in a loftier sphere and knew nothing much about them. We make little account of that vague, formless, inert mass, that mighty underlying force which we call “the people”—an epithet which carries contempt with it. It is a strange attitude; for at bottom we know that the throne which the people support stands, and that when that support is removed nothing in this world can save it.
How did she know it? It was simple: she was a peasant. That explains everything. She was one of the people and understood them; those others lived in a higher social class and didn’t know much about them. We often overlook that vague, shapeless, and passive group we call “the people”—a term that carries a sense of disdain. It’s a strange mindset; because deep down, we realize that the throne the people uphold remains standing, and that when that support is gone, nothing in this world can protect it.
Now, then, consider this fact, and observe its importance. Whatever the parish priest believes his flock believes; they love him, they revere him; he is their unfailing friend, their dauntless protector, their comforter in sorrow, their helper in their day of need; he has their whole confidence; what he tells them to do, that they will do, with a blind and affectionate obedience, let it cost what it may. Add these facts thoughtfully together, and what is the sum? This: The parish priest governs the nation. What is the King, then, if the parish priest withdraws his support and deny his authority? Merely a shadow and no King; let him resign.
Now, let’s think about this fact and see how important it is. Whatever the parish priest believes, his congregation believes; they love him and look up to him. He is their steady friend, their fearless protector, their comfort in times of sorrow, and their support when they need help; they trust him completely. Whatever he asks them to do, they will do it with blind and loving loyalty, no matter the cost. Put these facts together thoughtfully, and what do you get? This: The parish priest runs the nation. So, what is the King if the parish priest withdraws his support and denies his authority? Just a shadow, no longer a King; he should resign.
Do you get that idea? Then let us proceed. A priest is consecrated to his office by the awful hand of God, laid upon him by his appointed representative on earth. That consecration is final; nothing can undo it, nothing can remove it. Neither the Pope nor any other power can strip the priest of his office; God gave it, and it is forever sacred and secure. The dull parish knows all this. To priest and parish, whatsoever is anointed of God bears an office whose authority can no longer be disputed or assailed. To the parish priest, and to his subjects the nation, an uncrowned king is a similitude of a person who has been named for holy orders but has not been consecrated; he has no office, he has not been ordained, another may be appointed to his place. In a word, an uncrowned king is a doubtful king; but if God appoint him and His servant the Bishop anoint him, the doubt is annihilated; the priest and the parish are his loyal subjects straightway, and while he lives they will recognize no king but him.
Do you understand that concept? Then let's move on. A priest is appointed to his role by the powerful hand of God, placed upon him by His designated representative on earth. That appointment is permanent; nothing can reverse it or remove it. Neither the Pope nor any other authority can take away the priest's position; God gave it, and it is always sacred and secure. The ordinary parish understands all of this. For both the priest and the parish, anyone anointed by God holds a position whose authority cannot be questioned or attacked. For the parish priest and his community, a king without a crown is like someone who has been chosen for holy orders but hasn’t been consecrated; he has no role, he hasn't been ordained, and someone else can be chosen to take his place. In short, a king without a crown is an uncertain king; but if God appoints him and His servant the Bishop anoints him, the uncertainty is erased; the priest and the parish become his loyal subjects immediately, and while he lives, they will recognize no king but him.
To Joan of Arc, the peasant-girl, Charles VII. was no King until he was crowned; to her he was only the Dauphin; that is to say, the heir. If I have ever made her call him King, it was a mistake; she called him the Dauphin, and nothing else until after the Coronation. It shows you as in a mirror—for Joan was a mirror in which the lowly hosts of France were clearly reflected—that to all that vast underlying force called “the people,” he was no King but only Dauphin before his crowning, and was indisputably and irrevocably King after it.
To Joan of Arc, the peasant girl, Charles VII was not a King until he was crowned; to her, he was just the Dauphin, meaning the heir. If I ever made her refer to him as King, that was a mistake; she only called him the Dauphin and nothing else until after the Coronation. It clearly shows you, like a mirror—since Joan was a mirror reflecting the common people of France—that to that vast underlying force called “the people,” he was not a King, just the Dauphin before his crowning, and undeniably and permanently a King afterward.
Now you understand what a colossal move on the political chess-board the Coronation was. Bedford realized this by and by, and tried to patch up his mistake by crowning his King; but what good could that do? None in the world.
Now you see how huge a move the Coronation was in the political game. Bedford eventually understood this and tried to fix his mistake by crowning his King; but what good would that do? None at all.
Speaking of chess, Joan’s great acts may be likened to that game. Each move was made in its proper order, and it as great and effective because it was made in its proper order and not out of it. Each, at the time made, seemed the greatest move; but the final result made them all recognizable as equally essential and equally important. This is the game, as played:
Speaking of chess, Joan’s remarkable actions can be compared to that game. Each move was made in the correct sequence, and it was great and effective because it was done right and not out of turn. Each move, when made, seemed like the best one; but the final outcome revealed that all were equally crucial and important. This is how the game is played:
1. Joan moves to Orleans and Patay—check.
1. Joan moves to Orleans and Patay—got it.
2. Then moves the Reconciliation—but does not proclaim check, it being a move for position, and to take effect later.
2. Then the Reconciliation moves forward—but does not announce a check, as it's a strategic move meant to take effect later.
3. Next she moves the Coronation—check.
3. Next, she handles the Coronation—check.
4. Next, the Bloodless March—check.
4. Next, the Bloodless March—done.
5. Final move (after her death), the reconciled Constable Richemont to the French King’s elbow—checkmate.
5. Final move (after her death), the reconciled Constable Richemont to the French King’s side—checkmate.
34 The Jests of the Burgundians
THE CAMPAIGN of the Loire had as good as opened the road to Rheims. There was no sufficient reason now why the Coronation should not take place. The Coronation would complete the mission which Joan had received from heaven, and then she would be forever done with war, and would fly home to her mother and her sheep, and never stir from the hearthstone and happiness any more. That was her dream; and she could not rest, she was so impatient to see it fulfilled. She became so possessed with this matter that I began to lose faith in her two prophecies of her early death—and, of course, when I found that faith wavering I encouraged it to waver all the more.
THE CAMPAIGN in the Loire had nearly opened the road to Rheims. There was no good reason now why the Coronation shouldn't happen. The Coronation would complete the mission that Joan had received from heaven, and then she'd be done with war forever. She'd return home to her mother and her sheep, and never leave the comfort and happiness of her home again. That was her dream; she couldn't rest, as she was so eager to see it come true. She became so obsessed with this idea that I began to doubt her two prophecies of an early death—and, of course, when I noticed my faith wavering, I encouraged it to waver even more.
The King was afraid to start to Rheims, because the road was mile-posted with English fortresses, so to speak. Joan held them in light esteem and not things to be afraid of in the existing modified condition of English confidence.
The King was hesitant to head to Rheims because the road was marked with English fortresses. Joan didn't think much of them and believed they weren't something to be scared of given the current weakened state of English confidence.
And she was right. As it turned out, the march to Rheims was nothing but a holiday excursion: Joan did not even take any artillery along, she was so sure it would not be necessary. We marched from Gien twelve thousand strong. This was the 29th of June. The Maid rode by the side of the King; on his other side was the Duke d’Alencon. After the duke followed three other princes of the blood. After these followed the Bastard of Orleans, the Marshal de Boussac, and the Admiral of France. After these came La Hire, Saintrailles, Tremouille, and a long procession of knights and nobles.
And she was right. It turned out that the march to Rheims was just a leisurely outing: Joan didn't even bring any artillery because she was so confident it wouldn't be needed. We marched from Gien with twelve thousand people. It was June 29th. The Maid rode alongside the King, with the Duke d’Alencon on his other side. Following the duke were three other princes of the blood. After them came the Bastard of Orleans, Marshal de Boussac, and the Admiral of France. Then came La Hire, Saintrailles, Tremouille, and a long line of knights and nobles.
We rested three days before Auxerre. The city provisioned the army, and a deputation waited upon the King, but we did not enter the place.
We rested for three days before Auxerre. The city supplied the army, and a group met with the King, but we did not go into the city.
Saint-Florentin opened its gates to the King.
Saint-Florentin opened its gates to the King.
On the 4th of July we reached Saint-Fal, and yonder lay Troyes before us—a town which had a burning interest for us boys; for we remembered how seven years before, in the pastures of Domremy, the Sunflower came with his black flag and brought us the shameful news of the Treaty of Troyes—that treaty which gave France to England, and a daughter of our royal line in marriage to the Butcher of Agincourt. That poor town was not to blame, of course; yet we flushed hot with that old memory, and hoped there would be a misunderstanding here, for we dearly wanted to storm the place and burn it. It was powerfully garrisoned by English and Burgundian soldiery, and was expecting reinforcements from Paris. Before night we camped before its gates and made rough work with a sortie which marched out against us.
On July 4th, we arrived at Saint-Fal, and there lay Troyes in front of us—a town that really caught our interest as boys; we remembered how seven years earlier, in the fields of Domremy, the Sunflower came with his black flag and brought us the humiliating news about the Treaty of Troyes—that treaty which handed France over to England and married a daughter of our royal lineage to the Butcher of Agincourt. Of course, that poor town wasn’t at fault; still, we felt a rush of anger from that old memory and hoped there would be some confusion here, because we really wanted to storm the place and set it on fire. It was heavily defended by English and Burgundian soldiers and was expecting reinforcements from Paris. Before nightfall, we camped outside its gates and had a tough fight with a group that came out against us.
Joan summoned Troyes to surrender. Its commandant, seeing that she had no artillery, scoffed at the idea, and sent her a grossly insulting reply. Five days we consulted and negotiated. No result. The King was about to turn back now and give up. He was afraid to go on, leaving this strong place in his rear. Then La Hire put in a word, with a slap in it for some of his Majesty’s advisers:
Joan called on Troyes to surrender. The commandant, noticing she had no artillery, laughed at the suggestion and sent her a really insulting response. For five days, we talked and negotiated. No progress. The King was ready to turn back and give up. He was worried about leaving this stronghold behind. Then La Hire spoke up, throwing some shade at a few of the King's advisers:
“The Maid of Orleans undertook this expedition of her own motion; and it is my mind that it is her judgment that should be followed here, and not that of any other, let him be of whatsoever breed and standing he may.”
“The Maid of Orleans took on this mission on her own initiative; and I believe that her judgment should be followed in this matter, not that of anyone else, regardless of who they are or their status.”
There was wisdom and righteousness in that. So the King sent for the Maid, and asked her how she thought the prospect looked. She said, without any tone of doubt or question in her voice:
There was wisdom and fairness in that. So the King called for the Maid and asked her what she thought the future held. She replied, without a hint of doubt or question in her voice:
“In three days’ time the place is ours.”
“In three days, the place is ours.”
The smug Chancellor put in a word now:
The smug Chancellor spoke up now:
“If we were sure of it we would wait her six days.”
“If we were sure of it, we would wait for her six days.”
“Six days, forsooth! Name of God, man, we will enter the gates to-morrow!”
“Six days, really! God’s name, man, we will enter the gates tomorrow!”
Then she mounted, and rode her lines, crying out:
Then she got on her horse and rode, shouting:
“Make preparation—to your work, friends, to your work! We assault at dawn!”
“Get ready—everyone, let’s get to work! We attack at dawn!”
She worked hard that night, slaving away with her own hands like a common soldier. She ordered fascines and fagots to be prepared and thrown into the fosse, thereby to bridge it; and in this rough labor she took a man’s share.
She worked hard that night, toiling away with her own hands like a regular soldier. She had bundles of sticks and twigs prepared and thrown into the ditch to bridge it; and in this tough work, she took on a man's share.
At dawn she took her place at the head of the storming force and the bugles blew the assault. At that moment a flag of truce was flung to the breeze from the walls, and Troyes surrendered without firing a shot.
At dawn, she took her position at the front of the attacking force, and the bugles signaled the assault. At that moment, a flag of truce was raised from the walls, and Troyes surrendered without firing a shot.
The next day the King with Joan at his side and the Paladin bearing her banner entered the town in state at the head of the army. And a goodly army it was now, for it had been growing ever bigger and bigger from the first.
The next day, the King, with Joan by his side and the Paladin carrying her banner, entered the town in style at the forefront of the army. And it was indeed a strong army now, as it had been steadily growing larger from the very beginning.
And now a curious thing happened. By the terms of the treaty made with the town the garrison of English and Burgundian soldiery were to be allowed to carry away their “goods” with them. This was well, for otherwise how would they buy the wherewithal to live? Very well; these people were all to go out by the one gate, and at the time set for them to depart we young fellows went to that gate, along with the Dwarf, to see the march-out. Presently here they came in an interminable file, the foot-soldiers in the lead. As they approached one could see that each bore a burden of a bulk and weight to sorely tax his strength; and we said among ourselves, truly these folk are well off for poor common soldiers. When they were come nearer, what do you think? Every rascal of them had a French prisoner on his back! They were carrying away their “goods,” you see—their property—strictly according to the permission granted by the treaty.
And now something curious happened. According to the treaty made with the town, the garrison of English and Burgundian soldiers were allowed to take their “goods” with them. This was reasonable, since otherwise how would they be able to buy what they needed to live? So, they were all supposed to exit through a single gate, and at the designated time for their departure, we young guys went to that gate, along with the Dwarf, to watch the march-out. Soon enough, they appeared in an endless line, with the foot soldiers in the front. As they got closer, we could see that each one was carrying a load that would really test his strength; and we said to each other, these guys are surprisingly well off for poor common soldiers. When they got even closer, what do you think? Every single one of them had a French prisoner on his back! They were taking away their “goods,” you see—their property—just as the treaty allowed.
Now think how clever that was, how ingenious. What could a body say? what could a body do? For certainly these people were within their right. These prisoners were property; nobody could deny that. My dears, if those had been English captives, conceive of the richness of that booty! For English prisoners had been scarce and precious for a hundred years; whereas it was a different matter with French prisoners. They had been over-abundant for a century. The possessor of a French prisoner did not hold him long for ransom, as a rule, but presently killed him to save the cost of his keep. This shows you how small was the value of such a possession in those times. When we took Troyes a calf was worth thirty francs, a sheep sixteen, a French prisoner eight. It was an enormous price for those other animals—a price which naturally seems incredible to you. It was the war, you see. It worked two ways: it made meat dear and prisoners cheap.
Now think about how clever that was, how resourceful. What could anyone say? What could anyone do? Because these people were definitely within their rights. These prisoners were property; no one could argue that. My friends, if these had been English captives, imagine the value of that haul! English prisoners had been rare and valuable for a hundred years, while French prisoners were a different story. They had been far too common for a century. Generally, someone who captured a French prisoner wouldn’t hold out for ransom for long, but would rather kill him to save on costs. This shows how little value such a possession had back then. When we took Troyes, a calf was worth thirty francs, a sheep sixteen, and a French prisoner eight. That was an enormous price for those other animals—a price that probably seems unbelievable to you. But it was the war, you see. It created a two-way situation: it made meat expensive and prisoners cheap.
Well, here were these poor Frenchmen being carried off. What could we do? Very little of a permanent sort, but we did what we could. We sent a messenger flying to Joan, and we and the French guards halted the procession for a parley—to gain time, you see. A big Burgundian lost his temper and swore a great oath that none should stop him; he would go, and would take his prisoner with him. But we blocked him off, and he saw that he was mistaken about going—he couldn’t do it. He exploded into the maddest cursings and revilings, then, and, unlashing his prisoner from his back, stood him up, all bound and helpless; then drew his knife, and said to us with a light of sarcasting triumph in his eye:
Well, here were these poor Frenchmen getting taken away. What could we do? Not much that would last, but we did what we could. We sent a messenger racing to Joan, and we and the French guards stopped the procession for a discussion—to buy some time, you see. A big Burgundian lost his cool and swore that no one could stop him; he would go and take his prisoner with him. But we blocked him, and he realized he was wrong about leaving—he couldn’t do it. He burst into the wildest curses and insults, then, untying his prisoner from his back, stood him up, all tied up and helpless; then he pulled out his knife and said to us with a gleam of sarcastic triumph in his eye:
“I may not carry him away, you say—yet he is mine, none will dispute it. Since I may not convey him hence, this property of mine, there is another way. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest among you will question that right. Ah, you had not thought of that—vermin!”
“I might not be able to take him away, you say—yet he belongs to me, and no one will argue that. Since I can't remove him from here, this possession of mine, there's another option. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest among you will challenge that right. Ah, you hadn’t considered that—pests!”
That poor starved fellow begged us with his piteous eyes to save him; then spoke, and said he had a wife and little children at home. Think how it wrung our heartstrings. But what could we do? The Burgundian was within his right. We could only beg and plead for the prisoner. Which we did. And the Burgundian enjoyed it. He stayed his hand to hear more of it, and laugh at it. That stung. Then the Dwarf said:
That poor, starving guy begged us with his sad eyes to help him; then he spoke and said he had a wife and little kids at home. Think about how it broke our hearts. But what could we do? The Burgundian was within his rights. We could only beg and plead for the prisoner, which we did. And the Burgundian loved it. He paused to hear more and laugh at it. That hurt. Then the Dwarf said:
“Prithee, young sirs, let me beguile him; for when a matter requiring permission is to the fore, I have indeed a gift in that sort, as any will tell you that know me well. You smile; and that is punishment for my vanity; and fairly earned, I grant you. Still, if I may toy a little, just a little—” saying which he stepped to the Burgundian and began a fair soft speech, all of goodly and gentle tenor; and in the midst he mentioned the Maid; and was going on to say how she out of her good heart would prize and praise this compassionate deed which he was about to— It was as far as he got. The Burgundian burst into his smooth oration with an insult leveled at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but the Dwarf, his face all livid, brushed us aside and said, in a most grave and earnest way:
“Please, young sirs, let me charm him; for when there's a matter that needs permission, I really do have a talent for it, as anyone who knows me well can tell you. You smile; and that's punishment for my vanity; and I admit it's well-deserved. Still, if I could just play around a bit, just a little—” saying this, he stepped up to the Burgundian and began speaking softly, in a tone that was kind and gentle; then he mentioned the Maid and was about to explain how, out of her kindness, she would appreciate and praise this compassionate act he was about to— That was as far as he got. The Burgundian interrupted his smooth speech with an insult directed at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but the Dwarf, his face all pale, pushed us aside and said, in a very serious and earnest tone:
“I crave your patience. Am not I her guard of honor? This is my affair.”
“I need your patience. Am I not her honor guard? This is my business.”
And saying this he suddenly shot his right hand out and gripped the great Burgundian by the throat, and so held him upright on his feet. “You have insulted the Maid,” he said; “and the Maid is France. The tongue that does that earns a long furlough.”
And saying this, he suddenly reached out his right hand and grabbed the big Burgundian by the throat, holding him up on his feet. “You’ve insulted the Maid,” he said; “and the Maid is France. The tongue that does that gets a long break.”
One heard the muffled cracking of bones. The Burgundian’s eyes began to protrude from their sockets and stare with a leaden dullness at vacancy. The color deepened in his face and became an opaque purple. His hands hung down limp, his body collapsed with a shiver, every muscle relaxed its tension and ceased from its function. The Dwarf took away his hand and the column of inert mortality sank mushily to the ground.
One heard the muted cracking of bones. The Burgundian’s eyes began to bulge out of their sockets, staring blankly with a heavy dullness. The color in his face deepened into a dark purple. His hands dangled limply, his body fell with a shudder, every muscle loosened its tension and stopped functioning. The Dwarf pulled his hand away, and the lifeless body slumped down to the ground.
We struck the bonds from the prisoner and told him he was free. His crawling humbleness changed to frantic joy in a moment, and his ghastly fear to a childish rage. He flew at that dead corpse and kicked it, spat in its face, danced upon it, crammed mud into its mouth, laughing, jeering, cursing, and volleying forth indecencies and bestialities like a drunken fiend. It was a thing to be expected; soldiering makes few saints. Many of the onlookers laughed, others were indifferent, none was surprised. But presently in his mad caperings the freed man capered within reach of the waiting file, and another Burgundian promptly slipped a knife through his neck, and down he went with a death-shriek, his brilliant artery blood spurting ten feet as straight and bright as a ray of light. There was a great burst of jolly laughter all around from friend and foe alike; and thus closed one of the pleasantest incidents of my checkered military life.
We removed the chains from the prisoner and told him he was free. His desperate humility quickly turned into wild joy, and his terrifying fear transformed into a childlike rage. He lunged at the dead body, kicking it, spitting on its face, dancing on it, stuffing mud into its mouth, laughing, taunting, cursing, and shouting out obscenities and brutalities like a drunken demon. It was to be expected; being a soldier doesn’t make you a saint. Many of the onlookers laughed, others didn't care, and no one was surprised. But soon, in his crazy antics, the freed man danced close to the waiting soldiers, and one Burgundian swiftly stabbed a knife into his neck. He collapsed with a death scream, his bright arterial blood spraying ten feet in a straight line like a beam of light. A wave of hearty laughter erupted all around, from friends and enemies alike; and so ended one of the most amusing incidents of my turbulent military life.
And now came Joan hurrying, and deeply troubled. She considered the claim of the garrison, then said:
And now Joan arrived quickly, looking very worried. She thought about what the garrison was saying, then said:
“You have right upon your side. It is plain. It was a careless word to put in the treaty, and covers too much. But ye may not take these poor men away. They are French, and I will not have it. The King shall ransom them, every one. Wait till I send you word from him; and hurt no hair of their heads; for I tell you, I who speak, that that would cost you very dear.”
“You're right. It's clear. That was a careless word to include in the treaty, and it covers too much. But you can't take these poor men away. They are French, and I won’t allow it. The King will ransom them all. Just wait until I get word from him; don't harm a hair on their heads, because I’m telling you that would cost you a lot.”
That settled it. The prisoners were safe for one while, anyway. Then she rode back eagerly and required that thing of the King, and would listen to no paltering and no excuses. So the King told her to have her way, and she rode straight back and bought the captives free in his name and let them go.
That settled it. The prisoners were safe for a while, at least. Then she rode back eagerly and demanded that thing from the King, and wouldn’t accept any evasion or excuses. So the King agreed to her wish, and she rode straight back, paid for the captives in his name, and set them free.
35 The Heir of France is Crowned
IT WAS here hat we saw again the Grand Master of the King’s Household, in whose castle Joan was guest when she tarried at Chinon in those first days of her coming out of her own country. She made him Bailiff of Troyes now by the King’s permission.
IT WAS here that we saw again the Grand Master of the King’s Household, in whose castle Joan was a guest when she stayed at Chinon during those first days after arriving from her own country. She appointed him Bailiff of Troyes now by the King’s permission.
And now we marched again; Chalons surrendered to us; and there by Chalons in a talk, Joan, being asked if she had no fears for the future, said yes, one—treachery. Who would believe it? who could dream it? And yet in a sense it was prophecy. Truly, man is a pitiful animal.
And now we marched again; Chalons surrendered to us; and there by Chalons in a conversation, Joan, when asked if she had any fears for the future, said yes, one—treachery. Who would believe it? Who could even imagine it? And yet in a way, it was a prophecy. Truly, humans are a pitiful species.
We marched, marched, kept on marching; and at last, on the 16th of July, we came in sight of our goal, and saw the great cathedraled towers of Rheims rise out of the distance! Huzza after huzza swept the army from van to rear; and as for Joan of Arc, there where she sat her horse gazing, clothed all in white armor, dreamy, beautiful, and in her face a deep, deep joy, a joy not of earth, oh, she was not flesh, she was a spirit! Her sublime mission was closing—closing in flawless triumph. To-morrow she could say, “It is finished—let me go free.”
We marched, kept on marching, and finally, on July 16th, we caught sight of our destination, seeing the majestic cathedral towers of Rheims emerge in the distance! Cheers erupted from the army from front to back; and as for Joan of Arc, there she sat on her horse, gazing, dressed in shining white armor, dreamy and beautiful, with a profound, deep joy on her face—a joy that felt otherworldly, she was not just flesh, she was a spirit! Her remarkable mission was nearing its end—closing in perfect triumph. Tomorrow, she could say, “It’s done—let me go free.”
We camped, and the hurry and rush and turmoil of the grand preparations began. The Archbishop and a great deputation arrived; and after these came flock after flock, crowd after crowd, of citizens and country-folk, hurrahing, in, with banners and music, and flowed over the camp, one rejoicing inundation after another, everybody drunk with happiness. And all night long Rheims was hard at work, hammering away, decorating the town, building triumphal arches and clothing the ancient cathedral within and without in a glory of opulent splendors.
We set up camp, and the hustle, bustle, and chaos of the big preparations started. The Archbishop and a large group showed up; after them came wave after wave of townspeople and country folks, cheering, carrying banners, and playing music, flooding the camp in a joyous wave after another, everyone overwhelmed with happiness. All night long, Rheims was busy, working tirelessly to decorate the town, constructing triumphal arches, and draping the old cathedral inside and out in a dazzling display of rich splendor.
We moved betimes in the morning; the coronation ceremonies would begin at nine and last five hours. We were aware that the garrison of English and Burgundian soldiers had given up all thought of resisting the Maid, and that we should find the gates standing hospitably open and the whole city ready to welcome us with enthusiasm.
We left early in the morning; the coronation ceremonies would start at nine and last for five hours. We knew that the English and Burgundian soldiers had given up any idea of resisting the Maid, and that we would find the gates wide open, with the entire city eager to welcome us.
It was a delicious morning, brilliant with sunshine, but cool and fresh and inspiring. The army was in great form, and fine to see, as it uncoiled from its lair fold by fold, and stretched away on the final march of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.
It was a beautiful morning, bright with sunlight, but cool and refreshing and uplifting. The army was in great shape and looked impressive as it unfolded from its resting place piece by piece and moved out for the last leg of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.
Joan, on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the personal staff grouped about her, took post for a final review and a good-by; for she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or ever serve with these or any other soldiers any more after this day. The army knew this, and believed it was looking for the last time upon the girlish face of its invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride, its darling, whom it had ennobled in its private heart with nobilities of its own creation, call her “Daughter of God,” “Savior of France,” “Victory’s Sweetheart,” “The Page of Christ,” together with still softer titles which were simply naive and frank endearments such as men are used to confer upon children whom they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of the emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the march-past, the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of cheers, heads up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands braying paens of victory; but now there was nothing of that. But for one impressive sound, one could have closed his eyes and imagined himself in a world of the dead. That one sound was all that visited the ear in the summer stillness—just that one sound—the muffled tread of the marching host. As the serried masses drifted by, the men put their right hands up to their temples, palms to the front, in military salute, turning their eyes upon Joan’s face in mute God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping them there while they could. They still kept their hands up in reverent salute many steps after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her handkerchief to her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion crinkle along the faces of the files.
Joan, on her black horse, surrounded by the Lieutenant-General and her personal staff, took her position for a final review and goodbye; she didn’t expect to be a soldier again or serve with these or any other soldiers after this day. The army understood this and believed they were seeing the girlish face of their fearless little Chief for the last time, their cherished pride, whom they had elevated in their hearts with titles of their own making, calling her “Daughter of God,” “Savior of France,” “Victory’s Sweetheart,” “The Page of Christ,” along with softer titles that were simply sweet and genuine nicknames that people use for beloved children. And so, a new scene unfolded; one stirred by the deep feelings present on both sides. Previously, during the parade, the battalions had marched past in a roar of cheers, heads held high and eyes shining, drums rolling and bands playing triumphant tunes; but now, there was none of that. Except for one powerful sound, anyone could have closed their eyes and imagined themselves in a world of the dead. That lone sound was the only thing that broke the summer silence—just that one sound—the muffled footsteps of the marching troops. As the organized masses moved along, the men raised their right hands to their temples, palms forward, in military salute, gazing at Joan’s face in a silent wish for blessing and farewell, holding their gaze as long as they could. They kept their hands raised in respectful salute long after they had passed her. Each time Joan wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, you could see a slight wave of emotion ripple across the faces of the soldiers.
The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad with jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.
The victory parade is usually a moment that fills the heart with joy; but this one was something that could shatter it.
We rode now to the King’s lodgings, which was the Archbishop’s country palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off and took position at the head of the army. By this time the country-people were arriving in multitudes from every direction and massing themselves on both sides of the road to get sight of Joan—just as had been done every day since our first day’s march began. Our march now lay through the grassy plain, and those peasants made a dividing double border for that plain. They stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright colors on each side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it had a white jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her. Endless borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front of us—that is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we had been marching through all these days. Not a lane between multitudinous flowers standing upright on their stems—no, these flowers were always kneeling; kneeling, these human flowers, with their hands and faces lifted toward Joan of Arc, and the grateful tears streaming down. And all along, those closest to the road hugged her feet and kissed them and laid their wet cheeks fondly against them. I never, during all those days, saw any of either sex stand while she passed, nor any man keep his head covered. Afterward in the Great Trial these touching scenes were used as a weapon against her. She had been made an object of adoration by the people, and this was proof that she was a heretic—so claimed that unjust court.
We rode to the King’s residence, which was the Archbishop’s countryside palace; and he was soon ready, so we galloped off and took our place at the front of the army. By then, crowds of locals were arriving from all directions and gathering on both sides of the road to catch a glimpse of Joan—just like every day since our march began. Our route now took us through the grassy plain, with those peasants forming a double line along its sides. They stretched all the way through, creating a vibrant belt of colors on either side of the road; every peasant girl and woman was wearing a white jacket and a crimson skirt. It looked like endless borders of poppies and lilies stretching out in front of us. And this was the kind of path we had been walking through all these days. It wasn’t a lane with flowers standing tall on their stems—no, these flowers were always kneeling; kneeling, these human flowers, with their hands and faces raised toward Joan of Arc, their grateful tears streaming down. All the while, those closest to the road were hugging her feet, kissing them, and pressing their wet cheeks against them. I never saw anyone, regardless of gender, standing up while she passed by, nor did I see any man keeping his hat on. Later, during the Great Trial, these moving scenes were used against her. She had become an object of adoration for the people, and this was presented as proof that she was a heretic—so claimed that unjust court.
As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and towers was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of people; and all the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and gloomed with drifting clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in state and moved in procession through the city, with all the guilds and industries in holiday costume marching in our rear with their banners; and all the route was hedged with a huzzaing crush of people, and all the windows were full and all the roofs; and from the balconies hung costly stuffs of rich colors; and the waving of handkerchiefs, seen in perspective through a long vista, was like a snowstorm.
As we got closer to the city, the long curves of walls and towers were lively with fluttering flags and packed with crowds of people; the air was filled with the booming of cannons and clouded with drifting smoke. We entered the gates with great ceremony and paraded through the city, followed by all the guilds and trades dressed in festive attire with their banners; the streets were lined with cheering crowds, and every window and roof was packed with onlookers. Expensive fabrics of vibrant colors hung from the balconies, and the waving of handkerchiefs, seen down the long street, looked like a snowstorm.
Joan’s name had been introduced into the prayers of the Church—an honor theretofore restricted to royalty. But she had a dearer honor and an honor more to be proud of, from a humbler source: the common people had had leaden medals struck which bore her effigy and her escutcheon, and these they wore as charms. One saw them everywhere.
Joan’s name had been included in the Church’s prayers—an honor that had only been given to royalty before. But she had a more cherished honor, one that came from a humbler background: the common people had made lead medals featuring her image and her coat of arms, and they wore these as charms. You could see them everywhere.
From the Archbishop’s Palace, where we halted, and where the King and Joan were to lodge, the King sent to the Abbey Church of St. Remi, which was over toward the gate by which we had entered the city, for the Sainte Ampoule, or flask of holy oil. This oil was not earthly oil; it was made in heaven; the flask also. The flask, with the oil in it, was brought down from heaven by a dove. It was sent down to St. Remi just as he was going to baptize King Clovis, who had become a Christian. I know this to be true. I had known it long before; for Pere Fronte told me in Domremy. I cannot tell you how strange and awful it made me feel when I saw that flask and knew I was looking with my own eyes upon a thing which had actually been in heaven, a thing which had been seen by angels, perhaps; and by God Himself of a certainty, for He sent it. And I was looking upon it—I. At one time I could have touched it. But I was afraid; for I could not know but that God had touched it. It is most probable that He had.
From the Archbishop’s Palace, where we stopped and where the King and Joan were going to stay, the King sent for the Sainte Ampoule, or flask of holy oil, from the Abbey Church of St. Remi, which was near the gate we used to enter the city. This oil wasn’t from the earth; it came from heaven, and so did the flask. A dove brought the flask, with the oil in it, down from heaven. It was sent to St. Remi just as he was about to baptize King Clovis, who had become a Christian. I know this is true. I knew it long before because Pere Fronte told me in Domremy. I can’t explain how strange and awe-inspiring it felt when I saw that flask and realized I was looking with my own eyes at something that had actually been in heaven, something that might have been seen by angels, and certainly by God Himself, since He sent it. And I was looking at it—I. At one point, I could have touched it. But I was afraid because I couldn’t be sure that God hadn’t touched it. It’s very likely that He had.
From this flask Clovis had been anointed; and from it all the kings of France had been anointed since. Yes, ever since the time of Clovis, and that was nine hundred years. And so, as I have said, that flask of holy oil was sent for, while we waited. A coronation without that would not have been a coronation at all, in my belief.
From this flask, Clovis was anointed; and all the kings of France have been anointed from it since then. Yes, ever since Clovis's time, which was nine hundred years ago. So, as I mentioned, that flask of holy oil was sent for while we waited. A coronation without it wouldn't really be a coronation, in my opinion.
Now in order to get the flask, a most ancient ceremonial had to be gone through with; otherwise the Abby of St. Remi hereditary guardian in perpetuity of the oil, would not deliver it. So, in accordance with custom, the King deputed five great nobles to ride in solemn state and richly armed and accoutered, they and their steeds, to the Abbey Church as a guard of honor to the Archbishop of Rheims and his canons, who were to bear the King’s demand for the oil. When the five great lords were ready to start, they knelt in a row and put up their mailed hands before their faces, palm joined to palm, and swore upon their lives to conduct the sacred vessel safely, and safely restore it again to the Church of St. Remi after the anointing of the King. The Archbishop and his subordinates, thus nobly escorted, took their way to St. Remi. The Archbishop was in grand costume, with his miter on his head and his cross in his hand. At the door of St. Remi they halted and formed, to receive the holy vial. Soon one heard the deep tones of the organ and of chanting men; then one saw a long file of lights approaching through the dim church. And so came the Abbot, in his sacerdotal panoply, bearing the vial, with his people following after. He delivered it, with solemn ceremonies, to the Archbishop; then the march back began, and it was most impressive; for it moved, the whole way, between two multitudes of men and women who lay flat upon their faces and prayed in dumb silence and in dread while that awful thing went by that had been in heaven.
Now, to get the flask, an ancient ceremony had to be performed; otherwise, the Abbey of St. Remi, the hereditary guardian of the oil, wouldn’t hand it over. So, according to tradition, the King appointed five prominent nobles to ride in ceremonial style, fully armed and equipped, to the Abbey Church as an honor guard for the Archbishop of Rheims and his canons, who were to present the King’s request for the oil. When the five lords were ready to set out, they knelt in a line, raising their armored hands in prayer, palms pressed together, and swore on their lives to safely transport the sacred vessel and return it to the Church of St. Remi after the King’s anointing. The Archbishop and his attendants, thus nobly accompanied, made their way to St. Remi. The Archbishop was dressed in grand attire, with his miter on his head and a cross in his hand. At the entrance of St. Remi, they paused to receive the holy vial. Soon, the deep sounds of the organ and chanting men could be heard, followed by a long line of lights approaching through the dimly lit church. And so came the Abbot, dressed in his priestly robes, carrying the vial, with his followers behind him. He handed it over, with solemn ceremonies, to the Archbishop; then the march back commenced, and it was truly moving, as it proceeded between two crowds of men and women who lay flat on their faces, praying in silent reverence and fear as that sacred object passed by, which had been in heaven.
This August company arrived at the great west door of the cathedral; and as the Archbishop entered a noble anthem rose and filled the vast building. The cathedral was packed with people—people in thousands. Only a wide space down the center had been kept free. Down this space walked the Archbishop and his canons, and after them followed those five stately figures in splendid harness, each bearing his feudal banner—and riding!
This August group arrived at the grand west entrance of the cathedral; and as the Archbishop walked in, a majestic anthem soared and filled the enormous space. The cathedral was crammed with people—thousands of them. Only a broad aisle down the center had been kept clear. Through this aisle walked the Archbishop and his canons, followed by five impressive figures in magnificent armor, each carrying their feudal banner—and riding!
Oh, that was a magnificent thing to see. Riding down the cavernous vastness of the building through the rich lights streaming in long rays from the pictured windows—oh, there was never anything so grand!
Oh, that was an amazing sight to behold. Riding through the huge space of the building with the beautiful light streaming in long rays from the stained glass windows—oh, there was nothing else quite so impressive!
They rode clear to the choir—as much as four hundred feet from the door, it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and they made deep obeisance till their plumes touched their horses’ necks, then made those proud prancing and mincing and dancing creatures go backward all the way to the door—which was pretty to see, and graceful; then they stood them on their hind-feet and spun them around and plunged away and disappeared.
They rode all the way to the choir—about four hundred feet from the door, it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and they bowed deeply until their plumes touched their horses' necks. After that, they made those proud, prancing, and dancing creatures walk back to the door—which was beautiful and graceful to watch. Then they stood them on their hind legs, spun them around, and jumped away, disappearing from sight.
For some minutes there was a deep hush, a waiting pause; a silence so profound that it was as if all those packed thousands there were steeped in dreamless slumber—why, you could even notice the faintest sounds, like the drowsy buzzing of insects; then came a mighty flood of rich strains from four hundred silver trumpets, and then, framed in the pointed archway of the great west door, appeared Joan and the King. They advanced slowly, side by side, through a tempest of welcome—explosion after explosion of cheers and cries, mingled with the deep thunders of the organ and rolling tides of triumphant song from chanting choirs. Behind Joan and the King came the Paladin and the Banner displayed; and a majestic figure he was, and most proud and lofty in his bearing, for he knew that the people were marking him and taking note of the gorgeous state dress which covered his armor.
For a few minutes, there was a deep silence, a moment of anticipation; a stillness so profound that it felt like all the thousands gathered were in a dreamless sleep— you could even hear the faintest sounds, like the sleepy buzzing of insects; then, a powerful wave of rich music soared from four hundred silver trumpets, and framed in the pointed archway of the grand west door, appeared Joan and the King. They moved slowly, side by side, through a storm of cheers—an explosion after explosion of cheers and cries, mixed with the deep sounds of the organ and waves of triumphant songs from singing choirs. Behind Joan and the King came the Paladin with the Banner displayed; and he was a majestic figure, proud and grand in his stance, for he knew that the crowd was watching him and taking note of the elaborate state dress covering his armor.
At his side was the Sire d’Albret, proxy for the Constable of France, bearing the Sword of State.
At his side was the Sire d’Albret, the representative of the Constable of France, holding the Sword of State.
After these, in order of rank, came a body royally attired representing the lay peers of France; it consisted of three princes of the blood, and La Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.
After these, in order of rank, came a group dressed in royal attire representing the lay peers of France; it included three princes of the blood, along with La Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.
These were followed by the representatives of the ecclesiastical peers—the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon, Chalons, Orleans, and one other.
These were followed by the representatives of the church leaders—the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon, Chalons, Orleans, and one more.
Behind these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and famous names, and everybody was eager to get a sight of them. Through all the din one could hear shouts all along that told you where two of them were: “Live the Bastard of Orleans!” “Satan La Hire forever!”
Behind these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and famous names, and everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of them. Amidst all the noise, you could hear shouts echoing that revealed the locations of two of them: “Long live the Bastard of Orleans!” “Satan La Hire forever!”
The August procession reached its appointed place in time, and the solemnities of the Coronation began. They were long and imposing—with prayers, and anthems, and sermons, and everything that is right for such occasions; and Joan was at the King’s side all these hours, with her Standard in her hand. But at last came the grand act: the King took the oath, he was anointed with the sacred oil; a splendid personage, followed by train-bearers and other attendants, approached, bearing the Crown of France upon a cushion, and kneeling offered it. The King seemed to hesitate—in fact, did hesitate; for he put out his hand and then stopped with it there in the air over the crown, the fingers in the attitude of taking hold of it. But that was for only a moment—though a moment is a notable something when it stops the heartbeat of twenty thousand people and makes them catch their breath. Yes, only a moment; then he caught Joan’s eye, and she gave him a look with all the joy of her thankful great soul in it; then he smiled, and took the Crown of France in his hand, and right finely and right royally lifted it up and set it upon his head.
The August procession arrived at its designated spot on time, and the Coronation ceremonies began. They were lengthy and impressive—with prayers, anthems, sermons, and everything appropriate for such events; and Joan stood by the King’s side throughout these hours, holding her Standard. Finally, the pivotal moment arrived: the King took the oath, was anointed with sacred oil; a magnificent figure, followed by train-bearers and other attendants, approached with the Crown of France on a cushion and knelt to present it. The King seemed to hesitate—in fact, he did hesitate; he reached out his hand but then paused with it hovering over the crown, fingers poised to grasp it. But that was just for a moment—though a moment can feel significant when it stills the heartbeat of twenty thousand people and makes them hold their breath. Yes, just a moment; then he locked eyes with Joan, who gave him a look full of the joy from her grateful soul; he smiled and took the Crown of France in his hand, lifting it up grandly and placing it on his head.
Then what a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the chanting of the choirs and groaning of the organ; and outside the clamoring of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The fantastic dream, the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the peasant-child stood fulfilled; the English power was broken, the Heir of France was crowned.
Then what a crash there was! All around us were shouts and cheers, the singing of the choirs, and the moaning of the organ; outside, the ringing of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The fantastic dream, the unbelievable dream, the impossible dream of the peasant child had come true; the English power was shattered, and the Heir of France was crowned.
She was like one transfigured, so divine was the joy that shone in her face as she sank to her knees at the King’s feet and looked up at him through her tears. Her lips were quivering, and her words came soft and low and broken:
She looked transformed, so radiant was the joy that lit up her face as she fell to her knees at the King’s feet and gazed up at him through her tears. Her lips trembled, and her words came out soft, quiet, and fragmented:
“Now, O gentle King, is the pleasure of God accomplished according to His command that you should come to Rheims and receive the crown that belongeth of right to you, and unto none other. My work which was given me to do is finished; give me your peace, and let me go back to my mother, who is poor and old, and has need of me.”
“Now, O kind King, the will of God has been fulfilled as He commanded you to come to Rheims and receive the crown that rightfully belongs to you and no one else. My task is complete; grant me your blessing, and let me return to my mother, who is poor and elderly, and needs me.”
The King raised her up, and there before all that host he praised her great deeds in most noble terms; and there he confirmed her nobility and titles, making her the equal of a count in rank, and also appointed a household and officers for her according to her dignity; and then he said:
The King lifted her up, and in front of everyone, he praised her amazing accomplishments in the finest words; he acknowledged her nobility and titles, elevating her to the same rank as a count, and designated a household and officials for her based on her status; and then he said:
“You have saved the crown. Speak—require—demand; and whatsoever grace you ask it shall be granted, though it make the kingdom poor to meet it.”
“You’ve saved the crown. Speak up—ask for what you want—and whatever you request will be granted, even if it makes the kingdom poorer to give it to you.”
Now that was fine, that was royal. Joan was on her knees again straightway, and said:
Now that was great, that was classy. Joan was on her knees again right away and said:
“Then, O gentle King, if out of your compassion you will speak the word, I pray you give commandment that my village, poor and hard pressed by reason of war, may have its taxes remitted.”
“Then, O kind King, if you would be so compassionate as to speak the word, I ask you to please order that my village, which is struggling and burdened by war, may have its taxes canceled.”
“It is so commanded. Say on.”
"It's been decided. Proceed."
“That is all.”
"That's everything."
“All? Nothing but that?”
"Is that all there is?"
“It is all. I have no other desire.”
“It’s everything. I have no other wish.”
“But that is nothing—less than nothing. Ask—do not be afraid.”
“But that’s nothing—less than nothing. Go ahead and ask—don’t be scared.”
“Indeed, I cannot, gentle King. Do not press me. I will not have aught else, but only this alone.”
“Honestly, I can’t, kind King. Please don’t push me. I won’t accept anything else, just this.”
The King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if trying to comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange unselfishness. Then he raised his head and said:
The King appeared taken aback and paused for a moment, as if trying to grasp and understand the true depth of this unusual selflessness. Then he lifted his head and said:
“Who has won a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks and all she will take is this poor grace—and even this is for others, not for herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the dignity of one who carries in her head and heart riches which outvalue any that any King could add, though he gave his all. She shall have her way. Now, therefore, it is decreed that from this day forth Domremy, natal village of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, called the Maid of Orleans, is freed from all taxation forever.” Whereat the silver horns blew a jubilant blast.
“Who has won a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks and all she will take is this small favor—and even this is for others, not for herself. And that’s just fine; her act is fitting for someone who holds in her mind and heart treasures that far exceed anything a King could offer, even if he gave everything he had. She will have her way. Therefore, it is decided that from this day on, Domremy, the birthplace of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, known as the Maid of Orleans, is free from all taxes forever.” At this, the silver horns sounded a joyful blast.
There, you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she was in a trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to name to boon she would demand of the King if he should ever chance to tell her she might claim one. But whether she had the vision or not, this act showed that after all the dizzy grandeurs that had come upon her, she was still the same simple, unselfish creature that she was that day.
There, you see, she had a vision of this exact scene when she was in a trance in the fields of Domremy, and we asked her to name the favor she would ask the King if he ever told her she could claim one. But whether she really had the vision or not, this act showed that despite all the overwhelming greatness that had come her way, she was still the same simple, selfless person she was that day.
Yes, Charles VII. remitted those taxes “forever.” Often the gratitude of kings and nations fades and their promises are forgotten or deliberately violated; but you, who are children of France, should remember with pride that France has kept this one faithfully. Sixty-three years have gone by since that day. The taxes of the region wherein Domremy lies have been collected sixty-three times since then, and all the villages of that region have paid except that one—Domremy. The tax-gatherer never visits Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread sorrow-sowing apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been filed meantime, and they lie yonder with the other public records, and any may see them that desire it. At the top of every page in the sixty-three books stands the name of a village, and below that name its weary burden of taxation is figured out and displayed; in the case of all save one. It is true, just as I tell you. In each of the sixty-three books there is a page headed “Domremi,” but under that name not a figure appears. Where the figures should be, there are three words written; and the same words have been written every year for all these years; yes, it is a blank page, with always those grateful words lettered across the face of it—a touching memorial. Thus:
Yes, Charles VII. canceled those taxes "forever." Often, the gratitude of kings and nations fades, and their promises are forgotten or deliberately broken; but you, who are the children of France, should proudly remember that France has upheld this one promise faithfully. Sixty-three years have passed since that day. The taxes for the region where Domremy is located have been collected sixty-three times since then, and all the villages in that region have paid except for one—Domremy. The tax collector never visits Domremy. Domremy has long forgotten what that fearsome, sorrow-inducing figure looks like. Sixty-three tax records have been filed in the meantime, and they sit over there with the other public records, available for anyone who wishes to see them. At the top of every page in the sixty-three books is the name of a village, and below that name is its exhausting burden of taxes calculated and displayed; in all cases except one. It's true, just as I tell you. In each of the sixty-three books, there is a page titled "Domremy," but under that name, not a single figure appears. Where the figures should be, there are three words written; and the same words have been recorded every year for all these years; yes, it is a blank page, with those grateful words inscribed across it—a touching tribute. Thus:
__________________________________ | | | DOMREMI | | | | RIEN—LA PUCELLE | |__________________________________| “NOTHING—THE MAID OF ORLEANS.”
__________________________________ | | | DOMREMI | | | | RIEN—LA PUCELLE | |__________________________________| “NOTHING—THE MAID OF ORLEANS.”
How brief it is; yet how much it says! It is the nation speaking. You have the spectacle of that unsentimental thing, a Government, making reverence to that name and saying to its agent, “Uncover, and pass on; it is France that commands.” Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be kept always; “forever” was the King’s word. (1) At two o’clock in the afternoon the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end; then the procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at its head, and took up its solemn march through the midst of the church, all instruments and all people making such clamor of rejoicing noises as was, indeed, a marvel to hear. An so ended the third of the great days of Joan’s life. And how close together they stand—May 8th, June 18th, July 17th!
How brief it is; yet how much it conveys! It is the country speaking. You witness the unfeeling entity, a Government, showing respect to that name and telling its representative, “Uncover, and move forward; it is France that commands.” Yes, the promise has been fulfilled; it will always be fulfilled; “forever” was the King’s word. (1) At two o’clock in the afternoon, the Coronation ceremonies finally came to an end; then the procession formed again, with Joan and the King leading the way, and began its solemn march through the church, with all instruments and people creating a joyful noise that was truly astonishing to hear. And so ended the third of the great days of Joan’s life. And how close together they are—May 8th, June 18th, July 17th!
(1) IT was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and more; then the over-confident octogenarian’s prophecy failed. During the tumult of the French Revolution the promise was forgotten and the grace withdrawn. It has remained in disuse ever since. Joan never asked to be remembered, but France has remembered her with an inextinguishable love and reverence; Joan never asked for a statue, but France has lavished them upon her; Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France is building one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is impending. Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given her, and with a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which she did ask for and get has been taken away from her. There is something infinitely pathetic about this. France owes Domremy a hundred years of taxes, and could hardly find a citizen within her borders who would vote against the payment of the debt. — NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
(1) It was kept faithfully for more than three hundred and sixty years; then the overly confident octogenarian’s prophecy fell short. During the chaos of the French Revolution, the promise was forgotten and the grace removed. It has been unused ever since. Joan never asked to be remembered, but France has held onto her memory with everlasting love and respect; Joan never asked for a statue, but France has given her many; Joan never asked for a church in Domremy, but France is building one; Joan never asked for sainthood, yet that is also on the horizon. Everything Joan of Arc did not request has been generously bestowed upon her, but the one simple thing she did ask for and received has been taken away. There’s something profoundly sad about this. France owes Domremy a hundred years of taxes, and it would be hard to find a citizen within her borders who would vote against paying the debt. — NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
36 Joan Hears News from Home

WE MOUNTED and rode, a spectacle to remember, a most noble display of rich vestments and nodding plumes, and as we moved between the banked multitudes they sank down all along abreast of us as we advanced, like grain before the reaper, and kneeling hailed with a rousing welcome the consecrated King and his companion the Deliverer of France. But by and by when we had paraded about the chief parts of the city and were come near to the end of our course, we being now approaching the Archbishop’s palace, one saw on the right, hard by the inn that is called the Zebra, a strange thing—two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in the front rank of the kneelers; unconscious, transfixed, staring. Yes, and clothed in the coarse garb of the peasantry, these two. Two halberdiers sprang at them in a fury to teach them better manners; but just as they seized them Joan cried out “Forbear!” and slid from her saddle and flung her arms about one of those peasants, calling him by all manner of endearing names, and sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was her uncle, Laxart.
WE MOUNTED and rode, a sight to remember, a grand display of rich clothing and waving feathers, and as we moved through the gathered crowds, they fell down alongside us as we advanced, like grain before the reaper, and knelt to give a hearty welcome to the consecrated King and his companion, the Deliverer of France. But soon, after we had paraded through the main parts of the city and were nearing the end of our route, coming close to the Archbishop’s palace, I noticed on the right, near the inn called the Zebra, something unusual—two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in the front row of the kneelers; unaware, frozen, staring. Yes, and they were dressed in the rough clothes of peasants, these two. Two halberdiers rushed at them in anger to teach them proper manners; but just as they grabbed them, Joan shouted “Stop!” and slid down from her saddle and wrapped her arms around one of those peasants, calling him by all kinds of sweet names, and sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was her uncle, Laxart.
The news flew everywhere, and shouts of welcome were raised, and in just one little moment those two despised and unknown plebeians were become famous and popular and envied, and everybody was in a fever to get sight of them and be able to say, all their lives long, that they had seen the father of Joan of Arc and the brother of her mother. How easy it was for her to do miracles like to this! She was like the sun; on whatsoever dim and humble object her rays fell, that thing was straightway drowned in glory.
The news spread everywhere, and shouts of welcome erupted, and in just a brief moment, those two overlooked and unknown commoners became famous, popular, and envied. Everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of them and be able to say, for the rest of their lives, that they had seen the father of Joan of Arc and her mother's brother. It was so effortless for her to perform miracles like this! She was like the sun; whatever dull and humble thing her rays touched was instantly bathed in glory.
All graciously the King said:
The King graciously said:
“Bring them to me.”
"Bring them to me."
And she brought them; she radiant with happiness and affection, they trembling and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands; and there before all the world the King gave them his hand to kiss, while the people gazed in envy and admiration; and he said to old D’Arc:
And she brought them; she glowing with joy and love, they trembling and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands; and there before everyone the King extended his hand to be kissed, while the crowd looked on with envy and admiration; and he said to old D’Arc:
“Give God thanks for that you are father to this child, this dispenser of immortalities. You who bear a name that will still live in the mouths of men when all the race of kings has been forgotten, it is not meet that you bare your head before the fleeting fames and dignities of a day—cover yourself!” And truly he looked right fine and princely when he said that. Then he gave order that the Bailly of Rheims be brought; and when he was come, and stood bent low and bare, the King said to him, “These two are guests of France;” and bade him use them hospitably.
“Thank God that you are the father of this child, this giver of immortality. You, who have a name that will be remembered long after all kings have been forgotten, should not bow your head to the passing fame and honors of a day—cover yourself!” And he truly looked impressive and regal when he said that. Then he ordered that the Bailly of Rheims be brought; and when he arrived, standing low and bare, the King said to him, “These two are guests of France;” and instructed him to treat them with hospitality.
I may as well say now as later, that Papa D’Arc and Laxart were stopping in that little Zebra inn, and that there they remained. Finer quarters were offered them by the Bailly, also public distinctions and brave entertainment; but they were frightened at these projects, they being only humble and ignorant peasants; so they begged off, and had peace. They could not have enjoyed such things. Poor souls, they did not even know what to do with their hands, and it took all their attention to keep from treading on them. The Bailly did the best he could in the circumstances. He made the innkeeper place a whole floor at their disposal, and told him to provide everything they might desire, and charge all to the city. Also the Bailly gave them a horse apiece and furnishings; which so overwhelmed them with pride and delight and astonishment that they couldn’t speak a word; for in their lives they had never dreamed of wealth like this, and could not believe, at first, that the horses were real and would not dissolve to a mist and blow away. They could not unglue their minds from those grandeurs, and were always wrenching the conversation out of its groove and dragging the matter of animals into it, so that they could say “my horse” here, and “my horse” there and yonder and all around, and taste the words and lick their chops over them, and spread their legs and hitch their thumbs in their armpits, and feel as the good God feels when He looks out on His fleets of constellations plowing the awful deeps of space and reflects with satisfaction that they are His—all His. Well, they were the happiest old children one ever saw, and the simplest.
I might as well say it now as later: Papa D’Arc and Laxart were staying at that little Zebra inn, and that's where they remained. The Bailly offered them nicer accommodations, along with public honors and lavish entertainment, but they were intimidated by these plans, being just humble and uneducated peasants; so they declined and found peace. They wouldn’t have been able to enjoy such things anyway. Poor souls, they didn’t even know what to do with their hands, and it took all their focus to avoid stepping on them. The Bailly did his best under the circumstances. He had the innkeeper set aside an entire floor for them and instructed him to provide anything they might want, charging it all to the city. Additionally, the Bailly gave them each a horse and some furnishings; this filled them with so much pride, joy, and disbelief that they couldn’t utter a word; in their lives, they had never imagined such wealth, and at first, they couldn’t believe the horses were real and wouldn’t just vanish into thin air. They couldn’t detach their thoughts from these luxuries and constantly pulled the conversation back to the topic of horses so they could say "my horse" here, and "my horse" there, and everywhere, savoring the words and relishing the thought, standing with legs wide apart and thumbs tucked into their armpits, feeling like the good God feels when He gazes upon His fleets of constellations navigating the vastness of space, reflecting with satisfaction that they are His—all His. Well, they were the happiest old children you could ever see, and the easiest to please.
The city gave a grand banquet to the King and Joan in mid-afternoon, and to the Court and the Grand Staff; and about the middle of it Pere D’Arc and Laxart were sent for, but would not venture until it was promised that they might sit in a gallery and be all by themselves and see all that was to be seen and yet be unmolested. And so they sat there and looked down upon the splendid spectacle, and were moved till the tears ran down their cheeks to see the unbelievable honors that were paid to their small darling, and how naively serene and unafraid she sat there with those consuming glories beating upon her.
The city threw a big banquet for the King and Joan in the afternoon, along with the Court and the Grand Staff. During the event, they called for Pere D’Arc and Laxart, but they wouldn't come until it was promised that they could sit in a gallery by themselves, see everything, and not be bothered. So they sat there, looking down at the amazing spectacle, and were so moved that tears streamed down their faces as they witnessed the incredible honors being given to their little darling, and how blissfully calm and unafraid she looked while all the attention was on her.
But at last her serenity was broken up. Yes, it stood the strain of the King’s gracious speech; and of D’Alencon’s praiseful words, and the Bastard’s; and even La Hire’s thunder-blast, which took the place by storm; but at last, as I have said, they brought a force to bear which was too strong for her. For at the close the King put up his hand to command silence, and so waited, with his hand up, till every sound was dead and it was as if one could almost the stillness, so profound it was. Then out of some remote corner of that vast place there rose a plaintive voice, and in tones most tender and sweet and rich came floating through that enchanted hush our poor old simple song “L’Arbre Fee Bourlemont!” and then Joan broke down and put her face in her hands and cried. Yes, you see, all in a moment the pomps and grandeurs dissolved away and she was a little child again herding her sheep with the tranquil pastures stretched about her, and war and wounds and blood and death and the mad frenzy and turmoil of battle a dream. Ah, that shows you the power of music, that magician of magicians, who lifts his wand and says his mysterious word and all things real pass away and the phantoms of your mind walk before you clothed in flesh.
But finally, her calm was shattered. Yes, she withstood the weight of the King’s kind speech, as well as D’Alencon’s praise and the Bastard’s; even La Hire’s thunderous words, which took the crowd by storm; but eventually, as I mentioned, they mustered a force that was too overwhelming for her. At the end, the King raised his hand to signal for silence and waited, hand raised, until every sound faded, and it was so quiet that one could almost feel the stillness enveloping the place. Then from some distant corner of that huge space, a soft voice emerged, and in tones tender, sweet, and rich, our simple old song “L’Arbre Fee Bourlemont!” floated through that magical silence, causing Joan to break down and hide her face in her hands, crying. In that moment, all the grandeur and pomp melted away, and she was just a little girl again, watching over her sheep in the peaceful pastures around her, with war, wounds, blood, death, and the chaos of battle fading into a dream. Ah, that shows you the power of music, the magician of all magicians, who raises his wand, speaks his mysterious words, and all reality slips away, while the phantoms of your thoughts come alive in front of you, clothed in flesh.
That was the King’s invention, that sweet and dear surprise. Indeed, he had fine things hidden away in his nature, though one seldom got a glimpse of them, with that scheming Tremouille and those others always standing in the light, and he so indolently content to save himself fuss and argument and let them have their way.
That was the King’s creation, that sweet and lovely surprise. He really had some great qualities hidden in him, but you rarely saw them, with that manipulative Tremouille and the others always stealing the spotlight, and he was so lazily happy to avoid any hassle or conflict and let them have their way.
At the fall of night we the Domremy contingent of the personal staff were with the father and uncle at the inn, in their private parlor, brewing generous drinks and breaking ground for a homely talk about Domremy and the neighbors, when a large parcel arrived from Joan to be kept till she came; and soon she came herself and sent her guard away, saying she would take one of her father’s rooms and sleep under his roof, and so be at home again. We of the staff rose and stood, as was meet, until she made us sit. Then she turned and saw that the two old men had gotten up too, and were standing in an embarrassed and unmilitary way; which made her want to laugh, but she kept it in, as not wishing to hurt them; and got them to their seats and snuggled down between them, and took a hand of each of them upon her knees and nestled her own hands in them, and said:
At nightfall, the Domremy group of the personal staff was with her father and uncle at the inn, in their private parlor, making drinks and chatting comfortably about Domremy and the neighbors, when a large package arrived from Joan to be kept until she came; and soon she arrived herself and sent her guards away, saying she would take one of her father’s rooms and sleep under his roof, so she could feel at home again. We, the staff, stood up, as was appropriate, until she invited us to sit. Then she turned and noticed that the two old men had also stood up, awkwardly and unmilitarily, which almost made her laugh, but she held it in, not wanting to hurt their feelings; she got them back into their seats, nestled between them, held one hand of each of them on her knees, and curled her own hands around theirs, and said:
“Now we will nave no more ceremony, but be kin and playmates as in other times; for I am done with the great wars now, and you two will take me home with you, and I shall see—” She stopped, and for a moment her happy face sobered, as if a doubt or a presentiment had flitted through her mind; then it cleared again, and she said, with a passionate yearning, “Oh, if the day were but come and we could start!”
“Now let’s skip the formalities and just be friends and playmates like we used to; I’m done with the big wars now, and you two will take me home with you, and I’ll be able to see—” She paused, and for a moment her joyful face turned serious, as if a doubt or a feeling of something ominous had crossed her mind; then it brightened again, and she said, with intense longing, “Oh, if only that day would come so we could start!”
The old father was surprised, and said:
The old father was surprised and said:
“Why, child, are you in earnest? Would you leave doing these wonders that make you to be praised by everybody while there is still so much glory to be won; and would you go out from this grand comradeship with princes and generals to be a drudging villager again and a nobody? It is not rational.”
“Why, kid, are you serious? Would you stop doing these amazing things that earn you praise from everyone while there's still so much glory to be gained? And would you leave this incredible friendship with princes and generals to become a struggling villager again and a nobody? That's just not rational.”
“No,” said the uncle, Laxart, “it is amazing to hear, and indeed not understandable. It is a stranger thing to hear her say she will stop the soldiering that it was to hear her say she would begin it; and I who speak to you can say in all truth that that was the strangest word that ever I had heard till this day and hour. I would it could be explained.”
“No,” said the uncle, Laxart, “it's incredible to hear, and honestly, it's hard to understand. It's more surprising to hear her say she'll stop being a soldier than it was to hear her say she would start. And I can honestly say that those were the strangest words I’ve ever heard up to this day and hour. I wish it could be explained.”
“It is not difficult,” said Joan. “I was not ever fond of wounds and suffering, nor fitted by my nature to inflict them; and quarrelings did always distress me, and noise and tumult were against my liking, my disposition being toward peace and quietness, and love for all things that have life; and being made like this, how could I bear to think of wars and blood, and the pain that goes with them, and the sorrow and mourning that follow after? But by his angels God laid His great commands upon me, and could I disobey? I did as I was bid. Did He command me to do many things? No; only two: to raise the siege of Orleans, and crown the King at Rheims. The task is finished, and I am free. Has ever a poor soldier fallen in my sight, whether friend or foe, and I not felt the pain in my own body, and the grief of his home-mates in my own heart? No, not one; and, oh, it is such bliss to know that my release is won, and that I shall not any more see these cruel things or suffer these tortures of the mind again! Then why should I not go to my village and be as I was before? It is heaven! and ye wonder that I desire it. Ah, ye are men—just men! My mother would understand.”
“It’s not hard,” said Joan. “I’ve never liked wounds and suffering, nor am I the type to cause them; arguments always upset me, and chaos and noise aren’t my thing. I’m all about peace and quiet and have love for all living things. With that in mind, how could I stand the thought of war and bloodshed, and the pain that comes with it, along with the sadness and mourning that follow? But God gave me His great commands through His angels, and could I ignore that? I did what I was told. Did He ask me to do a lot? No; just two things: to lift the siege of Orleans and crown the King at Rheims. That job is done, and I’m free. Has a single poor soldier fallen in front of me, whether friend or enemy, without me feeling the pain in my own body and the grief of his comrades in my heart? No, not one; and it’s such a relief to know that my freedom is won, and I won’t have to witness those cruel things or endure these mental tortures again! So why can’t I just go back to my village and be who I was before? It’s paradise! And you wonder why I want it. Ah, you are just men! My mother would understand.”
They didn’t quite know what to say; so they sat still awhile, looking pretty vacant. Then old D’Arc said:
They didn’t really know what to say, so they sat quietly for a while, looking pretty blank. Then old D’Arc said:
“Yes, your mother—that is true. I never saw such a woman. She worries, and worries, and worries; and wakes nights, and lies so, thinking—that is, worrying; worrying about you. And when the night storms go raging along, she moans and says, ‘Ah, God pity her, she is out in this with her poor wet soldiers.’ And when the lightning glares and the thunder crashes she wrings her hands and trembles, saying, ‘It is like the awful cannon and the flash, and yonder somewhere she is riding down upon the spouting guns and I not there to protect her.”
“Yes, your mother—that’s true. I’ve never seen a woman like her. She worries constantly; she wakes up at night, lying there, thinking—that is, worrying; worrying about you. And when the night storms rage, she moans and says, ‘Oh, God, have mercy on her, she's out there with her poor wet soldiers.’ And when the lightning strikes and the thunder roars, she wrings her hands and shakes, saying, ‘It’s like the terrible cannons and the flashes, and somewhere out there she’s charging into the fire, and I’m not there to protect her.’”
“Ah, poor mother, it is pity, it is pity!”
“Ah, poor mom, it's such a shame, it's such a shame!”
“Yes, a most strange woman, as I have noticed a many times. When there is news of a victory and all the village goes mad with pride and joy, she rushes here and there in a maniacal frenzy till she finds out the one only thing she cares to know—that you are safe; then down she goes on her knees in the dirt and praises God as long as there is any breath left in her body; and all on your account, for she never mentions the battle once. And always she says, ‘Now it is over—now France is saved—now she will come home’—and always is disappointed and goes about mourning.”
“Yes, a really weird woman, like I’ve noticed many times. When there’s news of a victory and the whole village goes crazy with pride and joy, she runs around in a wild frenzy until she finds out the one thing she truly cares about—that you’re safe; then she drops to her knees in the dirt and praises God for as long as she has any breath left in her body; all for you, since she never mentions the battle at all. And she always says, ‘Now it’s over—now France is saved—now she’ll come home’—and she’s always disappointed and walks around grieving.”
“Don’t, father! it breaks my heart. I will be so good to her when I get home. I will do her work for her, and be her comfort, and she shall not suffer any more through me.”
“Don’t, Dad! It breaks my heart. I’ll be so good to her when I get home. I’ll do her work for her, be her support, and she won’t suffer anymore because of me.”
There was some more talk of this sort, then Uncle Laxart said:
There was some more conversation like this, then Uncle Laxart said:
“You have done the will of God, dear, and are quits; it is true, and none may deny it; but what of the King? You are his best soldier; what if he command you to stay?”
“You have done what God wanted, dear, and are even; it's true, and no one can argue that; but what about the King? You are his best soldier; what if he orders you to stay?”
That was a crusher—and sudden! It took Joan a moment or two to recover from the shock of it; then she said, quite simply and resignedly:
That hit hard—and out of nowhere! It took Joan a moment to get over the shock; then she said, pretty simply and with acceptance:
“The King is my Lord; I am his servant.” She was silent and thoughtful a little while, then she brightened up and said, cheerily, “But let us drive such thoughts away—this is no time for them. Tell me about home.”
“The King is my Lord; I am his servant.” She was quiet and contemplative for a moment, then she perked up and said, happily, “But let’s push those thoughts aside—this isn’t the time for them. Tell me about home.”
So the two old gossips talked and talked; talked about everything and everybody in the village; and it was good to hear. Joan out of her kindness tried to get us into the conversation, but that failed, of course. She was the Commander-in-Chief, we were nobodies; her name was the mightiest in France, we were invisible atoms; she was the comrade of princes and heroes, we of the humble and obscure; she held rank above all Personages and all Puissances whatsoever in the whole earth, by right of baring her commission direct from God. To put it in one word, she was JOAN OF ARC—and when that is said, all is said. To us she was divine. Between her and us lay the bridgeless abyss which that word implies. We could not be familiar with her. No, you can see yourselves that that would have been impossible.
So the two old gossipers chatted endlessly; discussing everything and everyone in the village, and it was nice to listen. Joan, being kind, tried to pull us into the conversation, but of course, that didn’t work. She was the Commander-in-Chief, and we were nobody; her name was the most powerful in France, and we were just invisible particles; she was friends with princes and heroes, while we were humble and unnoticed; she held a rank above all people and powers on earth, by virtue of her commission straight from God. To sum it up, she was JOAN OF ARC—and once that’s said, everything is said. To us, she was divine. There was an unbridgeable gap between her and us that that word implies. We couldn’t treat her casually. No, you can see for yourselves that would have been impossible.
And yet she was so human, too, and so good and kind and dear and loving and cheery and charming and unspoiled and unaffected! Those are all the words I think of now, but they are not enough; no, they are too few and colorless and meager to tell it all, or tell the half. Those simple old men didn’t realize her; they couldn’t; they had never known any people but human beings, and so they had no other standard to measure her by. To them, after their first little shyness had worn off, she was just a girl—that was all. It was amazing. It made one shiver, sometimes, to see how calm and easy and comfortable they were in her presence, and hear them talk to her exactly as they would have talked to any other girl in France.
And yet she was so human, too, and so good and kind and dear and loving, and cheerful and charming and genuine and unaffected! Those are all the words I can think of now, but they’re not enough; no, they’re too few and dull and lacking to capture everything, or even half of it. Those simple old men didn’t understand her; they couldn’t; they had never known anyone but ordinary people, and so they had no other way to measure her. For them, after their initial bit of shyness wore off, she was just a girl—that was it. It was incredible. It sometimes made you shiver to see how calm, easy, and comfortable they were around her, and to hear them talk to her just like they would have talked to any other girl in France.
Why, that simple old Laxart sat up there and droned out the most tedious and empty tale one ever heard, and neither he nor Papa D’Arc ever gave a thought to the badness of the etiquette of it, or ever suspected that that foolish tale was anything but dignified and valuable history. There was not an atom of value in it; and whilst they thought it distressing and pathetic, it was in fact not pathetic at all, but actually ridiculous. At least it seemed so to me, and it seems so yet. Indeed, I know it was, because it made Joan laugh; and the more sorrowful it got the more it made her laugh; and the Paladin said that he could have laughed himself if she had not been there, and Noel Rainguesson said the same. It was about old Laxart going to a funeral there at Domremy two or three weeks back. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got Joan to rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing it, and comforting him, and trying to say pitying things to him, he told her how it happened. And first he asked her if she remembered that black bull calf that she left behind when she came away, and she said indeed she did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so, and was he well?—and just drowned him in questions about that creature. And he said it was a young bull now, and very frisky; and he was to bear a principal hand at a funeral; and she said, “The bull?” and he said, “No, myself”; but said the bull did take a hand, but not because of his being invited, for he wasn’t; but anyway he was away over beyond the Fairy Tree, and fell asleep on the grass with his Sunday funeral clothes on, and a long black rag on his hat and hanging down his back; and when he woke he saw by the sun how late it was, and not a moment to lose; and jumped up terribly worried, and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe he could ride part way on him and gain time; so he tied a rope around the bull’s body to hold on by, and put a halter on him to steer with, and jumped on and started; but it was all new to the bull, and he was discontented with it, and scurried around and bellowed and reared and pranced, and Uncle Laxart was satisfied, and wanted to get off and go by the next bull or some other way that was quieter, but he didn’t dare try; and it was getting very warm for him, too, and disturbing and wearisome, and not proper for Sunday; but by and by the bull lost all his temper, and went tearing down the slope with his tail in the air and blowing in the most awful way; and just in the edge of the village he knocked down some beehives, and the bees turned out and joined the excursion, and soared along in a black cloud that nearly hid those other two from sight, and prodded them both, and jabbed them and speared them and spiked them, and made them bellow and shriek, and shriek and bellow; and here they came roaring through the village like a hurricane, and took the funeral procession right in the center, and sent that section of it sprawling, and galloped over it, and the rest scattered apart and fled screeching in every direction, every person with a layer of bees on him, and not a rag of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally the bull broke for the river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle Laxart out he was nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding with raisins in it. And then he turned around, this old simpleton, and looked a long time in a dazed way at Joan where she had her face in a cushion, dying, apparently, and says:
Why, that simple old Laxart sat up there and droned out the most tedious and empty story anyone has ever heard, and neither he nor Papa D’Arc ever thought about how rude it was, nor did they suspect that the silly tale was anything but dignified and valuable history. There was no value in it at all; while they thought it was distressing and pathetic, it was actually not pathetic at all, but downright ridiculous. At least it seemed that way to me, and it still does. I know it was ridiculous because it made Joan laugh; and the more sorrowful it got, the more it made her laugh; and the Paladin said he would have laughed too if she hadn’t been there, and Noel Rainguesson agreed. It was about old Laxart going to a funeral in Domremy a couple of weeks ago. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got Joan to rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing that, comforting him, and trying to say pitying things, he told her how it happened. First, he asked her if she remembered that black bull calf she left behind when she left, and she said she certainly did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so much, and was he well?—and she drowned him in questions about that creature. He said it was a young bull now, and very frisky; and he was going to play a big part at the funeral; and she asked, “The bull?” and he said, “No, me”; but said the bull did get involved, but not because he was invited—he wasn't; anyway, he was way over by the Fairy Tree, and fell asleep on the grass in his Sunday funeral clothes, with a long black rag on his hat and hanging down his back; when he woke up, he saw how late it was, and not a moment to lose; he jumped up, terribly worried, and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe he could ride partway on him to save time; so he tied a rope around the bull’s body to hold on by, put a halter on him to steer with, and jumped on and started; but it was all new to the bull, and he was unhappy about it, and bucked around and bellowed and reared and pranced, and Uncle Laxart was satisfied and wanted to get off and walk by the next bull or some other quieter way, but he didn't dare try; it was getting very warm for him, too, and disturbing and exhausting, and not proper for Sunday; but eventually the bull lost his temper and tore down the slope with his tail in the air, bellowing in the most awful way; and just at the edge of the village, he knocked down some beehives, and the bees came out and joined the chaos, swirling around in a black cloud that nearly hid those two from view, stinging them and jabbering at them, making them bellow and scream, and scream and bellow; and here they came storming through the village like a hurricane, charging right into the center of the funeral procession, sending that section sprawling, and galloping over it, while the rest scattered and fled screaming in every direction, every person covered in bees, and not a scrap of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally, the bull charged for the river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle Laxart out, he was nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding with raisins in it. Then he turned around, this old simpleton, and stared dazedly at Joan, who had her face in a cushion, apparently dying, and said:
“What do you reckon she is laughing at?”
“What do you think she’s laughing at?”
And old D’Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently scratching his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn’t know—“must have been something that happened when we weren’t noticing.”
And old D’Arc stood there looking at her the same way, kind of absentmindedly scratching his head; but he had to give in and said he didn’t know—“it must have been something that happened when we weren’t paying attention.”
Yes, both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic; whereas to my mind it was purely ridiculous, and not in any way valuable to any one. It seemed so to me then, and it seems so to me yet. And as for history, it does not resemble history; for the office of history is to furnish serious and important facts that teach; whereas this strange and useless event teaches nothing; nothing that I can see, except not to ride a bull to a funeral; and surely no reflecting person needs to be taught that.
Yes, both of those old people thought that story was pathetic; to me, it was just ridiculous and not valuable to anyone. That's how I felt then, and that's how I feel now. And as for history, it doesn’t resemble it; the purpose of history is to provide serious and important facts that teach. This strange and useless event teaches nothing—nothing that I can see, except not to ride a bull to a funeral; and surely, no thoughtful person needs to be taught that.
37 Again to Arms
NOW THESE were nobles, you know, by decree of the King!—these precious old infants. But they did not realize it; they could not be called conscious of it; it was an abstraction, a phantom; to them it had no substance; their minds could not take hold of it. No, they did not bother about their nobility; they lived in their horses. The horses were solid; they were visible facts, and would make a mighty stir in Domremy. Presently something was said about the Coronation, and old D’Arc said it was going to be a grand thing to be able to say, when they got home, that they were present in the very town itself when it happened. Joan looked troubled, and said:
NOW THESE were nobles, you know, by decree of the King!—these precious old kids. But they didn’t realize it; they couldn’t really understand it; it was just an idea, a ghost; to them it had no real meaning; their minds couldn’t grasp it. No, they didn’t care about their nobility; they lived through their horses. The horses were real; they were tangible and would create a huge buzz in Domremy. Soon, something was mentioned about the Coronation, and old D’Arc said it would be amazing to be able to tell everyone when they got home that they were in the very town when it happened. Joan looked worried and said:
“Ah, that reminds me. You were here and you didn’t send me word. In the town, indeed! Why, you could have sat with the other nobles, and been welcome; and could have looked upon the crowning itself, and carried that home to tell. Ah, why did you use me so, and send me no word?”
“Ah, that reminds me. You were here and you didn’t let me know. In the town, really! You could have sat with the other nobles and been welcomed; you could have seen the crowning itself and taken that home to share. Ah, why did you treat me this way and not send me any word?”
The old father was embarrassed, now, quite visibly embarrassed, and had the air of one who does not quite know what to say. But Joan was looking up in his face, her hands upon his shoulders—waiting. He had to speak; so presently he drew her to his breast, which was heaving with emotion; and he said, getting out his words with difficulty:
The old father was clearly embarrassed and seemed unsure of what to say. But Joan was looking up at him, her hands on his shoulders—waiting. He had to say something; so eventually, he pulled her close to his chest, which was full of emotion, and he said, struggling to find the right words:
“There, hide your face, child, and let your old father humble himself and make his confession. I—I—don’t you see, don’t you understand?—I could not know that these grandeurs would not turn your young head—it would be only natural. I might shame you before these great per—”
“There, hide your face, kid, and let your old man humble himself and make his confession. I—I—can’t you see, can’t you understand?—I couldn’t know that these impressive things wouldn’t go to your head—it would be totally natural. I might embarrass you in front of these great peo—”
“Father!”
“Dad!”
“And then I was afraid, as remembering that cruel thing I said once in my sinful anger. Oh, appointed of God to be a soldier, and the greatest in the land! and in my ignorant anger I said I would drown you with my own hands if you unsexed yourself and brought shame to your name and family. Ah, how could I ever have said it, and you so good and dear and innocent! I was afraid; for I was guilty. You understand it now, my child, and you forgive?”
“And then I felt fear, remembering that cruel thing I said once in my sinful anger. Oh, chosen by God to be a soldier, and the greatest in the land! In my ignorant rage, I said I would drown you myself if you took on a man's role and brought shame to your name and family. Ah, how could I have ever said that, when you are so good, dear, and innocent! I was afraid because I was guilty. You understand it now, my child, and you forgive?”
Do you see? Even that poor groping old land-crab, with his skull full of pulp, had pride. Isn’t it wonderful? And more—he had conscience; he had a sense of right and wrong, such as it was; he was able to find remorse. It looks impossible, it looks incredible, but it is not. I believe that some day it will be found out that peasants are people. Yes, beings in a great many respects like ourselves. And I believe that some day they will find this out, too—and then! Well, then I think they will rise up and demand to be regarded as part of the race, and that by consequence there will be trouble. Whenever one sees in a book or in a king’s proclamation those words “the nation,” they bring before us the upper classes; only those; we know no other “nation”; for us and the kings no other “nation” exists. But from the day that I saw old D’Arc the peasant acting and feeling just as I should have acted and felt myself, I have carried the conviction in my heart that our peasants are not merely animals, beasts of burden put here by the good God to produce food and comfort for the “nation,” but something more and better. You look incredulous. Well, that is your training; it is the training of everybody; but as for me, I thank that incident for giving me a better light, and I have never forgotten it.
Do you see? Even that poor, awkward old land-crab, with his head full of confusion, had pride. Isn’t that amazing? And even more—he had a conscience; he had a sense of right and wrong, however limited it was; he was capable of feeling remorse. It seems impossible, it seems unbelievable, but it isn’t. I believe that one day it will be recognized that peasants are people. Yes, beings in many ways just like us. And I believe that one day they will realize this too—and then! Well, then I think they will rise up and demand to be recognized as part of the human race, and as a result, there will be chaos. Whenever we read in a book or a king’s proclamation those words “the nation,” it only represents the upper classes; just them; we know no other “nation”; for us and the kings, no other “nation” exists. But from the moment I saw old D’Arc the peasant acting and feeling just as I would have, I have held the belief in my heart that our peasants are not merely animals, beasts of burden placed here by a benevolent God to produce food and comfort for the “nation,” but something more and better. You look skeptical. Well, that’s your upbringing; it’s everyone’s upbringing; but as for me, I’m grateful to that experience for showing me a better perspective, and I have never forgotten it.
Let me see—where was I? One’s mind wanders around here and there and yonder, when one is old. I think I said Joan comforted him. Certainly, that is what she would do—there was no need to say that. She coaxed him and petted him and caressed him, and laid the memory of that old hard speech of his to rest. Laid it to rest until she should be dead. Then he would remember it again—yes, yes! Lord, how those things sting, and burn, and gnaw—the things which we did against the innocent dead! And we say in our anguish, “If they could only come back!” Which is all very well to say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn’t profit anything. In my opinion the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I am not alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same thing; and a man there in Orleans—no, I believe it was at Beaugency, or one of those places—it seems more as if it was at Beaugency than the others—this man said the same thing exactly; almost the same words; a dark man with a cast in his eye and one leg shorter than the other. His name was—was—it is singular that I can’t call that man’s name; I had it in my mind only a moment ago, and I know it begins with—no, I don’t remember what it begins with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of it presently, and then I will tell you.
Let me see—where was I? One’s mind drifts here and there when you’re older. I think I mentioned that Joan comforted him. Of course, that’s exactly what she would do—no need to say that. She soothed him, petted him, and cherished him, putting to rest that old harsh speech of his. Laid to rest until she passes away. Then he would remember it again—yes, yes! God, how those things sting, burn, and eat at you—the things we did against the innocent dead! And we say in our pain, “If only they could come back!” That sounds nice, but honestly, it doesn’t help at all. In my opinion, the best way is not to do those things in the first place. And I’m not alone in thinking this; I’ve heard our two knights say the same thing. And there was a man in Orleans—no, I think it was Beaugency, or maybe one of those places—it seems more like Beaugency than the others. This man said the exact same thing; almost the same words; a dark man with a squint and one leg shorter than the other. His name was—was—it’s strange that I can’t remember his name; it was on the tip of my tongue just a moment ago, and I know it starts with—no, I can’t recall what it starts with; but never mind, let it go; I’ll think of it soon, and then I’ll tell you.
Well, pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt when she was in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades hacking and flashing all around her, and the blows rapping and slatting on her shield, and blood gushing on her from the cloven ghastly face and broken teeth of the neighbor at her elbow, and the perilous sudden back surge of massed horses upon a person when the front ranks give way before a heavy rush of the enemy, and men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles all around, and battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one’s face and hide the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling and swaying and laboring jumble one’s horse’s hoofs sink into soft substances and shrieks of pain respond, and presently—panic! rush! swarm! flight! and death and hell following after! And the old fellow got ever so much excited; and strode up and down, his tongue going like a mill, asking question after question and never waiting for an answer; and finally he stood Joan up in the middle of the room and stepped off and scanned her critically, and said:
Well, pretty soon the old man wanted to know how Joan felt when she was in the middle of a battle, with bright blades hacking and flashing all around her, and blows pounding on her shield, and blood pouring from the shattered, ghastly face and broken teeth of the neighbor next to her, and the dangerous sudden surge of massed horses toward her when the front lines give way under a heavy assault from the enemy, and men falling limp and groaning out of their saddles all around her, and battle flags dropping from dead hands brushing against her face and obscuring the chaotic turmoil for a moment, and amidst the swaying and stumbling chaos, her horse's hooves sinking into soft ground with cries of pain in response, and soon—panic! rush! swarm! flight! and death and destruction trailing behind! And the old man got really excited; he paced back and forth, his mouth moving a mile a minute, asking question after question and never pausing for an answer; finally, he stood Joan up in the middle of the room, stepped back, and looked her over critically, and said:
“No—I don’t understand it. You are so little. So little and slender. When you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion of it; but in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty page, not a league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and darkness and breathing smoke and thunder. I would God I might see you at it and go tell your mother! That would help her sleep, poor thing! Here—teach me the arts of the soldier, that I may explain them to her.”
“No—I don’t get it. You’re so small. So small and slender. When you were in your armor today, it kind of gave a hint of it; but in these beautiful silks and velvets, you’re just a delicate page, not a giant warrior, striding through battle, moving in clouds and darkness, breathing smoke and thunder. I wish I could see you in action and tell your mother! That would help her sleep, poor thing! Here—teach me the ways of a soldier, so I can explain them to her.”
And she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the manual of arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was incredibly awkward and slovenly, and so was his drill with the pike; but he didn’t know it, and was wonderfully pleased with himself, and mightily excited and charmed with the ringing, crisp words of command. I am obliged to say that if looking proud and happy when one is marching were sufficient, he would have been the perfect soldier.
And she did it. She gave him a pike and went through the drill with him, making him follow the movements too. His marching was incredibly clumsy and messy, and his practice with the pike was the same; but he didn’t realize it and was really pleased with himself, totally excited and captivated by the sharp, clear commands. I have to say that if having a proud and happy look while marching was enough, he would have been the ideal soldier.
And he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course that was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan handle the foils, but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid of the things, and skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a woman who has lost her mind on account of the arrival of a bat. He was of no good as an exhibition. But if La Hire had only come in, that would have been another matter. Those two fenced often; I saw them many times. True, Joan was easily his master, but it made a good show for all that, for La Hire was a grand swordsman. What a swift creature Joan was! You would see her standing erect with her ankle-bones together and her foil arched over her head, the hilt in one hand and the button in the other—the old general opposite, bent forward, left hand reposing on his back, his foil advanced, slightly wiggling and squirming, his watching eye boring straight into hers—and all of a sudden she would give a spring forward, and back again; and there she was, with the foil arched over her head as before. La Hire had been hit, but all that the spectator saw of it was a something like a thin flash of light in the air, but nothing distinct, nothing definite.
And he wanted a lesson in sword fighting, and he got it. But of course, that was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to watch Joan handle the foils, but the old man was a complete failure. He was scared of the weapons and moved around like a woman who had lost her mind due to the arrival of a bat. He wasn’t any good as a performer. But if La Hire had come in, that would have been a different story. Those two sparred often; I saw them many times. True, Joan easily bested him, but it was still a good show, because La Hire was an amazing swordsman. Joan was incredibly quick! You would see her standing tall with her feet together and her foil arched over her head, the hilt in one hand and the button in the other—the old general opposite her, leaning forward, his left hand resting on his back, his foil out front, slightly wiggling and twitching, his focused gaze locked on hers—and suddenly she would spring forward and back again; there she was, with the foil arched over her head just like before. La Hire had been hit, but to the audience, it looked like just a quick flash of light in the air, nothing clear, nothing definite.
We kept the drinkables moving, for that would please the Bailly and the landlord; and old Laxart and D’Arc got to feeling quite comfortable, but without being what you could call tipsy. They got out the presents which they had been buying to carry home—humble things and cheap, but they would be fine there, and welcome. And they gave to Joan a present from Pere Fronte and one from her mother—the one a little leaden image of the Holy Virgin, the other half a yard of blue silk ribbon; and she was as pleased as a child; and touched, too, as one could see plainly enough. Yes, she kissed those poor things over and over again, as if they had been something costly and wonderful; and she pinned the Virgin on her doublet, and sent for her helmet and tied the ribbon on that; first one way, then another; then a new way, then another new way; and with each effort perching the helmet on her hand and holding it off this way and that, and canting her head to one side and then the other, examining the effect, as a bird does when it has got a new bug. And she said she could almost wish she was going to the wars again; for then she would fight with the better courage, as having always with her something which her mother’s touch had blessed.
We kept the drinks coming, as that would please the Bailly and the landlord; and old Laxart and D’Arc started to feel quite comfortable, but not really tipsy. They pulled out the gifts they had bought to take home—simple, inexpensive things, but they would be nice there and appreciated. They gave Joan a gift from Pere Fronte and one from her mother—one was a small lead figure of the Holy Virgin, the other was half a yard of blue silk ribbon; and she was as happy as a child; and it was obvious she was touched, too. Yes, she kissed those little gifts over and over, as if they were something precious and amazing; and she pinned the Virgin onto her doublet, and asked for her helmet and tied the ribbon on that; trying it one way, then another; then a new way, then yet another new way; and with each attempt, she balanced the helmet on her hand, adjusting it this way and that, tilting her head side to side, checking how it looked, like a bird that just found a new bug. And she said she could almost wish she was going to battle again; because then she would fight with more courage, always carrying something blessed by her mother’s touch.
Old Laxart said he hoped she would go to the wars again, but home first, for that all the people there were cruel anxious to see her—and so he went on:
Old Laxart said he hoped she would go to war again, but home first, since everyone there was eager to see her—and so he continued:
“They are proud of you, dear. Yes, prouder than any village ever was of anybody before. And indeed it is right and rational; for it is the first time a village has ever had anybody like you to be proud of and call its own. And it is strange and beautiful how they try to give your name to every creature that has a sex that is convenient. It is but half a year since you began to be spoken of and left us, and so it is surprising to see how many babies there are already in that region that are named for you. First it was just Joan; then it was Joan-Orleans; then Joan-Orleans-Beaugency-Patay; and now the next ones will have a lot of towns and the Coronation added, of course. Yes, and the animals the same. They know how you love animals, and so they try to do you honor and show their love for you by naming all those creatures after you; insomuch that if a body should step out and call ‘Joan of Arc—come!’ there would be a landslide of cats and all such things, each supposing it was the one wanted, and all willing to take the benefit of the doubt, anyway, for the sake of the food that might be on delivery. The kitten you left behind—the last stray you fetched home—bears you name, now, and belongs to Pere Fronte, and is the pet and pride of the village; and people have come miles to look at it and pet it and stare at it and wonder over it because it was Joan of Arc’s cat. Everybody will tell you that; and one day when a stranger threw a stone at it, not knowing it was your cat, the village rose against him as one man and hanged him! And but for Pere Fronte—”
“They are proud of you, dear. Yes, prouder than any village has ever been of anyone before. And it makes sense; it’s the first time a village has had someone like you to be proud of and call their own. It’s strange and beautiful how they try to give your name to every creature with a convenient gender. It’s only been half a year since people started talking about you and you left us, so it’s surprising to see how many babies in that area are already named after you. At first, it was just Joan; then it became Joan-Orleans; then Joan-Orleans-Beaugency-Patay; and now the next ones will surely have even more towns and the Coronation added to their names. Yes, and the same goes for the animals. They know how much you love animals, so they try to honor you and show their love by naming all those creatures after you; so much so that if someone were to step out and call ‘Joan of Arc—come!’ there would be a stampede of cats and such, each thinking it was them who was wanted, all ready to take a chance for the food that might be on offer. The kitten you left behind—the last stray you brought home—is now named after you, belonging to Pere Fronte, and is the pride and joy of the village; people have traveled miles to see it, pet it, stare at it, and marvel at it because it’s Joan of Arc’s cat. Everyone will tell you that; and one day when a stranger threw a stone at it, not knowing it was your cat, the village united against him and hanged him! And if it weren't for Pere Fronte—”
There was an interruption. It was a messenger from the King, bearing a note for Joan, which I read to her, saying he had reflected, and had consulted his other generals, and was obliged to ask her to remain at the head of the army and withdraw her resignation. Also, would she come immediately and attend a council of war? Straightway, at a little distance, military commands and the rumble of drums broke on the still night, and we knew that her guard was approaching.
There was an interruption. It was a messenger from the King, carrying a note for Joan, which I read to her. It said he had thought it over, consulted his other generals, and had to ask her to stay in charge of the army and take back her resignation. Also, could she come right away to a council of war? Just then, not far off, military orders and the sound of drums broke the still night, and we knew that her guard was getting close.
Deep disappointment clouded her face for just one moment and no more—it passed, and with it the homesick girl, and she was Joan of Arc, Commander-in-Chief again, and ready for duty.
Deep disappointment briefly shadowed her face, but it quickly faded—she transformed, and with it the homesick girl disappeared, and she was Joan of Arc, Commander-in-Chief once more, ready for duty.
38 The King Cries “Forward!”
IN MY double quality of page and secretary I followed Joan to the council. She entered that presence with the bearing of a grieved goddess. What was become of the volatile child that so lately was enchanted with a ribbon and suffocated with laughter over the distress of a foolish peasant who had stormed a funeral on the back of a bee-stung bull? One may not guess. Simply it was gone, and had left no sign. She moved straight to the council-table, and stood. Her glance swept from face to face there, and where it fell, these lit it as with a torch, those it scorched as with a brand. She knew where to strike. She indicated the generals with a nod, and said:
IN MY dual role as page and secretary, I followed Joan to the council. She entered that room with the presence of a hurt goddess. What happened to the playful girl who had just recently been fascinated by a ribbon and laughed uncontrollably at the plight of a foolish peasant who crashed a funeral on a bee-stung bull? It's impossible to say. That version of her was simply gone, leaving no trace behind. She walked directly to the council table and stood there. Her gaze moved from face to face in the room, and where it landed, it ignited some like a torch while scorching others like a brand. She knew exactly where to strike. She nodded at the generals and said:
“My business is not with you. You have not craved a council of war.” Then she turned toward the King’s privy council, and continued: “No; it is with you. A council of war! It is amazing. There is but one thing to do, and only one, and lo, ye call a council of war! Councils of war have no value but to decide between two or several doubtful courses. But a council of war when there is only one course? Conceive of a man in a boat and his family in the water, and he goes out among his friends to ask what he would better do? A council of war, name of God! To determine what?”
“My business isn’t with you. You didn’t ask for a war council.” Then she turned to the King’s advisory council and continued: “No; it’s with you. A war council! It’s unbelievable. There’s only one thing to do, and only one, and yet you call a war council! War councils are only useful for deciding between two or more uncertain options. But a war council when there’s only one option? Imagine a man in a boat and his family in the water, and he asks his friends what he should do. A war council, for crying out loud! To decide what?”
She stopped, and turned till her eyes rested upon the face of La Tremouille; and so she stood, silent, measuring him, the excitement in all faces burning steadily higher and higher, and all pulses beating faster and faster; then she said, with deliberation:
She paused and turned until her gaze landed on La Tremouille's face; and there she stood, silent, sizing him up, the excitement on everyone's faces intensifying, and hearts racing faster and faster; then she said, intentionally:
“Every sane man—whose loyalty is to his King and not a show and a pretense—knows that there is but one rational thing before us—the march upon Paris!”
“Every sane man—whose loyalty is to his King and not to a show or a facade—knows that there is only one sensible path ahead of us—the march on Paris!”
Down came the fist of La Hire with an approving crash upon the table. La Tremouille turned white with anger, but he pulled himself firmly together and held his peace. The King’s lazy blood was stirred and his eye kindled finely, for the spirit of war was away down in him somewhere, and a frank, bold speech always found it and made it tingle gladsomely. Joan waited to see if the chief minister might wish to defend his position; but he was experienced and wise, and not a man to waste his forces where the current was against him. He would wait; the King’s private ear would be at his disposal by and by.
Down came La Hire's fist with a satisfying thud on the table. La Tremouille turned pale with anger, but he composed himself and stayed silent. The King, usually so laid-back, felt a spark of energy; deep inside him, the spirit of battle was stirring, and a clear, bold statement always brought it to life and made him feel excited. Joan waited to see if the chief minister would try to defend himself, but he was seasoned and smart, not the type to expend his energy when the odds were against him. He'd hold off; the King would eventually be all ears for him.
That pious fox the Chancellor of France took the word now. He washed his soft hands together, smiling persuasively, and said to Joan:
That pious fox, the Chancellor of France, spoke up now. He clasped his soft hands together, smiling charmingly, and said to Joan:
“Would it be courteous, your Excellency, to move abruptly from here without waiting for an answer from the Duke of Burgundy? You may not know that we are negotiating with his Highness, and that there is likely to be a fortnight’s truce between us; and on his part a pledge to deliver Paris into our hands without the cost of a blow or the fatigue of a march thither.”
“Would it be polite, your Excellency, to leave suddenly without waiting for a response from the Duke of Burgundy? You might not realize that we are in talks with his Highness, and there may be a two-week truce on the table; and he has promised to hand over Paris to us without any fighting or the hassle of a march there.”
Joan turned to him and said, gravely:
Joan turned to him and said seriously:
“This is not a confessional, my lord. You were not obliged to expose that shame here.”
“This isn’t a confession, my lord. You didn’t have to reveal that shame here.”
The Chancellor’s face reddened, and he retorted:
The Chancellor's face turned red, and he shot back:
“Shame? What is there shameful about it?”
“Shame? What's so shameful about it?”
Joan answered in level, passionless tones:
Joan replied in calm, emotionless tones:
“One may describe it without hunting far for words. I knew of this poor comedy, my lord, although it was not intended that I should know. It is to the credit of the devisers of it that they tried to conceal it—this comedy whose text and impulse are describable in two words.”
“One can describe it without searching hard for words. I knew about this unfortunate comedy, my lord, even though it wasn’t meant for me to know. It’s commendable for those who created it that they attempted to hide it—this comedy whose content and motivation can be summed up in two words.”
The Chancellor spoke up with a fine irony in his manner:
The Chancellor spoke up with a sharp irony in his tone:
“Indeed? And will your Excellency be good enough to utter them?”
“Really? And will you be kind enough to say them?”
“Cowardice and treachery!”
“Cowardice and betrayal!”
The fists of all the generals came down this time, and again the King’s eye sparkled with pleasure. The Chancellor sprang to his feet and appealed to his Majesty:
The fists of all the generals slammed down this time, and once more the King’s eye lit up with delight. The Chancellor jumped to his feet and spoke to his Majesty:
“Sire, I claim your protection.”
"Sir, I seek your protection."
But the King waved him to his seat again, saying:
But the King gestured for him to sit down again, saying:
“Peace. She had a right to be consulted before that thing was undertaken, since it concerned war as well as politics. It is but just that she be heard upon it now.”
“Peace. She should have been consulted before that decision was made, since it involved both war and politics. It's only fair that she gets to voice her opinion on it now.”
The Chancellor sat down trembling with indignation, and remarked to Joan:
The Chancellor sat down, shaking with anger, and said to Joan:
“Out of charity I will consider that you did not know who devised this measure which you condemn in so candid language.”
“Out of kindness, I’ll assume that you didn’t know who came up with this plan that you criticize so openly.”
“Save your charity for another occasion, my lord,” said Joan, as calmly as before. “Whenever anything is done to injure the interests and degrade the honor of France, all but the dead know how to name the two conspirators-in-chief—”
“Save your charity for another time, my lord,” Joan said, just as calmly as before. “Whenever someone does something to harm the interests and disgrace the honor of France, everyone except the dead knows how to name the two main conspirators—”
“Sir, sire! this insinuation—”
"Sir, this insinuation—"
“It is not an insinuation, my lord,” said Joan, placidly, “it is a charge. I bring it against the King’s chief minister and his Chancellor.”
“It’s not an insinuation, my lord,” Joan said calmly, “it’s a charge. I’m bringing it against the King’s chief minister and his Chancellor.”
Both men were on their feet now, insisting that the King modify Joan’s frankness; but he was not minded to do it. His ordinary councils were stale water—his spirit was drinking wine, now, and the taste of it was good. He said:
Both men were standing now, urging the King to tone down Joan’s honesty; but he wasn’t interested in doing that. His usual advisors were boring—his spirit was enjoying something lively, and he liked the flavor of it. He said:
“Sit—and be patient. What is fair for one must in fairness be allowed the other. Consider—and be just. When have you two spared her? What dark charges and harsh names have you withheld when you spoke of her?” Then he added, with a veiled twinkle in his eyes, “If these are offenses I see no particular difference between them, except that she says her hard things to your faces, whereas you say yours behind her back.”
“Sit down and be patient. What’s fair for one person must also be fair for the other. Think about it and be fair. When have you two ever shown her kindness? What cruel accusations and mean names have you held back when talking about her?” Then he added, with a subtle glimmer in his eyes, “If these are offenses, I don’t see much difference between them, except that she confronts you to your faces, while you talk about her behind her back.”
He was pleased with that neat shot and the way it shriveled those two people up, and made La Hire laugh out loud and the other generals softly quake and chuckle. Joan tranquilly resumed:
He was happy with that clean shot and how it made those two people shrink, causing La Hire to laugh out loud while the other generals quietly trembled and giggled. Joan calmly continued:
“From the first, we have been hindered by this policy of shilly-shally; this fashion of counseling and counseling and counseling where no counseling is needed, but only fighting. We took Orleans on the 8th of May, and could have cleared the region round about in three days and saved the slaughter of Patay. We could have been in Rheims six weeks ago, and in Paris now; and would see the last Englishman pass out of France in half a year. But we struck no blow after Orleans, but went off into the country—what for? Ostensibly to hold councils; really to give Bedford time to send reinforcements to Talbot—which he did; and Patay had to be fought. After Patay, more counseling, more waste of precious time. Oh, my King, I would that you would be persuaded!” She began to warm up, now. “Once more we have our opportunity. If we rise and strike, all is well. Bid me march upon Paris. In twenty days it shall be yours, and in six months all France! Here is half a year’s work before us; if this chance be wasted, I give you twenty years to do it in. Speak the word, O gentle King—speak but the one—”
“From the start, we’ve been held back by this back-and-forth policy; this endless advising where no advice is needed, just action. We took Orleans on May 8th and could have cleared the surrounding area in three days, preventing the massacre at Patay. We could have been in Rheims six weeks ago and in Paris by now, watching the last Englishman leave France in six months. But after Orleans, we didn’t take any action and instead went off into the countryside—why? To hold meetings, supposedly; but really to give Bedford time to send reinforcements to Talbot—which he did; and so we had to fight at Patay. After Patay, more discussions, more wasting of precious time. Oh, my King, I wish you would be convinced!” She started to get animated now. “Once again we have our chance. If we rise up and act, everything will be fine. Command me to march on Paris. In twenty days it shall be yours, and in six months all of France! Here is half a year’s worth of work ahead of us; if we waste this opportunity, I give you twenty years to achieve it. Just say the word, oh kind King—just say the one—”
“I cry you mercy!” interrupted the Chancellor, who saw a dangerous enthusiasm rising in the King’s face. “March upon Paris? Does your Excellency forget that the way bristles with English strongholds?”
“I beg you to reconsider!” interrupted the Chancellor, who noticed a risky enthusiasm building in the King’s expression. “March on Paris? Does Your Excellency forget that the path is lined with English fortresses?”
“That for your English strongholds!” and Joan snapped her fingers scornfully. “Whence have we marched in these last days? From Gien. And whither? To Rheims. What bristled between? English strongholds. What are they now? French ones—and they never cost a blow!” Here applause broke out from the group of generals, and Joan had to pause a moment to let it subside. “Yes, English strongholds bristled before us; now French ones bristle behind us. What is the argument? A child can read it. The strongholds between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of English, but by the same breed as those others—with the same fears, the same questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to see the heavy hand of God descending upon them. We have but to march!—on the instant—and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is ours! Give the word, O my King, command your servant to—”
“That for your English strongholds!” Joan snapped her fingers scornfully. “Where did we march from these last days? From Gien. And where to? To Rheims. What stood in between? English strongholds. What are they now? French ones—and they didn’t cost us a fight!” Applause erupted from the group of generals, and Joan had to pause for a moment to let it quiet down. “Yes, English strongholds were in front of us; now French ones are behind us. What’s the point? A child could understand it. The strongholds between us and Paris are not held by a new kind of English, but by the same kind as before—with the same fears, the same doubts, the same weaknesses, the same tendency to feel the heavy hand of God coming down on them. We just need to march!—right now—and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is ours! Give the word, O my King, command your servant to—”
“Stay!” cried the Chancellor. “It would be madness to put our affront upon his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty which we have every hope to make with him—”
“Wait!” shouted the Chancellor. “It would be crazy to insult his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty we are optimistic to reach with him—”
“Oh, the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned you for years, and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that have softened his manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals? No; it was blows!—the blows which we gave him! That is the only teaching that that sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care for wind? The treaty which we hope to make with him—alack! He deliver Paris! There is no pauper in the land that is less able to do it. He deliver Paris! Ah, but that would make great Bedford smile! Oh, the pitiful pretext! the blind can see that this thin pour-parler with its fifteen-day truce has no purpose but to give Bedford time to hurry forward his forces against us. More treachery—always treachery! We call a council of war—with nothing to council about; but Bedford calls no council to teach him what our course is. He knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his traitors and march upon Paris! O gentle King, rouse! The way is open, Paris beckons, France implores, Speak and we—”
“Oh, the treaty we're hoping to make with him! He has looked down on you for years and challenged you. Is it your clever arguments that have changed his attitude and made him willing to listen to proposals? No; it was violence!—the violence we gave him! That’s the only lesson that stubborn rebel understands. What does he care for empty talk? The treaty we're hoping to make with him—what a joke! He would save Paris! There isn’t a poorer person in the land who could do it. He would save Paris! Oh, but that would make great Bedford happy! Oh, the sad excuse! Even the blind can see that this weak discussion and its fifteen-day truce only aim to give Bedford time to rush his troops against us. More betrayal—always betrayal! We’re calling a war council—with nothing to discuss; but Bedford doesn’t call a council to figure out what our next move is. He knows what he would do if he were in our shoes. He would hang his traitors and march on Paris! Oh gentle King, wake up! The way is clear, Paris is calling, France is begging, Speak and we—”
“Sire, it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot, we must not go back from what we have done; we have proposed to treat, we must treat with the Duke of Burgundy.”
“Sire, this is madness, absolute madness! Your Excellency, we cannot, we must not go back on what we have done; we have proposed to negotiate, we must negotiate with the Duke of Burgundy.”
“And we will!” said Joan.
"And we will!" Joan said.
“Ah? How?”
"Really? How?"
“At the point of the lance!”
“At the tip of the spear!”
The house rose, to a man—all that had French hearts—and let go a crack of applause—and kept it up; and in the midst of it one heard La Hire growl out: “At the point of the lance! By God, that is music!” The King was up, too, and drew his sword, and took it by the blade and strode to Joan and delivered the hilt of it into her hand, saying:
The audience stood up, everyone with a passion for France, and burst into applause that just kept going; in the middle of it, you could hear La Hire grumble: “At the tip of the spear! Damn, that’s music!” The King got up as well, drew his sword, grabbed it by the blade, walked over to Joan, and handed her the hilt, saying:
“There, the King surrenders. Carry it to Paris.”
“There, the King gives up. Take it to Paris.”
And so the applause burst out again, and the historical council of war that has bred so many legends was over.
And so the applause broke out again, and the historic council of war that has created so many legends came to an end.
39 We Win, But the King Balks

IT WAS away past midnight, and had been a tremendous day in the matter of excitement and fatigue, but that was no matter to Joan when there was business on hand. She did not think of bed. The generals followed her to her official quarters, and she delivered her orders to them as fast as she could talk, and they sent them off to their different commands as fast as delivered; wherefore the messengers galloping hither and thither raised a world of clatter and racket in the still streets; and soon were added to this the music of distant bugles and the roll of drums—notes of preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.
IT WAS well past midnight, and it had been an incredibly exciting and exhausting day, but that didn't matter to Joan when there was work to be done. She didn't think about sleep. The generals followed her to her official quarters, and she quickly relayed her orders to them as fast as she could speak, and they dispatched them to their various commands just as quickly; as a result, the messengers racing back and forth created a lot of noise in the quiet streets. Soon, this was joined by the sound of distant bugles and the beat of drums—signals of preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.
The generals were soon dismissed, but I wasn’t; nor Joan; for it was my turn to work, now. Joan walked the floor and dictated a summons to the Duke of Burgundy to lay down his arms and make peace and exchange pardons with the King; or, if he must fight, go fight the Saracens. “Pardonnez-vous l’un—l’autre de bon coeligeur, entierement, ainsi que doivent faire loyaux chretiens, et, s’il vous plait de guerroyer, allez contre les Sarrasins.” It was long, but it was good, and had the sterling ring to it. It is my opinion that it was as fine and simple and straightforward and eloquent a state paper as she ever uttered.
The generals were quickly dismissed, but I wasn’t; neither was Joan; it was my turn to work now. Joan paced the room and dictated a summons to the Duke of Burgundy, urging him to lay down his arms and make peace, exchanging pardons with the King; or, if he really had to fight, to go against the Saracens. “Forgive each other fully with good intentions, just as loyal Christians should, and if you wish to go to war, go against the Saracens.” It was lengthy, but it was strong and had a genuine ring to it. I believe it was one of the finest, simplest, most straightforward, and eloquent state papers she ever delivered.
It was delivered into the hands of a courier, and he galloped away with it. The Joan dismissed me, and told me to go to the inn and stay, and in the morning give to her father the parcel which she had left there. It contained presents for the Domremy relatives and friends and a peasant dress which she had bought for herself. She said she would say good-by to her father and uncle in the morning if it should still be their purpose to go, instead of tarrying awhile to see the city.
It was handed over to a courier, and he rode off with it. Joan dismissed me and told me to go to the inn and wait there, then in the morning, I should give her father the package she had left behind. It contained gifts for her relatives and friends in Domremy and a peasant dress she had bought for herself. She said she would say goodbye to her father and uncle in the morning if they still planned to leave instead of sticking around to see the city.
I didn’t say anything, of course, but I could have said that wild horses couldn’t keep those men in that town half a day. They waste the glory of being the first to carry the great news to Domremy—the taxes remitted forever!—and hear the bells clang and clatter, and the people cheer and shout? Oh, not they. Patay and Orleans and the Coronation were events which in a vague way these men understood to be colossal; but they were colossal mists, films, abstractions; this was a gigantic reality!
I didn’t say anything, of course, but I could have mentioned that nothing could keep those guys in that town for even half a day. They’re missing out on the honor of being the first to bring the amazing news to Domremy—the taxes wiped out forever!—and to hear the bells ringing and the people cheering and shouting? Oh, no way. Patay and Orleans and the Coronation were events that these guys sort of understood were huge, but they were just blurry ideas, not really clear; this was a massive reality!
When I got there, do you suppose they were abed! Quite the reverse. They and the rest were as mellow as mellow could be; and the Paladin was doing his battles in great style, and the old peasants were endangering the building with their applause. He was doing Patay now; and was bending his big frame forward and laying out the positions and movements with a rake here and a rake there of his formidable sword on the floor, and the peasants were stooped over with their hands on their spread knees observing with excited eyes and ripping out ejaculations of wonder and admiration all along:
When I arrived, do you think they were in bed? Not at all. They and everyone else were as relaxed as could be; the Paladin was showcasing his battles in spectacular fashion, and the old farmers were putting the building at risk with their cheers. He was doing Patay now, leaning his big frame forward and mapping out the positions and movements with a flourish of his impressive sword on the floor, while the farmers hunched over with their hands on their knees, watching with wide eyes and letting out exclamations of awe and admiration throughout.
“Yes, here we were, waiting—waiting for the word; our horses fidgeting and snorting and dancing to get away, we lying back on the bridles till our bodies fairly slanted to the rear; the word rang out at last—‘Go!’ and we went!
“Yes, here we were, waiting—waiting for the signal; our horses fidgeting and snorting, eager to break free, while we leaned back on the bridles, our bodies tilting backward; finally, the signal rang out—‘Go!’ and we took off!”
“Went? There was nothing like it ever seen! Where we swept by squads of scampering English, the mere wind of our passage laid them flat in piles and rows! Then we plunged into the ruck of Fastolfe’s frantic battle-corps and tore through it like a hurricane, leaving a causeway of the dead stretching far behind; no tarrying, no slacking rein, but on! on! on! far yonder in the distance lay our prey—Talbot and his host looming vast and dark like a storm-cloud brooding on the sea! Down we swooped upon them, glooming all the air with a quivering pall of dead leaves flung up by the whirlwind of our flight. In another moment we should have struck them as world strikes world when disorbited constellations crash into the Milky way, but by misfortune and the inscrutable dispensation of God I was recognized! Talbot turned white, and shouting, ‘Save yourselves, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of Arc!’ drove his spurs home till they met in the middle of his horse’s entrails, and fled the field with his billowing multitudes at his back! I could have cursed myself for not putting on a disguise. I saw reproach in the eyes of her Excellency, and was bitterly ashamed. I had caused what seemed an irreparable disaster. Another might have gone aside to grieve, as not seeing any way to mend it; but I thank God I am not of those. Great occasions only summon as with a trumpet-call the slumbering reserves of my intellect. I saw my opportunity in an instant—in the next I was away! Through the woods I vanished—fst!—like an extinguished light! Away around through the curtaining forest I sped, as if on wings, none knowing what was become of me, none suspecting my design. Minute after minute passed, on and on I flew; on, and still on; and at last with a great cheer I flung my Banner to the breeze and burst out in front of Talbot! Oh, it was a mighty thought! That weltering chaos of distracted men whirled and surged backward like a tidal wave which has struck a continent, and the day was ours! Poor helpless creatures, they were in a trap; they were surrounded; they could not escape to the rear, for there was our army; they could not escape to the front, for there was I. Their hearts shriveled in their bodies, their hands fell listless at their sides. They stood still, and at our leisure we slaughtered them to a man; all except Talbot and Fastolfe, whom I saved and brought away, one under each arm.”
“Went? There was nothing like it ever seen! We rushed through squads of fleeing English, and the mere force of our passage knocked them flat in piles and rows! Then we plunged into the chaos of Fastolfe’s frantic battle corps and tore through it like a hurricane, leaving a trail of the dead stretching far behind; no stopping, no slowing down, but on! on! on! far ahead in the distance lay our target—Talbot and his army looming large and dark like a storm cloud over the sea! Down we swooped upon them, filling the air with a swirling mass of dead leaves kicked up by the whirlwind of our flight. In another moment we would have struck them as worlds collide when disoriented constellations crash into the Milky Way, but by misfortune and the mysterious will of God I was recognized! Talbot turned pale, and shouting, ‘Save yourselves, it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of Arc!’ drove his spurs deep into his horse and fled the battlefield with his panicking masses behind him! I could have cursed myself for not disguising myself. I saw disappointment in her Excellency’s eyes, and felt deeply ashamed. I had caused what seemed an irreparable disaster. Others might have stepped aside to mourn, feeling there was no way to fix it; but I thank God I am not one of them. Great occasions only call forth the latent reserves of my intellect like a trumpet call. I saw my chance in an instant—in the next I was gone! Through the woods I disappeared—fast!—like a put out light! I sped through the surrounding forest as if on wings, no one knowing where I had gone, no one suspecting my plan. Minute after minute passed, on and on I flew; on, and still on; and at last with a great cheer I waved my Banner in the breeze and burst out in front of Talbot! Oh, it was an incredible thought! That chaotic mass of panicked men swirled and surged backward like a tidal wave hitting a continent, and the day was ours! Poor helpless creatures, they were trapped; they were surrounded; they couldn’t escape to the back, for there was our army; they couldn’t escape to the front, for there I was. Their hearts shriveled in their chests, their hands fell limp at their sides. They stood still, and at our ease we slaughtered them to a man; all except Talbot and Fastolfe, whom I saved and brought away, one under each arm.”
Well, there is no denying it, the Paladin was in great form that night. Such style! such noble grace of gesture, such grandeur of attitude, such energy when he got going! such steady rise, on such sure wing, such nicely graduated expenditures of voice according to the weight of the matter, such skilfully calculated approaches to his surprises and explosions, such belief-compelling sincerity of tone and manner, such a climaxing peal from his brazen lungs, and such a lightning-vivid picture of his mailed form and flaunting banner when he burst out before that despairing army! And oh, the gentle art of the last half of his last sentence—delivered in the careless and indolent tone of one who has finished his real story, and only adds a colorless and inconsequential detail because it has happened to occur to him in a lazy way.
Well, there's no denying it, the Paladin was on fire that night. Such style! Such noble grace in his gestures, such grandeur in his presence, such energy when he really got into it! Such a steady rise, on such strong wings, such perfectly measured use of his voice based on the weight of the topic, such expertly crafted build-up to his surprises and dramatic moments, such convincing sincerity in his tone and manner, such a climactic burst from his powerful lungs, and such a bright, vivid image of his armored figure and waving banner when he appeared before that desperate army! And oh, the subtle skill of the last half of his final sentence—delivered in the relaxed and laid-back tone of someone who has finished his main story and only adds a dull, unimportant detail because it casually popped into his mind.
It was a marvel to see those innocent peasants. Why, they went all to pieces with enthusiasm, and roared out applauses fit to raise the roof and wake the dead. When they had cooled down at last and there was silence but for the heaving and panting, old Laxart said, admiringly:
It was amazing to see those innocent peasants. They completely lost it with excitement and cheered loudly enough to raise the roof and wake the dead. Once they finally calmed down and there was silence except for the heavy breathing, old Laxart said, admiringly:
“As it seems to me, you are an army in your single person.”
"As I see it, you're like an army all by yourself."
“Yes, that is what he is,” said Noel Rainguesson, convincingly. “He is a terror; and not just in this vicinity. His mere name carries a shudder with it to distant lands—just his mere name; and when he frowns, the shadow of it falls as far as Rome, and the chickens go to roost an hour before schedule time. Yes; and some say—”
“Yes, that's exactly who he is,” said Noel Rainguesson, convincingly. “He’s a real menace, not just around here. Just hearing his name sends chills across faraway lands—just his name; and when he frowns, his shadow stretches all the way to Rome, making the chickens go to roost an hour earlier than usual. Yes, and some people say—”
“Noel Rainguesson, you are preparing yourself for trouble. I will say just one word to you, and it will be to your advantage to—”
“Noel Rainguesson, you’re getting ready for trouble. I’ll say just one thing to you, and it would be in your best interest to—”
I saw that the usual thing had got a start. No man could prophesy when it would end. So I delivered Joan’s message and went off to bed.
I noticed that the usual routine had begun. No one could predict when it would finish. So, I passed on Joan’s message and went to bed.
Joan made her good-byes to those old fellows in the morning, with loving embraces and many tears, and with a packed multitude for sympathizers, and they rode proudly away on their precious horses to carry their great news home. I had seen better riders, some will say that; for horsemanship was a new art to them.
Joan said her goodbyes to those old friends in the morning, sharing warm embraces and shedding many tears, surrounded by a crowd of supporters. They rode away proudly on their cherished horses to share their big news back home. Some might argue I've seen better riders; after all, horsemanship was a new skill for them.
The vanguard moved out at dawn and took the road, with bands braying and banners flying; the second division followed at eight. Then came the Burgundian ambassadors, and lost us the rest of that day and the whole of the next. But Joan was on hand, and so they had their journey for their pains. The rest of us took the road at dawn, next morning, July 20th. And got how far? Six leagues. Tremouille was getting in his sly work with the vacillating King, you see. The King stopped at St. Marcoul and prayed three days. Precious time lost—for us; precious time gained for Bedford. He would know how to use it.
The vanguard set out at dawn, hitting the road with bands playing and banners flying; the second division followed at eight. Then the Burgundian ambassadors arrived, and we lost the rest of that day and all of the next. But Joan was there, so they made their trip for nothing. The rest of us hit the road at dawn the following morning, July 20th. And how far did we get? Six leagues. Tremouille was working his underhanded tactics on the indecisive King, you see. The King stopped at St. Marcoul and prayed for three days. Valuable time lost for us; valuable time gained for Bedford. He would know how to take advantage of it.
We could not go on without the King; that would be to leave him in the conspirators’ camp. Joan argued, reasoned, implored; and at last we got under way again.
We couldn’t move forward without the King; that would mean leaving him in the conspirators’ camp. Joan pleaded, reasoned, and begged; finally, we got going again.
Joan’s prediction was verified. It was not a campaign, it was only another holiday excursion. English strongholds lined our route; they surrendered without a blow; we garrisoned them with Frenchmen and passed on. Bedford was on the march against us with his new army by this time, and on the 25th of July the hostile forces faced each other and made preparation for battle; but Bedford’s good judgment prevailed, and he turned and retreated toward Paris. Now was our chance. Our men were in great spirits.
Joan’s prediction was confirmed. It wasn’t a campaign; it was just another holiday trip. English strongholds were along our route; they surrendered without a fight; we stationed French soldiers there and moved on. By now, Bedford was marching against us with his new army, and on July 25th, the opposing forces faced off and prepared for battle; but Bedford’s good sense won out, and he turned back toward Paris. Now was our opportunity. Our troops were in high spirits.
Will you believe it? Our poor stick of a King allowed his worthless advisers to persuade him to start back for Gien, whence he had set out when we first marched for Rheims and the Coronation! And we actually did start back. The fifteen-day truce had just been concluded with the Duke of Burgundy, and we would go and tarry at Gien until he should deliver Paris to us without a fight.
Will you believe it? Our pathetic King let his useless advisers convince him to head back to Gien, where he had left when we first marched for Rheims and the Coronation! And we actually started back. The fifteen-day truce had just been agreed upon with the Duke of Burgundy, and we would hang around at Gien until he handed over Paris to us without any fighting.
We marched to Bray; then the King changed his mind once more, and with it his face toward Paris. Joan dictated a letter to the citizens of Rheims to encourage them to keep heart in spite of the truce, and promising to stand by them. She furnished them the news herself that the Kin had made this truce; and in speaking of it she was her usual frank self. She said she was not satisfied with it, and didn’t know whether she would keep it or not; that if she kept it, it would be solely out of tenderness for the King’s honor. All French children know those famous words. How naive they are! “De cette treve qui a ete faite, je ne suis pas contente, et je ne sais si je la tiendrai. Si je la tiens, ce sera seulement pour garder l’honneur du roi.” But in any case, she said, she would not allow the blood royal to be abused, and would keep the army in good order and ready for work at the end of the truce.
We marched to Bray; then the King changed his mind again and turned his face toward Paris. Joan wrote a letter to the citizens of Rheims to encourage them to stay strong despite the truce and promised to support them. She informed them herself that the King had made this truce; and when discussing it, she was her usual straightforward self. She said she wasn’t happy with it and didn’t know if she would honor it or not; that if she did, it would be solely out of concern for the King’s honor. All French children know those famous words. How naive they are! “I’m not happy with this truce that has been made, and I don’t know if I will stick to it. If I do, it will only be to preserve the King’s honor.” But in any case, she said she wouldn’t allow the royal blood to be harmed and would keep the army organized and ready for action at the end of the truce.
Poor child, to have to fight England, Burgundy, and a French conspiracy all at the same time—it was too bad. She was a match for the others, but a conspiracy—ah, nobody is a match for that, when the victim that is to be injured is weak and willing. It grieved her, these troubled days, to be so hindered and delayed and baffled, and at times she was sad and the tears lay near the surface. Once, talking with her good old faithful friend and servant, the Bastard of Orleans, she said:
Poor child, having to battle England, Burgundy, and a French conspiracy all at once—it really was unfortunate. She could handle the others, but a conspiracy—ah, no one can stand against that when the victim is weak and compliant. It saddened her during these difficult days to feel so obstructed and confused, and at times she felt down, with tears just below the surface. Once, while talking with her loyal friend and servant, the Bastard of Orleans, she said:
“Ah, if it might but please God to let me put off this steel raiment and go back to my father and my mother, and tend my sheep again with my sister and my brothers, who would be so glad to see me!”
“Ah, if only it would please God to let me take off this armor and go back to my mom and dad, and tend my sheep again with my sister and my brothers, who would be so happy to see me!”
By the 12th of August we were camped near Dampmartin. Later we had a brush with Bedford’s rear-guard, and had hopes of a big battle on the morrow, but Bedford and all his force got away in the night and went on toward Paris.
By August 12th, we were set up near Dampmartin. Later, we had a skirmish with Bedford’s rear guard and hoped for a big battle the next day, but Bedford and his entire force slipped away during the night and headed toward Paris.
Charles sent heralds and received the submission of Beauvais. The Bishop Pierre Cauchon, that faithful friend and slave of the English, was not able to prevent it, though he did his best. He was obscure then, but his name was to travel round the globe presently, and live forever in the curses of France! Bear with me now, while I spit in fancy upon his grave.
Charles sent messengers and accepted the surrender of Beauvais. Bishop Pierre Cauchon, a loyal friend and servant of the English, couldn't stop it, though he tried hard. He was unknown at the time, but his name would soon be known worldwide and endure forever in France's curses! Please indulge me as I metaphorically spit on his grave.
Compiegne surrendered, and hauled down the English flag. On the 14th we camped two leagues from Senlis. Bedford turned and approached, and took up a strong position. We went against him, but all our efforts to beguile him out from his intrenchments failed, though he had promised us a duel in the open field. Night shut down. Let him look out for the morning! But in the morning he was gone again.
Compiegne surrendered and took down the English flag. On the 14th, we set up camp two leagues from Senlis. Bedford came closer and took a strong position. We challenged him, but all our attempts to lure him out from his fortifications failed, even though he had promised us a duel in the open. Night fell. He better watch out for the morning! But when morning came, he was gone again.
We entered Compiegne the 18th of August, turning out the English garrison and hoisting our own flag.
We entered Compiegne on August 18th, ousting the English garrison and raising our own flag.
On the 23d Joan gave command to move upon Paris. The King and the clique were not satisfied with this, and retired sulking to Senlis, which had just surrendered. Within a few days many strong places submitted—Creil, Pont-Saint-Maxence, Choisy, Gournay-sur-Aronde, Remy, Le Neufville-en-Hez, Moguay, Chantilly, Saintines. The English power was tumbling, crash after crash! And still the King sulked and disapproved, and was afraid of our movement against the capital.
On the 23rd, Joan ordered the march to Paris. The King and his group were not happy about this and sulked away to Senlis, which had just surrendered. In a few days, many strongholds gave in—Creil, Pont-Saint-Maxence, Choisy, Gournay-sur-Aronde, Remy, Le Neufville-en-Hez, Moguay, Chantilly, Saintines. The English power was collapsing, one blow after another! Still, the King sulked and disapproved, worried about our advance on the capital.
On the 26th of August, 1429, Joan camped at St. Denis; in effect, under the walls of Paris.
On August 26, 1429, Joan set up camp at St. Denis, essentially right outside the walls of Paris.
And still the King hung back and was afraid. If we could but have had him there to back us with his authority! Bedford had lost heart and decided to waive resistance and go an concentrate his strength in the best and loyalest province remaining to him—Normandy. Ah, if we could only have persuaded the King to come and countenance us with his presence and approval at this supreme moment!
And yet the King hesitated and was scared. If only we could have had him there to support us with his authority! Bedford had lost confidence and decided to stop resisting and focus his strength in the best and most loyal region left to him—Normandy. Ah, if only we could have convinced the King to come and stand by us with his presence and approval at this critical moment!
40 Treachery Conquers Joan
COURIER after courier was despatched to the King, and he promised to come, but didn’t. The Duke d’Alencon went to him and got his promise again, which he broke again. Nine days were lost thus; then he came, arriving at St. Denis September 7th.
COURIER after courier was sent to the King, and he promised to come, but didn’t. The Duke d’Alencon went to see him and got his promise again, which he broke once more. Nine days were wasted like this; then he finally showed up, arriving at St. Denis on September 7th.
Meantime the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless conduct of the King could have no other result. Preparations had now been made to defend the city. Joan’s chances had been diminished, but she and her generals considered them plenty good enough yet. Joan ordered the attack for eight o’clock next morning, and at that hour it began.
Meanwhile, the enemy had started to gain confidence: the King's lackluster behavior could lead to nothing else. Preparations were now in place to defend the city. Joan’s chances had decreased, but she and her generals believed they were still good enough. Joan scheduled the attack for eight o’clock the next morning, and it started at that time.
Joan placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which protected the gate St. Honor. When it was sufficiently crippled the assault was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then we moved forward to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves against it again and again, Joan in the lead with her standard at her side, the smoke enveloping us in choking clouds, and the missiles flying over us and through us as thick as hail.
Joan set up her artillery and started bombarding a solid defense that protected the St. Honor gate. Once it was weakened enough, the assault was signaled at noon, and we charged in. We then advanced to attack the gate directly, throwing ourselves against it repeatedly, with Joan leading the way and her banner beside her, the smoke surrounding us in suffocating clouds, and projectiles raining down on us like hail.
In the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate sure and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down by a crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a panic—for what were they without her? She was the army, herself.
In the middle of our final attack, which would’ve definitely taken the gate and given us Paris and essentially France, Joan was hit by a crossbow bolt. Our soldiers fell back immediately and almost in a panic—what were they without her? She was the army itself.
Although disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new assault be made, saying it must win; and adding, with the battle-light rising in her eyes, “I will take Paris now or die!” She had to be carried away by force, and this was done by Gaucourt and the Duke d’Alencon.
Although she was disabled, she refused to give up, insisting that another attack be launched, claiming it had to succeed; and adding, with the fire of battle shining in her eyes, “I will take Paris now or die!” She had to be physically removed, which was done by Gaucourt and the Duke d’Alencon.
But her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming with enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in the morning, and in half an hour Paris would be ours without any question. She could have kept her word. About this there was no doubt. But she forgot one factor—the King, shadow of that substance named La Tremouille. The King forbade the attempt!
But her spirits were at an all-time high now. She was full of enthusiasm. She declared that she would be taken to the gate in the morning, and in half an hour Paris would be ours, without a doubt. She could have made it happen. There was no question about that. But she overlooked one factor—the King, who was under the influence of La Tremouille. The King prohibited the attempt!
You see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of Burgundy, and another sham private trade of some sort was on foot.
You see, a new embassy had just arrived from the Duke of Burgundy, and another fake private trade was happening.
You would know, without my telling you, that Joan’s heart was nearly broken. Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at her heart she slept little that night. Several times the watchers heard muffled sobs from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis, and many times the grieving words, “It could have been taken!—it could have been taken!” which were the only ones she said.
You would know, without me telling you, that Joan's heart was almost broken. Because of the pain from her injury and the heartbreak, she barely slept that night. Several times, the watchers heard muffled sobs from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis, and many times, the sorrowful words, “It could have been taken!—it could have been taken!” were the only ones she spoke.
She dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope. D’Alencon had thrown a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis. Might she not cross by that and assault Paris at another point? But the King got wind of it and broke the bridge down! And more—he declared the campaign ended! And more still—he had made a new truce and a long one, in which he had agreed to leave Paris unthreatened and unmolested, and go back to the Loire whence he had come!
She slowly got out of bed a day later, feeling a new sense of hope. D’Alencon had built a bridge over the Seine near St. Denis. Could she cross it and attack Paris from a different angle? But then the King found out and had the bridge destroyed! And on top of that—he declared the campaign over! Even more—he had made a new truce, a long one, promising to leave Paris safe and undisturbed, and to return to the Loire from where he had come!
Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was defeated by her own King. She had said once that all she feared for her cause was treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung up her white armor in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and asked the King to relieve her of her functions and let her go home. As usual, she was wise. Grand combinations, far-reaching great military moves were at an end, now; for the future, when the truce should end, the war would be merely a war of random and idle skirmishes, apparently; work suitable for subalterns, and not requiring the supervision of a sublime military genius. But the King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all France; there were French strongholds to be watched and preserved; he would need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her where he could balk and hinder her.
Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was betrayed by her own King. She once said that the only thing she feared for her cause was treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung up her white armor in the royal basilica of St. Denis and went to ask the King to relieve her of her duties and let her go home. As usual, she was wise. Grand strategies and major military campaigns were over; in the future, when the truce ended, the war would likely consist of random skirmishes, work more suited for lower-ranking officers and not requiring the oversight of a brilliant military leader. But the King would not let her leave. The truce didn’t cover all of France; there were still French strongholds to monitor and protect; he would need her. The truth was, Tremouille wanted to keep her close so he could limit and obstruct her.
Now came her Voices again. They said, “Remain at St. Denis.” There was no explanation. They did not say why. That was the voice of God; it took precedence of the command of the King; Joan resolved to stay. But that filled La Tremouille with dread. She was too tremendous a force to be left to herself; she would surely defeat all his plans. He beguiled the King to use compulsion. Joan had to submit—because she was wounded and helpless. In the Great Trial she said she was carried away against her will; and that if she had not been wounded it could not have been accomplished. Ah, she had a spirit, that slender girl! a spirit to brave all earthly powers and defy them. We shall never know why the Voices ordered her to stay. We only know this; that if she could have obeyed, the history of France would not be as it now stands written in the books. Yes, well we know that.
Now her Voices came to her again. They said, “Stay at St. Denis.” There was no explanation. They didn’t say why. That was the voice of God; it took precedence over the King’s command, so Joan decided to remain. But that filled La Tremouille with fear. She was too powerful to be left on her own; she would certainly ruin all his plans. He manipulated the King to use force. Joan had to comply—because she was injured and helpless. During the Great Trial, she claimed she was taken against her will; and that if she hadn’t been wounded, it wouldn’t have happened. Ah, she had spirit, that slender girl! A spirit to stand up to all earthly powers and defy them. We’ll never know why the Voices told her to stay. We only know this: if she could have obeyed, the history of France wouldn’t be as it is written in the books today. Yes, we know that all too well.
On the 13th of September the army, sad and spiritless, turned its face toward the Loire, and marched—without music! Yes, one noted that detail. It was a funeral march; that is what it was. A long, dreary funeral march, with never a shout or a cheer; friends looking on in tears, all the way, enemies laughing. We reached Gien at last—that place whence we had set out on our splendid march toward Rheims less than three months before, with flags flying, bands playing, the victory-flush of Patay glowing in our faces, and the massed multitudes shouting and praising and giving us godspeed. There was a dull rain falling now, the day was dark, the heavens mourned, the spectators were few, we had no welcome but the welcome of silence, and pity, and tears.
On September 13th, the army, feeling down and defeated, faced the Loire and marched—without any music! Yes, that detail stood out. It felt like a funeral march; that's exactly what it was. A long, dreary funeral march, with not a single shout or cheer; friends watching with tears in their eyes the whole way, while enemies laughed. We finally arrived at Gien—the same place we had left just under three months ago on our glorious march to Rheims, with flags flying, bands playing, the victory from Patay bright in our faces, and huge crowds cheering and wishing us well. Now, a light rain was falling, the day was gloomy, the skies were mourning, the spectators were few, and we received no welcome but the silence, pity, and tears.
Then the King disbanded that noble army of heroes; it furled its flags, it stored its arms: the disgrace of France was complete. La Tremouille wore the victor’s crown; Joan of Arc, the unconquerable, was conquered.
Then the King dismissed that noble army of heroes; it rolled up its flags, it put away its weapons: the disgrace of France was total. La Tremouille wore the victor’s crown; Joan of Arc, the unbeatable, was defeated.
41 The Maid Will March No More
YES, IT was as I have said: Joan had Paris and France in her grip, and the Hundred Years’ War under her heel, and the King made her open her fist and take away her foot.
YES, it was just as I said: Joan had Paris and France in her grasp, and the Hundred Years' War under control, and the King forced her to open her hand and let go.
Now followed about eight months of drifting about with the King and his council, and his gay and showy and dancing and flirting and hawking and frolicking and serenading and dissipating court—drifting from town to town and from castle to castle—a life which was pleasant to us of the personal staff, but not to Joan. However, she only saw it, she didn’t live it. The King did his sincerest best to make her happy, and showed a most kind and constant anxiety in this matter.
Now came about eight months of wandering around with the King and his council, along with his lively, extravagant court filled with dancing, flirting, hunting, and partying—moving from town to town and castle to castle. It was a fun life for us on the personal staff, but not for Joan. However, she only observed it; she didn’t experience it. The King genuinely tried to make her happy and was consistently concerned about her well-being.
All others had to go loaded with the chains of an exacting court etiquette, but she was free, she was privileged. So that she paid her duty to the King once a day and passed the pleasant word, nothing further was required of her. Naturally, then, she made herself a hermit, and grieved the weary days through in her own apartments, with her thoughts and devotions for company, and the planning of now forever unrealizable military combinations for entertainment. In fancy she moved bodies of men from this and that and the other point, so calculating the distances to be covered, the time required for each body, and the nature of the country to be traversed, as to have them appear in sight of each other on a given day or at a given hour and concentrate for battle. It was her only game, her only relief from her burden of sorrow and inaction. She played it hour after hour, as others play chess; and lost herself in it, and so got repose for her mind and healing for her heart.
Everyone else had to follow the strict rules of court etiquette, but she was free—privileged. All she had to do was fulfill her duty to the King once a day and exchange a few pleasant words; nothing else was expected of her. Naturally, she made herself a recluse, spending her long, lonely days in her own rooms, accompanied only by her thoughts and prayers, and amusing herself by devising military strategies that could never be realized. In her imagination, she moved troops from different locations, calculating distances, the time each group would take, and the terrain they would cross, all to have them come into view of each other on a specific day or hour and prepare for battle. This was her only pastime, her only escape from her sadness and inactivity. She engaged in this for hours, much like others play chess; she became immersed in it, finding peace for her mind and solace for her heart.
She never complained, of course. It was not her way. She was the sort that endure in silence.
She never complained, of course. That wasn’t her style. She was the kind of person who endured in silence.
But—she was a caged eagle just the same, and pined for the free air and the alpine heights and the fierce joys of the storm.
But—she was still a caged eagle, longing for the open air, the mountain heights, and the exhilarating joys of the storm.
France was full of rovers—disbanded soldiers ready for anything that might turn up. Several times, at intervals, when Joan’s dull captivity grew too heavy to bear, she was allowed to gather a troop of cavalry and make a health-restoring dash against the enemy. These things were a bath to her spirits.
France was filled with wanderers—discharged soldiers ready for whatever might come their way. Several times, when Joan's tedious confinement became too much to handle, she was permitted to assemble a cavalry and make a refreshing charge against the enemy. These moments lifted her spirits.
It was like old times, there at Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, to see her lead assault after assault, be driven back again and again, but always rally and charge anew, all in a blaze of eagerness and delight; till at last the tempest of missiles rained so intolerably thick that old D’Aulon, who was wounded, sounded the retreat (for the King had charged him on his head to let no harm come to Joan); and away everybody rushed after him—as he supposed; but when he turned and looked, there were we of the staff still hammering away; wherefore he rode back and urged her to come, saying she was mad to stay there with only a dozen men. Her eye danced merrily, and she turned upon him crying out:
It felt like the old days at Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, watching her lead charge after charge, pushed back time and time again, but always rallying and charging forward with excitement and joy; until finally, the rain of missiles became so overwhelming that old D’Aulon, who was injured, called for a retreat (because the King had ordered him to ensure no harm came to Joan); and everyone rushed after him— or so he thought. When he turned to look, we, the staff, were still engaged in battle; so he rode back and urged her to come with him, saying she was crazy to stay there with only a dozen men. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and she turned to him, exclaiming:
“A dozen men! name of God, I have fifty-thousand, and will never budge till this place is taken!
“A dozen men! For the love of God, I have fifty thousand, and I won’t move until this place is taken!
“Sound the charge!”
“Sound the attack!”
Which he did, and over the walls we went, and the fortress was ours. Old D’Aulon thought her mind was wandering; but all she meant was, that she felt the might of fifty thousand men surging in her heart. It was a fanciful expression; but, to my thinking, truer word was never said.
Which he did, and we climbed over the walls, and the fortress was ours. Old D’Aulon thought her mind was wandering; but all she meant was that she felt the power of fifty thousand men surging in her heart. It was a fanciful expression; but, in my opinion, a truer word was never spoken.
Then there was the affair near Lagny, where we charged the intrenched Burgundians through the open field four times, the last time victoriously; the best prize of it Franquet d’Arras, the free-booter and pitiless scourge of the region roundabout.
Then there was the event close to Lagny, where we charged the entrenched Burgundians across the open field four times, the last time successfully; the biggest reward was Franquet d’Arras, the mercenary and relentless scourge of the surrounding area.
Now and then other such affairs; and at last, away toward the end of May, 1430, we were in the neighborhood of Compiegne, and Joan resolved to go to the help of that place, which was being besieged by the Duke of Burgundy.
Now and then there were other such events; and finally, toward the end of May, 1430, we found ourselves near Compiegne, and Joan decided to go help that area, which was being besieged by the Duke of Burgundy.
I had been wounded lately, and was not able to ride without help; but the good Dwarf took me on behind him, and I held on to him and was safe enough. We started at midnight, in a sullen downpour of warm rain, and went slowly and softly and in dead silence, for we had to slip through the enemy’s lines. We were challenged only once; we made no answer, but held our breath and crept steadily and stealthily along, and got through without any accident. About three or half past we reached Compiegne, just as the gray dawn was breaking in the east.
I had been injured recently and couldn't ride without assistance, but the kind Dwarf took me behind him, and I held on to him and felt safe enough. We set off at midnight, in a heavy downpour of warm rain, moving slowly and quietly in complete silence because we had to slip past the enemy's lines. We were only challenged once; we didn’t respond, but held our breath and crept steadily and quietly, making it through without any issues. Around three or three-thirty, we reached Compiegne, just as the gray dawn was breaking in the east.
Joan set to work at once, and concerted a plan with Guillaume de Flavy, captain of the city—a plan for a sortie toward evening against the enemy, who was posted in three bodies on the other side of the Oise, in the level plain. From our side one of the city gates communicated with a bridge. The end of this bridge was defended on the other side of the river by one of those fortresses called a boulevard; and this boulevard also commanded a raised road, which stretched from its front across the plain to the village of Marguy. A force of Burgundians occupied Marguy; another was camped at Clairoix, a couple of miles above the raised road; and a body of English was holding Venette, a mile and a half below it. A kind of bow-and-arrow arrangement, you see; the causeway the arrow, the boulevard at the feather-end of it, Marguy at the barb, Venette at one end of the bow, Clairoix at the other.
Joan immediately got to work and made a plan with Guillaume de Flavy, the captain of the city—a plan for a surprise attack in the evening against the enemy, who was stationed in three groups on the other side of the Oise, in the flat plain. On our side, one of the city gates led to a bridge. The end of this bridge was protected on the other side of the river by one of those fortifications called a boulevard; this boulevard also controlled a raised road that stretched in front of it across the plain to the village of Marguy. A group of Burgundians occupied Marguy; another was camped at Clairoix, a few miles above the raised road; and a contingent of English troops was holding Venette, a mile and a half below it. It was like a bow-and-arrow setup, with the causeway as the arrow, the boulevard at the fletching, Marguy at the tip, Venette at one end of the bow, and Clairoix at the other.
Joan’s plan was to go straight per causeway against Marguy, carry it by assault, then turn swiftly upon Clairoix, up to the right, and capture that camp in the same way, then face to the rear and be ready for heavy work, for the Duke of Burgundy lay behind Clairoix with a reserve. Flavy’s lieutenant, with archers and the artillery of the boulevard, was to keep the English troops from coming up from below and seizing the causeway and cutting off Joan’s retreat in case she should have to make one. Also, a fleet of covered boats was to be stationed near the boulevard as an additional help in case a retreat should become necessary.
Joan’s plan was to go straight along the causeway towards Marguy, take it by force, then quickly turn to Clairoix on the right and capture that camp in the same way. Then she would turn around to prepare for serious action, as the Duke of Burgundy was positioned behind Clairoix with additional troops. Flavy’s lieutenant, along with archers and the artillery from the boulevard, was supposed to prevent the English troops from advancing from below and seizing the causeway, which would cut off Joan’s retreat if she needed to fall back. Additionally, a fleet of covered boats was to be stationed near the boulevard as extra support in case a retreat became necessary.
It was the 24th of May. At four in the afternoon Joan moved out at the head of six hundred cavalry—on her last march in this life!
It was May 24th. At four in the afternoon, Joan moved out at the front of six hundred cavalry—on her final march in this life!
It breaks my heart. I had got myself helped up onto the walls, and from there I saw much that happened, the rest was told me long afterward by our two knights and other eye-witnesses. Joan crossed the bridge, and soon left the boulevard behind her and went skimming away over the raised road with her horsemen clattering at her heels. She had on a brilliant silver-gilt cape over her armor, and I could see it flap and flare and rise and fall like a little patch of white flame.
It breaks my heart. I managed to climb up onto the walls, and from there I saw a lot of what happened; the rest was told to me much later by our two knights and other witnesses. Joan crossed the bridge and soon left the boulevard behind, soaring away on the raised road with her horsemen thundering behind her. She wore a stunning silver-gilt cape over her armor, and I could see it flap and flare, rising and falling like a little patch of white flame.
It was a bright day, and one could see far and wide over that plain. Soon we saw the English force advancing, swiftly and in handsome order, the sunlight flashing from its arms.
It was a bright day, and you could see for miles across that plain. Soon we spotted the English forces moving forward, quickly and in impressive formation, the sunlight shimmering off their weapons.
Joan crashed into the Burgundians at Marguy and was repulsed. Then she saw the other Burgundians moving down from Clairoix. Joan rallied her men and charged again, and was again rolled back. Two assaults occupy a good deal of time—and time was precious here. The English were approaching the road now from Venette, but the boulevard opened fire on them and they were checked. Joan heartened her men with inspiring words and led them to the charge again in great style. This time she carried Marguy with a hurrah. Then she turned at once to the right and plunged into the plan and struck the Clairoix force, which was just arriving; then there was heavy work, and plenty of it, the two armies hurling each other backward turn about and about, and victory inclining first to the one, then to the other. Now all of a sudden there was a panic on our side. Some say one thing caused it, some another. Some say the cannonade made our front ranks think retreat was being cut off by the English, some say the rear ranks got the idea that Joan was killed. Anyway our men broke, and went flying in a wild rout for the causeway. Joan tried to rally them and face them around, crying to them that victory was sure, but it did no good, they divided and swept by her like a wave. Old D’Aulon begged her to retreat while there was yet a chance for safety, but she refused; so he seized her horse’s bridle and bore her along with the wreck and ruin in spite of herself. And so along the causeway they came swarming, that wild confusion of frenzied men and horses—and the artillery had to stop firing, of course; consequently the English and Burgundians closed in in safety, the former in front, the latter behind their prey. Clear to the boulevard the French were washed in this enveloping inundation; and there, cornered in an angle formed by the flank of the boulevard and the slope of the causeway, they bravely fought a hopeless fight, and sank down one by one.
Joan collided with the Burgundians at Marguy and was pushed back. Then she saw more Burgundians coming down from Clairoix. Joan rallied her troops and charged again, but was turned back once more. Two assaults took a significant amount of time—and time was precious here. The English were now approaching from the road at Venette, but the boulevard opened fire on them and they were halted. Joan encouraged her men with motivating words and led them into another charge with enthusiasm. This time, she captured Marguy with a cheer. Then she immediately turned right and charged into the Clairoix force, which had just arrived; then there was intense fighting, with both armies pushing each other back and forth, with victory swinging first to one side and then to the other. Suddenly, there was panic on our side. Some claimed it was caused by one thing; others said it was something else. Some believed the cannon fire made the front ranks think that retreat was being blocked by the English, while others thought the rear ranks heard that Joan had been killed. In any case, our men broke and fled in a chaotic rush toward the causeway. Joan attempted to rally them and turn them around, shouting that victory was certain, but it was no use; they scattered past her like a wave. Old D’Aulon pleaded with her to retreat while there was still a chance for safety, but she refused; so he grabbed her horse's bridle and pulled her along with the chaos against her will. Along the causeway, they came swarming, that wild confusion of frantic men and horses—and the artillery had to cease firing; as a result, the English and Burgundians closed in safely, the former in front and the latter behind their prey. The French were pushed back to the boulevard in this overwhelming flood; there, cornered in an angle formed by the side of the boulevard and the slope of the causeway, they fought bravely but hopelessly, falling one by one.
Flavy, watching from the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed and the drawbridge raised. This shut Joan out.
Flavy, standing on the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed and the drawbridge to be raised. This kept Joan out.
The little personal guard around her thinned swiftly. Both of our good knights went down disabled; Joan’s two brothers fell wounded; then Noel Rainguesson—all wounded while loyally sheltering Joan from blows aimed at her. When only the Dwarf and the Paladin were left, they would not give up, but stood their ground stoutly, a pair of steel towers streaked and splashed with blood; and where the ax of one fell, and the sword of the other, an enemy gasped and died.
The small personal guard around her quickly dwindled. Both of our brave knights went down injured; Joan’s two brothers fell wounded; then Noel Rainguesson—all hurt while bravely protecting Joan from attacks aimed at her. When only the Dwarf and the Paladin were left, they refused to back down, standing their ground like two steel towers splattered with blood; and wherever one’s axe struck, and the other’s sword swung, an enemy gasped and fell.
And so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple souls, they came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories! they were very dear to me.
And so, fighting and staying true to their duty until the very end, these good, simple souls met their honorable fate. May they rest in peace! They meant a lot to me.
Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still laying about her with her sword, was seized by her cape and dragged from her horse. She was borne away a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy’s camp, and after her followed the victorious army roaring its joy.
Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant and swinging her sword, was grabbed by her cape and pulled off her horse. She was taken away as a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy’s camp, with the victorious army following behind, roaring in celebration.
The awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it flew; and wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of paralysis; and they murmured over and over again, as if they were talking to themselves, or in their sleep, “The Maid of Orleans taken!... Joan of Arc a prisoner!... the savior of France lost to us!”—and would keep saying that over, as if they couldn’t understand how it could be, or how God could permit it, poor creatures!
The terrible news spread quickly; it traveled from person to person. Wherever it went, it hit people like a shock, leaving them stunned. They kept repeating to themselves, almost as if in a daze, “The Maid of Orleans taken!... Joan of Arc a prisoner!... the savior of France lost to us!”—and they couldn’t stop saying it, as if they couldn’t grasp how it could happen or how God could allow it, poor souls!
You know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to pavement with rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was like, and some other cities. But can any man tell you what the mourning in the hearts of the peasantry of France was like? No, nobody can tell you that, and, poor dumb things, they could not have told you themselves, but it was there—indeed, yes. Why, it was the spirit of a whole nation hung with crape!
You know what a city feels like when it's draped in rustling black from the rooftops to the streets? Then you understand what Rouse was like, along with some other cities. But can anyone explain what the grief in the hearts of the French peasantry felt like? No, no one can describe that, and, sadly, they couldn’t express it themselves, but it was definitely there—absolutely. It was the spirit of an entire nation wrapped in mourning!
The 24th of May. We will draw down the curtain now upon the most strange, and pathetic, and wonderful military drama that has been played upon the stage of the world. Joan of Arc will march no more.
The 24th of May. We're closing the curtain now on the most strange, touching, and incredible military story that has unfolded on the world's stage. Joan of Arc will march no more.
BOOK III TRIAL AND MARTYRDOM
1 The Maid in Chains

I CANNOT bear to dwell at great length upon the shameful history of the summer and winter following the capture. For a while I was not much troubled, for I was expecting every day to hear that Joan had been put to ransom, and that the King—no, not the King, but grateful France—had come eagerly forward to pay it. By the laws of war she could not be denied the privilege of ransom. She was not a rebel; she was a legitimately constituted soldier, head of the armies of France by her King’s appointment, and guilty of no crime known to military law; therefore she could not be detained upon any pretext, if ransom were proffered.
I can’t stand to go on about the shameful story of the summer and winter after the capture. For a while, I wasn’t too troubled because I expected to hear any day that Joan would be released for ransom, and that France—no, not just the King, but grateful France—would step up to pay it. According to the rules of war, she couldn’t be denied the option of ransom. She wasn’t a rebel; she was a legitimate soldier, the leader of the armies of France by her King’s appointment, and she hadn’t committed any crime recognized by military law; therefore, she couldn’t be held for any reason if ransom was offered.
But day after day dragged by and no ransom was offered! It seems incredible, but it is true. Was that reptile Tremouille busy at the King’s ear? All we know is, that the King was silent, and made no offer and no effort in behalf of this poor girl who had done so much for him.
But day after day went by and no ransom was offered! It seems unbelievable, but it’s true. Was that snake Tremouille whispering into the King’s ear? All we know is that the King stayed silent, and made no offer or effort to help this poor girl who had done so much for him.
But, unhappily, there was alacrity enough in another quarter. The news of the capture reached Paris the day after it happened, and the glad English and Burgundians deafened the world all the day and all the night with the clamor of their joy-bells and the thankful thunder of their artillery, and the next day the Vicar-General of the Inquisition sent a message to the Duke of Burgundy requiring the delivery of the prisoner into the hands of the Church to be tried as an idolater.
But unfortunately, there was plenty of enthusiasm on the other side. The news of the capture reached Paris the day after it happened, and the jubilant English and Burgundians filled the air day and night with the sounds of their celebration bells and the booming of their cannons. The following day, the Vicar-General of the Inquisition sent a message to the Duke of Burgundy demanding that the prisoner be handed over to the Church to be tried as an idolater.
The English had seen their opportunity, and it was the English power that was really acting, not the Church. The Church was being used as a blind, a disguise; and for a forcible reason: the Church was not only able to take the life of Joan of Arc, but to blight her influence and the valor-breeding inspiration of her name, whereas the English power could but kill her body; that would not diminish or destroy the influence of her name; it would magnify it and make it permanent. Joan of Arc was the only power in France that the English did not despise, the only power in France that they considered formidable. If the Church could be brought to take her life, or to proclaim her an idolater, a heretic, a witch, sent from Satan, not from heaven, it was believed that the English supremacy could be at once reinstated.
The English saw their chance, and it was the English power that was truly in control, not the Church. The Church was being used as a cover, a disguise, and for a good reason: the Church had the power to take Joan of Arc's life and to ruin her influence and the inspiring legacy of her name, while the English could only kill her physically; that wouldn’t lessen or erase the impact of her name; it would actually elevate it and make it lasting. Joan of Arc was the only force in France that the English respected, the only force they found threatening. If the Church could be persuaded to end her life, or to label her an idolater, a heretic, a witch sent from Satan rather than from heaven, it was thought that English dominance could be swiftly restored.
The Duke of Burgundy listened—but waited. He could not doubt that the French King or the French people would come forward presently and pay a higher price than the English. He kept Joan a close prisoner in a strong fortress, and continued to wait, week after week. He was a French prince, and was at heart ashamed to sell her to the English. Yet with all his waiting no offer came to him from the French side.
The Duke of Burgundy listened—but he waited. He couldn't doubt that the French King or the French people would soon step forward and offer a better price than the English. He kept Joan locked up in a strong fortress and continued to wait, week after week. He was a French prince and, deep down, felt ashamed to sell her to the English. Yet despite all his waiting, no offer came to him from the French side.
One day Joan played a cunning trick on her jailer, and not only slipped out of her prison, but locked him up in it. But as she fled away she was seen by a sentinel, and was caught and brought back.
One day, Joan pulled a clever trick on her jailer, managing not only to escape from her prison but also to lock him inside. However, as she was getting away, a guard spotted her, and she was captured and brought back.
Then she was sent to Beaurevoir, a stronger castle. This was early in August, and she had been in captivity more than two months now. Here she was shut up in the top of a tower which was sixty feet high. She ate her heart there for another long stretch—about three months and a half. And she was aware, all these weary five months of captivity, that the English, under cover of the Church, were dickering for her as one would dicker for a horse or a slave, and that France was silent, the King silent, all her friends the same. Yes, it was pitiful.
Then she was sent to Beaurevoir, a stronger castle. This was early in August, and she had been held captive for more than two months now. Here she was locked up in the top of a tower that was sixty feet high. She suffered there for another long stretch—about three and a half months. And she was aware, throughout these exhausting five months of captivity, that the English, under the pretense of the Church, were negotiating for her like one would negotiate for a horse or a slave, and that France was silent, the King silent, all her friends the same. Yes, it was tragic.
And yet when she heard at last that Compiegne was being closely besieged and likely to be captured, and that the enemy had declared that no inhabitant of it should escape massacre, not even children of seven years of age, she was in a fever at once to fly to our rescue. So she tore her bedclothes to strips and tied them together and descended this frail rope in the night, and it broke, and she fell and was badly bruised, and remained three days insensible, meantime neither eating nor drinking.
And yet when she finally heard that Compiegne was under heavy siege and likely to be taken, and that the enemy had announced that no one would escape the massacre, not even children as young as seven, she immediately felt the urgent need to rush to our rescue. So she ripped her bedclothes into strips, tied them together, and climbed down this weak rope at night, but it broke, and she fell and was seriously hurt. She remained unconscious for three days, during which time she didn’t eat or drink anything.
And now came relief to us, led by the Count of Vendome, and Compiegne was saved and the siege raised. This was a disaster to the Duke of Burgundy. He had to save money now. It was a good time for a new bid to be made for Joan of Arc. The English at once sent a French bishop—that forever infamous Pierre Cauchon of Beauvais. He was partly promised the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was vacant, if he should succeed. He claimed the right to preside over Joan’s ecclesiastical trial because the battle-ground where she was taken was within his diocese. By the military usage of the time the ransom of a royal prince was 10,000 livres of gold, which is 61,125 francs—a fixed sum, you see. It must be accepted when offered; it could not be refused.
And then relief came to us, led by the Count of Vendome, and Compiegne was saved and the siege was lifted. This was a disaster for the Duke of Burgundy. He needed to save money now. It was the right moment to make a new attempt for Joan of Arc. The English immediately sent a French bishop—that forever infamous Pierre Cauchon of Beauvais. He was sort of promised the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was vacant, if he succeeded. He claimed the right to oversee Joan’s ecclesiastical trial because the place where she was captured was within his diocese. According to the military practices of the time, the ransom for a royal prince was 10,000 livres of gold, which is 61,125 francs—a set amount, you see. It had to be accepted when offered; it couldn't be turned down.
Cauchon brought the offer of this very sum from the English—a royal prince’s ransom for the poor little peasant-girl of Domremy. It shows in a striking way the English idea of her formidable importance. It was accepted. For that sum Joan of Arc, the Savior of France, was sold; sold to her enemies; to the enemies of her country; enemies who had lashed and thrashed and thumped and trounced France for a century and made holiday sport of it; enemies who had forgotten, years and years ago, what a Frenchman’s face was like, so used were they to seeing nothing but his back; enemies whom she had whipped, whom she had cowed, whom she had taught to respect French valor, new-born in her nation by the breath of her spirit; enemies who hungered for her life as being the only puissance able to stand between English triumph and French degradation. Sold to a French priest by a French prince, with the French King and the French nation standing thankless by and saying nothing.
Cauchon brought the English offer of this exact amount—a royal prince’s ransom for the poor peasant girl from Domremy. This vividly shows how the English viewed her as incredibly important. It was accepted. For that amount, Joan of Arc, the Savior of France, was betrayed; betrayed to her enemies; to the enemies of her country; enemies who had punished and battered France for a century and made a game of it; enemies who had long forgotten what a Frenchman looked like, so familiar were they with only seeing his back; enemies whom she had defeated, whom she had intimidated, whom she had taught to respect French courage, renewed in her nation by her spirit; enemies who craved her life as the only power capable of stopping English victory and French humiliation. Sold to a French priest by a French prince, with the French King and the French nation standing by, ungrateful and silent.
And she—what did she say? Nothing. Not a reproach passed her lips. She was too great for that—she was Joan of Arc; and when that is said, all is said.
And she—what did she say? Nothing. Not a single reproach came from her. She was too noble for that—she was Joan of Arc; and saying that says it all.
As a soldier, her record was spotless. She could not be called to account for anything under that head. A subterfuge must be found, and, as we have seen, was found. She must be tried by priests for crimes against religion. If none could be discovered, some must be invented. Let the miscreant Cauchon alone to contrive those.
As a soldier, her record was perfect. She couldn't be blamed for anything in that regard. A way around this had to be found, and, as we've seen, it was. She must be judged by priests for crimes against religion. If none could be found, then some had to be made up. Let the villain Cauchon handle that.
Rouen was chosen as the scene of the trial. It was in the heart of the English power; its population had been under English dominion so many generations that they were hardly French now, save in language. The place was strongly garrisoned. Joan was taken there near the end of December, 1430, and flung into a dungeon. Yes, and clothed in chains, that free spirit!
Rouen was selected as the location for the trial. It was in the center of English control; its residents had been under English rule for so many generations that they barely felt French anymore, except in language. The area was heavily fortified. Joan was brought there around the end of December, 1430, and thrown into a dungeon. Yes, and shackled in chains, that free spirit!
Still France made no move. How do I account for this? I think there is only one way. You will remember that whenever Joan was not at the front, the French held back and ventured nothing; that whenever she led, they swept everything before them, so long as they could see her white armor or her banner; that every time she fell wounded or was reported killed—as at Compiegne—they broke in panic and fled like sheep. I argue from this that they had undergone no real transformation as yet; that at bottom they were still under the spell of a timorousness born of generations of unsuccess, and a lack of confidence in each other and in their leaders born of old and bitter experience in the way of treacheries of all sorts—for their kings had been treacherous to their great vassals and to their generals, and these in turn were treacherous to the head of the state and to each other. The soldiery found that they could depend utterly on Joan, and upon her alone. With her gone, everything was gone. She was the sun that melted the frozen torrents and set them boiling; with that sun removed, they froze again, and the army and all France became what they had been before, mere dead corpses—that and nothing more; incapable of thought, hope, ambition, or motion.
Still, France made no move. How can I explain this? I believe there’s only one way. You’ll remember that whenever Joan was not at the front, the French held back and did nothing; that whenever she led, they swept everything before them, as long as they could see her white armor or her banner; and that every time she was wounded or reported killed—as at Compiegne—they panicked and fled like sheep. I conclude from this that they hadn’t really changed yet; deep down, they were still under the influence of a fearfulness born from generations of failure, and a lack of trust in each other and their leaders, stemming from old and painful experiences with all sorts of betrayals—for their kings had betrayed their great vassals and their generals, who in turn betrayed the head of state and each other. The soldiers found they could completely depend on Joan, and her alone. With her gone, everything was lost. She was the sun that melted the frozen torrents and set them boiling; without that sun, they froze again, and the army and all of France became what they had been before: mere lifeless shells—nothing more; incapable of thought, hope, ambition, or action.
2 Joan Sold to the English
MY WOUND gave me a great deal of trouble clear into the first part of October; then the fresher weather renewed my life and strength. All this time there were reports drifting about that the King was going to ransom Joan. I believed these, for I was young and had not yet found out the littleness and meanness of our poor human race, which brags about itself so much, and thinks it is better and higher than the other animals.
MY WOUND caused me a lot of trouble right into early October; then the cooler weather revitalized my life and energy. During this time, there were rumors circulating that the King was going to ransom Joan. I believed these rumors because I was young and had not yet realized the pettiness and cruelty of our poor human race, which boasts so much about itself and thinks it's better and superior to other animals.
In October I was well enough to go out with two sorties, and in the second one, on the 23d, I was wounded again. My luck had turned, you see. On the night of the 25th the besiegers decamped, and in the disorder and confusion one of their prisoners escaped and got safe into Compiegne, and hobbled into my room as pallid and pathetic an object as you would wish to see.
In October, I was well enough to go out on two outings, and during the second one, on the 23rd, I got wounded again. My luck had changed, you see. On the night of the 25th, the besiegers pulled out, and in the chaos and confusion, one of their prisoners escaped and safely made it to Compiegne. He hobbled into my room looking as pale and pitiful as you could imagine.
“What? Alive? Noel Rainguesson!”
“What? Alive? Noel Rainguesson!”
It was indeed he. It was a most joyful meeting, that you will easily know; and also as sad as it was joyful. We could not speak Joan’s name. One’s voice would have broken down. We knew who was meant when she was mentioned; we could say “she” and “her,” but we could not speak the name.
It was definitely him. It was a very happy meeting, as you can easily tell; yet it was also as sad as it was joyful. We couldn’t say Joan’s name. Our voices would have cracked. We knew who was being talked about when she was mentioned; we could say “she” and “her,” but we just couldn’t say the name.
We talked of the personal staff. Old D’Aulon, wounded and a prisoner, was still with Joan and serving her, by permission of the Duke of Burgundy. Joan was being treated with respect due to her rank and to her character as a prisoner of war taken in honorable conflict. And this was continued—as we learned later—until she fell into the hands of that bastard of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais.
We talked about the personal staff. Old D’Aulon, wounded and a prisoner, was still with Joan and serving her, with the Duke of Burgundy's permission. Joan was being treated with respect because of her rank and her character as a prisoner of war captured in honorable combat. This continued—as we found out later—until she fell into the hands of that bastard of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais.
Noel was full of noble and affectionate praises and appreciations of our old boastful big Standard-Bearer, now gone silent forever, his real and imaginary battles all fought, his work done, his life honorably closed and completed.
Noel had many kind and heartfelt words of praise for our old, boastful Standard-Bearer, who is now silent forever, with all his real and imagined battles fought, his work finished, and his life respectfully completed.
“And think of his luck!” burst out Noel, with his eyes full of tears. “Always the pet child of luck!
“And think of his luck!” exclaimed Noel, tears filling his eyes. “Always the favorite of fortune!
“See how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all through, in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the public eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a chance to do fine things and always doing them; in the beginning called the Paladin in joke, and called it afterward in earnest because he magnificently made the title good; and at last—supremest luck of all—died in the field! died with his harness on; died faithful to his charge, the Standard in his hand; died—oh, think of it—with the approving eye of Joan of Arc upon him!
“Look how it followed him and stayed with him, from his very first step all the way through, whether in the field or out of it; always a striking presence in the public eye, admired and envied everywhere; always having the opportunity to do great things and always coming through; initially called the Paladin as a joke, and later called it for real because he truly lived up to the title; and in the end—the greatest luck of all—he died in the field! Died with his armor on; died loyal to his duty, the Standard in his hand; died—oh, imagine it—with the approving gaze of Joan of Arc upon him!
“He drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to his peace, blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to follow. What luck, what luck! And we? What was our sin that we are still here, we who have also earned our place with the happy dead?”
“He finished the cup of glory to the last drop and joyfully went to his peace, blissfully spared from any involvement in the disaster that was about to happen. What luck, what luck! And us? What was our sin that we are still here, we who have also earned our spot among the happy dead?”
And presently he said:
And he said now:
“They tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it away, their most precious prize after its captured owner. But they haven’t it now. A month ago we put our lives upon the risk—our two good knights, my fellow-prisoners, and I—and stole it, and got it smuggled by trusty hands to Orleans, and there it is now, safe for all time in the Treasury.”
“They ripped the sacred Standard from his lifeless hand and took it away, their most valuable trophy after its captured owner. But they don’t have it now. A month ago, we risked our lives—my two fellow-prisoners and I—and managed to steal it, getting it safely smuggled to Orleans, where it is now securely kept in the Treasury.”
I was glad and grateful to learn that. I have seen it often since, when I have gone to Orleans on the 8th of May to be the petted old guest of the city and hold the first place of honor at the banquets and in the processions—I mean since Joan’s brothers passed from this life. It will still be there, sacredly guarded by French love, a thousand years from now—yes, as long as any shred of it hangs together. (1) Two or three weeks after this talk came the tremendous news like a thunder-clap, and we were aghast—Joan of Arc sold to the English!
I was happy and thankful to hear that. I've seen it many times since then, when I've gone to Orleans on May 8th to be the cherished guest of the city and take the top spot at the banquets and in the parades—I mean since Joan’s brothers passed away. It will still be there, lovingly preserved by French devotion, a thousand years from now—yes, as long as any part of it still exists. (1) Two or three weeks after this conversation, the shocking news hit us like a thunderclap, and we were stunned—Joan of Arc sold to the English!
Not for a moment had we ever dreamed of such a thing. We were young, you see, and did not know the human race, as I have said before. We had been so proud of our country, so sure of her nobleness, her magnanimity, her gratitude. We had expected little of the King, but of France we had expected everything. Everybody knew that in various towns patriot priests had been marching in procession urging the people to sacrifice money, property, everything, and buy the freedom of their heaven-sent deliverer. That the money would be raised we had not thought of doubting.
Not for a second did we ever imagine something like this. We were young, you know, and didn’t really understand humanity, as I’ve mentioned before. We had been so proud of our country, so confident in her greatness, her generosity, her gratitude. We expected little from the King, but we expected everything from France. Everyone knew that in different towns, patriotic priests had been leading processions, urging people to give up their money, their possessions, everything, to buy the freedom of their miraculous savior. The idea that the money wouldn’t be raised never even crossed our minds.
But it was all over now, all over. It was a bitter time for us. The heavens seemed hung with black; all cheer went out from our hearts. Was this comrade here at my bedside really Noel Rainguesson, that light-hearted creature whose whole life was but one long joke, and who used up more breath in laughter than in keeping his body alive? No, no; that Noel I was to see no more. This one’s heart was broken. He moved grieving about, and absently, like one in a dream; the stream of his laughter was dried at its source.
But it was all over now, completely over. It was a tough time for us. The sky seemed dark and heavy; all joy vanished from our hearts. Was this person by my bedside really Noel Rainguesson, that carefree guy whose entire life was just one big joke, and who spent more energy laughing than in just staying alive? No, that Noel was gone for good. This one’s heart was shattered. He moved around sadly and absentmindedly, like someone in a dream; the flow of his laughter had dried up completely.
Well, that was best. It was my own mood. We were company for each other. He nursed me patiently through the dull long weeks, and at last, in January, I was strong enough to go about again. Then he said:
Well, that was the best. It matched my mood. We kept each other company. He took care of me patiently through the long, boring weeks, and finally, in January, I was strong enough to get out again. Then he said:
“Shall we go now?”
"Should we go now?"
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
There was no need to explain. Our hearts were in Rouen; we would carry our bodies there. All that we cared for in this life was shut up in that fortress. We could not help her, but it would be some solace to us to be near her, to breathe the air that she breathed, and look daily upon the stone walls that hid her. What if we should be made prisoners there? Well, we could but do our best, and let luck and fate decide what should happen.
There was no need to explain. Our hearts were in Rouen; we would take our bodies there. Everything we cared about in this life was contained in that fortress. We couldn’t help her, but it would bring us some comfort to be close to her, to breathe the same air, and see every day the stone walls that kept her hidden. What if we were captured there? Well, we could only do our best and let luck and fate decide what happened next.
And so we started. We could not realize the change which had come upon the country. We seemed able to choose our own route and go whenever we pleased, unchallenged and unmolested. When Joan of Arc was in the field there was a sort of panic of fear everywhere; but now that she was out of the way, fear had vanished. Nobody was troubled about you or afraid of you, nobody was curious about you or your business, everybody was indifferent.
And so we began. We didn’t fully understand the changes that had taken place in the country. It felt like we could choose our own path and go wherever we wanted, without anyone stopping us or bothering us. When Joan of Arc was around, there was a sense of panic and fear everywhere; but now that she was gone, that fear had disappeared. No one cared about you or was scared of you, no one was curious about you or what you were doing, everyone was indifferent.
We presently saw that we could take to the Seine, and not weary ourselves out with land travel.
We now realized that we could take to the Seine and avoid tiring ourselves out with land travel.
So we did it, and were carried in a boat to within a league of Rouen. Then we got ashore; not on the hilly side, but on the other, where it is as level as a floor. Nobody could enter or leave the city without explaining himself. It was because they feared attempts at a rescue of Joan.
So we did it, and were taken in a boat to about a mile from Rouen. Then we got off the boat; not on the hilly side, but on the other side, where it's flat like a floor. No one could enter or leave the city without explaining themselves. This was because they were worried about potential rescue attempts for Joan.
We had no trouble. We stopped in the plain with a family of peasants and stayed a week, helping them with their work for board and lodging, and making friends of them. We got clothes like theirs, and wore them. When we had worked our way through their reserves and gotten their confidence, we found that they secretly harbored French hearts in their bodies. Then we came out frankly and told them everything, and found them ready to do anything they could to help us.
We had no issues. We paused in the field with a family of farmers and stayed for a week, helping them with their work in exchange for food and shelter, and became friends with them. We got clothes like theirs and wore them. Once we gained their trust and worked through their resources, we discovered they secretly had French loyalties in their hearts. Then we openly shared everything, and found them eager to do whatever they could to assist us.
Our plan was soon made, and was quite simple. It was to help them drive a flock of sheep to the market of the city. One morning early we made the venture in a melancholy drizzle of rain, and passed through the frowning gates unmolested. Our friends had friends living over a humble wine shop in a quaint tall building situated in one of the narrow lanes that run down from the cathedral to the river, and with these they bestowed us; and the next day they smuggled our own proper clothing and other belongings to us. The family that lodged us—the Pieroons—were French in sympathy, and we needed to have no secrets from them.
Our plan was quickly set and was pretty straightforward. We were going to help them drive a flock of sheep to the market in the city. One early morning, we made our move in a gloomy drizzle of rain and passed through the intimidating gates without any trouble. Our friends knew people who lived above a small wine shop in a charming tall building located in one of the narrow streets that lead from the cathedral to the river, and they took us there. The next day, they managed to sneak our own clothes and other belongings to us. The family that hosted us—the Pieroons—sympathized with the French, and we didn’t need to keep any secrets from them.
(1) It remained there three hundred and sixty years, and then was destroyed in a public bonfire, together with two swords, a plumed cap, several suits of state apparel, and other relics of the Maid, by a mob in the time of the Revolution. Nothing which the hand of Joan of Arc is known to have touched now remains in existence except a few preciously guarded military and state papers which she signed, her pen being guided by a clerk or her secretary, Louis de Conte. A boulder exists from which she is known to have mounted her horse when she was once setting out upon a campaign. Up to a quarter of a century ago there was a single hair from her head still in existence. It was drawn through the wax of a seal attached to the parchment of a state document. It was surreptitiously snipped out, seal and all, by some vandal relic-hunter, and carried off. Doubtless it still exists, but only the thief knows where. — TRANSLATOR.
(1) It stayed there for three hundred and sixty years, and then was destroyed in a public bonfire, along with two swords, a plumed hat, several formal outfits, and other items related to the Maid, by a mob during the Revolution. Nothing that Joan of Arc is known to have touched survives today except for a few carefully protected military and state documents that she signed, her pen being guided by a clerk or her secretary, Louis de Conte. There's a boulder from which she is known to have mounted her horse when she was about to set out on a campaign. Up until twenty-five years ago, there was a single hair from her head that still existed. It was pulled through the wax of a seal attached to the parchment of a state document. It was secretly snipped out, seal and all, by some vandal relic-hunter and taken away. It probably still exists, but only the thief knows where it is. — TRANSLATOR.
3 Weaving the Net About Her
IT WAS necessary for me to have some way to gain bread for Noel and myself; and when the Pierrons found that I knew how to write, the applied to their confessor in my behalf, and he got a place for me with a good priest named Manchon, who was to be the chief recorder in the Great Trial of Joan of Arc now approaching. It was a strange position for me—clerk to the recorder—and dangerous if my sympathies and the late employment should be found out. But there was not much danger. Manchon was at bottom friendly to Joan and would not betray me; and my name would not, for I had discarded my surname and retained only my given one, like a person of low degree.
I needed a way to support Noel and myself, so when the Pierrons learned that I could write, they talked to their confessor on my behalf. He managed to get me a job with a good priest named Manchon, who was going to be the chief recorder for the upcoming Great Trial of Joan of Arc. It was a strange role for me—serving as a clerk to the recorder—and potentially dangerous if anyone discovered my sympathies and previous work. However, the risk was minimal. Manchon was basically supportive of Joan and wouldn’t turn me in; plus, I had dropped my last name and was only using my first name, like someone of low status.
I attended Manchon constantly straight along, out of January and into February, and was often in the citadel with him—in the very fortress where Joan was imprisoned, though not in the dungeon where she was confined, and so did not see her, of course.
I visited Manchon regularly from January through February and spent a lot of time with him in the citadel—in the same fortress where Joan was held captive, although not in the dungeon where she was kept, so I didn't see her, of course.
Manchon told me everything that had been happening before my coming. Ever since the purchase of Joan, Cauchon had been busy packing his jury for the destruction of the Maid—weeks and weeks he had spent in this bad industry. The University of Paris had sent him a number of learned and able and trusty ecclesiastics of the stripe he wanted; and he had scraped together a clergyman of like stripe and great fame here and there and yonder, until he was able to construct a formidable court numbering half a hundred distinguished names. French names they were, but their interests and sympathies were English.
Manchon told me everything that had been happening before I arrived. Ever since the purchase of Joan, Cauchon had been busy assembling his jury to bring down the Maid—he had spent weeks on this shady task. The University of Paris had sent him several knowledgeable, skilled, and reliable clerics of the type he wanted, and he had gathered renowned clergymen here and there until he had formed a powerful court with about fifty distinguished names. They were French names, but their interests and loyalties were with the English.
A great officer of the Inquisition was also sent from Paris for the accused must be tried by the forms of the Inquisition; but this was a brave and righteous man, and he said squarely that this court had no power to try the case, wherefore he refused to act; and the same honest talk was uttered by two or three others.
A high-ranking officer from the Inquisition was also dispatched from Paris because the accused needed to be tried according to Inquisition procedures. However, this officer was a brave and principled man who stated clearly that this court had no authority to oversee the case, so he refused to participate. The same honest sentiment was expressed by two or three others.
The Inquisitor was right. The case as here resurrected against Joan had already been tried long ago at Poitiers, and decided in her favor. Yes, and by a higher tribunal than this one, for at the head of it was an Archbishop—he of Rheims—Cauchon’s own metropolitan. So here, you see, a lower court was impudently preparing to try and redecide a cause which had already been decided by its superior, a court of higher authority. Imagine it! No, the case could not properly be tried again. Cauchon could not properly preside in this new court, for more than one reason:
The Inquisitor was right. The case brought against Joan had already been tried a long time ago in Poitiers, and it was decided in her favor. Yes, by a higher court than this one, because it was led by an Archbishop—he from Rheims—Cauchon’s own superior. So here, you see, a lower court was shamelessly preparing to reexamine and redo a case that had already been settled by its superior, a court with greater authority. Can you believe it? No, the case couldn't be properly tried again. Cauchon shouldn’t be presiding over this new court for more than one reason:
Rouen was not in his diocese; Joan had not been arrested in her domicile, which was still Domremy; and finally this proposed judge was the prisoner’s outspoken enemy, and therefore he was incompetent to try her. Yet all these large difficulties were gotten rid of. The territorial Chapter of Rouen finally granted territorial letters to Cauchon—though only after a struggle and under compulsion. Force was also applied to the Inquisitor, and he was obliged to submit.
Rouen wasn't in his jurisdiction; Joan hadn’t been captured at her home, which was still Domremy; and on top of that, this proposed judge was openly against the prisoner, making him unfit to preside over her case. Still, all these significant obstacles were overcome. The territorial Chapter of Rouen eventually issued territorial letters to Cauchon—though only after a fight and under pressure. The Inquisitor was also pushed into compliance.
So then, the little English King, by his representative, formally delivered Joan into the hands of the court, but with this reservation: if the court failed to condemn her, he was to have her back again! Ah, dear, what chance was there for that forsaken and friendless child? Friendless, indeed—it is the right word. For she was in a black dungeon, with half a dozen brutal common soldiers keeping guard night and day in the room where her cage was—for she was in a cage; an iron cage, and chained to her bed by neck and hands and feet. Never a person near her whom she had ever seen before; never a woman at all. Yes, this was, indeed, friendlessness.
So, the young English King, through his representative, officially handed Joan over to the court, but with one condition: if the court didn’t convict her, he would take her back! What hope did that abandoned and lonely girl have? Lonely, truly—it’s the perfect word. Because she was in a dark dungeon, with a handful of brutal soldiers watching her day and night in the room where her cage was—because she was in a cage; an iron cage, chained to her bed by her neck, hands, and feet. There wasn’t a single person there she had ever seen before; not a single woman at all. Yes, this was, without a doubt, loneliness.
Now it was a vassal of Jean de Luxembourg who captured Joan and Compiegne, and it was Jean who sold her to the Duke of Burgundy. Yet this very De Luxembourg was shameless enough to go and show his face to Joan in her cage. He came with two English earls, Warwick and Stafford. He was a poor reptile. He told her he would get her set free if she would promise not to fight the English any more. She had been in that cage a long time now, but not long enough to break her spirit. She retorted scornfully:
Now it was a follower of Jean de Luxembourg who captured Joan in Compiègne, and it was Jean who sold her to the Duke of Burgundy. Yet this very De Luxembourg had the audacity to visit Joan in her cage. He came with two English earls, Warwick and Stafford. He was a pathetic character. He told her he could get her released if she promised not to fight the English anymore. She had been in that cage for a long time now, but not long enough to break her spirit. She replied scornfully:
“Name of God, you but mock me. I know that you have neither the power nor the will to do it.”
“Name of God, you’re just mocking me. I know you don’t have the power or the desire to do it.”
He insisted. Then the pride and dignity of the soldier rose in Joan, and she lifted her chained hands and let them fall with a clash, saying:
He insisted. Then Joan’s pride and dignity as a soldier surged, and she lifted her chained hands, letting them fall with a clang, saying:
“See these! They know more than you, and can prophesy better. I know that the English are going to kill me, for they think that when I am dead they can get the Kingdom of France. It is not so.
“Look at these! They know more than you and can predict the future better. I know the English are going to kill me because they believe that once I'm dead, they can claim the Kingdom of France. That’s not true.”
“Though there were a hundred thousand of them they would never get it.”
“Even though there were a hundred thousand of them, they would never understand it.”
This defiance infuriated Stafford, and he—now think of it—he a free, strong man, she a chained and helpless girl—he drew his dagger and flung himself at her to stab her. But Warwick seized him and held him back. Warwick was wise. Take her life in that way? Send her to Heaven stainless and undisgraced? It would make her the idol of France, and the whole nation would rise and march to victory and emancipation under the inspiration of her spirit. No, she must be saved for another fate than that.
This defiance drove Stafford mad, and he—just think about it—he a free, strong man, she a bound and helpless girl—he drew his dagger and lunged at her to stab her. But Warwick grabbed him and held him back. Warwick was smart. To take her life like that? To send her to Heaven pure and unblemished? It would make her a national hero in France, and the whole country would rally and fight for victory and freedom inspired by her spirit. No, she had to be saved for a different fate than that.
Well, the time was approaching for the Great Trial. For more than two months Cauchon had been raking and scraping everywhere for any odds and ends of evidence or suspicion or conjecture that might be usable against Joan, and carefully suppressing all evidence that came to hand in her favor. He had limitless ways and means and powers at his disposal for preparing and strengthening the case for the prosecution, and he used them all.
Well, the time was nearing for the Great Trial. For over two months, Cauchon had been searching high and low for any bits and pieces of evidence, suspicion, or speculation that could be used against Joan while carefully hiding any evidence that might support her. He had endless resources and authority to build and strengthen the case for the prosecution, and he used every one of them.
But Joan had no one to prepare her case for her, and she was shut up in those stone walls and had no friend to appeal to for help. And as for witnesses, she could not call a single one in her defense; they were all far away, under the French flag, and this was an English court; they would have been seized and hanged if they had shown their faces at the gates of Rouen. No, the prisoner must be the sole witness—witness for the prosecution, witness for the defense; and with a verdict of death resolved upon before the doors were opened for the court’s first sitting.
But Joan had no one to prepare her case for her, and she was locked away in those stone walls with no friend to reach out to for help. As for witnesses, she couldn’t bring a single one in her defense; they were all far away under the French flag, and this was an English court. They would have been captured and executed if they had shown up at the gates of Rouen. No, the prisoner had to be her only witness—witness for the prosecution and witness for the defense; and a death sentence was already decided before the court even began its first session.
When she learned that the court was made up of ecclesiastics in the interest of the English, she begged that in fairness an equal number of priests of the French party should be added to these.
When she found out that the court consisted of church officials biased towards the English, she requested that, to be fair, an equal number of French priests should be included.
Cauchon scoffed at her message, and would not even deign to answer it.
Cauchon mocked her message and wouldn’t even bother to respond.
By the law of the Church—she being a minor under twenty-one—it was her right to have counsel to conduct her case, advise her how to answer when questioned, and protect her from falling into traps set by cunning devices of the prosecution. She probably did not know that this was her right, and that she could demand it and require it, for there was none to tell her that; but she begged for this help, at any rate. Cauchon refused it. She urged and implored, pleading her youth and her ignorance of the complexities and intricacies of the law and of legal procedure. Cauchon refused again, and said she must get along with her case as best she might by herself. Ah, his heart was a stone.
By Church law—since she was a minor under twenty-one—she had the right to have legal counsel to handle her case, advise her on how to respond to questions, and protect her from falling into traps set by the prosecution’s cunning tactics. She probably didn’t realize that this was her right and that she could ask for it, since no one informed her about it; nonetheless, she pleaded for this assistance anyway. Cauchon denied her request. She pressed on, begging, highlighting her youth and her lack of understanding of the complexities and intricacies of the law and legal procedures. Cauchon refused again, insisting that she had to deal with her case as best as she could on her own. Ah, his heart was like a stone.
Cauchon prepared the proces verbal. I will simplify that by calling it the Bill of Particulars. It was a detailed list of the charges against her, and formed the basis of the trial. Charges? It was a list of suspicions and public rumors—those were the words used. It was merely charged that she was suspected of having been guilty of heresies, witchcraft, and other such offenses against religion.
Cauchon prepared the official record. I'll simplify that by calling it the Bill of Particulars. It was a detailed list of the accusations against her and served as the foundation of the trial. Accusations? It was a list of suspicions and public rumors—those were the words used. She was simply accused of being suspected of heresies, witchcraft, and other offenses against religion.
Now by the law of the Church, a trial of that sort could not be begun until a searching inquiry had been made into the history and character of the accused, and it was essential that the result of this inquiry be added to the proces verbal and form a part of it. You remember that that was the first thing they did before the trial at Poitiers. They did it again now. An ecclesiastic was sent to Domremy. There and all about the neighborhood he made an exhaustive search into Joan’s history and character, and came back with his verdict. It was very clear. The searcher reported that he found Joan’s character to be in every way what he “would like his own sister’s character to be.” Just about the same report that was brought back to Poitiers, you see. Joan’s was a character which could endure the minutest examination.
Now, according to Church law, a trial like this couldn't start until a thorough investigation had been conducted into the history and character of the accused, and it was crucial for the findings of this investigation to be included in the official record. You remember that was the first step they took before the trial at Poitiers. They did the same thing this time. An official was sent to Domremy. There and in the surrounding area, he conducted a detailed inquiry into Joan’s history and character and returned with his report. It was very clear. The investigator stated that he found Joan’s character to be exactly what he “would wish his own sister’s character to be.” It was essentially the same report that was brought back to Poitiers, you see. Joan’s character could withstand the closest scrutiny.
This verdict was a strong point for Joan, you will say. Yes, it would have been if it could have seen the light; but Cauchon was awake, and it disappeared from the proces verbal before the trial. People were prudent enough not to inquire what became of it.
This verdict was a strong point for Joan, you might say. Yes, it would have been if it had been brought to light; but Cauchon was alert, and it vanished from the official record before the trial. People were careful not to ask what happened to it.
One would imagine that Cauchon was ready to begin the trial by this time. But no, he devised one more scheme for poor Joan’s destruction, and it promised to be a deadly one.
One would think that Cauchon was ready to start the trial by now. But no, he came up with one more plan for poor Joan’s downfall, and it looked like it would be a lethal one.
One of the great personages picked out and sent down by the University of Paris was an ecclesiastic named Nicolas Loyseleur. He was tall, handsome, grave, of smooth, soft speech and courteous and winning manners. There was no seeming of treachery or hypocrisy about him, yet he was full of both. He was admitted to Joan’s prison by night, disguised as a cobbler; he pretended to be from her own country; he professed to be secretly a patriot; he revealed the fact that he was a priest. She was filled with gladness to see one from the hills and plains that were so dear to her; happier still to look upon a priest and disburden her heart in confession, for the offices of the Church were the bread of life, the breath of her nostrils to her, and she had been long forced to pine for them in vain. She opened her whole innocent heart to this creature, and in return he gave her advice concerning her trial which could have destroyed her if her deep native wisdom had not protected her against following it.
One of the prominent figures sent by the University of Paris was a cleric named Nicolas Loyseleur. He was tall, attractive, serious, with a smooth, gentle way of speaking and charming manners. He seemed trustworthy and sincere, but he was actually deceitful and manipulative. He gained access to Joan’s prison at night, disguised as a cobbler; he claimed to be from her homeland and said he was secretly a patriot; he also revealed that he was a priest. She felt joyful to see someone from the beloved hills and plains; even more so to see a priest, allowing her to confess her heart's burdens, since the Church’s functions were vital to her well-being, and she had long yearned for them in vain. She poured her innocent heart out to him, and in return, he gave her trial advice that could have ruined her if her strong intuition hadn’t kept her from following it.
You will ask, what value could this scheme have, since the secrets of the confessional are sacred and cannot be revealed? True—but suppose another person should overhear them? That person is not bound to keep the secret. Well, that is what happened. Cauchon had previously caused a hole to be bored through the wall; and he stood with his ear to that hole and heard all. It is pitiful to think of these things. One wonders how they could treat that poor child so. She had not done them any harm.
You might wonder what value this plan could have, since the secrets of the confessional are sacred and cannot be revealed. True—but what if someone else happens to overhear them? That person isn't obligated to keep the secret. Well, that's exactly what happened. Cauchon had previously created a hole in the wall; he positioned himself with his ear to that hole and heard everything. It's heartbreaking to think about it. One wonders how they could treat that poor girl that way. She hadn't done anything wrong to them.
4 All Ready to Condemn

ON TUESDAY, the 20th of February, while I sat at my master’s work in the evening, he came in, looking sad, and said it had been decided to begin the trial at eight o’clock the next morning, and I must get ready to assist him.
ON TUESDAY, the 20th of February, while I was working for my master in the evening, he came in, looking upset, and said it had been decided to start the trial at eight o’clock the next morning, and I needed to get ready to help him.
Of course I had been expecting such news every day for many days; but no matter, the shock of it almost took my breath away and set me trembling like a leaf. I suppose that without knowing it I had been half imagining that at the last moment something would happen, something that would stop this fatal trial; maybe that La Hire would burst in at the gates with his hellions at his back; maybe that God would have pity and stretch forth His mighty hand. But now—now there was no hope.
Of course, I had been anticipating this news every day for a while, but still, the shock of it nearly took my breath away and left me shaking like a leaf. I guess, without realizing it, I had been half-expecting that at the last moment something would happen, something that would prevent this terrible trial; maybe La Hire would burst through the gates with his wild crew behind him; maybe God would take pity and reach out His powerful hand. But now—now there was no hope.
The trial was to begin in the chapel of the fortress and would be public. So I went sorrowing away and told Noel, so that he might be there early and secure a place. It would give him a chance to look again upon the face which we so revered and which was so precious to us. All the way, both going and coming, I plowed through chattering and rejoicing multitudes of English soldiery and English-hearted French citizens. There was no talk but of the coming event. Many times I heard the remark, accompanied by a pitiless laugh:
The trial was set to take place in the chapel of the fortress and it would be open to the public. So, I sadly went away and told Noel, so he could get there early and grab a spot. It would give him a chance to see again the face that we held in such high regard and that meant so much to us. All the way there and back, I pushed through the excited and cheerful crowds of English soldiers and English-minded French citizens. All anyone could talk about was the upcoming event. I heard the comment several times, followed by a cruel laugh:
“The fat Bishop has got things as he wants them at last, and says he will lead the vile witch a merry dance and a short one.”
“The fat Bishop finally has everything the way he wants it, and he says he’ll lead the nasty witch on a wild but quick chase.”
But here and there I glimpsed compassion and distress in a face, and it was not always a French one. English soldiers feared Joan, but they admired her for her great deeds and her unconquerable spirit.
But every now and then, I caught sight of compassion and distress on a face, and it wasn’t always a French one. English soldiers were afraid of Joan, but they respected her for her incredible achievements and her indomitable spirit.
In the morning Manchon and I went early, yet as we approached the vast fortress we found crowds of men already there and still others gathering. The chapel was already full and the way barred against further admissions of unofficial persons. We took our appointed places. Throned on high sat the president, Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, in his grand robes, and before him in rows sat his robed court—fifty distinguished ecclesiastics, men of high degree in the Church, of clear-cut intellectual faces, men of deep learning, veteran adepts in strategy and casuistry, practised setters of traps for ignorant minds and unwary feet. When I looked around upon this army of masters of legal fence, gathered here to find just one verdict and no other, and remembered that Joan must fight for her good name and her life single-handed against them, I asked myself what chance an ignorant poor country-girl of nineteen could have in such an unequal conflict; and my heart sank down low, very low. When I looked again at that obese president, puffing and wheezing there, his great belly distending and receding with each breath, and noted his three chins, fold above fold, and his knobby and knotty face, and his purple and splotchy complexion, and his repulsive cauliflower nose, and his cold and malignant eyes—a brute, every detail of him—my heart sank lower still. And when I noted that all were afraid of this man, and shrank and fidgeted in their seats when his eye smote theirs, my last poor ray of hope dissolved away and wholly disappeared.
In the morning, Manchon and I went early, but as we got closer to the huge fortress, we saw crowds of people already there and even more gathering. The chapel was already full, and the entrance was closed off to anyone who wasn’t official. We took our assigned places. Sitting high up was the president, Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, in his grand robes. In rows before him sat his court—fifty distinguished clergy members, high-ranking men in the Church with clear, intelligent faces, highly educated, experienced strategists and legal experts, skilled at trapping the ignorant and unsuspecting. Looking around at this group of legal masters gathered here to reach just one specific verdict, I thought about how Joan had to fight for her reputation and her life all on her own against them. I wondered what chance a poor, uneducated girl of nineteen would have in such an unfair fight, and my heart sank. When I looked at that large president, puffing and wheezing, his big belly expanding and contracting with each breath, and saw his triple chin, the folds of skin on his face, his purple blotchy complexion, and his off-putting cauliflower nose, along with his cold, spiteful eyes—a brute in every way—my heart sank even lower. And when I noticed how everyone was afraid of him, shrinking back and fidgeting in their seats when he looked at them, my final glimmer of hope faded away completely.
There was one unoccupied seat in this place, and only one. It was over against the wall, in view of every one. It was a little wooden bench without a back, and it stood apart and solitary on a sort of dais. Tall men-at-arms in morion, breastplate, and steel gauntlets stood as stiff as their own halberds on each side of this dais, but no other creature was near by it. A pathetic little bench to me it was, for I knew whom it was for; and the sight of it carried my mind back to the great court at Poitiers, where Joan sat upon one like it and calmly fought her cunning fight with the astonished doctors of the Church and Parliament, and rose from it victorious and applauded by all, and went forth to fill the world with the glory of her name.
There was one empty seat in this place, and only one. It was against the wall, visible to everyone. It was a small wooden bench without a back, standing alone on a sort of platform. Tall guards in helmets, breastplates, and steel gloves stood rigid like their own halberds on either side of this platform, but no one else was nearby. It looked like a sad little bench to me, because I knew who it was meant for; and seeing it reminded me of the grand court at Poitiers, where Joan sat on a similar one and confidently battled with the astonished doctors of the Church and Parliament, rising from it victorious and applauded by all, and then went out to spread the glory of her name throughout the world.
What a dainty little figure she was, and how gentle and innocent, how winning and beautiful in the fresh bloom of her seventeen years! Those were grand days. And so recent—for she was just nineteen now—and how much she had seen since, and what wonders she had accomplished!
What a delicate little figure she was, and how gentle and innocent, how charming and beautiful in the fresh bloom of her seventeen years! Those were great days. And so recent—for she was just nineteen now—and how much she had seen since, and what amazing things she had accomplished!
But now—oh, all was changed now. She had been languishing in dungeons, away from light and air and the cheer of friendly faces, for nearly three-quarters of a year—she, born child of the sun, natural comrade of the birds and of all happy free creatures. She would be weary now, and worn with this long captivity, her forces impaired; despondent, perhaps, as knowing there was no hope. Yes, all was changed.
But now—oh, everything was different now. She had been trapped in dungeons, away from light and fresh air and the joy of friendly faces, for almost nine months—she, a child of the sun, a natural companion to the birds and all joyful, free creatures. She must be tired now, and worn down from this long imprisonment, her strength diminished; feeling hopeless, perhaps, as she realized there was no chance for escape. Yes, everything was different.
All this time there had been a muffled hum of conversation, and rustling of robes and scraping of feet on the floor, a combination of dull noises which filled all the place. Suddenly:
All this time, there had been a low murmur of conversation, the sound of robes rustling, and feet scraping on the floor—an ongoing mix of dull noises that filled the entire space. Then, all of a sudden:
“Produce the accused!”
“Bring in the accused!”
It made me catch my breath. My heart began to thump like a hammer. But there was silence now—silence absolute. All those noises ceased, and it was as if they had never been. Not a sound; the stillness grew oppressive; it was like a weight upon one. All faces were turned toward the door; and one could properly expect that, for most of the people there suddenly realized, no doubt, that they were about to see, in actual flesh and blood, what had been to them before only an embodied prodigy, a word, a phrase, a world-girdling Name.
It took my breath away. My heart started pounding like a hammer. But now there was silence—absolute silence. All those sounds stopped, as if they had never existed. Not a single noise; the stillness became suffocating; it felt like a weight on me. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the door; you could tell that most of the people there suddenly understood that they were about to see, in real life, what had previously been just an incredible concept, a word, a phrase, a world-famous name.
The stillness continued. Then, far down the stone-paved corridors, one heard a vague slow sound approaching: clank... clink... clank—Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, in chains!
The silence lingered. Then, deep down the stone-paved hallways, a distant slow sound could be heard getting closer: clank... clink... clank—Joan of Arc, Savior of France, in chains!
My head swam; all things whirled and spun about me. Ah, I was realizing, too.
My head was spinning; everything was swirling around me. Ah, I was beginning to understand, too.
5 Fifty Experts Against a Novice
I GIVE you my honor now that I am not going to distort or discolor the facts of this miserable trial. No, I will give them to you honestly, detail by detail, just as Manchon and I set them down daily in the official record of the court, and just as one may read them in the printed histories.
I swear to you that I won’t twist or distort the facts of this miserable trial. No, I’ll present them to you honestly, step by step, just as Manchon and I wrote them down each day in the official court record, and just as you can read them in the published histories.
There will be only this difference: that in talking familiarly with you, I shall use my right to comment upon the proceedings and explain them as I go along, so that you can understand them better; also, I shall throw in trifles which came under our eyes and have a certain interest for you and me, but were not important enough to go into the official record. (1) To take up my story now where I left off. We heard the clanking of Joan’s chains down the corridors; she was approaching.
There will be just one difference: in our casual conversation, I'll take the liberty to comment on what’s happening and explain it as I go, so you can grasp it better. I’ll also share little details that caught our attention and are of some interest to both of us, even though they weren’t significant enough to make the official record. (1) So, let’s continue my story from where I left off. We heard the clanking of Joan’s chains down the corridors; she was getting closer.
Presently she appeared; a thrill swept the house, and one heard deep breaths drawn. Two guardsmen followed her at a short distance to the rear. Her head was bowed a little, and she moved slowly, she being weak and her irons heavy. She had on men’s attire—all black; a soft woolen stuff, intensely black, funereally black, not a speck of relieving color in it from her throat to the floor. A wide collar of this same black stuff lay in radiating folds upon her shoulders and breast; the sleeves of her doublet were full, down to the elbows, and tight thence to her manacled wrists; below the doublet, tight black hose down to the chains on her ankles.
Presently, she appeared; a thrill swept through the house, and everyone took deep breaths. Two guardsmen followed her closely behind. Her head was slightly bowed, and she moved slowly, appearing weak with heavy shackles. She wore men’s clothing—all black; a soft woolen fabric, intensely black, funeral black, without a single hint of color from her neck to the floor. A wide collar of the same black fabric lay in radiating folds on her shoulders and chest; the sleeves of her doublet were loose down to the elbows and tight from there to her shackled wrists; below the doublet, she wore tight black hose down to the chains on her ankles.
Half-way to her bench she stopped, just where a wide shaft of light fell slanting from a window, and slowly lifted her face. Another thrill!—it was totally colorless, white as snow; a face of gleaming snow set in vivid contrast upon that slender statue of somber unmitigated black. It was smooth and pure and girlish, beautiful beyond belief, infinitely sad and sweet. But, dear, dear! when the challenge of those untamed eyes fell upon that judge, and the droop vanished from her form and it straightened up soldierly and noble, my heart leaped for joy; and I said, all is well, all is well—they have not broken her, they have not conquered her, she is Joan of Arc still! Yes, it was plain to me now that there was one spirit there which this dreaded judge could not quell nor make afraid.
Halfway to her bench, she stopped, right where a broad beam of light came slanting through a window, and slowly lifted her face. Another thrill!—it was totally colorless, as white as snow; a face of shining snow set against that slender figure of deep, unyielding black. It was smooth, pure, and youthful, incredibly beautiful, infinitely sad and sweet. But, oh dear! when the challenge of those wild eyes met that judge, and the slump disappeared from her posture and she stood tall and noble, my heart soared with joy; and I thought, all is well, all is well—they haven’t broken her, they haven’t conquered her, she is still Joan of Arc! Yes, it became clear to me that there was one spirit that this feared judge could not suppress nor intimidate.
She moved to her place and mounted the dais and seated herself upon her bench, gathering her chains into her lap and nestling her little white hands there. Then she waited in tranquil dignity, the only person there who seemed unmoved and unexcited. A bronzed and brawny English soldier, standing at martial ease in the front rank of the citizen spectators, did now most gallantly and respectfully put up his great hand and give her the military salute; and she, smiling friendly, put up hers and returned it; whereat there was a sympathetic little break of applause, which the judge sternly silence.
She went to her spot, stepped up onto the platform, and sat down on her bench, gathering her chains into her lap and resting her small white hands there. Then she waited with calm dignity, the only one present who seemed unfazed and composed. A strong, sun-tanned English soldier, standing at attention in the front row of the onlookers, gallantly and respectfully raised his large hand to give her a military salute. She smiled back, raised her hand, and returned the gesture; this led to a brief round of sympathetic applause, which the judge firmly silenced.
Now the memorable inquisition called in history the Great Trial began. Fifty experts against a novice, and no one to help the novice!
Now the memorable investigation known in history as the Great Trial began. Fifty experts against a newcomer, with no one to support the newcomer!
The judge summarized the circumstances of the case and the public reports and suspicions upon which it was based; then he required Joan to kneel and make oath that she would answer with exact truthfulness to all questions asked her.
The judge outlined the details of the case and the public reports and suspicions that it was founded on; then he asked Joan to kneel and swear that she would answer all questions posed to her with complete honesty.
Joan’s mind was not asleep. It suspected that dangerous possibilities might lie hidden under this apparently fair and reasonable demand. She answered with the simplicity which so often spoiled the enemy’s best-laid plans in the trial at Poitiers, and said:
Joan’s mind was wide awake. It sensed that there could be dangerous possibilities lurking beneath this seemingly fair and reasonable request. She replied with the straightforwardness that frequently undermined the enemy’s most carefully crafted strategies during the trial at Poitiers and said:
“No; for I do not know what you are going to ask me; you might ask of me things which I would not tell you.”
“No; I don’t know what you’re going to ask me; you might ask me things that I wouldn’t tell you.”
This incensed the Court, and brought out a brisk flurry of angry exclamations. Joan was not disturbed. Cauchon raised his voice and began to speak in the midst of this noise, but he was so angry that he could hardly get his words out. He said:
This infuriated the Court and sparked a quick wave of angry outbursts. Joan remained unfazed. Cauchon raised his voice and attempted to speak over the commotion, but he was so angry that he struggled to articulate his words. He said:
“With the divine assistance of our Lord we require you to expedite these proceedings for the welfare of your conscience. Swear, with your hands upon the Gospels, that you will answer true to the questions which shall be asked you!” and he brought down his fat hand with a crash upon his official table.
“With the help of our Lord, we ask you to speed up these proceedings for the sake of your conscience. Swear, with your hands on the Gospels, that you will answer truthfully to the questions that will be asked of you!” and he slammed his large hand down hard on his official table.
Joan said, with composure:
Joan said calmly:
“As concerning my father and mother, and the faith, and what things I have done since my coming into France, I will gladly answer; but as regards the revelations which I have received from God, my Voices have forbidden me to confide them to any save my King—”
“As for my father and mother, my faith, and what I have done since arriving in France, I’ll gladly answer; but regarding the revelations I've received from God, my Voices have told me to share them only with my King—”
Here there was another angry outburst of threats and expletives, and much movement and confusion; so she had to stop, and wait for the noise to subside; then her waxen face flushed a little and she straightened up and fixed her eye on the judge, and finished her sentence in a voice that had the old ring to it:
Here, there was another angry outburst of threats and curse words, along with a lot of movement and chaos; so she had to pause and wait for the noise to die down; then her pale face turned slightly red, she sat up straight, focused her gaze on the judge, and completed her sentence in a voice that still had its old tone:
—“and I will never reveal these things though you cut my head off!”
—“and I will never tell you these things even if you chop off my head!”
Well, maybe you know what a deliberative body of Frenchmen is like. The judge and half the court were on their feet in a moment, and all shaking their fists at the prisoner, and all storming and vituperating at once, so that you could hardly hear yourself think. They kept this up several minutes; and because Joan sat untroubled and indifferent they grew madder and noisier all the time. Once she said, with a fleeting trace of the old-time mischief in her eye and manner:
Well, maybe you know what a group of Frenchmen debating is like. The judge and half the court were on their feet in an instant, shaking their fists at the prisoner and all shouting and cursing at once, making it nearly impossible to hear yourself think. They kept this up for several minutes; and because Joan remained calm and indifferent, they got angrier and louder. At one point, she said, with a brief hint of her old mischief in her eye and manner:
“Prithee, speak one at a time, fair lords, then I will answer all of you.”
“Please, speak one at a time, fair lords, and then I will answer all of you.”
At the end of three whole hours of furious debating over the oath, the situation had not changed a jot. The Bishop was still requiring an unmodified oath, Joan was refusing for the twentieth time to take any except the one which she had herself proposed. There was a physical change apparent, but it was confined to the court and judge; they were hoarse, droopy, exhausted by their long frenzy, and had a sort of haggard look in their faces, poor men, whereas Joan was still placid and reposeful and did not seem noticeably tired.
At the end of three intense hours of heated debate over the oath, nothing had changed at all. The Bishop was still insisting on an unchanged oath, while Joan was refusing for the twentieth time to take anything other than the one she had proposed herself. There was a visible change, but it was limited to the court and the judge; they were hoarse, worn out, and exhausted from their long ordeal, with a haggard look on their faces, poor things, while Joan remained calm and composed and didn’t seem tired at all.
The noise quieted down; there was a waiting pause of some moments’ duration. Then the judge surrendered to the prisoner, and with bitterness in his voice told her to take the oath after her own fashion. Joan sunk at once to her knees; and as she laid her hands upon the Gospels, that big English soldier set free his mind:
The noise died down; there was a brief moment of silence. Then the judge gave in to the prisoner and, with bitterness in his voice, told her to take the oath in her own way. Joan immediately dropped to her knees; and as she placed her hands on the Gospels, that big English soldier expressed his thoughts:
“By God, if she were but English, she were not in this place another half a second!”
“Honestly, if she were just English, she wouldn’t be in this place for even another half a second!”
It was the soldier in him responding to the soldier in her. But what a stinging rebuke it was, what an arraignment of French character and French royalty! Would that he could have uttered just that one phrase in the hearing of Orleans! I know that that grateful city, that adoring city, would have risen to the last man and the last woman, and marched upon Rouen. Some speeches—speeches that shame a man and humble him—burn themselves into the memory and remain there. That one is burned into mine.
It was the soldier in him reacting to the soldier in her. But what a sharp rebuke it was, what a condemnation of French character and royalty! If only he could have said that one phrase in front of Orleans! I know that city, filled with gratitude and admiration, would have rallied to the last person and marched on Rouen. Some speeches—speeches that embarrass a man and humble him—stick in your memory and stay there. That one is etched in my mind.
After Joan had made oath, Cauchon asked her her name, and where she was born, and some questions about her family; also what her age was. She answered these. Then he asked her how much education she had.
After Joan swore an oath, Cauchon asked her what her name was, where she was born, and some questions about her family; he also inquired about her age. She answered all these questions. Then he asked her how much education she had.
“I have learned from my mother the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the Belief. All that I know was taught me by my mother.”
“I learned the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Creed from my mom. Everything I know was taught to me by her.”
Questions of this unessential sort dribbled on for a considerable time. Everybody was tired out by now, except Joan. The tribunal prepared to rise. At this point Cauchon forbade Joan to try to escape from prison, upon pain of being held guilty of the crime of heresy—singular logic! She answered simply:
Questions of this pointless kind went on for quite a while. Everyone was worn out by now, except Joan. The tribunal was getting ready to adjourn. At that moment, Cauchon ordered Joan not to attempt to escape from prison, threatening that she would be considered guilty of heresy if she did—what a strange logic! She replied simply:
“I am not bound by this proposition. If I could escape I would not reproach myself, for I have given no promise, and I shall not.”
“I’m not obligated to this idea. If I could get away, I wouldn’t feel guilty, because I haven’t made any promises, and I won’t.”
Then she complained of the burden of her chains, and asked that they might be removed, for she was strongly guarded in that dungeon and there was no need of them. But the Bishop refused, and reminded her that she had broken out of prison twice before. Joan of Arc was too proud to insist. She only said, as she rose to go with the guard:
Then she complained about the weight of her chains and requested that they be taken off since she was heavily guarded in that dungeon and there was no need for them. But the Bishop refused and reminded her that she had escaped from prison twice before. Joan of Arc was too proud to push the issue. She simply said, as she stood up to leave with the guard:
“It is true, I have wanted to escape, and I do want to escape.” Then she added, in a way that would touch the pity of anybody, I think, “It is the right of every prisoner.”
“It’s true, I’ve wanted to escape, and I still want to escape.” Then she added, in a way that would evoke pity from anyone, I think, “It’s the right of every prisoner.”
And so she went from the place in the midst of an impressive stillness, which made the sharper and more distressful to me the clank of those pathetic chains.
And so she left the place in the middle of an impressive silence, which made the clank of those sad chains feel even sharper and more distressing to me.
What presence of mind she had! One could never surprise her out of it. She saw Noel and me there when she first took her seat on the bench, and we flushed to the forehead with excitement and emotion, but her face showed nothing, betrayed nothing. Her eyes sought us fifty times that day, but they passed on and there was never any ray of recognition in them. Another would have started upon seeing us, and then—why, then there could have been trouble for us, of course.
What presence of mind she had! One could never surprise her out of it. She saw Noel and me there when she first sat down on the bench, and we turned bright red with excitement and emotion, but her face revealed nothing, betrayed nothing. Her eyes searched for us fifty times that day, but they moved on and there was never any hint of recognition in them. Someone else would have gasped upon seeing us, and then—well, then there could have been trouble for us, of course.
We walked slowly home together, each busy with his own grief and saying not a word.
We walked home slowly together, each caught up in our own sadness and not saying a word.
(1) He kept his word. His account of the Great Trial will be found to be in strict and detailed accordance with the sworn facts of history. —TRANSLATOR.
(1) He kept his promise. His description of the Great Trial will be in complete and detailed alignment with the verified facts of history. —TRANSLATOR.
6 The Maid Baffles Her Persecutors
THAT NIGHT Manchon told me that all through the day’s proceedings Cauchon had had some clerks concealed in the embrasure of a window who were to make a special report garbling Joan’s answers and twisting them from their right meaning. Ah, that was surely the cruelest man and the most shameless that has lived in this world. But his scheme failed. Those clerks had human hearts in them, and their base work revolted them, and they turned to and boldly made a straight report, whereupon Cauchon cursed them and ordered them out of his presence with a threat of drowning, which was his favorite and most frequent menace. The matter had gotten abroad and was making great and unpleasant talk, and Cauchon would not try to repeat this shabby game right away. It comforted me to hear that.
THAT NIGHT, Manchon told me that throughout the day’s proceedings, Cauchon had some clerks hidden in the recess of a window who were supposed to write a special report that twisted Joan’s answers and misrepresented their true meaning. Ah, he was certainly the cruelest and most shameless person to ever live. But his plan backfired. Those clerks had human hearts, and they were disgusted by their dishonest work, so they decided to write an honest report instead. Cauchon then cursed them and ordered them out of his sight with a threat of drowning, which was his favorite and most common threat. The word got out, creating a lot of unpleasant chatter, and Cauchon didn’t want to try this dirty tactic again right away. It made me feel better to hear that.
When we arrived at the citadel next morning, we found that a change had been made. The chapel had been found too small. The court had now removed to a noble chamber situated at the end of the great hall of the castle. The number of judges was increased to sixty-two—one ignorant girl against such odds, and none to help her.
When we got to the citadel the next morning, we noticed that things had changed. The chapel was considered too small. The court had now moved to an impressive room at the end of the castle's great hall. The number of judges had gone up to sixty-two—one clueless girl facing all of them, with no one to support her.
The prisoner was brought in. She was as white as ever, but she was looking no whit worse than she looked when she had first appeared the day before. Isn’t it a strange thing? Yesterday she had sat five hours on that backless bench with her chains in her lap, baited, badgered, persecuted by that unholy crew, without even the refreshment of a cup of water—for she was never offered anything, and if I have made you know her by this time you will know without my telling you that she was not a person likely to ask favors of those people. And she had spent the night caged in her wintry dungeon with her chains upon her; yet here she was, as I say, collected, unworn, and ready for the conflict; yes, and the only person there who showed no signs of the wear and worry of yesterday. And her eyes—ah, you should have seen them and broken your hearts. Have you seen that veiled deep glow, that pathetic hurt dignity, that unsubdued and unsubduable spirit that burns and smolders in the eye of a caged eagle and makes you feel mean and shabby under the burden of its mute reproach? Her eyes were like that. How capable they were, and how wonderful! Yes, at all times and in all circumstances they could express as by print every shade of the wide range of her moods. In them were hidden floods of gay sunshine, the softest and peacefulest twilights, and devastating storms and lightnings. Not in this world have there been others that were comparable to them. Such is my opinion, and none that had the privilege to see them would say otherwise than this which I have said concerning them.
The prisoner was brought in. She was as pale as ever, but she didn’t look any worse than when she first appeared the day before. Isn’t it strange? Yesterday she sat for five hours on that uncomfortable bench with her chains in her lap, taunted, harassed, and tormented by that wicked group, without even the comfort of a cup of water—she was never offered anything, and if you’ve come to know her by now, you’ll understand she wasn’t the type to ask those people for favors. She had spent the night locked in her cold, damp cell with her chains still on; yet here she was, as I said, composed, unbothered, and prepared for the battle; yes, she was the only person there who showed no signs of the exhaustion and anxiety from yesterday. And her eyes—oh, you should have seen them; they would break your heart. Have you seen that deep, hidden glow, that poignant hurt dignity, that untamed spirit which flickers in the gaze of a caged eagle, making you feel small and insignificant under its silent reproach? Her eyes were like that. They were so full of potential and extraordinary! Always, in every situation, they could convey every nuance of her moods as if they were printed. Within them lay torrents of bright sunshine, the calmest and most peaceful twilights, as well as destructive storms and flashes of lightning. In this world, there haven’t been eyes that compare to hers. That’s my opinion, and anyone fortunate enough to see them would agree with what I’ve said about them.
The seance began. And how did it begin, should you think? Exactly as it began before—with that same tedious thing which had been settled once, after so much wrangling. The Bishop opened thus:
The seance started. And how did it start, you might wonder? Exactly as it did before—with that same boring thing that had been agreed upon after so much arguing. The Bishop began like this:
“You are required now, to take the oath pure and simple, to answer truly all questions asked you.”
“You need to take the oath straightforwardly and answer all questions asked honestly.”
Joan replied placidly:
Joan replied calmly:
“I have made oath yesterday, my lord; let that suffice.”
“I swore an oath yesterday, my lord; let that be enough.”
The Bishop insisted and insisted, with rising temper; Joan but shook her head and remained silent. At last she said:
The Bishop kept insisting, getting more and more angry; Joan just shook her head and stayed silent. Finally, she said:
“I made oath yesterday; it is sufficient.” Then she sighed and said, “Of a truth, you do burden me too much.”
“I swore an oath yesterday; that’s enough.” Then she sighed and said, “Honestly, you’re putting too much weight on me.”
The Bishop still insisted, still commanded, but he could not move her. At last he gave it up and turned her over for the day’s inquest to an old hand at tricks and traps and deceptive plausibilities—Beaupere, a doctor of theology. Now notice the form of this sleek strategist’s first remark—flung out in an easy, offhand way that would have thrown any unwatchful person off his guard:
The Bishop kept insisting and commanding, but he couldn't get through to her. Finally, he gave up and handed her over for the day's investigation to an old pro at tricks and manipulations—Beaupere, a theology doctor. Now, pay attention to how this slick strategist opened the conversation—throwing out a casual comment that could easily catch any unsuspecting person off guard:
“Now, Joan, the matter is very simple; just speak up and frankly and truly answer the questions which I am going to ask you, as you have sworn to do.”
“Now, Joan, this is straightforward; just speak up and honestly answer the questions I'm about to ask you, as you promised to do.”
It was a failure. Joan was not asleep. She saw the artifice. She said:
It was a failure. Joan was wide awake. She saw through the trick. She said:
“No. You could ask me things which I could not tell you—and would not.” Then, reflecting upon how profane and out of character it was for these ministers of God to be prying into matters which had proceeded from His hands under the awful seal of His secrecy, she added, with a warning note in her tone, “If you were well informed concerning me you would wish me out of your hands. I have done nothing but by revelation.”
“No. You could ask me things that I couldn’t and wouldn’t tell you.” Then, considering how inappropriate and uncharacteristic it was for these ministers of God to be digging into matters that had come from His hands under the heavy seal of His secrecy, she added, with a warning tone, “If you really understood me, you’d want me out of your hands. I’ve done nothing without revelation.”
Beaupere changed his attack, and began an approach from another quarter. He would slip upon her, you see, under cover of innocent and unimportant questions.
Beaupere altered his strategy and started to approach from a different angle. He would sneak up on her, you see, under the guise of innocent and trivial questions.
“Did you learn any trade at home?”
“Did you learn any skills at home?”
“Yes, to sew and to spin.” Then the invincible soldier, victor of Patay, conqueror of the lion Talbot, deliverer of Orleans, restorer of a king’s crown, commander-in-chief of a nation’s armies, straightened herself proudly up, gave her head a little toss, and said with naive complacency, “And when it comes to that, I am not afraid to be matched against any woman in Rouen!”
“Yes, to sew and to spin.” Then the unbeatable soldier, winner of Patay, conqueror of the lion Talbot, savior of Orleans, restorer of a king’s crown, and leader of a nation’s armies, stood up proudly, tossed her head slightly, and said with innocent confidence, “And when it comes to that, I’m not afraid to compete with any woman in Rouen!”
The crowd of spectators broke out with applause—which pleased Joan—and there was many a friendly and petting smile to be seen. But Cauchon stormed at the people and warned them to keep still and mind their manners.
The crowd of spectators erupted in applause—which made Joan happy—and there were many friendly and affectionate smiles all around. But Cauchon yelled at the people, warning them to be quiet and behave themselves.
Beaupere asked other questions. Then:
Beaupere asked more questions. Then:
“Had you other occupations at home?”
“Did you have any other things to do at home?”
“Yes. I helped my mother in the household work and went to the pastures with the sheep and the cattle.”
“Yes. I helped my mom with the housework and took the sheep and cattle to the pastures.”
Her voice trembled a little, but one could hardly notice it. As for me, it brought those old enchanted days flooding back to me, and I could not see what I was writing for a little while.
Her voice shook a bit, but it was barely noticeable. For me, it brought back those magical old days, and I couldn't see what I was writing for a moment.
Beaupere cautiously edged along up with other questions toward the forbidden ground, and finally repeated a question which she had refused to answer a little while back—as to whether she had received the Eucharist in those days at other festivals than that of Easter. Joan merely said:
Beaupere carefully moved forward with other questions towards the forbidden ground and finally asked again a question she had previously refused to answer—whether she had received the Eucharist on occasions other than Easter. Joan simply replied:
“Passez outre.” Or, as one might say, “Pass on to matters which you are privileged to pry into.”
“Move on.” Or, as one might say, “Go ahead and dig into matters that you have the right to explore.”
I heard a member of the court say to a neighbor:
I heard someone from the court say to a neighbor:
“As a rule, witnesses are but dull creatures, and an easy prey—yes, and easily embarrassed, easily frightened—but truly one can neither scare this child nor find her dozing.”
“As a rule, witnesses are pretty dull and easy targets—yeah, and easily embarrassed, easily scared—but honestly, you can’t intimidate this child or catch her napping.”
Presently the house pricked up its ears and began to listen eagerly, for Beaupere began to touch upon Joan’s Voices, a matter of consuming interest and curiosity to everybody. His purpose was to trick her into heedless sayings that could indicate that the Voices had sometimes given her evil advice—hence that they had come from Satan, you see. To have dealing with the devil—well, that would send her to the stake in brief order, and that was the deliberate end and aim of this trial.
Presently, the house perked up its ears and listened intently, as Beaupere started discussing Joan’s Voices, a topic that intrigued everyone. His goal was to manipulate her into making careless statements that could suggest the Voices had occasionally given her bad advice—implying that they came from Satan, you see. Dealing with the devil—well, that would quickly lead her to the stake, and that was the clear objective of this trial.
“When did you first hear these Voices?”
“When did you first hear these voices?”
“I was thirteen when I first heard a Voice coming from God to help me to live well. I was frightened. It came at midday, in my father’s garden in the summer.”
“I was thirteen when I first heard a voice from God guiding me to live well. I was scared. It happened at noon, in my dad's garden during the summer.”
“Had you been fasting?”
"Were you fasting?"
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“The day before?”
"Yesterday?"
“No.”
“Nope.”
“From what direction did it come?”
“From which direction did it come?”
“From the right—from toward the church.”
“From the right—coming from the church.”
“Did it come with a bright light?”
“Did it come with a bright light?”
“Oh, indeed yes. It was brilliant. When I came into France I often heard the Voices very loud.”
“Oh, absolutely. It was amazing. When I arrived in France, I often heard the Voices quite clearly.”
“What did the Voice sound like?”
“What did the Voice sound like?”
“It was a noble Voice, and I thought it was sent to me from God. The third time I heard it I recognized it as being an angel’s.”
“It was a majestic voice, and I believed it was a message from God. The third time I heard it, I realized it belonged to an angel.”
“You could understand it?”
"You got that?"
“Quite easily. It was always clear.”
“Very easily. It was always obvious.”
“What advice did it give you as to the salvation of your soul?”
“What advice did it give you about the salvation of your soul?”
“It told me to live rightly, and be regular in attendance upon the services of the Church. And it told me that I must go to France.”
“It told me to live well and be consistent in attending church services. And it told me that I needed to go to France.”
“In what species of form did the Voice appear?”
“In what form did the Voice appear?”
Joan looked suspiciously at he priest a moment, then said, tranquilly:
Joan looked at the priest with suspicion for a moment, then said calmly:
“As to that, I will not tell you.”
“As for that, I'm not going to tell you.”
“Did the Voice seek you often?”
“Did the Voice reach out to you often?”
“Yes. Twice or three times a week, saying, ‘Leave your village and go to France.’”
“Yes. Two or three times a week, she says, ‘Leave your village and go to France.’”
“Did you father know about your departure?”
“Did your dad know about your departure?”
“No. The Voice said, ‘Go to France’; therefore I could not abide at home any longer.”
“No. The Voice said, ‘Go to France’; so I couldn’t stay home any longer.”
“What else did it say?”
“What else did it say?”
“That I should raise the siege of Orleans.”
“That I should lift the siege of Orleans.”
“Was that all?”
"Is that it?"
“No, I was to go to Vaucouleurs, and Robert de Baudricourt would give me soldiers to go with me to France; and I answered, saying that I was a poor girl who did not know how to ride, neither how to fight.”
“No, I was supposed to go to Vaucouleurs, and Robert de Baudricourt would give me soldiers to take with me to France; and I replied, saying that I was a poor girl who didn’t know how to ride or fight.”
Then she told how she was balked and interrupted at Vaucouleurs, but finally got her soldiers, and began her march.
Then she explained how she was held back and interrupted at Vaucouleurs, but eventually gathered her soldiers and started her march.
“How were you dressed?”
"What were you wearing?"
The court of Poitiers had distinctly decided and decreed that as God had appointed her to do a man’s work, it was meet and no scandal to religion that she should dress as a man; but no matter, this court was ready to use any and all weapons against Joan, even broken and discredited ones, and much was going to be made of this one before this trial should end.
The court of Poitiers had clearly decided that since God had chosen her to do a man’s work, it was acceptable and not scandalous to religion for her to dress as a man; however, the court was prepared to use any and all means against Joan, even those that were unreliable and discredited, and a lot was going to be made of this before the trial concluded.
“I wore a man’s dress, also a sword which Robert de Baudricourt gave me, but no other weapon.”
“I wore a man's dress and a sword that Robert de Baudricourt gave me, but no other weapon.”
“Who was it that advised you to wear the dress of a man?”
“Who told you to dress like a man?”
Joan was suspicious again. She would not answer.
Joan was feeling suspicious again. She didn’t respond.
The question was repeated.
The question was asked again.
She refused again.
She declined again.
“Answer. It is a command!”
"Respond. It's an order!"
“Passez outre,” was all she said.
“Move on,” was all she said.
So Beaupere gave up the matter for the present.
So Beaupere decided to let the matter go for now.
“What did Baudricourt say to you when you left?”
“What did Baudricourt tell you when you left?”
“He made them that were to go with me promise to take charge of me, and to me he said, ‘Go, and let happen what may!’” (Advienne que pourra!) After a good deal of questioning upon other matters she was asked again about her attire. She said it was necessary for her to dress as a man.
“He made those who were going with me promise to look after me, and to me he said, 'Go, and let whatever happens, happen!'” (Advienne que pourra!) After discussing several other topics, she was asked again about her outfit. She explained that it was important for her to dress like a man.
“Did your Voice advise it?”
“Did your Voice suggest it?”
Joan merely answered placidly:
Joan just replied calmly:
“I believe my Voice gave me good advice.”
“I believe my inner voice gave me good advice.”
It was all that could be got out of her, so the questions wandered to other matters, and finally to her first meeting with the King at Chinon. She said she chose out the King, who was unknown to her, by the revelation of her Voices. All that happened at that time was gone over. Finally:
It was all she could share, so the conversation shifted to other topics, eventually leading to her first meeting with the King at Chinon. She mentioned that she recognized the King, whom she had never met before, through the guidance of her Voices. They reviewed everything that happened during that time. Finally:
“Do you still hear those Voices?”
“Do you still hear those voices?”
“They come to me every day.”
“They come to me every day.”
“What do you ask of them?”
“What do you want from them?”
“I have never asked of them any recompense but the salvation of my soul.”
“I've never asked anything from them except the salvation of my soul.”
“Did the Voice always urge you to follow the army?”
“Did the Voice always encourage you to join the army?”
He is creeping upon her again. She answered:
He is approaching her again. She replied:
“It required me to remain behind at St. Denis. I would have obeyed if I had been free, but I was helpless by my wound, and the knights carried me away by force.”
“It forced me to stay behind at St. Denis. I would have obeyed if I had been free, but I was powerless because of my injury, and the knights took me away by force.”
“When were you wounded?”
"When did you get hurt?"
“I was wounded in the moat before Paris, in the assault.”
“I was injured in the moat before Paris during the attack.”
The next question reveals what Beaupere had been leading up to:
The next question shows what Beaupere had been hinting at:
“Was it a feast-day?”
"Was it a holiday?"
You see? The suggestion that a voice coming from God would hardly advise or permit the violation, by war and bloodshed, of a sacred day.
You see? The idea that a voice from God would actually advise or allow the violation of a sacred day through war and bloodshed is hard to believe.
Joan was troubled a moment, then she answered yes, it was a feast-day.
Joan was worried for a moment, then she replied that yes, it was a holiday.
“Now, then, tell the this: did you hold it right to make the attack on such a day?”
“Now, tell me this: did you think it was right to launch the attack on such a day?”
This was a shot which might make the first breach in a wall which had suffered no damage thus far. There was immediate silence in the court and intense expectancy noticeable all about. But Joan disappointed the house. She merely made a slight little motion with her hand, as when one brushes away a fly, and said with reposeful indifference:
This was a shot that could create the first breach in a wall that had remained intact until now. There was an immediate hush in the court, and an intense sense of anticipation was felt throughout. But Joan let everyone down. She simply made a small gesture with her hand, like someone swatting away a fly, and said with calm indifference:
“Passez outre.”
"Move on."
Smiles danced for a moment in some of the sternest faces there, and several men even laughed outright. The trap had been long and laboriously prepared; it fell, and was empty.
Smiles flickered for a moment on some of the sternest faces there, and a few men even laughed out loud. The trap had taken a long time to set up and was carefully crafted; it snapped shut, and was empty.
The court rose. It had sat for hours, and was cruelly fatigued. Most of the time had been taken up with apparently idle and purposeless inquiries about the Chinon events, the exiled Duke of Orleans, Joan’s first proclamation, and so on, but all this seemingly random stuff had really been sown thick with hidden traps. But Joan had fortunately escaped them all, some by the protecting luck which attends upon ignorance and innocence, some by happy accident, the others by force of her best and surest helper, the clear vision and lightning intuitions of her extraordinary mind.
The court adjourned. It had been in session for hours and was extremely exhausted. Most of the time had been spent on seemingly pointless and aimless questions about the events in Chinon, the exiled Duke of Orleans, Joan’s first proclamation, and so on, but all this apparently random discussion was actually filled with hidden traps. Fortunately, Joan had managed to avoid them all—some due to the protective luck that comes with ignorance and innocence, some by sheer chance, and others thanks to the strength of her most reliable ally, her clear insight and quick instincts from her exceptional mind.
Now, then, this daily baiting and badgering of this friendless girl, a captive in chains, was to continue a long, long time—dignified sport, a kennel of mastiffs and bloodhounds harassing a kitten!—and I may as well tell you, upon sworn testimony, what it was like from the first day to the last. When poor Joan had been in her grave a quarter of a century, the Pope called together that great court which was to re-examine her history, and whose just verdict cleared her illustrious name from every spot and stain, and laid upon the verdict and conduct of our Rouen tribunal the blight of its everlasting execrations. Manchon and several of the judges who had been members of our court were among the witnesses who appeared before that Tribunal of Rehabilitation. Recalling these miserable proceedings which I have been telling you about, Manchon testified thus:—here you have it, all in fair print in the unofficial history:
Now, this constant teasing and tormenting of this lonely girl, trapped in chains, went on for a long, long time—like a noble game, with a pack of dogs and bloodhounds chasing a kitten!—and I should tell you, based on solid evidence, what it was like from the first day to the last. When poor Joan had been in her grave for twenty-five years, the Pope gathered that significant court to re-examine her story, and its fair verdict cleared her renowned name of any blemish, placing a lasting curse on the verdict and actions of our Rouen tribunal. Manchon and several judges from our court were witnesses at that Rehabilitation Tribunal. Reflecting on these terrible proceedings I've been sharing, Manchon gave this testimony:—you can find it all printed clearly in the unofficial history:
When Joan spoke of her apparitions she was interrupted at almost every word. They wearied her with long and multiplied interrogatories upon all sorts of things. Almost every day the interrogatories of the morning lasted three or four hours; then from these morning interrogatories they extracted the particularly difficult and subtle points, and these served as material for the afternoon interrogatories, which lasted two or three hours. Moment by moment they skipped from one subject to another; yet in spite of this she always responded with an astonishing wisdom and memory. She often corrected the judges, saying, “But I have already answered that once before—ask the recorder,” referring them to me.
When Joan talked about her visions, she was interrupted almost every word. They tired her out with long and complicated questions about all sorts of things. Almost every day, the morning questioning lasted three or four hours; then from these morning questions, they picked out the particularly tricky and subtle points, which became the focus for the afternoon interrogations, lasting two or three hours. They jumped from one topic to another, yet despite this, she always answered with remarkable wisdom and memory. She often corrected the judges, saying, “But I’ve already answered that before—ask the recorder,” referring them to me.
And here is the testimony of one of Joan’s judges. Remember, these witnesses are not talking about two or three days, they are talking about a tedious long procession of days:
And here is the testimony of one of Joan’s judges. Remember, these witnesses are not referring to just two or three days; they are talking about a long, drawn-out series of days:
They asked her profound questions, but she extricated herself quite well. Sometimes the questioners changed suddenly and passed on to another subject to see if she would not contradict herself. They burdened her with long interrogatories of two or three hours, from which the judges themselves went forth fatigued. From the snares with which she was beset the expertest man in the world could not have extricated himself but with difficulty. She gave her responses with great prudence; indeed to such a degree that during three weeks I believed she was inspired.
They asked her deep questions, but she handled herself well. Sometimes the questioners suddenly switched topics to see if she would contradict herself. They overwhelmed her with lengthy interrogations lasting two or three hours, leaving even the judges exhausted. The traps she faced would have been challenging for even the most skilled person to escape. She answered very carefully; in fact, for three weeks, I thought she was genuinely inspired.
Ah, had she a mind such as I have described? You see what these priests say under oath—picked men, men chosen for their places in that terrible court on account of their learning, their experience, their keen and practised intellects, and their strong bias against the prisoner. They make that poor country-girl out the match, and more than the match, of the sixty-two trained adepts. Isn’t it so? They from the University of Paris, she from the sheepfold and the cow-stable!
Ah, did she really have a mind like I just described? Look at what these priests say under oath—handpicked individuals, chosen for their roles in that awful court because of their knowledge, experience, sharp intellects, and strong prejudice against the defendant. They portray that poor country girl as equal to, and even better than, the sixty-two trained experts. Is that right? They come from the University of Paris, while she comes from the fields and barns!
Ah, yes, she was great, she was wonderful. It took six thousand years to produce her; her like will not be seen in the earth again in fifty thousand. Such is my opinion.
Ah, yes, she was amazing, she was incredible. It took six thousand years to create her; we won't see her kind on earth again for fifty thousand. That's how I feel.
7 Craft That Was in Vain

THE THIRD meeting of the court was in that same spacious chamber, next day, 24th of February.
THE THIRD meeting of the court was in that same spacious chamber, next day, February 24th.
How did it begin? In just the same old way. When the preparations were ended, the robed sixty-two massed in their chairs and the guards and order-keepers distributed to their stations, Cauchon spoke from his throne and commanded Joan to lay her hands upon the Gospels and swear to tell the truth concerning everything asked her!
How did it start? In the same old way. Once the preparations were done, the sixty-two in robes gathered in their seats and the guards and order-keepers took their positions. Cauchon spoke from his throne and ordered Joan to place her hands on the Gospels and swear to tell the truth about everything that was asked of her!
Joan’s eyes kindled, and she rose; rose and stood, fine and noble, and faced toward the Bishop and said:
Joan’s eyes lit up, and she stood up; stood tall and proud, and faced the Bishop and said:
“Take care what you do, my lord, you who are my judge, for you take a terrible responsibility on yourself and you presume too far.”
“Be careful with your actions, my lord, you who are my judge, because you take on a huge responsibility and you overstep your bounds.”
It made a great stir, and Cauchon burst out upon her with an awful threat—the threat of instant condemnation unless she obeyed. That made the very bones of my body turn cold, and I saw cheeks about me blanch—for it meant fire and the stake! But Joan, still standing, answered him back, proud and undismayed:
It caused quite a commotion, and Cauchon confronted her with a terrifying threat—the threat of immediate condemnation if she didn’t comply. It sent chills through my entire body, and I noticed the faces around me turned pale—because it meant fire and the stake! But Joan, still standing, responded to him, proud and unafraid:
“Not all the clergy in Paris and Rouen could condemn me, lacking the right!”
“Not all the clergy in Paris and Rouen could judge me, lacking the authority!”
This made a great tumult, and part of it was applause from the spectators. Joan resumed her seat.
This caused a huge commotion, and some of it was applause from the audience. Joan sat back down.
The Bishop still insisted. Joan said:
The Bishop kept insisting. Joan replied:
“I have already made oath. It is enough.”
“I’ve already taken an oath. That’s enough.”
The Bishop shouted:
The Bishop yelled:
“In refusing to swear, you place yourself under suspicion!”
“In refusing to swear, you put yourself in a suspicious position!”
“Let be. I have sworn already. It is enough.”
"Let it be. I've already sworn. That's enough."
The Bishop continued to insist. Joan answered that “she would tell what she knew—but not all that she knew.”
The Bishop kept insisting. Joan replied that “she would share what she knew—but not everything she knew.”
The Bishop plagued her straight along, till at last she said, in a weary tone:
The Bishop kept bothering her until finally she said, in a tired voice:
“I came from God; I have nothing more to do here. Return me to God, from whom I came.”
“I came from God; I have nothing left to do here. Take me back to God, from whom I came.”
It was piteous to hear; it was the same as saying, “You only want my life; take it and let me be at peace.”
It was heartbreaking to hear; it was like saying, “You just want my life; take it and let me have some peace.”
The Bishop stormed out again:
The Bishop left angrily again:
“Once more I command you to—”
“Once more I command you to—”
Joan cut in with a nonchalant “Passez outre,” and Cauchon retired from the struggle; but he retired with some credit this time, for he offered a compromise, and Joan, always clear-headed, saw protection for herself in it and promptly and willingly accepted it. She was to swear to tell the truth “as touching the matters et down in the proces verbal.” They could not sail her outside of definite limits, now; her course was over a charted sea, henceforth. The Bishop had granted more than he had intended, and more than he would honestly try to abide by.
Joan interrupted casually with a “Passez outre,” and Cauchon withdrew from the fight; however, he left with some dignity this time, as he proposed a compromise. Joan, always level-headed, recognized that it offered her some protection and readily accepted it. She would swear to tell the truth “regarding the matters outlined in the proces verbal.” They couldn’t steer her outside of specific boundaries now; her path was over a mapped sea from here on out. The Bishop had granted more than he had meant to, and more than he would honestly stick to.
By command, Beaupere resumed his examination of the accused. It being Lent, there might be a chance to catch her neglecting some detail of her religious duties. I could have told him he would fail there. Why, religion was her life!
By order, Beaupere started questioning the accused again. Since it was Lent, there might be an opportunity to catch her slipping up on some aspect of her religious duties. I could have warned him he would come up short there. After all, religion was her entire life!
“Since when have you eaten or drunk?”
“Since when have you eaten or drunk?”
If the least thing had passed her lips in the nature of sustenance, neither her youth nor the fact that she was being half starved in her prison could save her from dangerous suspicion of contempt for the commandments of the Church.
If she had mentioned even the smallest thing related to food, neither her youth nor the fact that she was being half starved in her prison would protect her from serious suspicion of disrespecting the Church's commandments.
“I have done neither since yesterday at noon.”
“I haven’t done either since yesterday at noon.”
The priest shifted to the Voices again.
The priest switched back to the Voices.
“When have you heard your Voice?”
“When have you heard your voice?”
“Yesterday and to-day.”
“Yesterday and today.”
“At what time?”
"What time?"
“Yesterday it was in the morning.”
“Yesterday it was in the morning.”
“What were you doing then?”
“What were you up to?”
“I was asleep and it woke me.”
“I was sleeping, and it woke me up.”
“By touching your arm?”
"By touching your arm?"
“No, without touching me.”
“No, without getting close to me.”
“Did you thank it? Did you kneel?”
“Did you thank it? Did you get down on your knees?”
He had Satan in his mind, you see; and was hoping, perhaps, that by and by it could be shown that she had rendered homage to the arch enemy of God and man.
He had Satan on his mind, you see; and was hoping, maybe, that eventually it could be proven that she had paid respect to the arch enemy of God and humanity.
“Yes, I thanked it; and knelt in my bed where I was chained, and joined my hands and begged it to implore God’s help for me so that I might have light and instruction as touching the answers I should give here.”
“Yes, I thanked it; and knelt on my bed where I was chained, joined my hands, and asked it to plead for God's help for me so that I could have insight and guidance regarding the answers I should give here.”
“Then what did the Voice say?”
“Then what did the voice say?”
“It told me to answer boldly, and God would help me.” Then she turned toward Cauchon and said, “You say that you are my judge; now I tell you again, take care what you do, for in truth I am sent of God and you are putting yourself in great danger.”
“It told me to speak confidently, and God would support me.” Then she faced Cauchon and said, “You claim to be my judge; now I say again, be cautious about your actions, because I am truly sent by God and you are putting yourself in serious risk.”
Beaupere asked her if the Voice’s counsels were not fickle and variable.
Beaupere asked her if the Voice's advice was inconsistent and changeable.
“No. It never contradicts itself. This very day it has told me again to answer boldly.”
“No. It never contradicts itself. Today, it has again told me to answer confidently.”
“Has it forbidden you to answer only part of what is asked you?”
“Has it stopped you from answering only part of what’s being asked of you?”
“I will tell you nothing as to that. I have revelations touching the King my master, and those I will not tell you.” Then she was stirred by a great emotion, and the tears sprang to her eyes and she spoke out as with strong conviction, saying:
“I’m not going to share anything about that. I have important information regarding the King, my master, and I won’t disclose it to you.” Then she was overwhelmed by a strong emotion, tears filled her eyes, and she spoke with deep conviction, saying:
“I believe wholly—as wholly as I believe the Christian faith and that God has redeemed us from the fires of hell, that God speaks to me by that Voice!”
“I believe completely—as completely as I believe in the Christian faith and that God has saved us from the fires of hell, that God speaks to me through that Voice!”
Being questioned further concerning the Voice, she said she was not at liberty to tell all she knew.
Being asked more about the Voice, she said she couldn’t share everything she knew.
“Do you think God would be displeased at your telling the whole truth?”
“Do you think God would be unhappy with you telling the complete truth?”
“The Voice has commanded me to tell the King certain things, and not you—and some very lately—even last night; things which I would he knew. He would be more easy at his dinner.”
“The Voice has told me to share some things with the King, not with you—and just recently—even last night; things I wish he knew. He would feel more relaxed at dinner.”
“Why doesn’t the Voice speak to the King itself, as it did when you were with him? Would it not if you asked it?”
“Why doesn’t the Voice talk to the King directly, like it did when you were with him? Would it not do so if you asked?”
“I do not know if it be the wish of God.” She was pensive a moment or two, busy with her thoughts and far away, no doubt; then she added a remark in which Beaupere, always watchful, always alert, detected a possible opening—a chance to set a trap. Do you think he jumped at it instantly, betraying the joy he had in his mind, as a young hand at craft and artifice would do?
“I don’t know if it’s God’s will.” She was lost in thought for a moment, clearly somewhere far away; then she made a comment in which Beaupere, always observant and ready, sensed a potential opening—a chance to lay a trap. Do you think he jumped at it immediately, showing the excitement he felt, like a novice trying his hand at tricks and deception?
No, oh, no, you could not tell that he had noticed the remark at all. He slid indifferently away from it at once, and began to ask idle questions about other things, so as to slip around and spring on it from behind, so to speak: tedious and empty questions as to whether the Voice had told her she would escape from this prison; and if it had furnished answers to be used by her in to-day’s seance; if it was accompanied with a glory of light; if it had eyes, etc. That risky remark of Joan’s was this:
No, oh no, you couldn’t tell that he had noticed the comment at all. He quickly moved away from it and started asking pointless questions about other topics, trying to sneak up on it from a different angle, so to speak: boring and meaningless questions like whether the Voice had told her she would get out of this prison; if it had provided answers for her to use in today’s session; if it was surrounded by a glory of light; if it had eyes, etc. That risky comment from Joan was this:
“Without the Grace of God I could do nothing.”
“Without the grace of God, I can do nothing.”
The court saw the priest’s game, and watched his play with a cruel eagerness. Poor Joan was grown dreamy and absent; possibly she was tired. Her life was in imminent danger, and she did not suspect it. The time was ripe now, and Beaupere quietly and stealthily sprang his trap:
The court noticed the priest's scheme and observed his actions with cruel anticipation. Poor Joan had become dreamy and distracted; she might have been worn out. Her life was in serious danger, and she was completely unaware of it. The moment was perfect, and Beaupere quietly and stealthily set his trap:
“Are you in a state of Grace?”
“Are you in a state of grace?”
Ah, we had two or three honorable brave men in that pack of judges; and Jean Lefevre was one of them. He sprang to his feet and cried out:
Ah, we had two or three honorable brave men in that group of judges; and Jean Lefevre was one of them. He jumped to his feet and shouted:
“It is a terrible question! The accused is not obliged to answer it!”
“It’s a terrible question! The accused doesn’t have to answer it!”
Cauchon’s face flushed black with anger to see this plank flung to the perishing child, and he shouted:
Cauchon's face turned dark with anger at the sight of this plank thrown to the dying child, and he yelled:
“Silence! and take your seat. The accused will answer the question!”
“Silence! Please take your seat. The accused will respond to the question!”
There was no hope, no way out of the dilemma; for whether she said yes or whether she said no, it would be all the same—a disastrous answer, for the Scriptures had said one cannot know this thing. Think what hard hearts they were to set this fatal snare for that ignorant young girl and be proud of such work and happy in it. It was a miserable moment for me while we waited; it seemed a year. All the house showed excitement; and mainly it was glad excitement. Joan looked out upon these hungering faces with innocent, untroubled eyes, and then humbly and gently she brought out that immortal answer which brushed the formidable snare away as it had been but a cobweb:
There was no hope, no way out of the situation; whether she said yes or no, it would be the same—a terrible answer, because the Scriptures had said no one can know this. Think about how cruel they were to set this deadly trap for that innocent young girl and feel proud and happy about it. It was a terrible moment for me as we waited; it felt like a year. The whole house was buzzing with excitement, and mostly it was happy excitement. Joan looked out at those eager faces with innocent, calm eyes, and then humbly and gently she gave that timeless answer that swept the daunting trap away as if it were just a cobweb:
“If I be not in a state of Grace, I pray God place me in it; if I be in it, I pray God keep me so.”
“If I'm not in a state of grace, I pray God puts me in it; if I am, I pray God keeps me there.”
Ah, you will never see an effect like that; no, not while you live. For a space there was the silence of the grave. Men looked wondering into each other’s faces, and some were awed and crossed themselves; and I heard Lefevre mutter:
Ah, you'll never see an impact like that; no, not while you live. For a moment, there was the silence of the grave. People looked at each other in confusion, some were in awe and crossed themselves; and I heard Lefevre mumble:
“It was beyond the wisdom of man to devise that answer. Whence comes this child’s amazing inspirations?”
“It was beyond human understanding to come up with that answer. Where do this child’s incredible ideas come from?”
Beaupere presently took up his work again, but the humiliation of his defeat weighed upon him, and he made but a rambling and dreary business of it, he not being able to put any heart in it.
Beaupere reluctantly resumed his work, but the shame of his defeat hung over him, making it a scattered and dull task, as he couldn’t find any motivation to put into it.
He asked Joan a thousand questions about her childhood and about the oak wood, and the fairies, and the children’s games and romps under our dear Arbre Fee Bourlemont, and this stirring up of old memories broke her voice and made her cry a little, but she bore up as well as she could, and answered everything.
He asked Joan a ton of questions about her childhood, the oak woods, the fairies, and the games and fun they had under our beloved Arbre Fee Bourlemont. This brought back old memories that made her voice break and her eyes tear up a bit, but she managed to hold it together and answered everything.
Then the priest finished by touching again upon the matter of her apparel—a matter which was never to be lost sight of in this still-hunt for this innocent creature’s life, but kept always hanging over her, a menace charged with mournful possibilities:
Then the priest wrapped up by mentioning her clothing again—a topic that was never overlooked in this ongoing pursuit to save this innocent person's life, but always remained looming over her, a threat filled with sad possibilities:
“Would you like a woman’s dress?”
“Do you want a woman's dress?”
“Indeed yes, if I may go out from this prison—but here, no.”
“Definitely yes, if I can leave this prison—but here, no.”
8 Joan Tells of Her Visions
THE COURT met next on Monday the 27th. Would you believe it? The Bishop ignored the contract limiting the examination to matters set down in the proces verbal and again commanded Joan to take the oath without reservations. She said:
THE COURT met next on Monday the 27th. Can you believe it? The Bishop ignored the contract that restricted the examination to the points noted in the proces verbal and once again ordered Joan to take the oath without any reservations. She said:
“You should be content I have sworn enough.”
"You should be happy I’ve promised enough."
She stood her ground, and Cauchon had to yield.
She stood her ground, and Cauchon had to back down.
The examination was resumed, concerning Joan’s Voices.
The examination continued, focusing on Joan’s Voices.
“You have said that you recognized them as being the voices of angels the third time that you heard them. What angels were they?”
“You said you recognized their voices as angels the third time you heard them. Which angels were they?”
“St. Catherine and St. Marguerite.”
“St. Catherine and St. Margaret.”
“How did you know that it was those two saints? How could you tell the one from the other?”
“How did you know it was those two saints? How could you tell them apart?”
“I know it was they; and I know how to distinguish them.”
“I know it was them; and I know how to tell them apart.”
“By what sign?”
"What's the sign?"
“By their manner of saluting me. I have been these seven years under their direction, and I knew who they were because they told me.”
“From the way they greeted me. I have been under their guidance for seven years, and I knew who they were because they told me.”
“Whose was the first Voice that came to you when you were thirteen years old?”
“Who was the first person that talked to you when you were thirteen?”
“It was the Voice of St. Michael. I saw him before my eyes; and he was not alone, but attended by a cloud of angels.”
“It was the voice of St. Michael. I saw him right in front of me, and he wasn’t alone; he was accompanied by a group of angels.”
“Did you see the archangel and the attendant angels in the body, or in the spirit?”
“Did you see the archangel and the other angels in physical form, or in the spirit?”
“I saw them with the eyes of my body, just as I see you; and when they went away I cried because they did not take me with them.”
“I saw them with my physical eyes, just like I see you; and when they left, I cried because they didn't take me with them.”
It made me see that awful shadow again that fell dazzling white upon her that day under l’Arbre Fee de Bourlemont, and it made me shiver again, though it was so long ago. It was really not very long gone by, but it seemed so, because so much had happened since.
It made me see that terrible shadow again that fell bright white on her that day under l’Arbre Fee de Bourlemont, and it made me shiver again, even though it was so long ago. It wasn’t actually that long ago, but it felt like it because so much had happened since.
“In what shape and form did St. Michael appear?”
“In what shape and form did St. Michael show up?”
“As to that, I have not received permission to speak.”
“As for that, I haven’t been given permission to speak.”
“What did the archangel say to you that first time?”
“What did the archangel tell you the first time?”
“I cannot answer you to-day.”
“I can't answer you today.”
Meaning, I think, that she would have to get permission of her Voices first.
Meaning, I think, that she would have to get her Voices' permission first.
Presently, after some more questions as to the revelations which had been conveyed through her to the King, she complained of the unnecessity of all this, and said:
Presently, after a few more questions about the revelations that had been shared through her to the King, she complained about all of this being unnecessary, and said:
“I will say again, as I have said before many times in these sittings, that I answered all questions of this sort before the court at Poitiers, and I would that you wold bring here the record of that court and read from that. Prithee, send for that book.”
“I'll say it again, like I’ve said many times in these sessions, that I answered all these kinds of questions before the court at Poitiers, and I wish you would bring the record of that court and read from it. Please, send for that book.”
There was no answer. It was a subject that had to be got around and put aside. That book had wisely been gotten out of the way, for it contained things which would be very awkward here.
There was no response. It was a topic that needed to be avoided and set aside. That book had been smartly moved out of the way because it had content that would be really uncomfortable here.
Among them was a decision that Joan’s mission was from God, whereas it was the intention of this inferior court to show that it was from the devil; also a decision permitting Joan to wear male attire, whereas it was the purpose of this court to make the male attire do hurtful work against her.
Among them was a decision that Joan's mission was from God, while this lower court intended to prove that it was from the devil; also, there was a decision allowing Joan to wear men's clothing, even though this court aimed to use her wearing men's clothes against her.
“How was it that you were moved to come into France—by your own desire?”
“How did you end up coming to France—was it your own choice?”
“Yes, and by command of God. But that it was His will I would not have come. I would sooner have had my body torn in sunder by horses than come, lacking that.”
“Yes, and by God's command. But if it wasn't His will, I wouldn't have come. I'd rather have my body ripped apart by horses than come without that.”
Beaupere shifted once more to the matter of the male attire, now, and proceeded to make a solemn talk about it. That tried Joan’s patience; and presently she interrupted and said:
Beaupere changed the topic again to discuss the men's clothing and began to speak seriously about it. This tested Joan's patience, and eventually, she interrupted and said:
“It is a trifling thing and of no consequence. And I did not put it on by counsel of any man, but by command of God.”
“It’s a small thing and doesn’t really matter. I didn’t put it on because anyone told me to, but because God commanded it.”
“Robert de Baudricourt did not order you to wear it?”
“Did Robert de Baudricourt tell you to wear it?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Did you think you did well in taking the dress of a man?”
“Did you really think it was okay to wear a man's dress?”
“I did well to do whatsoever thing God commanded me to do.”
“I did well to do whatever God commanded me to do.”
“But in this particular case do you think you did well in taking the dress of a man?”
“But in this specific situation, do you think you handled it well by dressing like a man?”
“I have done nothing but by command of God.”
“I’ve done nothing except what God commanded.”
Beaupere made various attempts to lead her into contradictions of herself; also to put her words and acts in disaccord with the Scriptures. But it was lost time. He did not succeed. He returned to her visions, the light which shone about them, her relations with the King, and so on.
Beaupere tried several times to get her to contradict herself; he also tried to show how her words and actions didn’t align with the Scriptures. But it was a waste of time. He didn’t succeed. He went back to her visions, the light that surrounded them, her interactions with the King, and so on.
“Was there an angel above the King’s head the first time you saw him?”
“Was there an angel over the King’s head the first time you saw him?”
“By the Blessed Mary!—”
"By Blessed Mary!"
She forced her impatience down, and finished her sentence with tranquillity: “If there was one I did not see it.”
She pushed her impatience aside and calmly finished her sentence: “If there was one, I didn't see it.”
“Was there light?”
"Was there any light?"
“There were more than three thousand soldiers there, and five hundred torches, without taking account of spiritual light.”
“There were over three thousand soldiers there and five hundred torches, not counting the spiritual light.”
“What made the King believe in the revelations which you brought him?”
“What made the King trust the revelations you brought him?”
“He had signs; also the counsel of the clergy.”
“He had signs, as well as the advice of the clergy.”
“What revelations were made to the King?”
“What insights were shared with the King?”
“You will not get that out of me this year.”
“You're not getting that out of me this year.”
Presently she added: “During three weeks I was questioned by the clergy at Chinon and Poitiers. The King had a sign before he would believe; and the clergy were of opinion that my acts were good and not evil.”
Presently she added: “For three weeks, I was questioned by the clergy in Chinon and Poitiers. The King needed a sign before he would believe; and the clergy thought that my actions were good and not evil.”
The subject was dropped now for a while, and Beaupere took up the matter of the miraculous sword of Fierbois to see if he could not find a chance there to fix the crime of sorcery upon Joan.
The topic was set aside for a while, and Beaupere turned his attention to the miraculous sword of Fierbois to see if he could find a way to accuse Joan of sorcery.
“How did you know that there was an ancient sword buried in the ground under the rear of the altar of the church of St. Catherine of Fierbois?”
“How did you know there was an ancient sword buried in the ground under the back of the altar at St. Catherine of Fierbois church?”
Joan had no concealments to make as to this:
Joan had nothing to hide about this:
“I knew the sword was there because my Voices told me so; and I sent to ask that it be given to me to carry in the wars. It seemed to me that it was not very deep in the ground. The clergy of the church caused it to be sought for and dug up; and they polished it, and the rust fell easily off from it.”
“I knew the sword was there because my Voices told me so, so I requested to have it for the battles. It didn’t seem to be buried very deep. The church leaders had it searched for and unearthed; they polished it, and the rust came off easily.”
“Were you wearing it when you were taken in battle at Compiegne?”
“Were you wearing it when you were captured in battle at Compiegne?”
“No. But I wore it constantly until I left St. Denis after the attack upon Paris.”
“No. But I wore it all the time until I left St. Denis after the attack on Paris.”
This sword, so mysteriously discovered and so long and so constantly victorious, was suspected of being under the protection of enchantment.
This sword, found under mysterious circumstances and consistently victorious for so long, was thought to be enchanted.
“Was that sword blest? What blessing had been invoked upon it?”
“Was that sword blessed? What blessing had been called upon it?”
“None. I loved it because it was found in the church of St. Catherine, for I loved that church very dearly.”
“None. I loved it because it was found in St. Catherine's Church, which I cared for deeply.”
She loved it because it had been built in honor of one of her angels.
She loved it because it was built to honor one of her angels.
“Didn’t you lay it upon the altar, to the end that it might be lucky?” (The altar of St. Denis.) “No.”
“Didn’t you place it on the altar so it could bring you good luck?” (The altar of St. Denis.) “No.”
“Didn’t you pray that it might be made lucky?”
“Didn’t you pray for it to be lucky?”
“Truly it were no harm to wish that my harness might be fortunate.”
“Honestly, it wouldn't hurt to hope that my gear brings me good luck.”
“Then it was not that sword which you wore in the field of Compiegne? What sword did you wear there?”
“Then it wasn’t that sword you had in the field of Compiegne? Which sword did you have there?”
“The sword of the Burgundian Franquet d’Arras, whom I took prisoner in the engagement at Lagny. I kept it because it was a good war-sword—good to lay on stout thumps and blows with.”
“The sword of the Burgundian Franquet d’Arras, whom I captured in the battle at Lagny. I kept it because it was a solid war sword—great for delivering strong hits and blows.”
She said that quite simply; and the contrast between her delicate little self and the grim soldier words which she dropped with such easy familiarity from her lips made many spectators smile.
She said it quite simply; and the difference between her delicate little self and the harsh soldier words that she casually tossed around made many onlookers smile.
“What is become of the other sword? Where is it now?”
“What happened to the other sword? Where is it now?”
“Is that in the proces verbal?”
“Is that in the records?”
Beaupere did not answer.
Beaupere didn't respond.
“Which do you love best, your banner or your sword?”
“Which do you love more, your banner or your sword?”
Her eye lighted gladly at the mention of her banner, and she cried out:
Her eyes lit up happily at the mention of her banner, and she exclaimed:
“I love my banner best—oh, forty times more than the sword! Sometimes I carried it myself when I charged the enemy, to avoid killing any one.” Then she added, naively, and with again that curious contrast between her girlish little personality and her subject, “I have never killed anyone.”
“I love my banner the most—oh, forty times more than the sword! Sometimes I carried it myself when I charged the enemy to avoid killing anyone.” Then she added, naively, and with that strange contrast between her girlish personality and her subject, “I have never killed anyone.”
It made a great many smile; and no wonder, when you consider what a gentle and innocent little thing she looked. One could hardly believe she had ever even seen men slaughtered, she look so little fitted for such things.
It made a lot of people smile; and no wonder, when you think about how gentle and innocent she looked. You could hardly believe she had ever even seen men killed, she seemed so unfit for such things.
“In the final assault at Orleans did you tell your soldiers that the arrows shot by the enemy and the stones discharged from their catapults would not strike any one but you?”
“In the final attack at Orleans, did you tell your soldiers that the arrows fired by the enemy and the stones launched from their catapults would only hit you?”
“No. And the proof is, that more than a hundred of my men were struck. I told them to have no doubts and no fears; that they would raise the siege. I was wounded in the neck by an arrow in the assault upon the bastille that commanded the bridge, but St. Catherine comforted me and I was cured in fifteen days without having to quit the saddle and leave my work.”
“No. And the proof is that over a hundred of my men were hit. I told them to have no doubts or fears; that they would lift the siege. I got wounded in the neck by an arrow during the attack on the bastille that controlled the bridge, but St. Catherine comforted me and I was healed in fifteen days without having to get off the saddle and stop my work.”
“Did you know that you were going to be wounded?”
“Did you know you were going to get hurt?”
“Yes; and I had told it to the King beforehand. I had it from my Voices.”
“Yeah; and I had mentioned it to the King beforehand. I got it from my Voices.”
“When you took Jargeau, why did you not put its commandant to ransom?”
“When you captured Jargeau, why didn’t you hold its commander for ransom?”
“I offered him leave to go out unhurt from the place, with all his garrison; and if he would not I would take it by storm.”
“I gave him the chance to leave the place safely with his entire garrison, and if he refused, I would take it by force.”
“And you did, I believe.”
“And you did, I think.”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Had your Voices counseled you to take it by storm?”
“Did your Voices advise you to take it by force?”
“As to that, I do not remember.”
"As for that, I don't remember."
Thus closed a weary long sitting, without result. Every device that could be contrived to trap Joan into wrong thinking, wrong doing, or disloyalty to the Church, or sinfulness as a little child at home or later, had been tried, and none of them had succeeded. She had come unscathed through the ordeal.
Thus ended a tiring long session, with no outcome. Every trick that could be invented to catch Joan in faulty thinking, wrongdoing, or disloyalty to the Church, or sinful behavior like a small child at home or later, had been attempted, and none had worked. She had emerged unscathed from the ordeal.
Was the court discouraged? No. Naturally it was very much surprised, very much astonished, to find its work baffling and difficult instead of simple and easy, but it had powerful allies in the shape of hunger, cold, fatigue, persecution, deception, and treachery; and opposed to this array nothing but a defenseless and ignorant girl who must some time or other surrender to bodily and mental exhaustion or get caught in one of the thousand traps set for her.
Was the court discouraged? No. Of course, it was extremely surprised and astonished to find its work confusing and tough instead of straightforward and easy, but it had strong allies in the form of hunger, cold, fatigue, persecution, deception, and betrayal; and against this group, there was nothing but a defenseless and naive girl who would eventually give in to physical and mental exhaustion or fall into one of the countless traps set for her.
And had the court made no progress during these seemingly resultless sittings? Yes. It had been feeling its way, groping here, groping there, and had found one or two vague trails which might freshen by and by and lead to something. The male attire, for instance, and the visions and Voices. Of course no one doubted that she had seen supernatural beings and been spoken to and advised by them. And of course no one doubted that by supernatural help miracles had been done by Joan, such as choosing out the King in a crowd when she had never seen him before, and her discovery of the sword buried under the altar. It would have been foolish to doubt these things, for we all know that the air is full of devils and angels that are visible to traffickers in magic on the one hand and to the stainlessly holy on the other; but what many and perhaps most did doubt was, that Joan’s visions, Voices, and miracles came from God. It was hoped that in time they could be proven to have been of satanic origin. Therefore, as you see, the court’s persistent fashion of coming back to that subject every little while and spooking around it and prying into it was not to pass the time—it had a strictly business end in view.
And had the court made any progress during these seemingly pointless sessions? Yes. It had been cautiously exploring, searching here and there, and had found one or two unclear leads that might eventually develop into something. For example, there was the male attire and the visions and Voices. No one doubted that she had seen supernatural beings and had been spoken to and advised by them. And no one doubted that through supernatural help, miracles had been performed by Joan, like identifying the King in a crowd when she had never seen him before, and discovering the sword buried under the altar. It would have been foolish to doubt these things, as we all know the air is filled with devils and angels that are visible to both those who practice magic and those who are completely holy; however, what many, and perhaps most, doubted was whether Joan's visions, Voices, and miracles were truly from God. There was hope that in time it could be proven they were of satanic origin. So, as you can see, the court's constant return to that subject every so often and its probing into it wasn't just to pass the time—it had a specific purpose in mind.
9 Her Sure Deliverance Foretold
THE NEXT sitting opened on Thursday the first of March. Fifty-eight judges present—the others resting.
THE NEXT session began on Thursday, March 1st. Fifty-eight judges were present—the others were taking a break.
As usual, Joan was required to take an oath without reservations. She showed no temper this time. She considered herself well buttressed by the proces verbal compromise which Cauchon was so anxious to repudiate and creep out of; so she merely refused, distinctly and decidedly; and added, in a spirit of fairness and candor:
As usual, Joan had to take an oath without any reservations. This time, she didn’t lose her temper. She felt supported by the official agreement that Cauchon was so eager to dismiss and avoid, so she simply refused, clearly and firmly; and added, in a spirit of fairness and honesty:
“But as to matters set down in the proces verbal, I will freely tell the whole truth—yes, as freely and fully as if I were before the Pope.”
“But regarding the matters recorded in the official report, I will honestly tell the whole truth—yes, as openly and completely as if I were speaking before the Pope.”
Here was a chance! We had two or three Popes, then; only one of them could be the true Pope, of course. Everybody judiciously shirked the question of which was the true Pope and refrained from naming him, it being clearly dangerous to go into particulars in this matter. Here was an opportunity to trick an unadvised girl into bringing herself into peril, and the unfair judge lost no time in taking advantage of it. He asked, in a plausibly indolent and absent way:
Here was a chance! We had two or three Popes at that time; only one of them could be the real Pope, of course. Everyone wisely avoided the question of who the real Pope was and didn’t name anyone, as it was clearly risky to get into specifics about it. Here was an opportunity to trick an unsuspecting girl into putting herself in danger, and the unfair judge wasted no time taking advantage of it. He asked, in a casually lazy and distracted manner:
“Which one do you consider to be the true Pope?”
“Which one do you think is the real Pope?”
The house took an attitude of deep attention, and so waited to hear the answer and see the prey walk into the trap. But when the answer came it covered the judge with confusion, and you could see many people covertly chuckling. For Joan asked in a voice and manner which almost deceived even me, so innocent it seemed:
The house seemed to be listening intently, waiting to hear the answer and see the victim fall into the trap. But when the answer did come, it left the judge embarrassed, and you could see many people quietly laughing. Joan asked her question in a tone and way that was so innocent it nearly fooled even me:
“Are there two?”
“Are there two of them?”
One of the ablest priests in that body and one of the best swearers there, spoke right out so that half the house heard him, and said:
One of the most skilled priests in that group and one of the best at cursing, spoke up loud enough for half the crowd to hear him, and said:
“By God, it was a master stroke!”
"Wow, that was amazing!"
As soon as the judge was better of his embarrassment he came back to the charge, but was prudent and passed by Joan’s question:
As soon as the judge got over his embarrassment, he returned to the issue but wisely skipped over Joan’s question:
“Is it true that you received a letter from the Count of Armagnac asking you which of the three Popes he ought to obey?”
“Did you really get a letter from the Count of Armagnac asking which of the three Popes he should follow?”
“Yes, and answered it.”
“Yes, and I answered it.”
Copies of both letters were produced and read. Joan said that hers had not been quite strictly copied. She said she had received the Count’s letter when she was just mounting her horse; and added:
Copies of both letters were made and read aloud. Joan mentioned that hers hadn't been copied exactly. She explained that she had received the Count’s letter just as she was getting on her horse; and added:
“So, in dictating a word or two of reply I said I would try to answer him from Paris or somewhere where I could be at rest.”
“So, when I was sending a quick reply, I mentioned that I would try to respond from Paris or anywhere I could relax.”
She was asked again which Pope she had considered the right one.
She was asked again which Pope she thought was the right one.
“I was not able to instruct the Count of Armagnac as to which one he ought to obey”; then she added, with a frank fearlessness which sounded fresh and wholesome in that den of trimmers and shufflers, “but as for me, I hold that we are bound to obey our Lord the Pope who is at Rome.”
“I couldn’t tell the Count of Armagnac who he should follow,” she said, with a bold honesty that felt refreshing and genuine in that place full of schemers and flip-floppers, “but as for me, I believe we must obey our Lord the Pope who is in Rome.”
The matter was dropped. They produced and read a copy of Joan’s first effort at dictating—her proclamation summoning the English to retire from the siege of Orleans and vacate France—truly a great and fine production for an unpractised girl of seventeen.
The issue was put to rest. They created and read a copy of Joan’s first attempt at dictating—her declaration urging the English to pull back from the siege of Orleans and leave France—truly an impressive piece for an inexperienced girl of seventeen.
“Do you acknowledge as your own the document which has just been read?”
“Do you accept the document that was just read as your own?”
“Yes, except that there are errors in it—words which make me give myself too much importance.” I saw what was coming; I was troubled and ashamed. “For instance, I did not say ‘Deliver up to the Maid’ (rendez au la Pucelle); I said ‘Deliver up to the King’ (rendez au Roi); and I did not call myself ‘Commander-in-Chief’ (chef de guerre). All those are words which my secretary substituted; or mayhap he misheard me or forgot what I said.”
“Yes, except there are mistakes in it—words that make me sound too important.” I sensed what was coming; I felt uneasy and ashamed. “For example, I didn’t say ‘Deliver to the Maid’ (rendez au la Pucelle); I said ‘Deliver to the King’ (rendez au Roi); and I didn’t call myself ‘Commander-in-Chief’ (chef de guerre). Those are all words my secretary added; maybe he misheard me or forgot what I said.”
She did not look at me when she said it: she spared me that embarrassment. I hadn’t misheard her at all, and hadn’t forgotten. I changed her language purposely, for she was Commander-in-Chief and entitled to call herself so, and it was becoming and proper, too; and who was going to surrender anything to the King?—at that time a stick, a cipher? If any surrendering was done, it would be to the noble Maid of Vaucouleurs, already famed and formidable though she had not yet struck a blow.
She didn’t look at me when she said it: she saved me from that embarrassment. I hadn’t misheard her at all, and I hadn’t forgotten. I deliberately changed her wording because she was Commander-in-Chief and had the right to call herself that, and it was fitting and appropriate, too; and who was going to give up anything to the King?—at that time, a stick, a code? If anyone was going to surrender, it would be to the noble Maid of Vaucouleurs, already famous and intimidating even though she hadn’t fought yet.
Ah, there would have been a fine and disagreeable episode (for me) there, if that pitiless court had discovered that the very scribbler of that piece of dictation, secretary to Joan of Arc, was present—and not only present, but helping build the record; and not only that, but destined at a far distant day to testify against lies and perversions smuggled into it by Cauchon and deliver them over to eternal infamy!
Ah, that would have been a challenging and unpleasant situation for me if that unforgiving court had found out that the very writer of that piece of dictation, the secretary to Joan of Arc, was present—and not just present, but also helping to create the record; and not only that, but someone who would, in the distant future, testify against the lies and distortions slipped into it by Cauchon and ensure they're remembered for all time!
“Do you acknowledge that you dictated this proclamation?”
“Do you confirm that you wrote this statement?”
“I do.”
"I do."
“Have you repented of it? Do you retract it?”
“Have you regretted it? Do you take it back?”
Ah, then she was indignant!
Oh, then she was outraged!
“No! Not even these chains”—and she shook them—“not even these chains can chill the hopes that I uttered there. And more!”—she rose, and stood a moment with a divine strange light kindling in her face, then her words burst forth as in a flood—“I warn you now that before seven years a disaster will smite the English, oh, many fold greater than the fall of Orleans! and—”
“NO! Not even these chains”—and she shook them—“not even these chains can crush the hopes I expressed back there. And more!”—she rose and stood for a moment with a strange, divine light shining on her face, then her words poured out like a flood—“I warn you now that within seven years a disaster will strike the English, oh, many times greater than the fall of Orleans! and—”
“Silence! Sit down!”
"Be quiet! Sit down!"
“—and then, soon after, they will lose all France!”
“—and then, shortly after, they will lose all of France!”
Now consider these things. The French armies no longer existed. The French cause was standing still, our King was standing still, there was no hint that by and by the Constable Richemont would come forward and take up the great work of Joan of Arc and finish it. In face of all this, Joan made that prophecy—made it with perfect confidence—and it came true. For within five years Paris fell—1436—and our King marched into it flying the victor’s flag. So the first part of the prophecy was then fulfilled—in fact, almost the entire prophecy; for, with Paris in our hands, the fulfilment of the rest of it was assured.
Now think about these things. The French armies were gone. The French cause was stagnant, our King was stagnant, there was no sign that Constable Richemont would step up and continue the great work of Joan of Arc and complete it. In light of all this, Joan made that prophecy—with complete confidence—and it came true. Because within five years, Paris fell—1436—and our King marched into it carrying the victor’s flag. So the first part of the prophecy was fulfilled then—almost the entire prophecy; because with Paris under our control, the fulfillment of the rest was guaranteed.
Twenty years later all France was ours excepting a single town—Calais.
Twenty years later, all of France was ours except for one city—Calais.
Now that will remind you of an earlier prophecy of Joan’s. At the time that she wanted to take Paris and could have done it with ease if our King had but consented, she said that that was the golden time; that, with Paris ours, all France would be ours in six months. But if this golden opportunity to recover France was wasted, said she, “I give you twenty years to do it in.”
Now that will remind you of an earlier prophecy from Joan. When she wanted to take Paris—something she could have easily done if our King had just agreed—she said that it was the golden time; that with Paris under our control, all of France would be ours in six months. But if this golden chance to reclaim France was missed, she said, “I give you twenty years to do it.”
She was right. After Paris fell, in 1436, the rest of the work had to be done city by city, castle by castle, and it took twenty years to finish it.
She was right. After Paris fell in 1436, the rest of the work had to be done city by city, castle by castle, and it took twenty years to finish it.
Yes, it was the first day of March, 1431, there in the court, that she stood in the view of everybody and uttered that strange and incredible prediction. Now and then, in this world, somebody’s prophecy turns up correct, but when you come to look into it there is sure to be considerable room for suspicion that the prophecy was made after the fact. But here the matter is different. There in that court Joan’s prophecy was set down in the official record at the hour and moment of its utterance, years before the fulfilment, and there you may read it to this day.
Yes, it was the first day of March, 1431, in that court, where she stood in front of everyone and made that strange and incredible prediction. Occasionally, in this world, someone's prophecy turns out to be correct, but when you investigate, there's usually a lot of reason to believe that the prophecy was made after the event. But this situation is different. In that court, Joan’s prophecy was officially recorded at the exact time it was spoken, years before it came true, and you can read it to this day.
Twenty-five years after Joan’s death the record was produced in the great Court of the Rehabilitation and verified under oath by Manchon and me, and surviving judges of our court confirmed the exactness of the record in their testimony.
Twenty-five years after Joan’s death, the record was presented in the Court of Rehabilitation and verified under oath by Manchon and me, with the remaining judges from our court confirming the accuracy of the record in their testimony.
Joan’ startling utterance on that now so celebrated first of March stirred up a great turmoil, and it was some time before it quieted down again. Naturally, everybody was troubled, for a prophecy is a grisly and awful thing, whether one thinks it ascends from hell or comes down from heaven.
Joan's shocking statement on that now-famous first of March created a huge commotion, and it took a while before things calmed down again. Naturally, everyone was worried, because a prophecy is a terrifying and dreadful thing, whether one believes it comes from hell or descends from heaven.
All that these people felt sure of was, that the inspiration back of it was genuine and puissant.
All that these people were certain of was that the inspiration behind it was real and powerful.
They would have given their right hands to know the source of it.
They would have given anything to know where it came from.
At last the questions began again.
At last, the questions started up again.
“How do you know that those things are going to happen?”
“How do you know those things are going to happen?”
“I know it by revelation. And I know it as surely as I know that you sit here before me.”
“I know it through revelation. And I know it just as definitely as I know that you are sitting here in front of me.”
This sort of answer was not going to allay the spreading uneasiness. Therefore, after some further dallying the judge got the subject out of the way and took up one which he could enjoy more.
This kind of answer wasn't going to ease the growing discomfort. So, after some more hesitation, the judge moved on from that topic and chose one he found more enjoyable.
“What languages do your Voices speak?”
“What languages do your Voices speak?”
“French.”
"French."
“St. Marguerite, too?”
"St. Marguerite, as well?"
“Verily; why not? She is on our side, not on the English!”
“Definitely; why not? She’s on our side, not on the English!”
Saints and angels who did not condescend to speak English is a grave affront. They could not be brought into court and punished for contempt, but the tribunal could take silent note of Joan’s remark and remember it against her; which they did. It might be useful by and by.
Saints and angels who wouldn't lower themselves to speak English is a serious insult. They couldn't be taken to court and punished for disrespect, but the court could quietly note Joan's comment and hold it against her; which they did. It might come in handy later.
“Do your saints and angels wear jewelry?—crowns, rings, earrings?”
“Do your saints and angels wear jewelry? — crowns, rings, earrings?”
To Joan, questions like these were profane frivolities and not worthy of serious notice; she answered indifferently. But the question brought to her mind another matter, and she turned upon Cauchon and said:
To Joan, questions like these were pointless distractions and not worthy of serious attention; she responded without much interest. But the question reminded her of something else, and she turned to Cauchon and said:
“I had two rings. They have been taken away from me during my captivity. You have one of them. It is the gift of my brother. Give it back to me. If not to me, then I pray that it be given to the Church.”
“I had two rings. They were taken from me during my captivity. You have one of them. It’s a gift from my brother. Please give it back to me. If not to me, then I hope it is given to the Church.”
The judges conceived the idea that maybe these rings were for the working of enchantments.
The judges thought that perhaps these rings were used for casting spells.
Perhaps they could be made to do Joan a damage.
Perhaps they could be made to harm Joan.
“Where is the other ring?”
“Where's the other ring?”
“The Burgundians have it.”
“The Burgundians have it.”
“Where did you get it?”
"Where did you find it?"
“My father and mother gave it to me.”
“My parents gave it to me.”
“Describe it.”
“Talk about it.”
“It is plain and simple and has ‘Jesus and Mary’ engraved upon it.”
“It’s straightforward and has ‘Jesus and Mary’ engraved on it.”
Everybody could see that that was not a valuable equipment to do devil’s work with. So that trail was not worth following. Still, to make sure, one of the judges asked Joan if she had ever cured sick people by touching them with the ring. She said no.
Everybody could see that this was not useful equipment for doing devil’s work. So that trail wasn’t worth pursuing. Still, to be certain, one of the judges asked Joan if she had ever healed sick people by touching them with the ring. She replied no.
“Now as concerning the fairies, that were used to abide near by Domremy whereof there are many reports and traditions. It is said that your godmother surprised these creatures on a summer’s night dancing under the tree called l’Arbre Fee de Bourlemont. Is it not possible that your pretended saints and angels are but those fairies?”
“Now regarding the fairies that used to live near Domremy, there are many stories and traditions about them. It's said that your godmother caught sight of these beings on a summer night dancing under the tree known as l’Arbre Fee de Bourlemont. Could it be that your supposed saints and angels are actually those fairies?”
“Is that in your proces?”
"Is that part of your process?"
She made no other answer.
She didn’t say anything else.
“Have you not conversed with St. Marguerite and St. Catherine under that tree?”
“Have you not talked with St. Marguerite and St. Catherine under that tree?”
“I do not know.”
"I don't know."
“Or by the fountain near the tree?”
“Or by the fountain next to the tree?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
"Yeah, sometimes."
“What promises did they make you?”
“What promises did they make to you?”
“None but such as they had God’s warrant for.”
“Only those who had God's approval.”
“But what promises did they make?”
“But what promises did they make?”
“That is not in your proces; yet I will say this much: they told me that the King would become master of his kingdom in spite of his enemies.”
“That's not part of your process; but I will say this much: they told me that the King would take control of his kingdom despite his enemies.”
“And what else?”
"And what more?"
There was a pause; then she said humbly:
There was a pause; then she said quietly:
“They promised to lead me to Paradise.”
“They promised to take me to Paradise.”
If faces do really betray what is passing in men’s minds, a fear came upon many in that house, at this time, that maybe, after all, a chosen servant and herald of God was here being hunted to her death. The interest deepened. Movements and whisperings ceased: the stillness became almost painful.
If faces really reveal what's going on in people's minds, a fear washed over many in that house at that moment, that perhaps, after all, a chosen servant and messenger of God was being hunted to her death. The tension grew. Movements and whispers stopped: the silence became almost unbearable.
Have you noticed that almost from the beginning the nature of the questions asked Joan showed that in some way or other the questioner very often already knew his fact before he asked his question? Have you noticed that somehow or other the questioners usually knew just how and were to search for Joan’s secrets; that they really knew the bulk of her privacies—a fact not suspected by her—and that they had no task before them but to trick her into exposing those secrets?
Have you noticed that almost from the start, the way the questions were directed at Joan showed that the questioners often already knew the answers before they even asked? Have you seen that the questioners seemed to know exactly how and where to dig for Joan's secrets; they actually understood most of her private matters—a fact that she was completely unaware of—and their only goal was to manipulate her into revealing those secrets?
Do you remember Loyseleur, the hypocrite, the treacherous priest, tool of Cauchon? Do you remember that under the sacred seal of the confessional Joan freely and trustingly revealed to him everything concerning her history save only a few things regarding her supernatural revelations which her Voices had forbidden her to tell to any one—and that the unjust judge, Cauchon, was a hidden listener all the time?
Do you remember Loyseleur, the hypocrite, the deceitful priest, and pawn of Cauchon? Do you recall that under the sacred seal of confession, Joan openly and trustingly shared everything about her life with him, except for a few details about her supernatural revelations that her Voices told her not to share with anyone—and that the unfair judge, Cauchon, was secretly listening the whole time?
Now you understand how the inquisitors were able to devise that long array of minutely prying questions; questions whose subtlety and ingenuity and penetration are astonishing until we come to remember Loyseleur’s performance and recognize their source. Ah, Bishop of Beauvais, you are now lamenting this cruel iniquity these many years in hell! Yes verily, unless one has come to your help. There is but one among the redeemed that would do it; and it is futile to hope that that one has not already done it—Joan of Arc.
Now you see how the inquisitors managed to come up with that long list of extremely probing questions; questions whose subtlety, creativity, and depth are remarkable until we remember Loyseleur’s actions and recognize where they come from. Ah, Bishop of Beauvais, you are now regretting this harsh injustice after so many years in hell! Yes, truly, unless someone has come to your aid. There is only one among the saved who would do it; and it’s pointless to hope that this person hasn’t already intervened—Joan of Arc.
We will return to the questionings.
We will return to the questions.
“Did they make you still another promise?”
“Did they make you another promise?”
“Yes, but that is not in your proces. I will not tell it now, but before three months I will tell it you.”
“Yes, but that's not part of your process. I won't tell you now, but I will share it with you in three months.”
The judge seems to know the matter he is asking about, already; one gets this idea from his next question.
The judge seems to already know the issue he's asking about; you get this sense from his next question.
“Did your Voices tell you that you would be liberated before three months?”
“Did your Voices tell you that you would be free before three months?”
Joan often showed a little flash of surprise at the good guessing of the judges, and she showed one this time. I was frequently in terror to find my mind (which I could not control) criticizing the Voices and saying, “They counsel her to speak boldly—a thing which she would do without any suggestion from them or anybody else—but when it comes to telling her any useful thing, such as how these conspirators manage to guess their way so skilfully into her affairs, they are always off attending to some other business.”
Joan often reacted with a hint of surprise at how well the judges guessed, and she did so this time too. I was often terrified to realize that my mind (which I couldn’t control) was criticizing the Voices, thinking, “They encourage her to speak confidently—a thing she would do anyway without any advice from them or anyone else—but when it comes to giving her any useful information, like how these conspirators manage to figure out her affairs so cleverly, they’re always busy with something else.”
I am reverent by nature; and when such thoughts swept through my head they made me cold with fear, and if there was a storm and thunder at the time, I was so ill that I could but with difficulty abide at my post and do my work.
I’m naturally respectful, and when those thoughts crossed my mind, they filled me with a chill of fear. If there was a storm and thunder at the same time, I felt so sick that I could barely stay in my place and get my work done.
Joan answered:
Joan replied:
“That is not in your proces. I do not know when I shall be set free, but some who wish me out of this world will go from it before me.”
"That's not in your control. I don’t know when I’ll be released, but some people who want me gone will leave this world before I do."
It made some of them shiver.
It made some of them feel a chill.
“Have your Voices told you that you will be delivered from this prison?”
“Have your Voices told you that you will be freed from this prison?”
Without a doubt they had, and the judge knew it before he asked the question.
Without a doubt, they did, and the judge was aware of it before he asked the question.
“Ask me again in three months and I will tell you.” She said it with such a happy look, the tired prisoner! And I? And Noel Rainguesson, drooping yonder?—why, the floods of joy went streaming through us from crown to sole! It was all that we could do to hold still and keep from making fatal exposure of our feelings.
“Ask me again in three months and I’ll let you know.” She said it with such a happy look, the tired prisoner! And what about me? And Noel Rainguesson, over there looking dejected?—the waves of joy were flowing through us from head to toe! We could barely manage to stay still and not reveal our feelings.
She was to be set free in three months. That was what she meant; we saw it. The Voices had told her so, and told her true—true to the very day—May 30th. But we know now that they had mercifully hidden from her how she was to be set free, but left her in ignorance. Home again!
She was going to be released in three months. That’s what she meant; we understood that. The Voices had told her, and they were right—right down to the exact day—May 30th. But now we realize that they had kindly kept from her the details of how she would be released, leaving her unaware. Home again!
That day was our understanding of it—Noel’s and mine; that was our dream; and now we would count the days, the hours, the minutes. They would fly lightly along; they would soon be over.
That day was our understanding of it—Noel’s and mine; that was our dream; and now we would count the days, the hours, the minutes. They would fly by quickly; they would soon be over.
Yes, we would carry our idol home; and there, far from the pomps and tumults of the world, we would take up our happy life again and live it out as we had begun it, in the free air and the sunshine, with the friendly sheep and the friendly people for comrades, and the grace and charm of the meadows, the woods, and the river always before our eyes and their deep peace in our hearts. Yes, that was our dream, the dream that carried us bravely through that three months to an exact and awful fulfilment, the thought of which would have killed us, I think, if we had foreknown it and been obliged to bear the burden of it upon our hearts the half of those weary days.
Yes, we would bring our idol home; and there, far from the showiness and chaos of the world, we would pick up our happy life again and live it out just like we had started, in the fresh air and the sunlight, with the friendly sheep and the friendly people as our companions, and the beauty and charm of the meadows, the woods, and the river always in view, filling our hearts with their deep peace. Yes, that was our dream, the vision that carried us courageously through those three months to a precise and terrifying reality, the thought of which would have crushed us, I believe, if we had known it beforehand and had to carry that weight in our hearts for half of those long days.
Our reading of the prophecy was this: We believed the King’s soul was going to be smitten with remorse; and that he would privately plan a rescue with Joan’s old lieutenants, D’Alencon and the Bastard and La Hire, and that this rescue would take place at the end of the three months. So we made up our minds to be ready and take a hand in it.
Our interpretation of the prophecy was this: We thought the King’s soul would be deeply troubled with regret; and that he would secretly organize a rescue with Joan’s former leaders, D’Alencon, the Bastard, and La Hire, and that this rescue would happen at the end of three months. So, we decided to be prepared and get involved.
In the present and also in later sittings Joan was urged to name the exact day of her deliverance; but she could not do that. She had not the permission of her Voices. Moreover, the Voices themselves did not name the precise day. Ever since the fulfilment of the prophecy, I have believed that Joan had the idea that her deliverance was going to come in the form of death. But not that death! Divine as she was, dauntless as she was in battle, she was human also. She was not solely a saint, an angel, she was a clay-made girl also—as human a girl as any in the world, and full of a human girl’s sensitiveness and tenderness and delicacies. And so, that death! No, she could not have lived the three months with that one before her, I think. You remember that the first time she was wounded she was frightened, and cried, just as any other girl of seventeen would have done, although she had known for eighteen days that she was going to be wounded on that very day. No, she was not afraid of any ordinary death, and an ordinary death was what she believed the prophecy of deliverance meant, I think, for her face showed happiness, not horror, when she uttered it.
In the present and also in later meetings, Joan was asked to name the exact day of her deliverance, but she couldn't do that. She didn't have permission from her Voices. Plus, the Voices themselves didn't specify the exact day. Since the prophecy was fulfilled, I've thought that Joan believed her deliverance would come through death. But not that kind of death! As divine as she was and fearless in battle, she was also very much human. She wasn't only a saint or an angel; she was a girl made of clay—just as human as any other girl in the world, full of a girl’s sensitivity, tenderness, and delicacy. So, that death! No, I think she couldn't have lived those three months with that kind of death looming over her. Remember, the first time she was wounded, she was scared and cried, just like any other seventeen-year-old girl would, even though she had known for eighteen days that she would be wounded that very day. She wasn't afraid of an ordinary death, and I think she believed the prophecy of deliverance meant an ordinary death, because her face showed happiness, not horror, when she spoke of it.
Now I will explain why I think as I do. Five weeks before she was captured in the battle of Compiegne, her Voices told her what was coming. They did not tell her the day or the place, but said she would be taken prisoner and that it would be before the feast of St. John. She begged that death, certain and swift, should be her fate, and the captivity brief; for she was a free spirit, and dreaded the confinement. The Voices made no promise, but only told her to bear whatever came. Now as they did not refuse the swift death, a hopeful young thing like Joan would naturally cherish that fact and make the most of it, allowing it to grow and establish itself in her mind. And so now that she was told she was to be “delivered” in three months, I think she believed it meant that she would die in her bed in the prison, and that that was why she looked happy and content—the gates of Paradise standing open for her, the time so short, you see, her troubles so soon to be over, her reward so close at hand. Yes, that would make her look happy, that would make her patient and bold, and able to fight her fight out like a soldier. Save herself if she could, of course, and try for the best, for that was the way she was made; but die with her face to the front if die she must.
Now I’ll explain why I think the way I do. Five weeks before she was captured in the battle of Compiegne, her Voices told her what was coming. They didn’t specify the day or the location, but indicated she would be taken prisoner and that it would happen before the feast of St. John. She pleaded for death, swift and certain, to be her fate, and for her captivity to be short-lived; she was a free spirit and feared confinement. The Voices didn’t make any promises, only urged her to endure whatever happened. Since they didn’t reject the idea of a quick death, a hopeful young person like Joan would naturally hold onto that possibility and let it take root in her mind. So now that she was told she would be “delivered” in three months, I believe she thought that meant she would die peacefully in her bed in prison, which is why she appeared happy and content—seeing the gates of Paradise wide open for her, the time so short, her troubles about to end, her reward so close. Yes, that would make her look happy, that would make her patient and brave, ready to fight her battle like a soldier. She would try to save herself, of course, and hope for the best, because that was her nature; but if she had to die, she would do so facing forward.
Then later, when she charged Cauchon with trying to kill her with a poisoned fish, her notion that she was to be “delivered” by death in the prison—if she had it, and I believe she had—would naturally be greatly strengthened, you see.
Then later, when she accused Cauchon of trying to kill her with a poisoned fish, her belief that she was meant to be “delivered” by death in prison—if she held that belief, and I think she did—would naturally have been greatly strengthened, you see.
But I am wandering from the trial. Joan was asked to definitely name the time that she would be delivered from prison.
But I'm getting off track from the trial. Joan was asked to clearly state the time when she would be released from prison.
“I have always said that I was not permitted to tell you everything. I am to be set free, and I desire to ask leave of my Voices to tell you the day. That is why I wish for delay.”
“I've always said that I wasn't allowed to tell you everything. I'm about to be free, and I want to ask permission from my Voices to tell you the day. That's why I want to postpone.”
“Do your Voices forbid you to tell the truth?”
“Do your Voices stop you from telling the truth?”
“Is it that you wish to know matters concerning the King of France? I tell you again that he will regain his kingdom, and that I know it as well as I know that you sit here before me in this tribunal.” She sighed and, after a little pause, added: “I should be dead but for this revelation, which comforts me always.”
“Do you want to know about the King of France? I’ll tell you again that he’ll get his kingdom back, and I know it as clearly as I know you’re sitting here in this tribunal. ” She sighed and, after a brief pause, added: “I would be dead without this revelation, which always brings me comfort.”
Some trivial questions were asked her about St. Michael’s dress and appearance. She answered them with dignity, but one saw that they gave her pain. After a little she said:
Some trivial questions were asked about St. Michael’s outfit and appearance. She answered them with grace, but it was clear that they hurt her. After a moment, she said:
“I have great joy in seeing him, for when I see him I have the feeling that I am not in mortal sin.”
“I feel such joy when I see him because, in those moments, I feel like I’m not in a state of mortal sin.”
She added, “Sometimes St. Marguerite and St. Catherine have allowed me to confess myself to them.”
She added, “Sometimes St. Marguerite and St. Catherine have let me confess to them.”
Here was a possible chance to set a successful snare for her innocence.
Here was a potential opportunity to trap her innocence successfully.
“When you confessed were you in mortal sin, do you think?”
“When you confessed, do you think you were in mortal sin?”
But her reply did her no hurt. So the inquiry was shifted once more to the revelations made to the King—secrets which the court had tried again and again to force out of Joan, but without success.
But her response didn't harm her at all. So the focus moved again to the revelations made to the King—secrets that the court had repeatedly tried to get out of Joan, but without success.
“Now as to the sign given to the King—”
“Now about the sign given to the King—”
“I have already told you that I will tell you nothing about it.”
“I've already told you that I'm not going to say anything about it.”
“Do you know what the sign was?”
“Do you know what the sign was?”
“As to that, you will not find out from me.”
“As for that, you won’t hear it from me.”
All this refers to Joan’s secret interview with the King—held apart, though two or three others were present. It was known—through Loyseleur, of course—that this sign was a crown and was a pledge of the verity of Joan’s mission. But that is all a mystery until this day—the nature of the crown, I mean—and will remain a mystery to the end of time. We can never know whether a real crown descended upon the King’s head, or only a symbol, the mystic fabric of a vision.
All this refers to Joan’s secret meeting with the King—held privately, although two or three others were there. It was known—thanks to Loyseleur, of course—that this sign was a crown and represented the truth of Joan’s mission. But the details remain a mystery to this day—the nature of the crown, I mean—and will stay a mystery forever. We can never know if a real crown was placed on the King’s head or if it was just a symbol, the mystical fabric of a vision.
“Did you see a crown upon the King’s head when he received the revelation?”
“Did you see a crown on the King’s head when he received the revelation?”
“I cannot tell you as to that, without perjury.”
"I can't tell you that without lying."
“Did the King have that crown at Rheims?”
“Did the King have that crown at Reims?”
“I think the King put upon his head a crown which he found there; but a much richer one was brought him afterward.”
“I think the King put a crown he found there on his head; but a much richer one was brought to him later.”
“Have you seen that one?”
"Have you seen that one?"
“I cannot tell you, without perjury. But whether I have seen it or not, I have heard say that it was rich and magnificent.”
"I can’t say for sure without committing perjury. But whether I’ve seen it or not, I’ve heard it’s rich and magnificent."
They went on and pestered her to weariness about that mysterious crown, but they got nothing more out of her. The sitting closed. A long, hard day for all of us.
They kept bothering her about that mysterious crown until she was exhausted, but they didn’t get anything else from her. The meeting ended. It had been a long, tiring day for all of us.
10 The Inquisitors at Their Wits’ End

THE COURT rested a day, then took up work again on Saturday, the third of March.
THE COURT took a day off, then resumed work on Saturday, March 3rd.
This was one of our stormiest sessions. The whole court was out of patience; and with good reason. These threescore distinguished churchmen, illustrious tacticians, veteran legal gladiators, had left important posts where their supervision was needed, to journey hither from various regions and accomplish a most simple and easy matter—condemn and send to death a country-lass of nineteen who could neither read nor write, knew nothing of the wiles and perplexities of legal procedure, could not call a single witness in her defense, was allowed no advocate or adviser, and must conduct her case by herself against a hostile judge and a packed jury. In two hours she would be hopelessly entangled, routed, defeated, convicted. Nothing could be more certain that this—so they thought. But it was a mistake. The two hours had strung out into days; what promised to be a skirmish had expanded into a siege; the thing which had looked so easy had proven to be surprisingly difficult; the light victim who was to have been puffed away like a feather remained planted like a rock; and on top of all this, if anybody had a right to laugh it was the country-lass and not the court.
This was one of our most chaotic sessions. The entire court had lost its patience, and understandably so. These sixty distinguished church leaders, skilled strategists, and seasoned legal warriors had left important positions where their oversight was necessary to come here from different areas to deal with a very straightforward matter—condemning and sentencing to death a nineteen-year-old country girl who couldn't read or write, knew nothing about the complexities of the legal system, couldn't call a single witness to defend herself, was not allowed to have a lawyer or advisor, and had to argue her case alone against a biased judge and a stacked jury. In just two hours, she would be hopelessly tangled, defeated, and convicted. They were certain of it—so they thought. But it was a miscalculation. Those two hours stretched into days; what was expected to be a quick fight turned into a prolonged struggle; the seemingly easy task proved to be surprisingly challenging; the supposed easy target who should have been dismissed like a feather stood firm like a rock; and on top of all this, if anyone had the right to laugh, it was the country girl, not the court.
She was not doing that, for that was not her spirit; but others were doing it. The whole town was laughing in its sleeve, and the court knew it, and its dignity was deeply hurt. The members could not hide their annoyance.
She wasn't doing that because it wasn't in her nature, but others were. The whole town was secretly laughing, and the court was aware of it, which hurt its dignity. The members couldn't hide their irritation.
And so, as I have said, the session was stormy. It was easy to see that these men had made up their minds to force words from Joan to-day which should shorten up her case and bring it to a prompt conclusion. It shows that after all their experience with her they did not know her yet.
And so, as I mentioned, the session was intense. It was clear that these men had determined to get Joan to say things today that would speed up her case and bring it to a quick end. This shows that despite all their experience with her, they still didn't really understand her.
They went into the battle with energy. They did not leave the questioning to a particular member; no, everybody helped. They volleyed questions at Joan from all over the house, and sometimes so many were talking at once that she had to ask them to deliver their fire one at a time and not by platoons. The beginning was as usual:
They charged into the battle with enthusiasm. They didn't leave the questioning to just one person; no, everyone pitched in. They bombarded Joan with questions from all over the house, and sometimes there were so many voices at once that she had to ask them to take turns and not come at her all at once. The start was just like always:
“You are once more required to take the oath pure and simple.”
“You are once again required to take the oath straightforwardly.”
“I will answer to what is in the proces verbal. When I do more, I will choose the occasion for myself.”
“I will respond to what’s in the report. When I do more, I’ll choose the timing for myself.”
That old ground was debated and fought over inch by inch with great bitterness and many threats. But Joan remained steadfast, and the questionings had to shift to other matters. Half an hour was spent over Joan’s apparitions—their dress, hair, general appearance, and so on—in the hope of fishing something of a damaging sort out of the replies; but with no result.
That old land was argued about and battled over inch by inch with a lot of resentment and many threats. But Joan stayed strong, and the discussions had to move on to other topics. Half an hour was spent talking about Joan's visions—what she wore, her hair, how she looked, and so on—in the hope of uncovering something damaging in her responses; but it was no use.
Next, the male attire was reverted to, of course. After many well-worn questions had been re-asked, one or two new ones were put forward.
Next, the male attire was put back on, of course. After many familiar questions were repeated, one or two new ones were raised.
“Did not the King or the Queen sometimes ask you to quit the male dress?”
“Didn’t the King or Queen ever ask you to stop wearing men's clothes?”
“That is not in your proces.”
“That is not in your process.”
“Do you think you would have sinned if you had taken the dress of your sex?”
“Do you think you would have sinned if you had taken the dress meant for your gender?”
“I have done best to serve and obey my sovereign Lord and Master.”
“I have done my best to serve and obey my sovereign Lord and Master.”
After a while the matter of Joan’s Standard was taken up, in the hope of connecting magic and witchcraft with it.
After some time, the issue of Joan’s Standard was addressed, with the aim of linking magic and witchcraft to it.
“Did not your men copy your banner in their pennons?”
“Didn’t your men copy your banner on their flags?”
“The lancers of my guard did it. It was to distinguish them from the rest of the forces. It was their own idea.”
“The lancers in my guard did it. It was to set them apart from the other forces. It was their own idea.”
“Were they often renewed?”
"Were they frequently updated?"
“Yes. When the lances were broken they were renewed.”
“Yes. When the lances broke, they were replaced.”
The purpose of the question unveils itself in the next one.
The purpose of the question becomes clear in the next one.
“Did you not say to your men that pennons made like your banner would be lucky?”
“Did you not tell your guys that flags made like your banner would bring good luck?”
The soldier-spirit in Joan was offended at this puerility. She drew herself up, and said with dignity and fire: “What I said to them was, ‘Ride those English down!’ and I did it myself.”
The soldier spirit in Joan was insulted by this foolishness. She straightened up and said with dignity and passion: “What I told them was, ‘Charge those English!’ and I did it myself.”
Whenever she flung out a scornful speech like that at these French menials in English livery it lashed them into a rage; and that is what happened this time. There were ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty of them on their feet at a time, storming at the prisoner minute after minute, but Joan was not disturbed.
Whenever she hurled a scornful comment like that at those French servants in English uniforms, it drove them into a rage; and that's what happened this time. There were ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty of them on their feet at once, shouting at the prisoner minute after minute, but Joan remained unfazed.
By and by there was peace, and the inquiry was resumed.
By and by, there was peace, and the investigation continued.
It was now sought to turn against Joan the thousand loving honors which had been done her when she was raising France out of the dirt and shame of a century of slavery and castigation.
It was now attempted to turn against Joan the countless loving honors that had been given to her when she was lifting France out of the dirt and shame of a century of oppression and punishment.
“Did you not cause paintings and images of yourself to be made?”
“Did you not have paintings and images of yourself created?”
“No. At Arras I saw a painting of myself kneeling in armor before the King and delivering him a letter; but I caused no such things to be made.”
“No. At Arras, I saw a painting of myself kneeling in armor before the King and handing him a letter; but I didn’t have anything like that made.”
“Were not masses and prayers said in your honor?”
"Weren't masses and prayers said for you?"
“If it was done it was not by my command. But if any prayed for me I think it was no harm.”
“If it was done, it wasn't by my order. But if anyone prayed for me, I think it did no harm.”
“Did the French people believe you were sent of God?”
“Did the French people think you were sent by God?”
“As to that, I know not; but whether they believed it or not, I was not the less sent of God.”
“As for that, I don’t know; but whether they believed it or not, I was still sent by God.”
“If they thought you were sent of God, do you think it was well thought?”
“If they believed you were sent by God, do you think that was a good idea?”
“If they believed it, their trust was not abused.”
“If they believed it, their trust wasn't betrayed.”
“What impulse was it, think you, that moved the people to kiss your hands, your feet, and your vestments?”
“What do you think drove people to kiss your hands, your feet, and your clothing?”
“They were glad to see me, and so they did those things; and I could not have prevented them if I had had the heart. Those poor people came lovingly to me because I had not done them any hurt, but had done the best I could for them according to my strength.”
“They were happy to see me, so they did those things; and I couldn't have stopped them even if I wanted to. Those poor people came to me with kindness because I hadn't harmed them, but had done my best for them to the best of my ability.”
See what modest little words she uses to describe that touching spectacle, her marches about France walled in on both sides by the adoring multitudes: “They were glad to see me.” Glad?
See what simple little words she chooses to describe that moving scene, her parades through France flanked on both sides by the adoring crowds: “They were happy to see me.” Happy?
Why they were transported with joy to see her. When they could not kiss her hands or her feet, they knelt in the mire and kissed the hoof-prints of her horse. They worshiped her; and that is what these priests were trying to prove. It was nothing to them that she was not to blame for what other people did. No, if she was worshiped, it was enough; she was guilty of mortal sin.
Why they were filled with joy to see her. When they couldn't kiss her hands or feet, they knelt in the dirt and kissed the hoof prints of her horse. They idolized her; and that's what these priests were trying to demonstrate. It didn't matter to them that she wasn't responsible for what others did. No, if she was idolized, that was enough; she was guilty of a serious sin.
Curious logic, one must say.
Interesting logic, one must say.
“Did you not stand sponsor for some children baptized at Rheims?”
“Did you not act as a sponsor for some children baptized at Rheims?”
“At Troyes I did, and at St. Denis; and I named the boys Charles, in honor of the King, and the girls I named Joan.”
“At Troyes, I did, and at St. Denis; I named the boys Charles to honor the King, and I named the girls Joan.”
“Did not women touch their rings to those which you wore?”
“Did women not touch their rings to the ones you wore?”
“Yes, many did, but I did not know their reason for it.”
“Yes, many did, but I didn’t know why.”
“At Rheims was your Standard carried into the church? Did you stand at the altar with it in your hand at the Coronation?”
“At Rheims, was your Standard taken into the church? Did you stand at the altar holding it during the Coronation?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“In passing through the country did you confess yourself in the Churches and receive the sacrament?”
“In traveling through the country, did you confess in the churches and receive the sacrament?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“In the dress of a man?”
"In men's clothing?"
“Yes. But I do not remember that I was in armor.”
“Yes. But I don’t remember being in armor.”
It was almost a concession! almost a half-surrender of the permission granted her by the Church at Poitiers to dress as a man. The wily court shifted to another matter: to pursue this one at this time might call Joan’s attention to her small mistake, and by her native cleverness she might recover her lost ground. The tempestuous session had worn her and drowsed her alertness.
It was nearly a concession! almost a partial surrender of the permission given to her by the Church in Poitiers to dress as a man. The crafty court moved on to another issue: bringing this one up now might make Joan aware of her small mistake, and with her natural cleverness, she could regain her lost ground. The tumultuous session had exhausted her and dulled her alertness.
“It is reported that you brought a dead child to life in the church at Lagny. Was that in answer to your prayers?”
“It’s reported that you brought a dead child back to life in the church at Lagny. Was that because of your prayers?”
“As to that, I have no knowledge. Other young girls were praying for the child, and I joined them and prayed also, doing no more than they.”
“As for that, I don’t know. Other young girls were praying for the child, and I joined them and prayed too, just like they did.”
“Continue.”
"Go on."
“While we prayed it came to life, and cried. It had been dead three days, and was as black as my doublet. It was straight way baptized, then it passed from life again and was buried in holy ground.”
“While we prayed, it came to life and cried. It had been dead for three days and was as black as my doublet. It was immediately baptized, then it passed away again and was buried in holy ground.”
“Why did you jump from the tower of Beaurevoir by night and try to escape?”
“Why did you jump from the Beaurevoir tower at night and try to escape?”
“I would go to the succor of Compiegne.”
“I would go to help Compiegne.”
It was insinuated that this was an attempt to commit the deep crime of suicide to avoid falling into the hands of the English.
It was suggested that this was an attempt to commit the serious act of suicide to escape falling into the hands of the English.
“Did you not say that you would rather die than be delivered into the power of the English?”
“Did you not say that you would rather die than be handed over to the English?”
Joan answered frankly; without perceiving the trap:
Joan answered honestly, not seeing the trap:
“Yes; my words were, that I would rather that my soul be returned unto God than that I should fall into the hands of the English.”
“Yes; what I said was that I would prefer my soul to be returned to God rather than fall into the hands of the English.”
It was now insinuated that when she came to, after jumping from the tower, she was angry and blasphemed the name of God; and that she did it again when she heard of the defection of the Commandant of Soissons. She was hurt and indignant at this, and said:
It was now suggested that when she regained consciousness after jumping from the tower, she was furious and cursed the name of God; and that she did it again when she heard about the betrayal of the Commandant of Soissons. She was hurt and outraged by this, and said:
“It is not true. I have never cursed. It is not my custom to swear.”
“It’s not true. I’ve never sworn. It’s not my thing to curse.”
11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination
A HALT was called. It was time. Cauchon was losing ground in the fight, Joan was gaining it.
A stop was called. It was time. Cauchon was falling behind in the struggle, while Joan was gaining momentum.
There were signs that here and there in the court a judge was being softened toward Joan by her courage, her presence of mind, her fortitude, her constancy, her piety, her simplicity and candor, her manifest purity, the nobility of her character, her fine intelligence, and the good brave fight she was making, all friendless and alone, against unfair odds, and there was grave room for fear that this softening process would spread further and presently bring Cauchon’s plans in danger.
There were signs that, here and there in the courtroom, a judge was being swayed by Joan's bravery, her quick thinking, her strength, her loyalty, her faith, her honesty and openness, her clear purity, the nobility of her character, her sharp intelligence, and the courageous battle she was fighting, all by herself, against unfair odds. There was serious cause for concern that this change of heart could spread further and ultimately jeopardize Cauchon’s plans.
Something must be done, and it was done. Cauchon was not distinguished for compassion, but he now gave proof that he had it in his character. He thought it pity to subject so many judges to the prostrating fatigues of this trial when it could be conducted plenty well enough by a handful of them. Oh, gentle judge! But he did not remember to modify the fatigues for the little captive.
Something had to be done, and it was. Cauchon wasn't known for his compassion, but he showed he had some. He thought it was a shame to put so many judges through the exhausting demands of this trial when just a few could handle it just fine. Oh, kind judge! But he forgot to ease the burden for the poor captive.
He would let all the judges but a handful go, but he would select the handful himself, and he did.
He would let all the judges go except for a few, but he chose those few himself, and he did.
He chose tigers. If a lamb or two got in, it was by oversight, not intention; and he knew what to do with lambs when discovered.
He picked tigers. If a lamb or two ended up in there, it was by mistake, not on purpose; and he knew what to do with lambs once he found them.
He called a small council now, and during five days they sifted the huge bulk of answers thus far gathered from Joan. They winnowed it of all chaff, all useless matter—that is, all matter favorable to Joan; they saved up all matter which could be twisted to her hurt, and out of this they constructed a basis for a new trial which should have the semblance of a continuation of the old one. Another change. It was plain that the public trial had wrought damage: its proceedings had been discussed all over the town and had moved many to pity the abused prisoner. There should be no more of that. The sittings should be secret hereafter, and no spectators admitted. So Noel could come no more. I sent this news to him. I had not the heart to carry it myself. I would give the pain a chance to modify before I should see him in the evening.
He called a small council now, and for five days they went through the large amount of information gathered from Joan. They filtered out all the irrelevant stuff—anything that favored Joan—and kept everything that could be twisted to make her look bad. From this, they created a foundation for a new trial that would seem like a continuation of the old one. Another change. It was clear that the public trial had caused damage: its proceedings had been talked about all over town and had made many feel sympathy for the mistreated prisoner. There should be no more of that. The sessions would be private from now on, and no spectators would be allowed. So Noel couldn't come anymore. I sent him this news. I didn’t have the heart to tell him myself. I wanted to give the pain a chance to settle before I saw him in the evening.
On the 10th of March the secret trial began. A week had passed since I had seen Joan. Her appearance gave me a great shock. She looked tired and weak. She was listless and far away, and her answers showed that she was dazed and not able to keep perfect run of all that was done and said. Another court would not have taken advantage of her state, seeing that her life was at stake here, but would have adjourned and spared her. Did this one? No; it worried her for hours, and with a glad and eager ferocity, making all it could out of this great chance, the first one it had had.
On March 10th, the secret trial started. A week had gone by since I last saw Joan. Her appearance shocked me. She looked tired and weak. She seemed distant and out of it, and her responses showed that she was confused and unable to keep track of everything happening around her. Another court wouldn’t have exploited her condition, considering her life was on the line, and would have postponed the proceedings to protect her. Did this court do that? No; it tormented her for hours, eagerly taking full advantage of this significant opportunity, the first it had encountered.
She was tortured into confusing herself concerning the “sign” which had been given the King, and the next day this was continued hour after hour. As a result, she made partial revealments of particulars forbidden by her Voices; and seemed to me to state as facts things which were but allegories and visions mixed with facts.
She was pressured into second-guessing herself about the “sign” that had been given to the King, and the next day this continued for hours on end. As a result, she partially disclosed details that her Voices had forbidden; and it seemed to me that she was stating as facts things that were actually just allegories and visions mixed with reality.
The third day she was brighter, and looked less worn. She was almost her normal self again, and did her work well. Many attempts were made to beguile her into saying indiscreet things, but she saw the purpose in view and answered with tact and wisdom.
On the third day, she seemed more cheerful and looked less tired. She was almost her usual self again and did her work well. Many tried to trick her into saying something inappropriate, but she understood their intent and responded with skill and insight.
“Do you know if St. Catherine and St. Marguerite hate the English?”
“Do you know if St. Catherine and St. Marguerite dislike the English?”
“They love whom Our Lord loves, and hate whom He hates.”
“They love who the Lord loves, and hate who He hates.”
“Does God hate the English?”
“Does God hate the English?”
“Of the love or the hatred of God toward the English I know nothing.” Then she spoke up with the old martial ring in her voice and the old audacity in her words, and added, “But I know this—that God will send victory to the French, and that all the English will be flung out of France but the dead ones!”
“Regarding God's love or hatred for the English, I have no idea.” Then she spoke with the same fierce tone and boldness as before, and added, “But I do know this—God will grant victory to the French, and all the English will be kicked out of France except for the dead ones!”
“Was God on the side of the English when they were prosperous in France?”
“Was God on the side of the English when they were thriving in France?”
“I do not know if God hates the French, but I think that He allowed them to be chastised for their sins.”
“I’m not sure if God hates the French, but I believe He let them face consequences for their wrongdoings.”
It was a sufficiently naive way to account for a chastisement which had now strung out for ninety-six years. But nobody found fault with it. There was nobody there who would not punish a sinner ninety-six years if he could, nor anybody there who would ever dream of such a thing as the Lord’s being any shade less stringent than men.
It was a pretty naive way to explain a punishment that had now lasted ninety-six years. But no one complained about it. There was no one there who wouldn’t punish a sinner for ninety-six years if they could, nor anyone who would ever think that the Lord would be any less strict than people.
“Have you ever embraced St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?”
“Have you ever welcomed St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?”
“Yes, both of them.”
“Yeah, both of them.”
The evil face of Cauchon betrayed satisfaction when she said that.
The wicked look on Cauchon’s face revealed her satisfaction when she said that.
“When you hung garlands upon L’Arbre Fee Bourlemont, did you do it in honor of your apparitions?”
“When you hung garlands on L’Arbre Fee Bourlemont, was it to honor your visions?”
“No.”
"Nope."
Satisfaction again. No doubt Cauchon would take it for granted that she hung them there out of sinful love for the fairies.
Satisfaction once more. No doubt Cauchon would assume she hung them there out of sinful love for the fairies.
“When the saints appeared to you did you bow, did you make reverence, did you kneel?”
“When the saints showed up to you, did you bow, did you show respect, did you kneel?”
“Yes; I did them the most honor and reverence that I could.”
“Yes, I showed them as much honor and respect as I could.”
A good point for Cauchon if he could eventually make it appear that these were no saints to whom she had done reverence, but devils in disguise.
A strong point for Cauchon if he could eventually make it seem like these were not saints she had honored, but devils in disguise.
Now there was the matter of Joan’s keeping her supernatural commerce a secret from her parents. Much might be made of that. In fact, particular emphasis had been given to it in a private remark written in the margin of the proces: “She concealed her visions from her parents and from every one.” Possibly this disloyalty to her parents might itself be the sign of the satanic source of her mission.
Now there was the issue of Joan keeping her supernatural dealings a secret from her parents. This could be significant. In fact, special attention had been drawn to it in a private note written in the margin of the document: “She hid her visions from her parents and everyone else.” Perhaps this betrayal of her parents could be a sign of the dark origins of her mission.
“Do you think it was right to go away to the wars without getting your parents’ leave? It is written one must honor his father and his mother.”
“Do you think it was okay to leave for the wars without getting your parents’ permission? It says that you should honor your father and mother.”
“I have obeyed them in all things but that. And for that I have begged their forgiveness in a letter and gotten it.”
“I have followed their wishes in everything except for that. And for that, I apologized in a letter and received their forgiveness.”
“Ah, you asked their pardon? So you knew you were guilty of sin in going without their leave!”
“Ah, you asked for their forgiveness? So you knew you were wrong for going without their permission!”
Joan was stirred. Her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed:
Joan was excited. Her eyes sparkled, and she said:
“I was commanded of God, and it was right to go! If I had had a hundred fathers and mothers and been a king’s daughter to boot I would have gone.”
“I was commanded by God, and it was the right thing to do! Even if I had a hundred parents and was a princess, I still would have gone.”
“Did you never ask your Voices if you might tell your parents?”
“Did you ever ask your Voices if you could tell your parents?”
“They were willing that I should tell them, but I would not for anything have given my parents that pain.”
“They wanted me to tell them, but I would never want to cause my parents that pain.”
To the minds of the questioners this headstrong conduct savored of pride. That sort of pride would move one to see sacrilegious adorations.
To the questioners, this stubborn behavior seemed like arrogance. That kind of arrogance could lead someone to witness disrespectful worship.
“Did not your Voices call you Daughter of God?”
“Didn’t your Voices call you Daughter of God?”
Joan answered with simplicity, and unsuspiciously:
Joan replied straightforwardly and without suspicion:
“Yes; before the siege of Orleans and since, they have several times called me Daughter of God.”
“Yes; before the siege of Orleans and since, they have called me Daughter of God several times.”
Further indications of pride and vanity were sought.
Further signs of pride and vanity were looked for.
“What horse were you riding when you were captured? Who gave it you?”
“What horse were you riding when you got captured? Who gave it to you?”
“The King.”
"The King."
“You had other things—riches—of the King?”
“You had other things—wealth—from the King?”
“For myself I had horses and arms, and money to pay the service in my household.”
“For myself, I had horses and weapons, and money to cover the expenses in my household.”
“Had you not a treasury?”
"Didn’t you have a treasury?"
“Yes. Ten or twelve thousand crowns.” Then she said with naivete “It was not a great sum to carry on a war with.”
“Yes. Ten or twelve thousand crowns.” Then she said innocently, “It wasn’t a huge amount to finance a war with.”
“You have it yet?”
"Do you have it yet?"
“No. It is the King’s money. My brothers hold it for him.”
“No. It’s the King’s money. My brothers are holding it for him.”
“What were the arms which you left as an offering in the church of St. Denis?”
“What were the weapons you left as an offering in the church of St. Denis?”
“My suit of silver mail and a sword.”
“My silver chainmail and a sword.”
“Did you put them there in order that they might be adored?”
“Did you place them there so that they could be admired?”
“No. It was but an act of devotion. And it is the custom of men of war who have been wounded to make such offering there. I had been wounded before Paris.”
“No. It was just an act of devotion. And it’s a tradition for soldiers who have been wounded to make such offerings there. I had been wounded before Paris.”
Nothing appealed to these stony hearts, those dull imaginations—not even this pretty picture, so simply drawn, of the wounded girl-soldier hanging her toy harness there in curious companionship with the grim and dusty iron mail of the historic defenders of France. No, there was nothing in it for them; nothing, unless evil and injury for that innocent creature could be gotten out of it somehow.
Nothing appealed to these cold hearts, those dull imaginations—not even this pretty picture, so simply sketched, of the wounded girl-soldier hanging her toy harness next to the grim and dusty iron armor of the historic defenders of France. No, there was nothing in it for them; nothing, unless they could somehow twist it into evil and harm for that innocent girl.
“Which aided most—you the Standard, or the Standard you?”
“Which helped you more—you helping the Standard, or the Standard helping you?”
“Whether it was the Standard or whether it was I, is nothing—the victories came from God.”
“Whether it was the Standard or whether it was me, it doesn't matter—the victories came from God.”
“But did you base your hopes of victory in yourself or in your Standard?”
“But did you place your hopes of winning in yourself or in your Standard?”
“In neither. In God, and not otherwise.”
“In neither. In God, and not any other way.”
“Was not your Standard waved around the King’s head at the Coronation?”
“Wasn't your banner waved above the King's head at the Coronation?”
“No. It was not.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Why was it that your Standard had place at the crowning of the King in the Cathedral of Rheims, rather than those of the other captains?”
“Why was your Standard used during the crowning of the King in the Cathedral of Rheims instead of those of the other captains?”
Then, soft and low, came that touching speech which will live as long as language lives, and pass into all tongues, and move all gentle hearts wheresoever it shall come, down to the latest day:
Then, softly and quietly, came that heartfelt speech that will endure as long as language exists, that will be translated into all languages, and that will touch all kind hearts wherever it reaches, even until the very end of time:
“It had borne the burden, it had earned the honor.” (1) How simple it is, and how beautiful. And how it beggars the studies eloquence of the masters of oratory. Eloquence was a native gift of Joan of Arc; it came from her lips without effort and without preparation. Her words were as sublime as her deeds, as sublime as her character; they had their source in a great heart and were coined in a great brain.
“It had carried the weight, it had earned the respect.” (1) How simple that is, and how beautiful. And how it puts to shame the articulate studies of the great speakers. Eloquence was a natural talent of Joan of Arc; it flowed from her lips effortlessly and without any prep. Her words were as extraordinary as her actions, as extraordinary as her character; they stemmed from a big heart and were shaped in a brilliant mind.
(1) What she said has been many times translated, but never with success. There is a haunting pathos about the original which eludes all efforts to convey it into our tongue. It is as subtle as an odor, and escapes in the transmission. Her words were these:
(1) What she said has been translated many times, but never successfully. There’s a haunting sadness in the original that all attempts to express it in our language fail to capture. It’s as elusive as a scent, slipping away in the interpretation. Her words were these:
“Il avait, a la peine, c’etait bien raison qu’il fut a l’honneur.”
“Il avait, à la peine, c'était bien raison qu'il fut à l'honneur.”
Monseigneur Ricard, Honorary Vicar-General to the Archbishop of Aix, finely speaks of it (Jeanne d’Arc la Venerable, page 197) as “that sublime reply, enduring in the history of celebrated sayings like the cry of a French and Christian soul wounded unto death in its patriotism and its faith.” — TRANSLATOR.
Monseigneur Ricard, Honorary Vicar-General to the Archbishop of Aix, eloquently describes it (Jeanne d’Arc la Venerable, page 197) as “that profound response, lasting in the history of famous quotes like the cry of a French and Christian soul deeply hurt in its patriotism and faith.” — TRANSLATOR.
12 Joan’s Master-Stroke Diverted
NOW, as a next move, this small secret court of holy assassins did a thing so base that even at this day, in my old age, it is hard to speak of it with patience.
NOW, as the next step, this little secret court of holy assassins did something so despicable that even now, in my old age, it's tough to talk about it calmly.
In the beginning of her commerce with her Voices there at Domremy, the child Joan solemnly devoted her life to God, vowing her pure body and her pure soul to His service. You will remember that her parents tried to stop her from going to the wars by haling her to the court at Toul to compel her to make a marriage which she had never promised to make—a marriage with our poor, good, windy, big, hard-fighting, and most dear and lamented comrade, the Standard-Bearer, who fell in honorable battle and sleeps with God these sixty years, peace to his ashes! And you will remember how Joan, sixteen years old, stood up in that venerable court and conducted her case all by herself, and tore the poor Paladin’s case to rags and blew it away with a breath; and how the astonished old judge on the bench spoke of her as “this marvelous child.”
In the beginning of her interactions with her Voices in Domremy, the child Joan dedicated her life to God, pledging her pure body and soul to His service. You’ll recall that her parents tried to prevent her from going to war by dragging her to the court in Toul to force her into a marriage she had never agreed to—a marriage with our poor, good, blustery, tough fighter, and most beloved and mourned comrade, the Standard-Bearer, who fell in honorable battle and has been at peace with God for sixty years, rest in peace! And you’ll remember how Joan, at just sixteen, stood up in that respected court and presented her case on her own, tearing the poor Paladin’s case to shreds and blowing it away with a breath; and how the astonished old judge on the bench referred to her as “this marvelous child.”
You remember all that. Then think what I felt, to see these false priests, here in the tribunal wherein Joan had fought a fourth lone fight in three years, deliberately twist that matter entirely around and try to make out that Joan haled the Paladin into court and pretended that he had promised to marry her, and was bent on making him do it.
You remember all that. Now think about what I felt, seeing these fake priests, here in the courtroom where Joan had fought a fourth solo battle in three years, completely twist everything around and try to claim that Joan dragged the Paladin into court and pretended he promised to marry her, and was determined to force him to do it.
Certainly there was no baseness that those people were ashamed to stoop to in their hunt for that friendless girl’s life. What they wanted to show was this—that she had committed the sin of relapsing from her vow and trying to violate it.
Certainly there was nothing those people were too ashamed to do in their pursuit of that isolated girl's life. What they wanted to demonstrate was this—that she had sinned by going back on her vow and attempting to break it.
Joan detailed the true history of the case, but lost her temper as she went along, and finished with some words for Cauchon which he remembers yet, whether he is fanning himself in the world he belongs in or has swindled his way into the other.
Joan explained the real story behind the case, but she got really angry as she spoke and ended with some words for Cauchon that he still remembers, whether he's cooling himself in the world he belongs to or has tricked his way into the other one.
The rest of this day and part of the next the court labored upon the old theme—the male attire. It was shabby work for those grave men to be engaged in; for they well knew one of Joan’s reasons for clinging to the male dress was, that soldiers of the guard were always present in her room whether she was asleep or awake, and that the male dress was a better protection for her modesty than the other.
The rest of this day and part of the next, the court focused on the same old topic—the male attire. It was a pretty pointless task for those serious men to be involved in; they knew that one of Joan’s reasons for sticking to men's clothing was that guards were always in her room, whether she was sleeping or awake, and that wearing men's clothes offered her more protection for her modesty than anything else.
The court knew that one of Joan’s purposes had been the deliverance of the exiled Duke of Orleans, and they were curious to know how she had intended to manage it. Her plan was characteristically businesslike, and her statement of it as characteristically simple and straightforward:
The court was aware that one of Joan's goals was the rescue of the exiled Duke of Orleans, and they were eager to find out how she planned to accomplish it. Her strategy was typically pragmatic, and her description of it was characteristically clear and direct:
“I would have taken English prisoners enough in France for his ransom; and failing that, I would have invaded England and brought him out by force.”
“I would have captured enough English prisoners in France for his ransom; and if that didn't work, I would have invaded England and rescued him by force.”
That was just her way. If a thing was to be done, it was love first, and hammer and tongs to follow; but no shilly-shallying between. She added with a little sigh:
That was just how she was. If something needed to be done, it was love first, and then she would get to work; but there was no dallying in between. She added with a small sigh:
“If I had had my freedom three years, I would have delivered him.”
“If I had my freedom three years ago, I would have saved him.”
“Have you the permission of your Voices to break out of prison whenever you can?”
“Do you have permission from your Voices to escape from prison whenever you can?”
“I have asked their leave several times, but they have not given it.”
“I've asked for their permission several times, but they haven’t given it.”
I think it is as I have said, she expected the deliverance of death, and within the prison walls, before the three months should expire.
I think it's as I said; she anticipated the release of death, and within the prison walls, before the three months were up.
“Would you escape if you saw the doors open?”
“Would you run away if you saw the doors open?”
She spoke up frankly and said:
She spoke candidly and said:
“Yes—for I should see in that the permission of Our Lord. God helps who help themselves, the proverb says. But except I thought I had permission, I would not go.”
“Yes—for I see that as a sign of God's permission. The saying goes, God helps those who help themselves. But unless I believed I had permission, I wouldn't proceed.”
Now, then, at this point, something occurred which convinces me, every time I think of it—and it struck me so at the time—that for a moment, at least, her hopes wandered to the King, and put into her mind the same notion about her deliverance which Noel and I had settled upon—a rescue by her old soldiers. I think the idea of the rescue did occur to her, but only as a passing thought, and that it quickly passed away.
Now, at this point, something happened that convinces me every time I think about it—and it struck me just as strongly back then—that for a moment, at least, she thought about the King and entertained the same idea about her rescue that Noel and I had come up with—a rescue by her old soldiers. I believe the thought of being rescued did cross her mind, but only fleetingly, and it soon faded away.
Some remark of the Bishop of Beauvais moved her to remind him once more that he was an unfair judge, and had no right to preside there, and that he was putting himself in great danger.
Some comments from the Bishop of Beauvais prompted her to remind him once again that he was an unfair judge, had no right to be in that position, and was putting himself in serious danger.
“What danger?” he asked.
"What danger?" he asked.
“I do not know. St. Catherine has promised me help, but I do not know the form of it. I do not know whether I am to be delivered from this prison or whether when you sent me to the scaffold there will happen a trouble by which I shall be set free. Without much thought as to this matter, I am of the opinion that it may be one or the other.” After a pause she added these words, memorable forever—words whose meaning she may have miscaught, misunderstood; as to that we can never know; words which she may have rightly understood, as to that, also, we can never know; but words whose mystery fell away from them many a year ago and revealed their meaning to all the world:
“I don't know. St. Catherine has promised to help me, but I don’t know how. I’m not sure if I’ll be freed from this prison or if something will happen when you send me to the scaffold that will set me free. Without thinking too much about it, I believe it could be one or the other.” After a pause, she added these unforgettable words—words she might have misinterpreted or misunderstood; we can never really know that; words she might have understood correctly, and we can’t know that either; but words whose mystery faded away long ago and revealed their meaning to the entire world:
“But what my Voices have said clearest is, that I shall be delivered by a great victory.” She paused, my heart was beating fast, for to me that great victory meant the sudden bursting in of our old soldiers with the war-cry and clash of steel at the last moment and the carrying off of Joan of Arc in triumph. But, oh, that thought had such a short life! For now she raised her head and finished, with those solemn words which men still so often quote and dwell upon—words which filled me with fear, they sounded so like a prediction. “And always they say ‘Submit to whatever comes; do not grieve for your martyrdom; from it you will ascend into the Kingdom of Paradise.”
“But what my Voices have said most clearly is that I will be saved by a great victory.” She paused, and my heart raced because to me, that great victory meant our old soldiers bursting in suddenly with their war cries and the clash of steel at the last moment, carrying off Joan of Arc in triumph. But, oh, that thought was short-lived! Now she lifted her head and finished with those solemn words that people still often quote and reflect on—words that filled me with fear, as they sounded like a prediction. “And they always say, ‘Accept whatever comes; do not mourn your martyrdom; from it, you will rise into the Kingdom of Paradise.’”
Was she thinking of fire and the stake? I think not. I thought of it myself, but I believe she was only thinking of this slow and cruel martyrdom of chains and captivity and insult. Surely, martyrdom was the right name for it.
Was she thinking about fire and the stake? I don’t think so. I thought of it myself, but I believe she was only thinking about this slow and cruel martyrdom of chains, captivity, and humiliation. Surely, martyrdom was the right word for it.
It was Jean de la Fontaine who was asking the questions. He was willing to make the most he could out of what she had said:
It was Jean de la Fontaine who was asking the questions. He was eager to get the most out of what she had said:
“As the Voices have told you you are going to Paradise, you feel certain that that will happen and that you will not be damned in hell. Is that so?”
“As the Voices have told you, you’re going to Paradise. You feel sure that’s going to happen and that you won’t be damned to hell. Is that right?”
“I believe what they told me. I know that I shall be saved.”
“I believe what they said. I know that I will be saved.”
“It is a weighty answer.”
“It’s a significant answer.”
“To me the knowledge that I shall be saved is a great treasure.”
“To me, the knowledge that I will be saved is a great treasure.”
“Do you think that after that revelation you could be able to commit mortal sin?”
“Do you think that after that revelation you could still commit a serious sin?”
“As to that, I do not know. My hope for salvation is in holding fast to my oath to keep by body and my soul pure.”
“As for that, I don’t know. My hope for salvation lies in staying true to my oath to keep my body and soul pure.”
“Since you know you are to be saved, do you think it necessary to go to confession?”
“Since you know you're going to be saved, do you think it's necessary to go to confession?”
The snare was ingeniously devised, but Joan’s simple and humble answer left it empty:
The trap was cleverly designed, but Joan's straightforward and modest reply left it untriggered:
“One cannot keep his conscience too clean.”
“One can't keep their conscience too clean.”
We were now arriving at the last day of this new trial. Joan had come through the ordeal well. It had been a long and wearisome struggle for all concerned. All ways had been tried to convict the accused, and all had failed, thus far. The inquisitors were thoroughly vexed and dissatisfied.
We were now reaching the final day of this new trial. Joan had handled the ordeal well. It had been a long and exhausting fight for everyone involved. Every possible method had been attempted to convict the accused, and all had failed so far. The inquisitors were completely frustrated and unhappy.
However, they resolved to make one more effort, put in one more day’s work. This was done—March 17th. Early in the sitting a notable trap was set for Joan:
However, they decided to make one more effort and put in another day's work. This was done—March 17th. Early in the session, a significant trap was set for Joan:
“Will you submit to the determination of the Church all your words and deeds, whether good or bad?”
“Will you accept the Church's authority over all your words and actions, whether they're good or bad?”
That was well planned. Joan was in imminent peril now. If she should heedlessly say yes, it would put her mission itself upon trial, and one would know how to decide its source and character promptly. If she should say no, she would render herself chargeable with the crime of heresy.
That was well thought out. Joan was in serious danger now. If she carelessly said yes, it would jeopardize her mission, and people would quickly figure out its origin and nature. If she said no, she would be guilty of heresy.
But she was equal to the occasion. She drew a distinct line of separation between the Church’s authority over her as a subject member, and the matter of her mission. She said she loved the Church and was ready to support the Christian faith with all her strength; but as to the works done under her mission, those must be judged by God alone, who had commanded them to be done.
But she was ready for the challenge. She clearly separated the Church's authority over her as a member from her mission. She stated that she loved the Church and was willing to support the Christian faith with all her strength; however, the works carried out under her mission should be judged only by God, who had commanded them to be done.
The judge still insisted that she submit them to the decision of the Church. She said:
The judge still insisted that she submit them to the Church's decision. She said:
“I will submit them to Our Lord who sent me. It would seem to me that He and His Church are one, and that there should be no difficulty about this matter.” Then she turned upon the judge and said, “Why do you make a difficulty when there is no room for any?”
“I will submit them to Our Lord who sent me. It seems to me that He and His Church are one, and there shouldn’t be any issues with this matter.” Then she turned to the judge and said, “Why are you creating a problem when there’s no reason to?”
Then Jean de la Fontaine corrected her notion that there was but one Church. There were two—the Church Triumphant, which is God, the saints, the angels, and the redeemed, and has its seat in heaven; and the Church Militant, which is our Holy Father the Pope, Vicar of God, the prelates, the clergy and all good Christians and Catholics, the which Church has its seat in the earth, is governed by the Holy Spirit, and cannot err. “Will you not submit those matters to the Church Militant?”
Then Jean de la Fontaine clarified her belief that there was only one Church. There are actually two—the Church Triumphant, which includes God, the saints, the angels, and the saved, and resides in heaven; and the Church Militant, which consists of our Holy Father the Pope, God's representative, the bishops, the clergy, and all good Christians and Catholics. This Church is based on earth, guided by the Holy Spirit, and cannot make mistakes. “Will you not bring those matters before the Church Militant?”
“I am come to the King of France from the Church Triumphant on high by its commandant, and to that Church I will submit all those things which I have done. For the Church Militant I have no other answer now.”
“I have come to the King of France from the Church Triumphant above, at its command, and I will submit all that I have done to that Church. As for the Church Militant, I have no other response at this time.”
The court took note of this straitly worded refusal, and would hope to get profit out of it; but the matter was dropped for the present, and a long chase was then made over the old hunting-ground—the fairies, the visions, the male attire, and all that.
The court acknowledged this firmly worded refusal and hoped to benefit from it; however, the issue was set aside for now, and a lengthy pursuit then began over the familiar territory—the fairies, the visions, the men's clothing, and all of that.
In the afternoon the satanic Bishop himself took the chair and presided over the closing scenes of the trial. Along toward the finish, this question was asked by one of the judges:
In the afternoon, the satanic Bishop himself took the chair and oversaw the final moments of the trial. Near the end, one of the judges asked this question:
“You have said to my lord the Bishop that you would answer him as you would answer before our Holy Father the Pope, and yet there are several questions which you continually refuse to answer. Would you not answer the Pope more fully than you have answered before my lord of Beauvais? Would you not feel obliged to answer the Pope, who is the Vicar of God, more fully?”
"You told my lord the Bishop that you would respond to him just like you would respond to our Holy Father the Pope, but there are many questions you keep avoiding. Wouldn't you answer the Pope more thoroughly than you've answered my lord of Beauvais? Wouldn't you feel it necessary to provide a fuller response to the Pope, who represents God?"
Now a thunder-clap fell out of a clear sky:
Now a thunderclap erupted from a clear sky:
“Take me to the Pope. I will answer to everything that I ought to.”
“Take me to the Pope. I will respond to everything I need to.”
It made the Bishop’s purple face fairly blanch with consternation. If Joan had only known, if she had only know! She had lodged a mine under this black conspiracy able to blow the Bishop’s schemes to the four winds of heaven, and she didn’t know it. She had made that speech by mere instinct, not suspecting what tremendous forces were hidden in it, and there was none to tell her what she had done. I knew, and Manchon knew; and if she had known how to read writing we could have hoped to get the knowledge to her somehow; but speech was the only way, and none was allowed to approach her near enough for that. So there she sat, once more Joan of Arc the Victorious, but all unconscious of it. She was miserably worn and tired, by the long day’s struggle and by illness, or she must have noticed the effect of that speech and divined the reason of it.
It made the Bishop’s purple face go pale with shock. If only Joan had known, if only she had realized! She had planted a bomb under this dark plot capable of blowing the Bishop’s plans to pieces, and she had no idea. She delivered that speech entirely instinctively, unaware of the powerful forces hidden within it, and no one was there to tell her what she had done. I knew, and Manchon knew; and if she had known how to read, we could have figured out a way to get that knowledge to her somehow; but speech was the only option, and no one was allowed to get close enough for that. So there she sat, once again Joan of Arc the Victorious, completely oblivious. She looked worn out and exhausted from the long day’s battle and from being sick, or she would have noticed the impact of that speech and guessed why it mattered.
She had made many master-strokes, but this was the master-stroke. It was an appeal to Rome. It was her clear right; and if she had persisted in it Cauchon’s plot would have tumbled about his ears like a house of cards, and he would have gone from that place the worst-beaten man of the century. He was daring, but he was not daring enough to stand up against that demand if Joan had urged it. But no, she was ignorant, poor thing, and did not know what a blow she had struck for life and liberty.
She had made many brilliant moves, but this was her best. It was an appeal to Rome. It was her rightful claim, and if she had pushed for it, Cauchon's scheme would have collapsed like a house of cards, leaving him the most defeated man of the century. He was bold, but not bold enough to oppose that demand if Joan had insisted on it. But no, she was unaware, the poor thing, and didn’t realize the impact she had made for life and freedom.
France was not the Church. Rome had no interest in the destruction of this messenger of God.
France was not the Church. Rome didn't want to see the downfall of this messenger of God.
Rome would have given her a fair trial, and that was all that her cause needed. From that trial she would have gone forth free, and honored, and blessed.
Rome would have given her a fair trial, and that was all that her cause needed. From that trial, she would have come out free, honored, and blessed.
But it was not so fated. Cauchon at once diverted the questions to other matters and hurried the trial quickly to an end.
But it wasn't meant to be. Cauchon quickly shifted the questions to other topics and rushed the trial to a conclusion.
As Joan moved feebly away, dragging her chains, I felt stunned and dazed, and kept saying to myself, “Such a little while ago she said the saving word and could have gone free; and now, there she goes to her death; yes, it is to her death, I know it, I feel it. They will double the guards; they will never let any come near her now between this and her condemnation, lest she get a hint and speak that word again. This is the bitterest day that has come to me in all this miserable time.”
As Joan weakly moved away, dragging her chains, I felt stunned and dazed, and kept telling myself, “Just a little while ago, she said the saving word and could have been free; and now, here she goes to her death; yes, it’s her death, I know it, I can feel it. They’ll increase the guards; they won’t let anyone near her now before her sentencing, so she doesn’t get a hint and says that word again. This is the worst day I’ve had in all this awful time.”
13 The Third Trial Fails

SO THE SECOND trial in the prison was over. Over, and no definite result. The character of it I have described to you. It was baser in one particular than the previous one; for this time the charges had not been communicated to Joan, therefore she had been obliged to fight in the dark.
SO THE SECOND trial in the prison was over. Over, and no definite result. The character of it I have described to you. It was worse in one way than the previous one; for this time the charges had not been communicated to Joan, so she had to fight in the dark.
There was no opportunity to do any thinking beforehand; there was no foreseeing what traps might be set, and no way to prepare for them. Truly it was a shabby advantage to take of a girl situated as this one was. One day, during the course of it, an able lawyer of Normandy, Maetre Lohier, happened to be in Rouen, and I will give you his opinion of that trial, so that you may see that I have been honest with you, and that my partisanship has not made me deceive you as to its unfair and illegal character. Cauchon showed Lohier the proces and asked his opinion about the trial. Now this was the opinion which he gave to Cauchon. He said that the whole thing was null and void; for these reasons: 1, because the trial was secret, and full freedom of speech and action on the part of those present not possible; 2, because the trial touched the honor of the King of France, yet he was not summoned to defend himself, nor any one appointed to represent him; 3, because the charges against the prisoner were not communicated to her; 4, because the accused, although young and simple, had been forced to defend her cause without help of counsel, notwithstanding she had so much at stake.
There was no chance to think things through beforehand; there was no way to predict what traps might be laid, and no way to get ready for them. It was truly a low blow to take advantage of a girl in her situation. One day, during the proceedings, a skilled lawyer from Normandy, Maetre Lohier, happened to be in Rouen, and I’ll share his thoughts on that trial so you can see I’ve been honest with you and that my bias hasn’t led me to misrepresent its unfair and illegal nature. Cauchon showed Lohier the case files and asked for his opinion on the trial. This is what he told Cauchon: he believed the entire process was invalid for these reasons: 1, because the trial was secret, and those present couldn’t speak or act freely; 2, because the trial involved the honor of the King of France, yet he wasn’t called to defend himself, nor was anyone assigned to represent him; 3, because the charges against the accused were not communicated to her; 4, because the defendant, although young and naive, had been forced to defend herself without legal counsel, despite having so much on the line.
Did that please Bishop Cauchon? It did not. He burst out upon Lohier with the most savage cursings, and swore he would have him drowned. Lohier escaped from Rouen and got out of France with all speed, and so saved his life.
Did that please Bishop Cauchon? It didn't. He erupted at Lohier with the fiercest insults and vowed to have him drowned. Lohier fled from Rouen and quickly left France, thus saving his life.
Well, as I have said, the second trial was over, without definite result. But Cauchon did not give up. He could trump up another. And still another and another, if necessary. He had the half-promise of an enormous prize—the Archbishopric of Rouen—if he should succeed in burning the body and damning to hell the soul of this young girl who had never done him any harm; and such a prize as that, to a man like the Bishop of Beauvais, was worth the burning and damning of fifty harmless girls, let alone one.
Well, like I said, the second trial was over, but it didn’t really lead to anything clear. But Cauchon didn’t give up. He could set up another one. And then another, and another if he needed to. He had a good chance at a huge reward—the Archbishopric of Rouen—if he succeeded in burning the body and sending the soul of this young girl, who had never harmed him, to hell; and for a man like the Bishop of Beauvais, a prize like that was worth the burning and damning of fifty innocent girls, not just one.
So he set to work again straight off next day; and with high confidence, too, intimating with brutal cheerfulness that he should succeed this time. It took him and the other scavengers nine days to dig matter enough out of Joan’s testimony and their own inventions to build up the new mass of charges. And it was a formidable mass indeed, for it numbered sixty-six articles.
So he got right back to work the next day, feeling really confident and cheerfully stating that he was going to succeed this time. It took him and the other scavengers nine days to gather enough material from Joan’s testimony and their own ideas to create the new set of charges. And it was a serious amount, totaling sixty-six items.
This huge document was carried to the castle the next day, March 27th; and there, before a dozen carefully selected judges, the new trial was begun.
This huge document was brought to the castle the next day, March 27th; and there, in front of a dozen carefully chosen judges, the new trial started.
Opinions were taken, and the tribunal decided that Joan should hear the articles read this time.
Opinions were gathered, and the tribunal decided that Joan should listen to the articles being read this time.
Maybe that was on account of Lohier’s remark upon that head; or maybe it was hoped that the reading would kill the prisoner with fatigue—for, as it turned out, this reading occupied several days. It was also decided that Joan should be required to answer squarely to every article, and that if she refused she should be considered convicted. You see, Cauchon was managing to narrow her chances more and more all the time; he was drawing the toils closer and closer.
Maybe that was because of Lohier’s comment on the matter; or maybe they hoped that the reading would exhaust the prisoner to the point of collapse—for, as it turned out, this reading took several days. It was also decided that Joan should be required to respond directly to every claim, and that if she refused, she would be deemed guilty. You see, Cauchon was increasingly tightening the noose on her chances; he was drawing the trap closer and closer.
Joan was brought in, and the Bishop of Beauvais opened with a speech to her which ought to have made even himself blush, so laden it was with hypocrisy and lies. He said that this court was composed of holy and pious churchmen whose hearts were full of benevolence and compassion toward her, and that they had no wish to hurt her body, but only a desire to instruct her and lead her into the way of truth and salvation.
Joan was brought in, and the Bishop of Beauvais began with a speech that should have made even him blush, filled as it was with hypocrisy and lies. He said that this court was made up of holy and devout churchmen whose hearts were full of kindness and compassion for her, and that they had no intention of harming her physically, but only a desire to guide her and lead her toward the truth and salvation.
Why, this man was born a devil; now think of his describing himself and those hardened slaves of his in such language as that.
Why, this man was born a devil; just imagine him describing himself and those tough slaves of his in language like that.
And yet, worse was to come. For now having in mind another of Lovier’s hints, he had the cold effrontery to make to Joan a proposition which, I think, will surprise you when you hear it. He said that this court, recognizing her untaught estate and her inability to deal with the complex and difficult matters which were about to be considered, had determined, out of their pity and their mercifulness, to allow her to choose one or more persons out of their own number to help her with counsel and advice!
And yet, worse was yet to come. Keeping in mind another of Lovier’s hints, he had the bold nerve to make Joan a proposition that, I think, will surprise you when you hear it. He said that this court, acknowledging her lack of knowledge and her inability to handle the complex and challenging issues that were about to be discussed, had decided, out of compassion and kindness, to let her select one or more people from their group to assist her with guidance and advice!
Think of that—a court made up of Loyseleur and his breed of reptiles. It was granting leave to a lamb to ask help of a wolf. Joan looked up to see if he was serious, and perceiving that he was at least pretending to be, she declined, of course.
Think about that—a court filled with Loyseleur and his kind of snakes. It was allowing a lamb to ask a wolf for help. Joan looked up to check if he was serious, and realizing that he was at least pretending to be, she refused, of course.
The Bishop was not expecting any other reply. He had made a show of fairness and could have it entered on the minutes, therefore he was satisfied.
The Bishop wasn't expecting any other response. He had put on a front of fairness and could have it recorded in the minutes, so he felt satisfied.
Then he commanded Joan to answer straitly to every accusation; and threatened to cut her off from the Church if she failed to do that or delayed her answers beyond a given length of time.
Then he ordered Joan to respond directly to every accusation; and threatened to cut her off from the Church if she didn’t do that or took too long to answer.
Yes, he was narrowing her chances down, step by step.
Yes, he was reducing her chances, step by step.
Thomas de Courcelles began the reading of that interminable document, article by article. Joan answered to each article in its turn; sometimes merely denying its truth, sometimes by saying her answer would be found in the records of the previous trials.
Thomas de Courcelles started reading that never-ending document, article by article. Joan responded to each article in order; sometimes just denying its accuracy, other times saying her answer could be found in the records of the earlier trials.
What a strange document that was, and what an exhibition and exposure of the heart of man, the one creature authorized to boast that he is made in the image of God. To know Joan of Arc was to know one who was wholly noble, pure, truthful, brave, compassionate, generous, pious, unselfish, modest, blameless as the very flowers in the fields—a nature fine and beautiful, a character supremely great. To know her from that document would be to know her as the exact reverse of all that. Nothing that she was appears in it, everything that she was not appears there in detail.
What a strange document that was, and what a display and revelation of the human heart, the one being allowed to claim that he is made in the image of God. To know Joan of Arc was to know someone who was completely noble, pure, truthful, brave, compassionate, generous, devout, selfless, modest, and as blameless as the flowers in the fields—a nature exquisite and beautiful, a character incredibly great. To know her from that document would be to know her as the exact opposite of all that. Nothing that she truly was is shown in it; everything that she was not is detailed there.
Consider some of the things it charges against her, and remember who it is it is speaking of. It calls her a sorceress, a false prophet, an invoker and companion of evil spirits, a dealer in magic, a person ignorant of the Catholic faith, a schismatic; she is sacrilegious, an idolater, an apostate, a blasphemer of God and His saints, scandalous, seditious, a disturber of the peace; she incites men to war, and to the spilling of human blood; she discards the decencies and proprieties of her sex, irreverently assuming the dress of a man and the vocation of a soldier; she beguiles both princes and people; she usurps divine honors, and has caused herself to be adored and venerated, offering her hands and her vestments to be kissed.
Consider some of the accusations made against her, and remember who they’re talking about. They call her a witch, a false prophet, someone who calls on and collaborates with evil spirits, a practitioner of magic, a person ignorant of the Catholic faith, a schismatic; she is sacrilegious, an idolater, an apostate, a blasphemer of God and His saints, scandalous, seditious, a disruptor of peace; she incites men to war and the shedding of human blood; she disregards the decencies and norms of her gender, shamelessly taking on men's clothing and the role of a soldier; she charms both nobles and commoners; she claims divine honors and has caused people to worship and revere her, allowing her hands and garments to be kissed.
There it is—every fact of her life distorted, perverted, reversed. As a child she had loved the fairies, she had spoken a pitying word for them when they were banished from their home, she had played under their tree and around their fountain—hence she was a comrade of evil spirits.
There it is—every detail of her life twisted, corrupted, turned upside down. As a kid, she had loved the fairies, felt sorry for them when they were kicked out of their home, played under their tree and around their fountain—so she was considered a friend of dark forces.
She had lifted France out of the mud and moved her to strike for freedom, and led her to victory after victory—hence she was a disturber of the peace—as indeed she was, and a provoker of war—as indeed she was again! and France will be proud of it and grateful for it for many a century to come. And she had been adored—as if she could help that, poor thing, or was in any way to blame for it. The cowed veteran and the wavering recruit had drunk the spirit of war from her eyes and touched her sword with theirs and moved forward invincible—hence she was a sorceress.
She had lifted France out of the mud and urged her to fight for freedom, leading her to victory after victory—this is why she disturbed the peace—and indeed she did, and provoked war—again, she did! France will be proud of that and grateful for it for many centuries to come. And she had been adored—as if she could do anything about it, poor thing, or was in any way at fault. The scared veteran and the unsure recruit had drawn the spirit of war from her eyes, touched her sword with theirs, and moved forward invincible—this is why she was seen as a sorceress.
And so the document went on, detail by detail, turning these waters of life to poison, this gold to dross, these proofs of a noble and beautiful life to evidences of a foul and odious one.
And so the document continued, detail by detail, turning these waters of life into poison, this gold into worthless metal, these proofs of a noble and beautiful life into evidence of a foul and disgusting one.
Of course, the sixty-six articles were just a rehash of the things which had come up in the course of the previous trials, so I will touch upon this new trial but lightly. In fact, Joan went but little into detail herself, usually merely saying, “That is not true—passez outre”; or, “I have answered that before—let the clerk read it in his record,” or saying some other brief thing.
Of course, the sixty-six articles were just a recap of what had come up in the previous trials, so I'll only briefly discuss this new trial. In fact, Joan didn't go into much detail herself, usually just saying, “That's not true—move on,” or, “I've answered that before—let the clerk read it in his record,” or making some other short comment.
She refused to have her mission examined and tried by the earthly Church. The refusal was taken note of.
She refused to have her mission reviewed and judged by the earthly Church. Her refusal was noted.
She denied the accusation of idolatry and that she had sought men’s homage. She said:
She rejected the accusation of idolatry and that she had sought men's admiration. She said:
“If any kissed my hands and my vestments it was not by my desire, and I did what I could to prevent it.”
“If anyone kissed my hands and my clothes, it wasn't because I wanted them to, and I did everything I could to stop it.”
She had the pluck to say to that deadly tribunal that she did not know the fairies to be evil beings. She knew it was a perilous thing to say, but it was not in her nature to speak anything but the truth when she spoke at all. Danger had no weight with her in such things. Note was taken of her remark.
She had the courage to tell that dangerous group that she didn’t believe the fairies were evil. She knew it was a risky thing to say, but it wasn’t in her nature to say anything other than the truth when she spoke at all. Danger didn’t matter to her in moments like that. Her comment was noted.
She refused, as always before, when asked if she would put off the male attire if she were given permission to commune. And she added this:
She refused, just like she always had, when asked if she would take off the men's clothing if she were allowed to join. And she added this:
“When one receives the sacrament, the manner of his dress is a small thing and of no value in the eyes of Our Lord.”
“When someone receives the sacrament, what they wear is a minor detail and holds no significance in the eyes of Our Lord.”
She was charge with being so stubborn in clinging to her male dress that she would not lay it off even to get the blessed privilege of hearing mass. She spoke out with spirit and said:
She was accused of being so stubborn in holding onto her men's clothing that she wouldn't take it off even to enjoy the sacred privilege of attending mass. She spoke up with determination and said:
“I would rather die than be untrue to my oath to God.”
“I would rather die than break my oath to God.”
She was reproached with doing man’s work in the wars and thus deserting the industries proper to her sex. She answered, with some little touch of soldierly disdain:
She was criticized for doing men's work in the wars and abandoning the jobs suited for her gender. She replied, with a hint of soldierly disdain:
“As to the matter of women’s work, there’s plenty to do it.”
“As for the issue of women’s work, there’s plenty to be done.”
It was always a comfort to me to see the soldier spirit crop up in her. While that remained in her she would be Joan of Arc, and able to look trouble and fate in the face.
It always comforted me to see the soldier spirit emerge in her. As long as that was in her, she would be Joan of Arc, capable of facing trouble and fate head-on.
“It appears that this mission of yours which you claim you had from God, was to make war and pour out human blood.”
“It seems that this mission of yours, which you say you received from God, was to go to war and shed human blood.”
Joan replied quite simply, contenting herself with explaining that war was not her first move, but her second:
Joan replied easily, explaining that war wasn’t her first option, but her second:
“To begin with, I demanded that peace should be made. If it was refused, then I would fight.”
“To start, I insisted that peace should be established. If it was denied, then I would go to war.”
The judge mixed the Burgundians and English together in speaking of the enemy which Joan had come to make war upon. But she showed that she made a distinction between them by act and word, the Burgundians being Frenchmen and therefore entitled to less brusque treatment than the English. She said:
The judge grouped the Burgundians and English together when discussing the enemy that Joan had come to fight against. However, she made it clear that she viewed them differently through both her actions and words, as the Burgundians were French and deserved to be treated with more respect than the English. She said:
“As to the Duke of Burgundy, I required of him, both by letters and by his ambassadors, that he make peace with the King. As to the English, the only peace for them was that they leave the country and go home.”
“As for the Duke of Burgundy, I asked him, both in letters and through his ambassadors, to make peace with the King. Regarding the English, the only peace for them was to leave the country and return home.”
Then she said that even with the English she had shown a pacific disposition, since she had warned them away by proclamation before attacking them.
Then she said that even with her English, she had shown a peaceful attitude, since she had warned them off with a proclamation before going on the attack.
“If they had listened to me,” said she, “they would have done wisely.” At this point she uttered her prophecy again, saying with emphasis, “Before seven years they will see it themselves.”
“If they had listened to me,” she said, “they would have made a smart choice.” At this point, she repeated her prediction, stating emphatically, “In less than seven years, they will realize it for themselves.”
Then they presently began to pester her again about her male costume, and tried to persuade her to voluntarily promise to discard it. I was never deep, so I think it no wonder that I was puzzled by their persistency in what seemed a thing of no consequence, and could not make out what their reason could be. But we all know now. We all know now that it was another of their treacherous projects. Yes, if they could but succeed in getting her to formally discard it they could play a game upon her which would quickly destroy her. So they kept at their evil work until at last she broke out and said:
Then they soon started to bother her again about her male costume and tried to convince her to promise to get rid of it. I wasn't very perceptive, so it's no surprise that I was confused by their persistence over something that seemed trivial, and I couldn't figure out what their motive was. But we all know now. We all know now that it was yet another one of their deceitful schemes. Yes, if they could manage to get her to officially give it up, they could trap her in a way that would quickly ruin her. So they kept at their wicked plan until finally she snapped and said:
“Peace! Without the permission of God I will not lay it off though you cut off my head!”
“Peace! I won't give it up without God's permission, even if you cut off my head!”
At one point she corrected the proces verbal, saying:
At one point, she corrected the minutes, saying:
“It makes me say that everything which I have done was done by the counsel of Our Lord. I did not say that, I said ‘all which I have well done.’”
“It makes me say that everything I've done was done under the guidance of Our Lord. I didn't say that; I said, ‘everything I've done well.’”
Doubt was cast upon the authenticity of her mission because of the ignorance and simplicity of the messenger chosen. Joan smiled at that. She could have reminded these people that Our Lord, who is no respecter of persons, had chosen the lowly for his high purposes even oftener than he had chosen bishops and cardinals; but she phrased her rebuke in simpler terms:
Doubt was raised about the authenticity of her mission because of the ignorance and naivety of the messenger chosen. Joan smiled at that. She could have pointed out to these people that Our Lord, who doesn't favor anyone, had chosen the humble for his great purposes even more often than he had chosen bishops and cardinals; but she expressed her criticism in simpler terms:
“It is the prerogative of Our Lord to choose His instruments where He will.”
“It is Our Lord’s right to choose His instruments wherever He wants.”
She was asked what form of prayer she used in invoking counsel from on high. She said the form was brief and simple; then she lifted her pallid face and repeated it, clasping her chained hands:
She was asked what kind of prayer she used to seek guidance from above. She said it was short and simple; then she raised her pale face and repeated it, clasping her bound hands:
“Most dear God, in honor of your holy passion I beseech you, if you love me, that you will reveal to me what I am to answer to these churchmen. As concerns my dress, I know by what command I have put it on, but I know not in what manner I am to lay it off. I pray you tell me what to do.”
“Most dear God, in honor of your holy passion, I ask you, if you love me, to reveal to me what I should say to these churchmen. Regarding my dress, I know the order under which I put it on, but I have no idea how to take it off. Please tell me what to do.”
She was charged with having dared, against the precepts of God and His saints, to assume empire over men and make herself Commander-in-Chief. That touched the soldier in her. She had a deep reverence for priests, but the soldier in her had but small reverence for a priest’s opinions about war; so, in her answer to this charge she did not condescend to go into any explanations or excuses, but delivered herself with bland indifference and military brevity.
She was accused of having dared, against the teachings of God and His saints, to take control over men and make herself Commander-in-Chief. That resonated with the soldier inside her. She had a strong respect for priests, but the soldier in her had little regard for a priest’s views on war; so, in her response to this accusation, she didn’t bother with explanations or excuses, but spoke with calm indifference and military conciseness.
“If I was Commander-in-Chief, it was to thrash the English.”
“If I were Commander-in-Chief, it was to defeat the English.”
Death was staring her in the face here all the time, but no matter; she dearly loved to make these English-hearted Frenchmen squirm, and whenever they gave her an opening she was prompt to jab her sting into it. She got great refreshment out of these little episodes. Her days were a desert; these were the oases in it.
Death was constantly looming over her here, but that didn't matter; she really loved making these English-hearted Frenchmen uncomfortable, and whenever they gave her an opportunity, she was quick to dive in with a sharp remark. She found a lot of satisfaction in these little moments. Her days felt empty; these were the highlights.
Her being in the wars with men was charged against her as an indelicacy. She said:
Her involvement in battles with men was seen as inappropriate. She said:
“I had a woman with me when I could—in towns and lodgings. In the field I always slept in my armor.”
“I had a woman with me when I could—in towns and places to stay. In the field, I always slept in my armor.”
That she and her family had been ennobled by the King was charged against her as evidence that the source of her deeds were sordid self-seeking. She answered that she had not asked this grace of the King; it was his own act.
That she and her family had been honored by the King was used against her as proof that her actions were motivated by greedy self-interest. She replied that she had not requested this favor from the King; it was his decision.
This third trial was ended at last. And once again there was no definite result.
This third trial finally came to an end. And once again, there wasn't a clear outcome.
Possibly a fourth trial might succeed in defeating this apparently unconquerable girl. So the malignant Bishop set himself to work to plan it.
Possibly a fourth attempt might succeed in overcoming this seemingly invincible girl. So the spiteful Bishop set to work planning it.
He appointed a commission to reduce the substance of the sixty-six articles to twelve compact lies, as a basis for the new attempt. This was done. It took several days.
He set up a commission to condense the sixty-six articles into twelve concise lies to serve as the foundation for the new effort. This was accomplished. It took several days.
Meantime Cauchon went to Joan’s cell one day, with Manchon and two of the judges, Isambard de la Pierre and Martin Ladvenue, to see if he could not manage somehow to beguile Joan into submitting her mission to the examination and decision of the Church Militant—that is to say, to that part of the Church Militant which was represented by himself and his creatures.
Meantime, Cauchon visited Joan's cell one day with Manchon and two of the judges, Isambard de la Pierre and Martin Ladvenue, to see if he could somehow trick Joan into handing over her mission for evaluation and decision by the Church Militant—that is to say, the part of the Church Militant represented by himself and his followers.
Joan once more positively refused. Isambard de la Pierre had a heart in his body, and he so pitied this persecuted poor girl that he ventured to do a very daring thing; for he asked her if she would be willing to have her case go before the Council of Basel, and said it contained as many priests of her party as of the English party.
Joan firmly refused again. Isambard de la Pierre had a heart and felt such compassion for this mistreated girl that he decided to do something quite bold; he asked her if she would be open to having her case presented to the Council of Basel, mentioning that it included as many priests from her side as from the English side.
Joan cried out that she would gladly go before so fairly constructed a tribunal as that; but before Isambard could say another word Cauchon turned savagely upon him and exclaimed:
Joan shouted that she would happily face such a well-formed tribunal; but before Isambard could say anything more, Cauchon turned angrily towards him and said:
“Shut up, in the devil’s name!”
"Be quiet, for goodness' sake!"
Then Manchon ventured to do a brave thing, too, though he did it in great fear for his life. He asked Cauchon if he should enter Joan’s submission to the Council of Basel upon the minutes.
Then Manchon dared to do something brave, even though he was really scared for his life. He asked Cauchon if he should record Joan’s submission to the Council of Basel in the minutes.
“No! It is not necessary.”
“No! It’s not needed.”
“Ah,” said poor Joan, reproachfully, “you set down everything that is against me, but you will not set down what is for me.”
“Ah,” said poor Joan, sadly, “you write down everything that’s against me, but you won’t write down what’s in my favor.”
It was piteous. It would have touched the heart of a brute. But Cauchon was more than that.
It was heartbreaking. It would have moved even the toughest person. But Cauchon was more than that.
14 Joan Struggles with Her Twelve Lies
WE WERE now in the first days of April. Joan was ill. She had fallen ill the 29th of March, the day after the close of the third trial, and was growing worse when the scene which I have just described occurred in her cell. It was just like Cauchon to go there and try to get some advantage out of her weakened state.
WE WERE now in the first days of April. Joan was sick. She had fallen ill on the 29th of March, the day after the conclusion of the third trial, and was getting worse when the scene I just described happened in her cell. It was just like Cauchon to go there and try to take advantage of her weakened condition.
Let us note some of the particulars in the new indictment—the Twelve Lies.
Let’s take a look at some details in the new indictment—the Twelve Lies.
Part of the first one says Joan asserts that she has found her salvation. She never said anything of the kind. It also says she refuses to submit herself to the Church. Not true. She was willing to submit all her acts to this Rouen tribunal except those done by the command of God in fulfilment of her mission. Those she reserved for the judgment of God. She refused to recognize Cauchon and his serfs as the Church, but was willing to go before the Pope or the Council of Basel.
Part of the first one says Joan claims she has found her salvation. She never actually said that. It also states that she refuses to submit to the Church. That's not true. She was ready to submit all her actions to the Rouen tribunal except for those she did under God's command to fulfill her mission. She kept those for God's judgment. She did not recognize Cauchon and his followers as the Church, but she was open to going before the Pope or the Council of Basel.
A clause of another of the Twelve says she admits having threatened with death those who would not obey her. Distinctly false. Another clause says she declares that all she has done has been done by command of God. What she really said was, all that she had done well—a correction made by herself as you have already seen.
A part of another of the Twelve says she admits to having threatened to kill those who didn’t obey her. That’s clearly false. Another part says she claims everything she did was commanded by God. What she actually said was that all she had done well—that's a correction she made herself, as you've already seen.
Another of the Twelve says she claims that she has never committed any sin. She never made any such claim.
Another member of the Twelve says she claims that she has never sinned. She never made any such claim.
Another makes the wearing of the male dress a sin. If it was, she had high Catholic authority for committing it—that of the Archbishop of Rheims and the tribunal of Poitiers.
Another considers wearing male clothing a sin. If it is, she had strong Catholic authority for doing so—namely, that of the Archbishop of Rheims and the tribunal of Poitiers.
The Tenth Article was resentful against her for “pretending” that St. Catherine and St.
The Tenth Article was bitter towards her for “pretending” that St. Catherine and St.
Marguerite spoke French and not English, and were French in their politics.
Marguerite spoke French and not English, and was French in her politics.
The Twelve were to be submitted first to the learned doctors of theology of the University of Paris for approval. They were copied out and ready by the night of April 4th. Then Manchon did another bold thing: he wrote in the margin that many of the Twelve put statements in Joan’s mouth which were the exact opposite of what she had said. That fact would not be considered important by the University of Paris, and would not influence its decision or stir its humanity, in case it had any—which it hadn’t when acting in a political capacity, as at present—but it was a brave thing for that good Manchon to do, all the same.
The Twelve were first presented to the scholars of theology at the University of Paris for approval. They were copied and ready by the night of April 4th. Then Manchon took another bold step: he noted in the margin that many of the Twelve attributed statements to Joan that were the complete opposite of what she had said. The University of Paris wouldn't see that as significant, and it wouldn’t impact their decision or spark any compassion, if they had any—which they didn’t when acting in a political role, as they were now—but it was still a brave act for that good Manchon.
The Twelve were sent to Paris next day, April 5th. That afternoon there was a great tumult in Rouen, and excited crowds were flocking through all the chief streets, chattering and seeking for news; for a report had gone abroad that Joan of Arc was sick until death. In truth, these long seances had worn her out, and she was ill indeed. The heads of the English party were in a state of consternation; for if Joan should die uncondemned by the Church and go to the grave unsmirched, the pity and the love of the people would turn her wrongs and sufferings and death into a holy martyrdom, and she would be even a mightier power in France dead than she had been when alive.
The Twelve were sent to Paris the next day, April 5th. That afternoon, there was a huge uproar in Rouen, and excited crowds were rushing through all the main streets, chatting and looking for news; a report had spread that Joan of Arc was gravely ill. In reality, these lengthy sessions had exhausted her, and she was indeed unwell. The leaders of the English party were in a state of panic; if Joan were to die without being condemned by the Church and went to her grave without blame, the people's sympathy and affection would transform her injustices, suffering, and death into a form of holy martyrdom, making her an even greater influence in France after her death than she had been while alive.
The Earl of Warwick and the English Cardinal (Winchester) hurried to the castle and sent messengers flying for physicians. Warwick was a hard man, a rude, coarse man, a man without compassion. There lay the sick girl stretched in her chains in her iron cage—not an object to move man to ungentle speech, one would think; yet Warwick spoke right out in her hearing and said to the physicians:
The Earl of Warwick and the English Cardinal (Winchester) rushed to the castle and sent messengers to call for doctors. Warwick was a tough, harsh man, a man without pity. The sick girl lay in her chains in her iron cage—not someone who would provoke a person to speak roughly, you would think; yet Warwick openly spoke in her presence and said to the doctors:
“Mind you take good care of her. The King of England has no mind to have her die a natural death. She is dear to him, for he bought her dear, and he does not want her to die, save at the stake. Now then, mind you cure her.”
“Make sure you take good care of her. The King of England doesn’t want her to die a natural death. She means a lot to him because he paid a high price for her, and he wants her to die only by burning at the stake. So, make sure you cure her.”
The doctors asked Joan what had made her ill. She said the Bishop of Beauvais had sent her a fish and she thought it was that.
The doctors asked Joan what had made her sick. She said the Bishop of Beauvais had sent her a fish, and she thought that was the cause.
Then Jean d’Estivet burst out on her, and called her names and abused her. He understood Joan to be charging the Bishop with poisoning her, you see; and that was not pleasing to him, for he was one of Cauchon’s most loving and conscienceless slaves, and it outraged him to have Joan injure his master in the eyes of these great English chiefs, these being men who could ruin Cauchon and would promptly do it if they got the conviction that he was capable of saving Joan from the stake by poisoning her and thus cheating the English out of all the real value gainable by her purchase from the Duke of Burgundy.
Then Jean d’Estivet lashed out at her, calling her names and insulting her. He interpreted Joan as accusing the Bishop of poisoning her, and that infuriated him because he was one of Cauchon’s most loyal and unscrupulous followers. It outraged him that Joan could damage his master's reputation in front of these powerful English leaders, who had the ability to ruin Cauchon and would do so immediately if they believed he could save Joan from the stake by poisoning her, thus depriving the English of the full benefit they could gain from her being bought from the Duke of Burgundy.
Joan had a high fever, and the doctors proposed to bleed her. Warwick said:
Joan had a high fever, and the doctors suggested they should bleed her. Warwick said:
“Be careful about that; she is smart and is capable of killing herself.”
“Be careful about that; she's smart and could easily hurt herself.”
He meant that to escape the stake she might undo the bandage and let herself bleed to death.
He meant that to avoid being burned at the stake, she could remove the bandage and bleed to death.
But the doctors bled her anyway, and then she was better.
But the doctors still bled her, and then she improved.
Not for long, though. Jean d’Estivet could not hold still, he was so worried and angry about the suspicion of poisoning which Joan had hinted at; so he came back in the evening and stormed at her till he brought the fever all back again.
Not for long, though. Jean d’Estivet couldn’t stay still; he was so worried and angry about the suspicion of poisoning that Joan had suggested. So he returned in the evening and yelled at her until the fever came back.
When Warwick heard of this he was in a fine temper, you may be sure, for here was his prey threatening to escape again, and all through the over-zeal of this meddling fool. Warwick gave D’Estivet a quite admirable cursing—admirable as to strength, I mean, for it was said by persons of culture that the art of it was not good—and after that the meddler kept still.
When Warwick heard this, he was in a great mood, you can be sure, because here was his target about to slip away again, and all because of this over-eager fool. Warwick gave D’Estivet a truly impressive scolding—impressive in strength, that is, as people of taste said the content of it wasn’t great—and after that, the meddler fell silent.
Joan remained ill more than two weeks; then she grew better. She was still very weak, but she could bear a little persecution now without much danger to her life. It seemed to Cauchon a good time to furnish it. So he called together some of his doctors of theology and went to her dungeon. Manchon and I went along to keep the record—that is, to set down what might be useful to Cauchon, and leave out the rest.
Joan was sick for over two weeks, but then she started to get better. She was still very weak, but she could withstand a bit of harassment now without too much risk to her life. Cauchon thought it was a good time to do that. So, he gathered some of his theology doctors and went to her cell. Manchon and I went with him to keep the record—that is, to note what might be useful for Cauchon and leave out the rest.
The sight of Joan gave me a shock. Why, she was but a shadow! It was difficult for me to realize that this frail little creature with the sad face and drooping form was the same Joan of Arc that I had so often seen, all fire and enthusiasm, charging through a hail of death and the lightning and thunder of the guns at the head of her battalions. It wrung my heart to see her looking like this.
The sight of Joan shocked me. She looked like a mere shadow! It was hard for me to accept that this fragile little figure with the sad expression and slumped posture was the same Joan of Arc I had often seen, full of fire and passion, leading her troops through bullets and the deafening sounds of battle. It broke my heart to see her like this.
But Cauchon was not touched. He made another of those conscienceless speeches of his, all dripping with hypocrisy and guile. He told Joan that among her answers had been some which had seemed to endanger religion; and as she was ignorant and without knowledge of the Scriptures, he had brought some good and wise men to instruct her, if she desired it. Said he, “We are churchmen, and disposed by our good will as well as by our vocation to procure for you the salvation of your soul and your body, in every way in our power, just as we would do the like for our nearest kin or for ourselves. In this we but follow the example of Holy Church, who never closes the refuge of her bosom against any that are willing to return.”
But Cauchon was unfazed. He gave another one of his shameless speeches, full of hypocrisy and deceit. He told Joan that some of her answers seemed to threaten religion, and since she was ignorant and didn’t know the Scriptures, he had brought some wise men to teach her, if she wanted. He said, “We are church leaders, and we are committed by our goodwill and our duty to help you find salvation for your soul and body in every way we can, just like we would for our closest relatives or ourselves. We’re just following the example of the Holy Church, which never turns away those who want to return.”
Joan thanked him for these sayings and said:
Joan thanked him for what he said and replied:
“I seem to be in danger of death from this malady; if it be the pleasure of God that I die here, I beg that I may be heard in confession and also receive my Saviour; and that I may be buried in consecrated ground.”
“I feel like I’m in danger of dying from this illness; if it’s God’s will that I die here, I ask to be allowed to confess and also receive my Savior; and that I may be buried in holy ground.”
Cauchon thought he saw his opportunity at last; this weakened body had the fear of an unblessed death before it and the pains of hell to follow. This stubborn spirit would surrender now. So he spoke out and said:
Cauchon thought he finally saw his chance; this weakened body faced the fear of an unblessed death and the pains of hell that would come after. This stubborn spirit would give up now. So he spoke and said:
“Then if you want the Sacraments, you must do as all good Catholics do, and submit to the Church.”
“Then if you want the Sacraments, you have to do what all good Catholics do, and follow the Church.”
He was eager for her answer; but when it came there was no surrender in it, she still stood to her guns. She turned her head away and said wearily:
He was anxious for her reply; but when it arrived, there was no giving in, she still held her ground. She looked away and said tiredly:
“I have nothing more to say.”
“I don’t have anything else to say.”
Cauchon’s temper was stirred, and he raised his voice threateningly and said that the more she was in danger of death the more she ought to amend her life; and again he refused the things she begged for unless she would submit to the Church. Joan said:
Cauchon’s temper flared, and he raised his voice menacingly, saying that the closer she was to death, the more she needed to change her life. He again denied her requests unless she would comply with the Church. Joan said:
“If I die in this prison I beg you to have me buried in holy ground; if you will not, I cast myself upon my Saviour.”
“If I die in this prison, I ask you to bury me in holy ground; if you won’t, I trust myself to my Savior.”
There was some more conversation of the like sort, then Cauchon demanded again, and imperiously, that she submit herself and all her deeds to the Church. His threatening and storming went for nothing. That body was weak, but the spirit in it was the spirit of Joan of Arc; and out of that came the steadfast answer which these people were already so familiar with and detested so sincerely:
There was some more conversation like that, then Cauchon insisted again, more forcefully, that she submit herself and all her actions to the Church. His threats and outbursts were pointless. Her body was weak, but the spirit within it was the spirit of Joan of Arc; and from that came the unwavering response that these people already knew well and hated deeply:
“Let come what may. I will neither do nor say any otherwise than I have said already in your tribunals.”
“Whatever happens, I won't do or say anything different from what I've already stated in your courts.”
Then the good theologians took turn about and worried her with reasonings and arguments and Scriptures; and always they held the lure of the Sacraments before her famishing soul, and tried to bribe her with them to surrender her mission to the Church’s judgment—that is to their judgment—as if they were the Church! But it availed nothing. I could have told them that beforehand, if they had asked me. But they never asked me anything; I was too humble a creature for their notice.
Then the good theologians took turns and overwhelmed her with reasoning, arguments, and Scriptures; and they always put the lure of the Sacraments in front of her starving soul, trying to bribe her into handing over her mission for the Church's judgment—that is, their judgment—as if they were the Church! But it was all in vain. I could have told them that ahead of time if they had asked me. But they never asked me anything; I was too insignificant for them to notice.
Then the interview closed with a threat; a threat of fearful import; a threat calculated to make a Catholic Christian feel as if the ground were sinking from under him:
Then the interview ended with a threat; a serious threat; one designed to make a Catholic Christian feel like the ground was collapsing beneath him:
“The Church calls upon you to submit; disobey, and she will abandon you as if you were a pagan!”
“The Church urges you to comply; defy her, and she will leave you as if you were a non-believer!”
Think of being abandoned by the Church!—that August Power in whose hands is lodged the fate of the human race; whose scepter stretches beyond the furthest constellation that twinkles in the sky; whose authority is over millions that live and over the billions that wait trembling in purgatory for ransom or doom; whose smile opens the gates of heaven to you, whose frown delivers you to the fires of everlasting hell; a Power whose dominion overshadows and belittles the pomps and shows of a village. To be abandoned by one’s King—yes, that is death, and death is much; but to be abandoned by Rome, to be abandoned by the Church! Ah, death is nothing to that, for that is consignment to endless life—and such a life!
Imagine being abandoned by the Church!—that powerful force that holds the fate of humanity in its hands; whose influence reaches beyond the farthest stars that shine in the sky; whose authority governs millions living now and billions waiting anxiously in purgatory for salvation or condemnation; whose approval opens the gates of heaven for you, and whose disapproval condemns you to the fires of eternal hell; a power whose reign overshadows and diminishes the grandeur and spectacle of a small town. To be abandoned by one’s King—yes, that is devastating, and the impact is profound; but to be abandoned by Rome, to be abandoned by the Church! Ah, that is nothing compared to this, for that is to be cast into unending life—and what a life that is!
I could see the red waves tossing in that shoreless lake of fire, I could see the black myriads of the damned rise out of them and struggle and sink and rise again; and I knew that Joan was seeing what I saw, while she paused musing; and I believed that she must yield now, and in truth I hoped she would, for these men were able to make the threat good and deliver her over to eternal suffering, and I knew that it was in their natures to do it.
I could see the red waves crashing in that endless lake of fire, I could see the countless souls of the damned rising out of them, struggling, sinking, and rising again; and I knew that Joan was witnessing what I saw as she paused in thought; and I believed she would give in now, and honestly, I hoped she would, because these men had the power to follow through on their threat and hand her over to eternal suffering, and I knew it was in their nature to do so.
But I was foolish to think that thought and hope that hope. Joan of Arc was not made as others are made. Fidelity to principle, fidelity to truth, fidelity to her word, all these were in her bone and in her flesh—they were parts of her. She could not change, she could not cast them out. She was the very genius of Fidelity; she was Steadfastness incarnated. Where she had taken her stand and planted her foot, there she would abide; hell itself could not move her from that place.
But I was naive to think that way and hope for that. Joan of Arc wasn't made like others. She was deeply committed to her principles, to the truth, and to her promises—these were part of her being. She couldn't change, nor could she reject them. She embodied Fidelity; she was Steadfastness personified. Where she chose to stand and made her mark, that's where she would stay; not even hell could move her from that spot.
Her Voices had not given her permission to make the sort of submission that was required, therefore she would stand fast. She would wait, in perfect obedience, let come what might.
Her Voices hadn’t allowed her to submit in the way that was needed, so she would hold her ground. She would wait, fully obedient, and face whatever happened.
My heart was like lead in my body when I went out from that dungeon; but she—she was serene, she was not troubled. She had done what she believed to be her duty, and that was sufficient; the consequences were not her affair. The last thing she said that time was full of this serenity, full of contented repose:
My heart felt heavy as I left that dungeon; but she—she was calm, not worried at all. She had done what she thought was right, and that was enough; the consequences weren’t her concern. The last thing she said that time reflected this calmness, this sense of deep contentment:
“I am a good Christian born and baptized, and a good Christian I will die.”
“I’m a good Christian, born and baptized, and I will die a good Christian.”
15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning
TWO WEEKS went by; the second of May was come, the chill was departed out of the air, the wild flowers were springing in the glades and glens, the birds were piping in the woods, all nature was brilliant with sunshine, all spirits were renewed and refreshed, all hearts glad, the world was alive with hope and cheer, the plain beyond the Seine stretched away soft and rich and green, the river was limpid and lovely, the leafy islands were dainty to see, and flung still daintier reflections of themselves upon the shining water; and from the tall bluffs above the bridge Rouen was become again a delight to the eye, the most exquisite and satisfying picture of a town that nestles under the arch of heaven anywhere.
TWO WEEKS passed; it was now May 2nd, the chill had left the air, wildflowers bloomed in the clearings and valleys, the birds were singing in the woods, nature was glowing with sunshine, everyone felt renewed and refreshed, all hearts were happy, the world was filled with hope and joy, the fields beyond the Seine stretched soft, lush, and green, the river was clear and beautiful, the tree-covered islands were lovely to look at, casting even prettier reflections on the sparkling water; from the high cliffs above the bridge, Rouen once again appeared as a stunning sight, the most beautiful and satisfying view of a town nestled beneath the sky anywhere.
When I say that all hearts were glad and hopeful, I mean it in a general sense. There were exceptions—we who were the friends of Joan of Arc, also Joan of Arc herself, that poor girl shut up there in that frowning stretch of mighty walls and towers: brooding in darkness, so close to the flooding downpour of sunshine yet so impossibly far away from it; so longing for any little glimpse of it, yet so implacably denied it by those wolves in the black gowns who were plotting her death and the blackening of her good name.
When I say that everyone’s hearts were happy and hopeful, I mean it broadly. There were exceptions—us, the friends of Joan of Arc, and Joan herself, that poor girl trapped in that grim stretch of towering walls: stuck in the dark, so close to the bright sunshine yet so frustratingly far from it; yearning for any little glimpse of it, yet unavoidably denied by those wolves in black robes who were scheming for her death and tarnishing her good name.
Cauchon was ready to go on with his miserable work. He had a new scheme to try now. He would see what persuasion could do—argument, eloquence, poured out upon the incorrigible captive from the mouth of a trained expert. That was his plan. But the reading of the Twelve Articles to her was not a part of it. No, even Cauchon was ashamed to lay that monstrosity before her; even he had a remnant of shame in him, away down deep, a million fathoms deep, and that remnant asserted itself now and prevailed.
Cauchon was ready to continue with his miserable task. He had a new strategy to try now. He wanted to see what persuasion could achieve—arguments and eloquence directed at the stubborn captive from the mouth of a skilled expert. That was his plan. But reading the Twelve Articles to her was not included. No, even Cauchon felt embarrassed to present that monstrosity to her; even he had a hint of shame within him, buried deep down, a million fathoms deep, and that hint asserted itself now and won out.
On this fair second of May, then, the black company gathered itself together in the spacious chamber at the end of the great hall of the castle—the Bishop of Beauvais on his throne, and sixty-two minor judges massed before him, with the guards and recorders at their stations and the orator at his desk.
On this lovely second of May, the black company assembled in the large room at the end of the castle's great hall—the Bishop of Beauvais on his throne, and sixty-two junior judges gathered before him, with the guards and recorders in their places and the speaker at his desk.
Then we heard the far clank of chains, and presently Joan entered with her keepers and took her seat upon her isolated bench. She was looking well now, and most fair and beautiful after her fortnight’s rest from wordy persecution.
Then we heard the distant clank of chains, and soon Joan came in with her guards and sat down on her lonely bench. She looked healthy now, and very beautiful after her two weeks of being free from verbal abuse.
She glanced about and noted the orator. Doubtless she divined the situation.
She looked around and noticed the speaker. She probably understood the situation.
The orator had written his speech all out, and had it in his hand, though he held it back of him out of sight. It was so thick that it resembled a book. He began flowing, but in the midst of a flowery period his memory failed him and he had to snatch a furtive glance at his manuscript—which much injured the effect. Again this happened, and then a third time. The poor man’s face was red with embarrassment, the whole great house was pitying him, which made the matter worse; then Joan dropped in a remark which completed the trouble. She said:
The speaker had written his speech out fully and held it behind him, out of sight. It was so thick that it looked like a book. He started off smoothly, but in the middle of a fancy sentence, he forgot what he was saying and had to sneak a quick look at his notes—which really hurt his delivery. This happened again, and then a third time. The poor guy's face turned red with embarrassment, and the entire packed room felt sorry for him, which only made it worse; then Joan chimed in with a comment that made things even more awkward. She said:
“Read your book—and then I will answer you!”
“Read your book—and then I'll answer you!”
Why, it was almost cruel the way those moldy veterans laughed; and as for the orator, he looked so flustered and helpless that almost anybody would have pitied him, and I had difficulty to keep from doing it myself. Yes, Joan was feeling very well after her rest, and the native mischief that was in her lay near the surface. It did not show when she made the remark, but I knew it was close in there back of the words.
Why, it was almost harsh the way those old veterans laughed; and as for the speaker, he looked so flustered and helpless that almost anyone would have felt sorry for him, and I found it hard not to feel that way myself. Yes, Joan was feeling great after her rest, and the native mischief in her was just below the surface. It didn’t show when she made the comment, but I knew it was right there behind the words.
When the orator had gotten back his composure he did a wise thing; for he followed Joan’s advice: he made no more attempts at sham impromptu oratory, but read his speech straight from his “book.” In the speech he compressed the Twelve Articles into six, and made these his text.
When the speaker regained his composure, he made a smart choice; he took Joan’s advice: he stopped trying to sound like he was speaking off the cuff and read his speech directly from his "book." In the speech, he summarized the Twelve Articles into six and used these as his main points.
Every now and then he stopped and asked questions, and Joan replied. The nature of the Church Militant was explained, and once more Joan was asked to submit herself to it.
Every now and then he paused to ask questions, and Joan answered. The concept of the Church Militant was explained, and once again Joan was asked to submit to it.
She gave her usual answer.
She gave her standard answer.
Then she was asked:
Then she was asked:
“Do you believe the Church can err?”
“Do you think the Church can make mistakes?”
“I believe it cannot err; but for those deeds and words of mine which were done and uttered by command of God, I will answer to Him alone.”
“I believe it cannot be wrong; but for those actions and words of mine that were done and spoken by God's command, I will answer to Him alone.”
“Will you say that you have no judge upon earth? Is not our Holy Father the Pope your judge?”
“Are you really going to say that you have no judge on earth? Isn’t our Holy Father the Pope your judge?”
“I will say nothing about it. I have a good Master who is our Lord, and to Him I will submit all.”
“I won’t say anything about it. I have a great Master who is our Lord, and I will submit everything to Him.”
Then came these terrible words:
Then came these awful words:
“If you do not submit to the Church you will be pronounced a heretic by these judges here present and burned at the stake!”
“If you don’t submit to the Church, these judges here will declare you a heretic and burn you at the stake!”
Ah, that would have smitten you or me dead with fright, but it only roused the lion heart of Joan of Arc, and in her answer rang that martial note which had used to stir her soldiers like a bugle-call:
Ah, that would have scared you or me to death, but it only awakened the brave spirit of Joan of Arc, and in her response echoed that fierce tone that used to rally her soldiers like a bugle call:
“I will not say otherwise than I have said already; and if I saw the fire before me I would say it again!”
“I won’t say anything different from what I’ve already said; and if I saw the fire in front of me, I would say it again!”
It was uplifting to hear her battle-voice once more and see the battle-light burn in her eye. Many there were stirred; every man that was a man was stirred, whether friend or foe; and Manchon risked his life again, good soul, for he wrote in the margin of the record in good plain letters these brave words: “Superba responsio!” and there they have remained these sixty years, and there you may read them to this day.
It was inspiring to hear her battle cry once again and see the fire of determination in her eyes. Many were moved; every man worthy of the title was affected, whether friend or enemy; and Manchon, being the good soul he was, risked his life again by writing in the margin of the record in clear letters these brave words: “Superba responsio!” and they have remained there for sixty years, and you can still read them today.
“Superba responsio!” Yes, it was just that. For this “superb answer” came from the lips of a girl of nineteen with death and hell staring her in the face.
“Awesome response!” Yes, it was exactly that. For this “awesome answer” came from the lips of a nineteen-year-old girl with death and hell staring her down.
Of course, the matter of the male attire was gone over again; and as usual at wearisome length; also, as usual, the customary bribe was offered: if she would discard that dress voluntarily they would let her hear mass. But she answered as she had often answered before:
Of course, they went over the issue of the men's clothing again, and as usual it took forever; also, as usual, the typical bribe was offered: if she would willingly give up that dress, they would let her attend mass. But she responded, just as she had many times before:
“I will go in a woman’s robe to all services of the Church if I may be permitted, but I will resume the other dress when I return to my cell.”
“I'll wear a woman's robe to all the church services if that's okay, but I’ll put on my usual clothes again when I get back to my cell.”
They set several traps for her in a tentative form; that is to say, they placed suppositious propositions before her and cunningly tried to commit her to one end of the propositions without committing themselves to the other. But she always saw the game and spoiled it. The trap was in this form:
They laid out a few traps for her in an ambiguous way; that is to say, they presented hypothetical statements to her and cleverly tried to get her to agree to one side of the statements without tying themselves to the other. But she always recognized the game and managed to disrupt it. The trap looked like this:
“Would you be willing to do so and so if we should give you leave?”
“Would you be willing to do this and that if we gave you permission?”
Her answer was always in this form or to this effect:
Her response was always in this form or meant this way:
“When you give me leave, then you will know.”
“When you allow me to, then you will understand.”
Yes, Joan was at her best that second of May. She had all her wits about her, and they could not catch her anywhere. It was a long, long session, and all the old ground was fought over again, foot by foot, and the orator-expert worked all his persuasions, all his eloquence; but the result was the familiar one—a drawn battle, the sixty-two retiring upon their base, the solitary enemy holding her original position within her original lines.
Yes, Joan was at her best on that second of May. She was sharp and could outsmart them at every turn. It was a long session, and every inch of ground was contested again, with the expert speaker using all his arguments and eloquence; but the outcome was the same as before—a stalemate, the sixty-two retreating to their base, while the lone enemy held her original position within her original lines.
16 Joan Stands Defiant Before the Rack
THE BRILLIANT weather, the heavenly weather, the bewitching weather made everybody’s heart to sing, as I have told you; yes, Rouen was feeling light-hearted and gay, and most willing and ready to break out and laugh upon the least occasion; and so when the news went around that the young girl in the tower had scored another defeat against Bishop Cauchon there was abundant laughter—abundant laughter among the citizens of both parties, for they all hated the Bishop. It is true, the English-hearted majority of the people wanted Joan burned, but that did not keep them from laughing at the man they hated. It would have been perilous for anybody to laugh at the English chiefs or at the majority of Cauchon’s assistant judges, but to laugh at Cauchon or D’Estivet and Loyseleur was safe—nobody would report it.
THE AMAZING weather, the beautiful weather, the enchanting weather made everyone’s heart sing, as I mentioned; yes, Rouen was feeling cheerful and happy, and everyone was eager and ready to burst out laughing at the slightest provocation; so when news spread that the young girl in the tower had outsmarted Bishop Cauchon again, there was plenty of laughter—plenty of laughter among the people of both factions, because they all loathed the Bishop. It's true that the English-loving majority wanted Joan burned, but that didn’t stop them from laughing at the man they despised. It would have been risky for anyone to laugh at the English leaders or at most of Cauchon’s assistant judges, but laughing at Cauchon or D'Estivet and Loyseleur was safe—no one would report it.
The difference between Cauchon and cochon (1) was not noticeable in speech, and so there was plenty of opportunity for puns; the opportunities were not thrown away.
The difference between Cauchon and cochon (1) was not noticeable in speech, so there were plenty of chances for puns; those chances were not missed.
Some of the jokes got well worn in the course of two or three months, from repeated use; for every time Cauchon started a new trial the folk said “The sow has littered (2) again”; and every time the trial failed they said it over again, with its other meaning, “The hog has made a mess of it.”
Some of the jokes got pretty old after two or three months from being used so often; every time Cauchon started a new trial, people would say, “The sow has littered (2) again,” and whenever the trial failed, they repeated it, with its other meaning, “The hog has messed it up.”
And so, on the third of May, Noel and I, drifting about the town, heard many a wide-mouthed lout let go his joke and his laugh, and then move to the next group, proud of his wit and happy, to work it off again:
And so, on May 3rd, Noel and I, wandering around the town, heard plenty of loudmouths sharing their jokes and laughs, then moving on to the next group, proud of their humor and happy to try it out again:
“’Od’s blood, the sow has littered five times, and five times has made a mess of it!”
“By Od's blood, the pig has given birth five times, and five times has made a mess of it!”
And now and then one was bold enough to say—but he said it softly:
And now and then someone was brave enough to say—but they said it quietly:
“Sixty-three and the might of England against a girl, and she camps on the field five times!”
“Sixty-three and the strength of England against a girl, and she sets up camp on the field five times!”
Cauchon lived in the great palace of the Archbishop, and it was guarded by English soldiery; but no matter, there was never a dark night but the walls showed next morning that the rude joker had been there with his paint and brush. Yes, he had been there, and had smeared the sacred walls with pictures of hogs in all attitudes except flattering ones; hogs clothed in a Bishop’s vestments and wearing a Bishop’s miter irreverently cocked on the side of their heads.
Cauchon lived in the grand palace of the Archbishop, which was guarded by English soldiers; but it didn’t matter, because every morning, the walls revealed that the rude prankster had been there with his paint and brush. Yes, he had indeed been there, and had smeared the holy walls with images of pigs in every position except flattering ones; pigs dressed in a Bishop’s robes and wearing a Bishop’s miter tipped disrespectfully to the side.
Cauchon raged and cursed over his defeats and his impotence during seven says; then he conceived a new scheme. You shall see what it was; for you have not cruel hearts, and you would never guess it.
Cauchon fumed and swore about his failures and his inability for seven days; then he came up with a new plan. You will see what it was; for you do not have cruel hearts, and you would never imagine it.
On the ninth of May there was a summons, and Manchon and I got out materials together and started. But this time we were to go to one of the other towers—not the one which was Joan’s prison. It was round and grim and massive, and built of the plainest and thickest and solidest masonry—a dismal and forbidding structure. (3) We entered the circular room on the ground floor, and I saw what turned me sick—the instruments of torture and the executioners standing ready! Here you have the black heart of Cauchon at the blackest, here you have the proof that in his nature there was no such thing as pity. One wonders if he ever knew his mother or ever had a sister.
On May ninth, we received a summons, and Manchon and I gathered our materials and set off. This time, however, we were headed to a different tower—not the one where Joan was imprisoned. It was round, grim, and massive, built with the simplest, thickest, and sturdiest masonry—a dismal and intimidating structure. (3) We entered the circular room on the ground floor, and what I saw made me feel sick—the torture devices and the executioners ready to go! Here lies the dark heart of Cauchon at its darkest; here is the evidence that he had no capacity for pity. One wonders if he ever knew his mother or had a sister.
Cauchon was there, and the Vice-Inquisitor and the Abbot of St. Corneille; also six others, among them that false Loyseleur. The guards were in their places, the rack was there, and by it stood the executioner and his aids in their crimson hose and doublets, meet color for their bloody trade. The picture of Joan rose before me stretched upon the rack, her feet tied to one end of it, her wrists to the other, and those red giants turning the windlass and pulling her limbs out of their sockets. It seemed to me that I could hear the bones snap and the flesh tear apart, and I did not see how that body of anointed servants of the merciful Jesus could sit there and look so placid and indifferent.
Cauchon was there, along with the Vice-Inquisitor and the Abbot of St. Corneille; also six others, including that deceitful Loyseleur. The guards were in their positions, the rack was in place, and standing next to it were the executioner and his aides in their red stockings and doublets, fitting attire for their gruesome job. The image of Joan flashed before me, stretched out on the rack, her feet tied to one end and her wrists to the other, with those strong men turning the crank and pulling her limbs out of their sockets. I felt like I could hear the bones cracking and the flesh ripping apart, and I couldn’t understand how those so-called servants of the merciful Jesus could sit there and look so calm and unconcerned.
After a little, Joan arrived and was brought in. She saw the rack, she saw the attendants, and the same picture which I had been seeing must have risen in her mind; but do you think she quailed, do you think she shuddered? No, there was no sign of that sort. She straightened herself up, and there was a slight curl of scorn about her lip; but as for fear, she showed not a vestige of it.
After a while, Joan arrived and was led in. She saw the rack, she saw the attendants, and the same image that I had been seeing must have come to her mind; but do you think she flinched, do you think she shivered? No, there was no sign of that. She stood tall, and there was a slight curl of disdain on her lip; but as for fear, she showed not a trace of it.
This was a memorable session, but it was the shortest one of all the list. When Joan had taken her seat a resume of her “crimes” was read to her. Then Cauchon made a solemn speech. It in he said that in the course of her several trials Joan had refused to answer some of the questions and had answered others with lies, but that now he was going to have the truth out of her, and the whole of it.
This was a memorable session, but it was the shortest one on the list. When Joan sat down, a summary of her “crimes” was read to her. Then Cauchon gave a serious speech. He said that throughout her various trials, Joan had refused to answer some questions and had lied in response to others, but now he was going to get the truth out of her, all of it.
Her manner was full of confidence this time; he was sure he had found a way at last to break this child’s stubborn spirit and make her beg and cry. He would score a victory this time and stop the mouths of the jokers of Rouen. You see, he was only just a man after all, and couldn’t stand ridicule any better than other people. He talked high, and his splotchy face lighted itself up with all the shifting tints and signs of evil pleasure and promised triumph—purple, yellow, red, green—they were all there, with sometimes the dull and spongy blue of a drowned man, the uncanniest of them all. And finally he burst out in a great passion and said:
Her demeanor was filled with confidence this time; he was convinced he had finally figured out how to break this child's stubborn spirit and make her beg and cry. He would win this time and silence the jokers of Rouen. After all, he was just a man and couldn't handle ridicule any better than anyone else. He spoke grandly, and his blotchy face lit up with all the shifting colors and signs of sadistic pleasure and promised victory—purple, yellow, red, green—they were all there, sometimes mixed with the dull and lifeless blue of a drowned man, the eeriest of them all. Finally, he erupted in great anger and said:
“There is the rack, and there are its ministers! You will reveal all now or be put to the torture.
“There is the rack, and there are its agents! You will confess everything now or be subjected to torture.
“Speak.”
"Talk."
Then she made that great answer which will live forever; made it without fuss or bravado, and yet how fine and noble was the sound of it:
Then she gave that incredible answer that will be remembered forever; she did it without any fuss or arrogance, and yet it sounded so fine and noble:
“I will tell you nothing more than I have told you; no, not even if you tear the limbs from my body. And even if in my pain I did say something otherwise, I would always say afterward that it was the torture that spoke and not I.”
“I won’t tell you anything more than what I’ve already said; not even if you rip my limbs off. And even if I do let something slip in my agony, I would always insist afterward that it was the torture speaking, not me.”
There was no crushing that spirit. You should have seen Cauchon. Defeated again, and he had not dreamed of such a thing. I heard it said the next day, around the town, that he had a full confession all written out, in his pocket and all ready for Joan to sign. I do not know that that was true, but it probably was, for her mark signed at the bottom of a confession would be the kind of evidence (for effect with the public) which Cauchon and his people were particularly value, you know.
There was no way to break that spirit. You should have seen Cauchon. Defeated once again, and he never saw it coming. I heard people talking around town the next day that he had a complete confession all written up, ready for Joan to sign. I can't say for sure if that was true, but it likely was, because her signature at the bottom of a confession would be exactly the kind of evidence (to sway public opinion) that Cauchon and his crew really valued, you know.
No, there was no crushing that spirit, and no beclouding that clear mind. Consider the depth, the wisdom of that answer, coming from an ignorant girl. Why, there were not six men in the world who had ever reflected that words forced out of a person by horrible tortures were not necessarily words of verity and truth, yet this unlettered peasant-girl put her finger upon that flaw with an unerring instinct. I had always supposed that torture brought out the truth—everybody supposed it; and when Joan came out with those simple common-sense words they seemed to flood the place with light. It was like a lightning-flash at midnight which suddenly reveals a fair valley sprinkled over with silver streams and gleaming villages and farmsteads where was only an impenetrable world of darkness before. Manchon stole a sidewise look at me, and his face was full of surprise; and there was the like to be seen in other faces there. Consider—they were old, and deeply cultured, yet here was a village maid able to teach them something which they had not known before. I heard one of them mutter:
No, there was no way to crush that spirit, and no fogging that clear mind. Think about the depth and wisdom of that answer from an uneducated girl. Seriously, there were maybe six men in the world who had ever thought about the fact that words forced out of someone through horrific torture weren't necessarily true. Yet this uneducated peasant girl instinctively pointed that out. I always thought that torture revealed the truth—everyone did; and when Joan said those simple, common-sense words, it felt like a flood of light filled the room. It was like a flash of lightning at midnight that suddenly revealed a beautiful valley dotted with silver streams and shining villages and farms, where there had only been an impenetrable darkness before. Manchon glanced at me sideways, his face full of surprise; I could see the same reaction on the faces of others there. Just think—they were old and highly educated, yet here was a village girl teaching them something they hadn’t known before. I heard one of them mutter:
“Verily it is a wonderful creature. She has laid her hand upon an accepted truth that is as old as the world, and it has crumbled to dust and rubbish under her touch. Now whence got she that marvelous insight?”
“Really, it’s an amazing creature. She has put her hand on an accepted truth that’s as old as time, and it has fallen apart into dust and debris under her touch. So where did she get that incredible insight?”
The judges laid their heads together and began to talk now. It was plain, from chance words which one caught now and then, that Cauchon and Loyseleur were insisting upon the application of the torture, and that most of the others were urgently objecting.
The judges huddled together and started talking. It was clear, from the random words that were overheard, that Cauchon and Loyseleur were pushing for the use of torture, while most of the others were strongly disagreeing.
Finally Cauchon broke out with a good deal of asperity in his voice and ordered Joan back to her dungeon. That was a happy surprise for me. I was not expecting that the Bishop would yield.
Finally, Cauchon burst out with a lot of bitterness in his voice and ordered Joan back to her cell. That was a pleasant surprise for me. I wasn’t expecting the Bishop to give in.
When Manchon came home that night he said he had found out why the torture was not applied.
When Manchon came home that night, he said he had figured out why the torture wasn't used.
There were two reasons. One was, a fear that Joan might die under the torture, which would not suit the English at all; the other was, that the torture would effect nothing if Joan was going to take back everything she said under its pains; and as to putting her mark to a confession, it was believed that not even the rack would ever make her do that.
There were two reasons. One was a fear that Joan might die from the torture, which would not work out well for the English; the other was that the torture wouldn’t achieve anything if Joan was just going to retract everything she said under its pain. As for signing a confession, it was believed that not even the rack would ever force her to do that.
So all Rouen laughed again, and kept it up for three days, saying:
So everyone in Rouen laughed again and continued for three days, saying:
“The sow has littered six times, and made six messes of it.”
“The pig has given birth six times and has messed it up each time.”
And the palace walls got a new decoration—a mitered hog carrying a discarded rack home on its shoulder, and Loyseleur weeping in its wake. Many rewards were offered for the capture of these painters, but nobody applied. Even the English guard feigned blindness and would not see the artists at work.
And the palace walls got a new decoration—a mitered pig carrying a discarded rack home on its shoulder, and Loyseleur crying behind it. Many rewards were offered for capturing these painters, but nobody came forward. Even the English guard pretended not to see and ignored the artists at work.
The Bishop’s anger was very high now. He could not reconcile himself to the idea of giving up the torture. It was the pleasantest idea he had invented yet, and he would not cast it by. So he called in some of his satellites on the twelfth, and urged the torture again. But it was a failure.
The Bishop was really angry now. He couldn’t accept the idea of stopping the torture. It was the best idea he had come up with so far, and he wasn’t going to let it go. So he called in some of his followers on the twelfth and pushed for the torture again. But it didn’t work out.
With some, Joan’s speech had wrought an effect; others feared she might die under torture; others did not believe that any amount of suffering could make her put her mark to a lying confession. There were fourteen men present, including the Bishop. Eleven of them voted dead against the torture, and stood their ground in spite of Cauchon’s abuse. Two voted with the Bishop and insisted upon the torture. These two were Loyseleur and the orator—the man whom Joan had bidden to “read his book”—Thomas de Courcelles, the renowned pleader and master of eloquence.
With some, Joan's speech had made an impact; others were afraid she might die from torture; still, some didn't think that any amount of suffering could force her to sign a false confession. There were fourteen men in total, including the Bishop. Eleven of them firmly opposed the torture and stood their ground despite Cauchon's insults. Two sided with the Bishop and pushed for the torture. These two were Loyseleur and the speaker—the man whom Joan had told to “read his book”—Thomas de Courcelles, the famous lawyer and master of rhetoric.
Age has taught me charity of speech; but it fails me when I think of those three names—Cauchon, Courcelles, Loyseleur.
Age has taught me to be kind with my words, but that goes out the window when I think of those three names—Cauchon, Courcelles, Loyseleur.
(1) Hog, pig.
Hog, pig.
(2) Cochonner, to litter, to farrow; also, “to make a mess of”!
(2) Cochonner, to litter, to farrow; also, “to make a mess of”!
(3) The lower half of it remains to-day just as it was then; the upper half is of a later date. — TRANSLATOR.
(3) The lower half of it looks the same today as it did back then; the upper half is from a later time. — TRANSLATOR.
17 Supreme in Direst Peril

ANOTHER ten days’ wait. The great theologians of that treasury of all valuable knowledge and all wisdom, the University of Paris, were still weighing and considering and discussing the Twelve Lies.
ANOTHER ten days’ wait. The great theologians of that treasury of all valuable knowledge and all wisdom, the University of Paris, were still weighing, considering, and discussing the Twelve Lies.
I had had but little to do these ten days, so I spent them mainly in walks about the town with Noel. But there was no pleasure in them, our spirits being so burdened with cares, and the outlook for Joan growing steadily darker and darker all the time. And then we naturally contrasted our circumstances with hers: this freedom and sunshine, with her darkness and chains; our comradeship, with her lonely estate; our alleviations of one sort and another, with her destitution in all. She was used to liberty, but now she had none; she was an out-of-door creature by nature and habit, but now she was shut up day and night in a steel cage like an animal; she was used to the light, but now she was always in a gloom where all objects about her were dim and spectral; she was used to the thousand various sounds which are the cheer and music of a busy life, but now she heard only the monotonous footfall of the sentry pacing his watch; she had been fond of talking with her mates, but now there was no one to talk to; she had had an easy laugh, but it was gone dumb now; she had been born for comradeship, and blithe and busy work, and all manner of joyous activities, but here were only dreariness, and leaden hours, and weary inaction, and brooding stillness, and thoughts that travel by day and night and night and day round and round in the same circle, and wear the brain and break the heart with weariness. It was death in life; yes, death in life, that is what it must have been. And there was another hard thing about it all. A young girl in trouble needs the soothing solace and support and sympathy of persons of her own sex, and the delicate offices and gentle ministries which only these can furnish; yet in all these months of gloomy captivity in her dungeon Joan never saw the face of a girl or a woman. Think how her heart would have leaped to see such a face.
I had little to do over the past ten days, so I mostly spent them walking around town with Noel. But there was no joy in it, as our minds were weighed down with worries, and Joan's situation seemed to get worse by the day. Naturally, we contrasted our lives with hers: the freedom and sunshine we enjoyed versus her darkness and chains; our companionship against her solitude; our various comforts compared to her total lack of them. She was used to freedom, but now she had none; she thrived outdoors by nature and habit, but now she was confined day and night in a steel cage like an animal; she was accustomed to light, but now she was always surrounded by gloom where everything felt dim and ghostly; she was familiar with the myriad sounds that make up a vibrant life, but now she could only hear the steady footsteps of the guard on duty; she had enjoyed chatting with friends, but now there was no one to talk to; her easy laughter had vanished; she was meant for friendship, cheerful work, and all kinds of joyful activities, yet all she faced were dreariness, heavy hours, tiring inaction, suffocating silence, and thoughts that circled endlessly day and night, exhausting her mind and breaking her heart with fatigue. It was a living death; yes, death in life, that’s what it must have felt like. Another painful aspect of it all was this: a young girl in distress needs the comforting reassurance, support, and understanding of other women, along with the tender care and kindness that only they can provide; yet during all those months of grim confinement in her cell, Joan never saw a single girl or woman. Imagine how her heart would have soared at the sight of one.
Consider. If you would realize how great Joan of Arc was, remember that it was out of such a place and such circumstances that she came week after week and month after month and confronted the master intellects of France single-handed, and baffled their cunningest schemes, defeated their ablest plans, detected and avoided their secretest traps and pitfalls, broke their lines, repelled their assaults, and camped on the field after every engagement; steadfast always, true to her faith and her ideals; defying torture, defying the stake, and answering threats of eternal death and the pains of hell with a simple “Let come what may, here I take my stand and will abide.”
Consider this. If you want to understand how great Joan of Arc was, remember that she came from humble beginnings and faced overwhelming circumstances, yet week after week and month after month, she stood up to the smartest minds in France all on her own. She outsmarted their most cunning plans, countered their best strategies, spotted and dodged their hidden traps, broke through their lines, fended off their attacks, and stayed on the battlefield after every fight; always steadfast, true to her beliefs and ideals; defying torture, facing the stake, and responding to threats of eternal death and hell's torment with a simple, “Let come what may, here I take my stand and will abide.”
Yes, if you would realize how great was the soul, how profound the wisdom, and how luminous the intellect of Joan of Arc, you must study her there, where she fought out that long fight all alone—and not merely against the subtlest brains and deepest learning of France, but against the ignoble deceits, the meanest treacheries, and the hardest hearts to be found in any land, pagan or Christian.
Yes, if you want to understand how remarkable Joan of Arc's spirit was, how deep her wisdom, and how bright her intellect, you need to study her there, where she fought that long battle all by herself—not just against the cleverest minds and the deepest knowledge in France, but also against the despicable lies, the most shameful betrayals, and the cruelest hearts you could find anywhere, whether in pagan or Christian lands.
She was great in battle—we all know that; great in foresight; great in loyalty and patriotism; great in persuading discontented chiefs and reconciling conflicting interests and passions; great in the ability to discover merit and genius wherever it lay hidden; great in picturesque and eloquent speech; supremely great in the gift of firing the hearts of hopeless men and noble enthusiasms, the gift of turning hares into heroes, slaves and skulkers into battalions that march to death with songs on their lips. But all these are exalting activities; they keep hand and heart and brain keyed up to their work; there is the joy of achievement, the inspiration of stir and movement, the applause which hails success; the soul is overflowing with life and energy, the faculties are at white heat; weariness, despondency, inertia—these do not exist.
She was amazing in battle—we all know that; amazing in foresight; amazing in loyalty and patriotism; amazing at persuading unhappy leaders and bringing together conflicting interests and passions; amazing at finding talent and brilliance wherever it was hidden; amazing in her vivid and articulate speech; incredibly great at inspiring the hearts of defeated men and noble passions, the ability to turn cowards into heroes, slaves and weaklings into soldiers who march toward death singing. But all these are uplifting activities; they keep body, heart, and mind engaged in their work; there’s the joy of success, the excitement of action and movement, the applause that comes with achievement; the soul is bursting with life and energy, the faculties are on fire; fatigue, hopelessness, and inaction—these do not exist.
Yes, Joan of Arc was great always, great everywhere, but she was greatest in the Rouen trials.
Yes, Joan of Arc was always amazing, amazing everywhere, but she was most amazing during the Rouen trials.
There she rose above the limitations and infirmities of our human nature, and accomplished under blighting and unnerving and hopeless conditions all that her splendid equipment of moral and intellectual forces could have accomplished if they had been supplemented by the mighty helps of hope and cheer and light, the presence of friendly faces, and a fair and equal fight, with the great world looking on and wondering.
There she rose above the limitations and weaknesses of our human nature, and achieved everything her remarkable moral and intellectual abilities could have accomplished, even under discouraging, unsettling, and hopeless circumstances, if only she had the powerful support of hope, encouragement, and clarity, the presence of friendly faces, and a fair and equal battle, with the wider world watching and wondering.
18 Condemned Yet Unafraid
TOWARD THE END of the ten-day interval the University of Paris rendered its decision concerning the Twelve Articles. By this finding, Joan was guilty upon all the counts: she must renounce her errors and make satisfaction, or be abandoned to the secular arm for punishment.
TOWARD THE END of the ten-day period, the University of Paris made its decision regarding the Twelve Articles. By this ruling, Joan was found guilty on all charges: she had to renounce her mistakes and make amends, or she would be handed over to the secular authorities for punishment.
The University’s mind was probably already made up before the Articles were laid before it; yet it took it from the fifth to the eighteenth to produce its verdict. I think the delay may have been caused by temporary difficulties concerning two points:
The University likely already had a decision in mind before the Articles were presented; however, it took from the fifth to the eighteenth to reach its conclusion. I believe the delay might have been due to some temporary issues regarding two points:
1. As to who the fiends were who were represented in Joan’s Voices; 2. As to whether her saints spoke French only.
1. Regarding who the fiends were that appeared in Joan’s Voices; 2. Regarding whether her saints only spoke French.
You understand, the University decided emphatically that it was fiends who spoke in those Voices; it would need to prove that, and it did. It found out who those fiends were, and named them in the verdict: Belial, Satan, and Behemoth. This has always seemed a doubtful thing to me, and not entitled to much credit. I think so for this reason: if the University had actually known it was those three, it would for very consistency’s sake have told how it knew it, and not stopped with the mere assertion, since it had made Joan explain how she knew they were not fiends. Does not that seem reasonable? To my mind the University’s position was weak, and I will tell you why. It had claimed that Joan’s angels were devils in disguise, and we all know that devils do disguise themselves as angels; up to that point the University’s position was strong; but you see yourself that it eats its own argument when it turns around and pretends that it can tell who such apparitions are, while denying the like ability to a person with as good a head on her shoulders as the best one the University could produce.
You see, the University firmly decided that it was demons who spoke in those Voices; it needed to prove that, and it did. It figured out who those demons were and named them in the verdict: Belial, Satan, and Behemoth. This has always seemed questionable to me, and not worthy of much belief. I think this for one reason: if the University had actually known it was those three, it would have explained how it knew that, not just made an assertion, especially since it had made Joan explain how she knew they weren't demons. Doesn't that seem logical? To me, the University’s position was weak, and I’ll tell you why. It claimed that Joan’s angels were devils in disguise, and we all know that devils do disguise themselves as angels; up to that point, the University’s position was strong. But you can see that it undermines its own argument when it turns around and pretends to know who those apparitions are, while denying that the same ability applies to a person with as good a head on her shoulders as the best one the University could provide.
The doctors of the University had to see those creatures in order to know; and if Joan was deceived, it is argument that they in their turn could also be deceived, for their insight and judgment were surely not clearer than hers.
The doctors at the University had to examine those beings to understand; and if Joan was misled, it suggests that they could be misled as well, since their insight and judgment were probably not any better than hers.
As to the other point which I have thought may have proved a difficulty and cost the University delay, I will touch but a moment upon that, and pass on. The University decided that it was blasphemy for Joan to say that her saints spoke French and not English, and were on the French side in political sympathies. I think that the thing which troubled the doctors of theology was this: they had decided that the three Voices were Satan and two other devils; but they had also decided that these Voices were not on the French side—thereby tacitly asserting that they were on the English side; and if on the English side, then they must be angels and not devils. Otherwise, the situation was embarrassing. You see, the University being the wisest and deepest and most erudite body in the world, it would like to be logical if it could, for the sake of its reputation; therefore it would study and study, days and days, trying to find some good common-sense reason for proving the Voices to be devils in Article No. 1 and proving them to be angels in Article No. 10. However, they had to give it up. They found no way out; and so, to this day, the University’s verdict remains just so—devils in No. 1, angels in No. 10; and no way to reconcile the discrepancy.
As for the other issue that I thought might have caused a problem and delayed the University, I’ll only touch on it briefly and move on. The University decided it was blasphemous for Joan to claim that her saints spoke French instead of English and were politically aligned with the French. What seemed to trouble the theology professors was this: they had ruled that the three Voices were Satan and two other demons; but they also concluded that these Voices were not on the French side—implicitly saying they were on the English side; and if they were on the English side, then they must be angels, not demons. Otherwise, it created an awkward situation. You see, the University, as the most knowledgeable and scholarly institution in the world, wanted to be logical for the sake of its reputation; so it spent days and days searching for a reasonable explanation to classify the Voices as demons in Article No. 1 and as angels in Article No. 10. However, they eventually had to abandon that effort. They found no solution; and to this day, the University’s verdict stands just as it is—demons in No. 1, angels in No. 10; with no way to resolve the contradiction.
The envoys brought the verdict to Rouen, and with it a letter for Cauchon which was full of fervid praise. The University complimented him on his zeal in hunting down this woman “whose venom had infected the faithful of the whole West,” and as recompense it as good as promised him “a crown of imperishable glory in heaven.” Only that!—a crown in heaven; a promissory note and no indorser; always something away off yonder; not a word about the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was the thing Cauchon was destroying his soul for. A crown in heaven; it must have sounded like a sarcasm to him, after all his hard work. What should he do in heaven? he did not know anybody there.
The envoys brought the verdict to Rouen, along with a letter for Cauchon that was full of fervent praise. The University commended him for his dedication in going after this woman “whose poison had tainted the faithful of the entire West,” and as a reward, they basically promised him “a crown of everlasting glory in heaven.” Just that!—a crown in heaven; a promissory note with no guarantor; always something far away; not a single mention of the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was what Cauchon was ruining his soul for. A crown in heaven; it must have sounded like a joke to him, after all his hard work. What would he do in heaven? He didn’t know anyone there.
On the nineteenth of May a court of fifty judges sat in the archiepiscopal palace to discuss Joan’s fate. A few wanted her delivered over to the secular arm at once for punishment, but the rest insisted that she be once more “charitably admonished” first.
On May 19th, a court of fifty judges gathered in the archiepiscopal palace to decide Joan's fate. Some wanted her to be handed over to the authorities for punishment immediately, while the others insisted that she should be “charitably admonished” one more time first.
So the same court met in the castle on the twenty-third, and Joan was brought to the bar. Pierre Maurice, a canon of Rouen, made a speech to Joan in which he admonished her to save her life and her soul by renouncing her errors and surrendering to the Church. He finished with a stern threat: if she remained obstinate the damnation of her soul was certain, the destruction of her body probable. But Joan was immovable. She said:
So the same court gathered in the castle on the twenty-third, and Joan was brought to the stand. Pierre Maurice, a canon from Rouen, spoke to Joan and urged her to save her life and soul by giving up her mistakes and submitting to the Church. He ended with a harsh warning: if she remained stubborn, her soul would definitely be damned, and her body was likely to be destroyed. But Joan stood firm. She said:
“If I were under sentence, and saw the fire before me, and the executioner ready to light it—more, if I were in the fire itself, I would say none but the things which I have said in these trials; and I would abide by them till I died.”
“If I were sentenced, and I saw the fire in front of me, with the executioner ready to light it—more than that, if I were in the fire itself, I would only say the things I have said during these trials; and I would stick to them until I died.”
A deep silence followed now, which endured some moments. It lay upon me like a weight. I knew it for an omen. Then Cauchon, grave and solemn, turned to Pierre Maurice:
A deep silence followed now, lasting for a few moments. It felt heavy on me, like a weight. I recognized it as an omen. Then Cauchon, serious and solemn, turned to Pierre Maurice:
“Have you anything further to say?”
“Is there anything else you want to add?”
The priest bowed low, and said:
The priest bent down and said:
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Prisoner at the bar, have you anything further to say?”
“Prisoner at the bar, do you have anything else to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“Then the debate is closed. To-morrow, sentence will be pronounced. Remove the prisoner.”
“Then the debate is over. Tomorrow, the sentence will be delivered. Take away the prisoner.”
She seemed to go from the place erect and noble. But I do not know; my sight was dim with tears.
She looked like she was leaving the place standing tall and proud. But I can't be sure; my vision was blurry with tears.
To-morrow—twenty-fourth of May! Exactly a year since I saw her go speeding across the plain at the head of her troops, her silver helmet shining, her silvery cape fluttering in the wind, her white plumes flowing, her sword held aloft; saw her charge the Burgundian camp three times, and carry it; saw her wheel to the right and spur for the duke’s reserves; saw her fling herself against it in the last assault she was ever to make. And now that fatal day was come again—and see what it was bringing!
Tomorrow—May 24th! Exactly a year since I watched her rush across the plain at the front of her troops, her silver helmet gleaming, her silvery cape waving in the wind, her white plumes flowing, her sword raised high; I saw her charge the Burgundian camp three times and take it; I saw her turn to the right and rush toward the duke’s reserves; I saw her throw herself against them in the last attack she would ever make. And now that fateful day had come again—and look at what it was bringing!
19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail
JOAN HAD been adjudged guilty of heresy, sorcery, and all the other terrible crimes set forth in the Twelve Articles, and her life was in Cauchon’s hands at last. He could send her to the stake at once. His work was finished now, you think? He was satisfied? Not at all. What would his Archbishopric be worth if the people should get the idea into their heads that this faction of interested priests, slaving under the English lash, had wrongly condemned and burned Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France? That would be to make of her a holy martyr. Then her spirit would rise from her body’s ashes, a thousandfold reinforced, and sweep the English domination into the sea, and Cauchon along with it. No, the victory was not complete yet. Joan’s guilt must be established by evidence which would satisfy the people. Where was that evidence to be found? There was only one person in the world who could furnish it—Joan of Arc herself. She must condemn herself, and in public—at least she must seem to do it.
JOAN HAD been found guilty of heresy, witchcraft, and all the other terrible crimes outlined in the Twelve Articles, and her life was finally in Cauchon's hands. He could send her to the stake immediately. You think his work was done? That he was satisfied? Not at all. What would his Archbishopric be worth if people believed that this group of self-serving priests, under the English's control, had wrongfully condemned and executed Joan of Arc, the Deliverer of France? That would turn her into a holy martyr. Then her spirit would rise from her ashes, stronger than ever, and drive the English out to sea, along with Cauchon. No, the victory wasn’t complete yet. Joan’s guilt had to be proven with evidence that would convince the public. Where would that evidence come from? There was only one person who could provide it—Joan of Arc herself. She had to condemn herself, publicly—at least she had to appear to do so.
But how was this to be managed? Weeks had been spent already in trying to get her to surrender—time wholly wasted; what was to persuade her now? Torture had been threatened, the fire had been threatened; what was left? Illness, deadly fatigue, and the sight of the fire, the presence of the fire! That was left.
But how was this supposed to be handled? Weeks had already been spent trying to get her to give up—time completely wasted; what was going to convince her now? Torture had been threatened, the fire had been threatened; what was left? Illness, extreme fatigue, and the sight of the fire, the presence of the fire! That was all that remained.
Now that was a shrewd thought. She was but a girl after all, and, under illness and exhaustion, subject to a girl’s weaknesses.
Now that was a clever thought. She was just a girl after all, and, due to illness and exhaustion, vulnerable to a girl’s weaknesses.
Yes, it was shrewdly thought. She had tacitly said herself that under the bitter pains of the rack they would be able to extort a false confession from her. It was a hint worth remembering, and it was remembered.
Yes, that was a smart observation. She had indirectly suggested that under the intense torture of the rack, they could force her to give a false confession. It was a point worth keeping in mind, and it was remembered.
She had furnished another hint at the same time: that as soon as the pains were gone, she would retract the confession. That hint was also remembered.
She had given another clue at the same time: that as soon as the pain was gone, she would take back her confession. That clue was also remembered.
She had herself taught them what to do, you see. First, they must wear out her strength, then frighten her with the fire. Second, while the fright was on her, she must be made to sign a paper.
She taught them what to do, you see. First, they had to wear her down, then scare her with the fire. Second, while she was scared, she had to be made to sign a paper.
But she would demand a reading of the paper. They could not venture to refuse this, with the public there to hear. Suppose that during the reading her courage should return?—she would refuse to sign then. Very well, even that difficulty could be got over. They could read a short paper of no importance, then slip a long and deadly one into its place and trick her into signing that.
But she would insist on a reading of the paper. They couldn’t afford to refuse with the public there to listen. What if her courage came back during the reading?—she would then refuse to sign. Fine, they could handle that too. They could read a short, insignificant paper, then sneak in a long and serious one instead and trick her into signing that.
Yet there was still one other difficulty. If they made her seem to abjure, that would free her from the death-penalty. They could keep her in a prison of the Church, but they could not kill her.
Yet there was still one other difficulty. If they made her seem to renounce, that would free her from the death penalty. They could keep her in a Church prison, but they couldn’t kill her.
That would not answer; for only her death would content the English. Alive she was a terror, in a prison or out of it. She had escaped from two prisons already.
That wouldn't work; only her death would satisfy the English. While she was alive, she was a menace, whether in prison or outside of it. She had already escaped from two prisons.
But even that difficulty could be managed. Cauchon would make promises to her; in return she would promise to leave off the male dress. He would violate his promises, and that would so situate her that she would not be able to keep hers. Her lapse would condemn her to the stake, and the stake would be ready.
But even that difficulty could be handled. Cauchon would make promises to her; in return, she would promise to stop wearing men's clothing. He would break his promises, and that would put her in a position where she couldn't keep hers. Her failure would send her to the stake, and the stake would be all set.
These were the several moves; there was nothing to do but to make them, each in its order, and the game was won. One might almost name the day that the betrayed girl, the most innocent creature in France and the noblest, would go to her pitiful death.
These were the different moves; there was nothing to do but execute them, each in order, and the game was won. One could almost pinpoint the day when the betrayed girl, the most innocent being in France and the most noble, would meet her tragic end.
The world knows now that Cauchon’s plan was as I have sketched it to you, but the world did not know it at that time. There are sufficient indications that Warwick and all the other English chiefs except the highest one—the Cardinal of Winchester—were not let into the secret, also, that only Loyseleur and Beaupere, on the French side, knew the scheme. Sometimes I have doubted if even Loyseleur and Beaupere knew the whole of it at first. However, if any did, it was these two.
The world now knows that Cauchon’s plan was as I described to you, but back then, no one was aware of it. There are enough signs that Warwick and all the other English leaders, except for the top one—the Cardinal of Winchester—were not aware of the secret. Also, only Loyseleur and Beaupere on the French side knew about the plan. Sometimes I’ve questioned whether even Loyseleur and Beaupere fully understood it at first. Still, if anyone did, it was definitely those two.
It is usual to let the condemned pass their last night of life in peace, but this grace was denied to poor Joan, if one may credit the rumors of the time. Loyseleur was smuggled into her presence, and in the character of priest, friend, and secret partisan of France and hater of England, he spent some hours in beseeching her to do “the only right an righteous thing”—submit to the Church, as a good Christian should; and that then she would straightway get out of the clutches of the dreaded English and be transferred to the Church’s prison, where she would be honorably used and have women about her for jailers. He knew where to touch her. He knew how odious to her was the presence of her rough and profane English guards; he knew that her Voices had vaguely promised something which she interpreted to be escape, rescue, release of some sort, and the chance to burst upon France once more and victoriously complete the great work which she had been commissioned of Heaven to do. Also there was that other thing: if her failing body could be further weakened by loss of rest and sleep now, her tired mind would be dazed and drowsy on the morrow, and in ill condition to stand out against persuasions, threats, and the sight of the stake, and also be purblind to traps and snares which it would be swift to detect when in its normal estate.
It’s common to allow the condemned to spend their last night in peace, but this mercy was denied to poor Joan, if we can believe the stories of the time. Loyseleur was sneaked into her presence, pretending to be a priest, friend, and secret supporter of France who hated England. He spent hours trying to convince her to do “the only right and righteous thing”—submit to the Church like a good Christian. He assured her that if she did, she would soon escape the dreaded English and be taken to the Church’s prison, where she would be treated honorably and have women as her jailers. He knew exactly how to appeal to her. He understood how much she loathed the presence of her rough and offensive English guards. He was aware that her Voices had vaguely promised something she interpreted as escape, rescue, a chance to return to France and triumphantly finish the great mission she believed was given to her by Heaven. There was also the other concern: if her already weak body was made even more exhausted from lack of rest and sleep now, her tired mind would be foggy and drowsy the next day, making it more difficult to resist persuasion, threats, and the sight of the stake, and she would be less alert to the traps and snares that she would normally detect rapidly.
I do not need to tell you that there was no rest for me that night. Nor for Noel. We went to the main gate of the city before nightfall, with a hope in our minds, based upon that vague prophecy of Joan’s Voices which seemed to promise a rescue by force at the last moment. The immense news had flown swiftly far and wide that at last Joan of Arc was condemned, and would be sentenced and burned alive on the morrow; and so crowds of people were flowing in at the gate, and other crowds were being refused admission by the soldiery; these being people who brought doubtful passes or none at all. We scanned these crowds eagerly, but there was nothing about them to indicate that they were our old war-comrades in disguise, and certainly there were no familiar faces among them. And so, when the gate was closed at last, we turned away grieved, and more disappointed than we cared to admit, either in speech or thought.
I don’t need to tell you that I couldn’t rest that night. Neither could Noel. We headed to the main gate of the city before dark, holding onto the hope inspired by that vague prophecy from Joan’s Voices, which seemed to promise a last-minute rescue by force. The big news had spread quickly that Joan of Arc was finally condemned and would be sentenced to be burned alive the next day; crowds of people were streaming in at the gate, while others were being turned away by the soldiers, those with questionable passes or no passes at all. We scanned the crowds eagerly, but there was nothing about them that suggested they were our old war comrades in disguise, and certainly, there were no familiar faces among them. So, when the gate finally closed, we walked away feeling sad and more disappointed than we wanted to admit, either in words or in our thoughts.
The streets were surging tides of excited men. It was difficult to make one’s way. Toward midnight our aimless tramp brought us to the neighborhood of the beautiful church of St. Ouen, and there all was bustle and work. The square was a wilderness of torches and people; and through a guarded passage dividing the pack, laborers were carrying planks and timbers and disappearing with them through the gate of the churchyard. We asked what was going forward; the answer was:
The streets were packed with excited people. It was hard to get through. Around midnight, our wandering led us to the area near the beautiful church of St. Ouen, and there was a lot happening. The square was full of torches and crowds; through a controlled passage separating the crowd, workers were hauling planks and beams and walking off with them through the churchyard gate. We inquired about what was happening; the response was:
“Scaffolds and the stake. Don’t you know that the French witch is to be burned in the morning?”
“Scaffolds and the stake. Don’t you know that the French witch is going to be burned in the morning?”
Then we went away. We had no heart for that place.
Then we left. We had no desire to stay in that place.
At dawn we were at the city gate again; this time with a hope which our wearied bodies and fevered minds magnified into a large probability. We had heard a report that the Abbot of Jumieges with all his monks was coming to witness the burning. Our desire, abetted by our imagination, turned those nine hundred monks into Joan’s old campaigners, and their Abbot into La Hire or the Bastard or D’Alencon; and we watched them file in, unchallenged, the multitude respectfully dividing and uncovering while they passed, with our hearts in our throats and our eyes swimming with tears of joy and pride and exultation; and we tried to catch glimpses of the faces under the cowls, and were prepared to give signal to any recognized face that we were Joan’s men and ready and eager to kill and be killed in the good cause. How foolish we were!
At dawn, we were back at the city gate, this time filled with a hope that our tired bodies and agitated minds turned into a strong possibility. We had heard rumors that the Abbot of Jumieges and all his monks were coming to witness the burning. Our longing, fueled by our imagination, transformed those nine hundred monks into Joan’s old soldiers, and their Abbot into La Hire, the Bastard, or D’Alencon. We watched them enter, unopposed, as the crowd respectfully parted and uncovered their heads while they passed, our hearts racing and our eyes filled with tears of joy, pride, and triumph. We tried to catch glimpses of the faces beneath the cowls, ready to signal any familiar face that we were Joan’s men, eager and willing to fight and die for the noble cause. How foolish we were!
But we were young, you know, and youth hopeth all things, believeth all things.
But we were young, you know, and youth hopes for everything, believes in everything.
20 The Betrayal
IN THE MORNING I was at my official post. It was on a platform raised the height of a man, in the churchyard, under the eaves of St. Ouen. On this same platform was a crowd of priests and important citizens, and several lawyers. Abreast it, with a small space between, was another and larger platform, handsomely canopied against sun and rain, and richly carpeted; also it was furnished with comfortable chairs, and with two which were more sumptuous than the others, and raised above the general level. One of these two was occupied by a prince of the royal blood of England, his Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester; the other by Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais. In the rest of the chairs sat three bishops, the Vice-Inquisitor, eight abbots, and the sixty-two friars and lawyers who had sat as Joan’s judges in her late trials.
IN THE MORNING I was at my official post. It was on a platform about the height of a person, in the churchyard, under the eaves of St. Ouen. On this same platform was a crowd of priests and important citizens, along with several lawyers. Next to it, with a small space in between, was another larger platform, nicely covered to protect against sun and rain, and richly carpeted; it was also furnished with comfortable chairs, two of which were more luxurious than the others and elevated above the rest. One of these two was occupied by a prince of the royal blood of England, his Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester; the other by Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais. In the remaining chairs sat three bishops, the Vice-Inquisitor, eight abbots, and the sixty-two friars and lawyers who had served as Joan’s judges in her recent trials.
Twenty steps in front of the platforms was another—a table-topped pyramid of stone, built up in retreating courses, thus forming steps. Out of this rose that grisly thing, the stake; about the stake bundles of fagots and firewood were piled. On the ground at the base of the pyramid stood three crimson figures, the executioner and his assistants. At their feet lay what had been a goodly heap of brands, but was now a smokeless nest of ruddy coals; a foot or two from this was a supplemental supply of wood and fagots compacted into a pile shoulder-high and containing as much as six packhorse loads. Think of that. We seem so delicately made, so destructible, so insubstantial; yet it is easier to reduce a granite statue to ashes than it is to do that with a man’s body.
Twenty steps in front of the platforms was another—a stone pyramid with a flat top, built in steps that sloped back. From this rose that grim sight, the stake; around it were piles of twigs and firewood. At the base of the pyramid stood three figures in red, the executioner and his assistants. At their feet lay what had once been a decent stack of logs, now just a smoldering bed of red coals; a couple of feet away was an additional supply of wood and twigs stacked into a pile as high as someone’s shoulders, worth about six packhorse loads. Think about that. We seem so delicately made, so fragile, so insubstantial; yet it’s easier to turn a granite statue to ashes than it is to do that with a human body.
The sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves of my body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming back t it, such fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.
The sight of the stake sent physical pain tingling through my body; and yet, no matter how I turned, my eyes kept going back to it, such is our fascination with the gruesome and the terrible.
The space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open by a wall of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and stalwart figures, fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from behind them on every hand stretched far away a level plain of human heads; and there was no window and no housetop within our view, howsoever distant, but was black with patches and masses of people.
The area taken up by the platforms and the stakes was kept clear by a line of English soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder, upright and strong, looking impressive in their shiny steel; behind them stretched a flat landscape of human heads as far as we could see; there was no window or rooftop within sight, no matter how far away, that wasn’t covered with clusters and crowds of people.
But there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead. The impressiveness of this silence and solemnity was deepened by a leaden twilight, for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging storm-clouds; and above the remote horizon faint winkings of heat-lightning played, and now and then one caught the dull mutterings and complainings of distant thunder.
But there was no sound, no movement; it felt like the world was dead. The weight of this silence and seriousness was intensified by a heavy twilight since the sky was covered by a thick layer of low-hanging storm clouds; and above the far-off horizon, faint flashes of heat lightning flickered, and occasionally, you could hear the low rumblings and complaints of distant thunder.
At last the stillness was broken. From beyond the square rose an indistinct sound, but familiar—court, crisp phrases of command; next I saw the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a marching host was glimpsed between. My heart leaped for a moment. Was it La Hire and his hellions? No—that was not their gait. No, it was the prisoner and her escort; it was Joan of Arc, under guard, that was coming; my spirits sank as low as they had been before. Weak as she was they made her walk; they would increase her weakness all they could. The distance was not great—it was but a few hundred yards—but short as it was it was a heavy tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for months, and whose feet had lost their powers from inaction. Yes, and for a year Joan had known only the cool damps of a dungeon, and now she was dragging herself through this sultry summer heat, this airless and suffocating void. As she entered the gate, drooping with exhaustion, there was that creature Loyseleur at her side with his head bent to her ear. We knew afterward that he had been with her again this morning in the prison wearying her with his persuasions and enticing her with false promises, and that he was now still at the same work at the gate, imploring her to yield everything that would be required of her, and assuring her that if she would do this all would be well with her: she would be rid of the dreaded English and find safety in the powerful shelter and protection of the Church. A miserable man, a stony-hearted man!
At last, the silence was broken. From beyond the square came a vague, yet familiar sound—commands being issued clearly; then I saw the crowd parting, and the steady movement of a marching group came into view. My heart skipped for a moment. Was it La Hire and his crew? No—that wasn’t their style. No, it was the prisoner and her guards; it was Joan of Arc, being escorted, that was approaching; my spirits dropped as low as they had been before. Weak as she was, they made her walk; they would exploit her weakness as much as possible. The distance wasn’t far—it was only a few hundred yards—but even that short span was a heavy burden for someone who had been chained in one spot for months, whose feet had lost their strength from lack of use. Yes, and for a year Joan had only known the cool dampness of a dungeon, and now she was dragging herself through this sweltering summer heat, in this stifling and oppressive air. As she entered the gate, sagging with exhaustion, that guy Loyseleur was at her side, whispering in her ear. We later learned that he had been with her again that morning in the prison, wearing her down with his arguments and luring her with false promises, and that he was still at it at the gate, urging her to give in to everything that would be asked of her, assuring her that if she did, everything would turn out fine: she would be free of the feared English and find safety in the strong protection of the Church. What a miserable man, a cold-hearted man!
The moment Joan was seated on the platform she closed her eyes and allowed her chin to fall; and so sat, with her hands nestling in her lap, indifferent to everything, caring for nothing but rest. And she was so white again—white as alabaster.
The moment Joan sat down on the platform, she closed her eyes and let her chin drop, remaining there with her hands resting in her lap, indifferent to everything, caring only for rest. And she was so white again—white as alabaster.
How the faces of that packed mass of humanity lighted up with interest, and with what intensity all eyes gazed upon this fragile girl! And how natural it was; for these people realized that at last they were looking upon that person whom they had so long hungered to see; a person whose name and fame filled all Europe, and made all other names and all other renowns insignificant by comparisons; Joan of Arc, the wonder of the time, and destined to be the wonder of all times!
How the faces of that crowded group of people lit up with interest, and how intensely all eyes focused on this fragile girl! It felt so natural; these people understood that they were finally looking at someone they had longed to see for so long; someone whose name and fame filled all of Europe, making all other names and achievements seem small by comparison; Joan of Arc, the marvel of her time, destined to be the marvel of all time!
And I could read as by print, in their marveling countenances, the words that were drifting through their minds: “Can it be true, is it believable, that it is this little creature, this girl, this child with the good face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and bonny face, that has carried fortresses by storm, charged at the head of victorious armies, blown the might of England out of her path with a breath, and fought a long campaign, solitary and alone, against the massed brains and learning of France—and had won it if the fight had been fair!”
And I could read like it was printed in their amazed faces, the thoughts drifting through their minds: “Can it really be true, is it believable, that it’s this tiny creature, this girl, this child with the kind face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and lovely face, who has stormed fortresses, led victorious armies, blown the might of England out of her way with a breath, and fought a long battle, all alone, against the combined intelligence and knowledge of France—and would have won if the fight had been fair!”
Evidently Cauchon had grown afraid of Manchon because of his pretty apparent leanings toward Joan, for another recorder was in the chief place here, which left my master and me nothing to do but sit idle and look on.
Evidently, Cauchon had become afraid of Manchon due to his clear support for Joan, so another recorder took the lead here, leaving my master and me with nothing to do but sit back and watch.
Well, I suppose that everything had been done which could be thought of to tire Joan’s body and mind, but it was a mistake; one more device had been invented. This was to preach a long sermon to her in that oppressive heat.
Well, I guess everything that could be done to wear Joan out, both physically and mentally, had been tried, but it was a mistake; one more tactic was created. This was to deliver a long sermon to her in that sweltering heat.
When the preacher began, she cast up one distressed and disappointed look, then dropped her head again. This preacher was Guillaume Erard, an oratorical celebrity. He got his text from the Twelve Lies. He emptied upon Joan al the calumnies in detail that had been bottled up in that mass of venom, and called her all the brutal names that the Twelve were labeled with, working himself into a whirlwind of fury as he went on; but his labors were wasted, she seemed lost in dreams, she made no sign, she did not seem to hear. At last he launched this apostrophe:
When the preacher started, she gave one distressed and disappointed look, then lowered her head again. This preacher was Guillaume Erard, a well-known speaker. He took his message from the Twelve Lies. He unleashed all the slanders that had been bottled up in that mass of hatred against Joan, calling her all the brutal names associated with the Twelve, working himself into a frenzy as he continued; but his efforts were in vain, she seemed lost in thought, she showed no response, and it didn’t look like she was listening. Finally, he launched into this address:
“O France, how hast thou been abused! Thou hast always been the home of Christianity; but now, Charles, who calls himself thy King and governor, indorses, like the heretic and schismatic that he is, the words and deeds of a worthless and infamous woman!” Joan raised her head, and her eyes began to burn and flash. The preacher turned to her: “It is to you, Joan, that I speak, and I tell you that your King is schismatic and a heretic!”
“O France, how you have been mistreated! You have always been the home of Christianity; but now, Charles, who claims to be your King and ruler, supports, like the heretic and divider he is, the words and actions of a worthless and notorious woman!” Joan lifted her head, and her eyes started to blaze with anger. The preacher turned to her: “I am speaking to you, Joan, and I tell you that your King is a divider and a heretic!”
Ah, he might abuse her to his heart’s content; she could endure that; but to her dying moment she could never hear in patience a word against that ingrate, that treacherous dog our King, whose proper place was here, at this moment, sword in hand, routing these reptiles and saving this most noble servant that ever King had in this world—and he would have been there if he had not been what I have called him. Joan’s loyal soul was outraged, and she turned upon the preacher and flung out a few words with a spirit which the crowd recognized as being in accordance with the Joan of Arc traditions:
Ah, he could mistreat her all he wanted; she could take that; but until her last breath, she could never bear to hear a single word against that ungrateful man, that traitorous dog we call our King, who should be right here, right now, sword in hand, defeating these snakes and saving the most devoted servant any King has ever had in this world—and he would be here if he hadn't turned out to be what I've just described. Joan’s loyal heart was enraged, and she faced the preacher, throwing out a few words with a spirit that the crowd recognized as true to the traditions of Joan of Arc:
“By my faith, sir! I make bold to say and swear, on pain of death, that he is the most noble Christian of all Christians, and the best lover of the faith and the Church!”
“Honestly, sir! I dare to say and swear, on my life, that he is the most noble Christian of all Christians, and the best supporter of the faith and the Church!”
There was an explosion of applause from the crowd—which angered the preacher, for he had been aching long to hear an expression like this, and now that it was come at last it had fallen to the wrong person: he had done all the work; the other had carried off all the spoil. He stamped his foot and shouted to the sheriff:
There was a huge round of applause from the crowd—which made the preacher angry, because he had been longing to hear something like this, and now that it finally happened, it was directed at the wrong person: he had done all the hard work; the other guy had taken all the credit. He stomped his foot and yelled at the sheriff:
“Make her shut up!”
“Make her be quiet!”
That made the crowd laugh.
That cracked the crowd up.
A mob has small respect for a grown man who has to call on a sheriff to protect him from a sick girl.
A crowd has little respect for an adult man who needs to rely on a sheriff for protection from a sick girl.
Joan had damaged the preacher’s cause more with one sentence than he had helped it with a hundred; so he was much put out, and had trouble to get a good start again. But he needn’t have bothered; there was no occasion. It was mainly an English-feeling mob. It had but obeyed a law of our nature—an irresistible law—to enjoy and applaud a spirited and promptly delivered retort, no matter who makes it. The mob was with the preacher; it had been beguiled for a moment, but only that; it would soon return. It was there to see this girl burnt; so that it got that satisfaction—without too much delay—it would be content.
Joan had harmed the preacher’s cause more with one sentence than he had helped it with a hundred, so he was quite frustrated and had trouble getting back on track. But he really didn't need to worry; there was no reason to. The crowd was mostly made up of people driven by a basic human instinct—to enjoy and cheer for a bold and quick comeback, regardless of who said it. The crowd was on the preacher’s side; it had been momentarily distracted, but that would change back soon enough. It was there to watch this girl be executed, and as long as it got that satisfaction—without too much waiting—it would be satisfied.
Presently the preacher formally summoned Joan to submit to the Church. He made the demand with confidence, for he had gotten the idea from Loyseleur and Beaupere that she was worn to the bone, exhausted, and would not be able to put forth any more resistance; and, indeed, to look at her it seemed that they must be right. Nevertheless, she made one more effort to hold her ground, and said, wearily:
Presently, the preacher officially called Joan to submit to the Church. He was confident in making this demand, as he had been led to believe by Loyseleur and Beaupere that she was completely worn out, exhausted, and wouldn’t be able to resist any longer; and, honestly, just looking at her made it seem like they were right. Nevertheless, she made one last effort to stand her ground and said, wearily:
“As to that matter, I have answered my judges before. I have told them to report all that I have said and done to our Holy Father the Pope—to whom, and to God first, I appeal.”
“As for that issue, I’ve answered my judges before. I told them to report everything I’ve said and done to our Holy Father the Pope—to whom, and to God above all, I appeal.”
Again, out of her native wisdom, she had brought those words of tremendous import, but was ignorant of their value. But they could have availed her nothing in any case, now, with the stake there and these thousands of enemies about her. Yet they made every churchman there blench, and the preacher changed the subject with all haste. Well might those criminals blench, for Joan’s appeal of her case to the Pope stripped Cauchon at once of jurisdiction over it, and annulled all that he and his judges had already done in the matter and all that they should do in it henceforth.
Again, from her natural wisdom, she brought up those words of great significance, but she was unaware of their importance. However, they wouldn’t have helped her regardless, given the stakes and the thousands of enemies surrounding her. Still, they made every churchman there pale, and the preacher quickly changed the topic. It was understandable that those wrongdoers would pale, for Joan’s appeal of her case to the Pope immediately took away Cauchon’s authority over it and canceled everything he and his judges had already done and would do moving forward.
Joan went on presently to reiterate, after some further talk, that she had acted by command of God in her deeds and utterances; then, when an attempt was made to implicate the King, and friends of hers and his, she stopped that. She said:
Joan soon repeated, after some more conversation, that she had acted on God's command in her actions and words; then, when someone tried to involve the King and friends of hers and his, she put a stop to it. She said:
“I charge my deeds and words upon no one, neither upon my King nor any other. If there is any fault in them, I am responsible and no other.”
“I take full responsibility for my actions and words, neither blaming my King nor anyone else. If there’s any mistake in them, I alone am to blame.”
She was asked if she would not recant those of her words and deeds which had been pronounced evil by her judges. Here answer made confusion and damage again:
She was asked if she would take back any of her words and actions that her judges had declared evil. Her answer caused more confusion and trouble again:
“I submit them to God and the Pope.”
“I give them to God and the Pope.”
The Pope once more! It was very embarrassing. Here was a person who was asked to submit her case to the Church, and who frankly consents—offers to submit it to the very head of it. What more could any one require? How was one to answer such a formidably unanswerable answer as that?
The Pope again! It was so embarrassing. Here was someone who was asked to bring her case to the Church, and she openly agrees—offers to take it to the very top. What more could anyone ask for? How could anyone respond to such a ridiculously unanswerable answer?
The worried judges put their heads together and whispered and planned and discussed. Then they brought forth this sufficiently shambling conclusion—but it was the best they could do, in so close a place: they said the Pope was so far away; and it was not necessary to go to him anyway, because the present judges had sufficient power and authority to deal with the present case, and were in effect “the Church” to that extent. At another time they could have smiled at this conceit, but not now; they were not comfortable enough now.
The anxious judges huddled together, whispering, planning, and discussing. Eventually, they reached this somewhat awkward conclusion—but it was the best they could manage in such a tight spot: they claimed the Pope was too far away, and that there was no need to consult him anyway, since the current judges had enough power and authority to handle the case at hand, effectively acting as “the Church” in this situation. At another time, they might have found this idea amusing, but not now; they were too uneasy at the moment.
The mob was getting impatient. It was beginning to put on a threatening aspect; it was tired of standing, tired of the scorching heat; and the thunder was coming nearer, the lightning was flashing brighter. It was necessary to hurry this matter to a close. Erard showed Joan a written form, which had been prepared and made all ready beforehand, and asked her to abjure.
The crowd was growing restless. It was starting to look menacing; they were fed up with standing around, exhausted from the sweltering heat, and the thunder was getting closer, the lightning shining more intensely. It was crucial to wrap this up quickly. Erard showed Joan a written document that had been prepared in advance and asked her to renounce.
“Abjure? What is abjure?”
"Abjure? What does abjure mean?"
She did not know the word. It was explained to her by Massieu. She tried to understand, but she was breaking, under exhaustion, and she could not gather the meaning. It was all a jumble and confusion of strange words. In her despair she sent out this beseeching cry:
She didn't know the word. Massieu explained it to her. She tried to understand, but she was worn out, and she couldn't grasp the meaning. It was all a confusing mix of strange words. In her despair, she let out this desperate cry:
“I appeal to the Church universal whether I ought to abjure or not!”
“I ask the entire Church whether I should renounce or not!”
Erard exclaimed:
Erard shouted:
“You shall abjure instantly, or instantly be burnt!”
“You need to renounce it right now, or you’ll be burned immediately!”
She glanced up, at those awful words, and for the first time she saw the stake and the mass of red coals—redder and angrier than ever now under the constantly deepening storm-gloom. She gasped and staggered up out of her seat muttering and mumbling incoherently, and gazed vacantly upon the people and the scene about her like one who is dazed, or thinks he dreams, and does not know where he is.
She looked up at those terrible words, and for the first time, she saw the stake and the pile of red coals—redder and angrier than ever now under the thickening stormy darkness. She gasped and stumbled out of her seat, muttering and mumbling incoherently, and stared blankly at the people and the scene around her like someone who is dazed or thinks they're dreaming and doesn't know where they are.
The priests crowded about her imploring her to sign the paper, there were many voices beseeching and urging her at once, there was great turmoil and shouting and excitement among the populace and everywhere.
The priests gathered around her, urging her to sign the paper. Many voices were pleading and urging her all at once, creating chaos and shouting, with excitement spreading among the crowd everywhere.
“Sign! sign!” from the priests; “sign—sign and be saved!” And Loyseleur was urging at her ear, “Do as I told you—do not destroy yourself!”
“Sign! Sign!” called the priests; “sign—sign and be saved!” And Loyseleur was urging in her ear, “Do what I said—don’t sacrifice yourself!”
Joan said plaintively to these people:
Joan said sadly to these people:
“Ah, you do not do well to seduce me.”
“Ah, you really shouldn’t try to tempt me.”
The judges joined their voices to the others. Yes, even the iron in their hearts melted, and they said:
The judges chimed in with everyone else. Yes, even the steel in their hearts softened, and they said:
“O Joan, we pity you so! Take back what you have said, or we must deliver you up to punishment.”
“O Joan, we feel so sorry for you! Take back what you said, or we have to turn you in for punishment.”
And now there was another voice—it was from the other platform—pealing solemnly above the din: Cauchon’s—reading the sentence of death!
And now there was another voice—it came from the other platform—solemnly ringing out above the noise: Cauchon’s—reading the death sentence!
Joan’s strength was all spent. She stood looking about her in a bewildered way a moment, then slowly she sank to her knees, and bowed her head and said:
Joan was completely exhausted. She looked around in confusion for a moment, then slowly dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and said:
“I submit.”
"I submit."
They gave her no time to reconsider—they knew the peril of that. The moment the words were out of her mouth Massieu was reading to her the abjuration, and she was repeating the words after him mechanically, unconsciously—and smiling; for her wandering mind was far away in some happier world.
They didn’t give her a moment to think it over—they understood the danger of that. The instant the words left her lips, Massieu started reading the abjuration to her, and she was mechanically and unconsciously repeating the words after him—while smiling; her distracted mind was lost in a much happier place.
Then this short paper of six lines was slipped aside and a long one of many pages was smuggled into its place, and she, noting nothing, put her mark on it, saying, in pathetic apology, that she did not know how to write. But a secretary of the King of England was there to take care of that defect; he guided her hand with his own, and wrote her name—Jehanne.
Then this short paper of six lines was set aside and replaced with a long one of many pages, and she, noticing nothing, signed it, offering a sad apology, saying she didn’t know how to write. But a secretary of the King of England was there to fix that; he guided her hand with his own and wrote her name—Jehanne.
The great crime was accomplished. She had signed—what? She did not know—but the others knew. She had signed a paper confessing herself a sorceress, a dealer with devils, a liar, a blasphemer of God and His angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of sedition, cruel, wicked, commissioned of Satan; and this signature of hers bound her to resume the dress of a woman.
The terrible crime was done. She had signed—what? She didn't know—but the others knew. She had signed a document admitting she was a sorceress, someone who dealt with devils, a liar, a blasphemer of God and His angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of rebellion, cruel, wicked, sent by Satan; and her signature bound her to take on the role of a woman again.
There were other promises, but that one would answer, without the others; and that one could be made to destroy her.
There were other promises, but that one would suffice, without the rest; and that one could be turned against her.
Loyseleur pressed forward and praised her for having done “such a good day’s work.”
Loyseleur moved closer and complimented her for having done “such a great job today.”
But she was still dreamy, she hardly heard.
But she was still lost in thought; she barely heard.
Then Cauchon pronounced the words which dissolved the excommunication and restored her to her beloved Church, with all the dear privileges of worship. Ah, she heard that! You could see it in the deep gratitude that rose in her face and transfigured it with joy.
Then Cauchon said the words that lifted the excommunication and brought her back to her cherished Church, along with all the precious rights of worship. Ah, she heard that! You could see it in the profound gratitude that filled her face and transformed it with joy.
But how transient was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a tremor of pity in his voice, added these crushing words:
But how fleeting was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a hint of pity in his voice, added these crushing words:
“And that she may repent of her crimes and repeat them no more, she is sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, with the bread of affliction and the water of anguish!”
“And so that she can feel remorse for her actions and never commit them again, she is sentenced to life in prison, with the bread of suffering and the water of pain!”
Perpetual imprisonment! She had never dreamed of that—such a thing had never been hinted to her by Loyseleur or by any other. Loyseleur had distinctly said and promised that “all would be well with her.” And the very last words spoken to her by Erard, on that very platform, when he was urging her to abjure, was a straight, unqualified promised—that if she would do it she should go free from captivity.
Perpetual imprisonment! She had never imagined that—no one had ever hinted at it to her, not Loyseleur or anyone else. Loyseleur had clearly stated and assured her that “everything would be fine.” And the very last words spoken to her by Erard, right there on that platform, when he was urging her to give in, were a direct, unconditional promise—that if she did, she would be released from captivity.
She stood stunned and speechless a moment; then she remembered, with such solacement as the thought could furnish, that by another clear promise made by Cauchon himself—she would at least be the Church’s captive, and have women about her in place of a brutal foreign soldiery. So she turned to the body of priests and said, with a sad resignation:
She stood there, shocked and at a loss for words for a moment; then she recalled, with whatever comfort that thought could bring, that due to another clear promise made by Cauchon himself—she would at least be a captive of the Church, surrounded by women instead of a harsh foreign army. So she turned to the group of priests and said, with a heavy heart:
“Now, you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and leave me no longer in the hands of the English”; and she gathered up her chains and prepared to move.
“Now, you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and don’t leave me any longer in the hands of the English”; and she gathered up her chains and got ready to move.
But alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon—and with them a mocking laugh:
But sadly! now came these disgraceful words from Cauchon—and with them a mocking laugh:
“Take her to the prison whence she came!”
“Take her back to the prison she came from!”
Poor abused girl! She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed. It was pitiful to see. She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it all now.
Poor abused girl! She stood there, speechless, stunned, frozen. It was heartbreaking to watch. She had been deceived, lied to, and betrayed; she realized it all now.
The rumbling of a drum broke upon the stillness, and for just one moment she thought of the glorious deliverance promised by her Voices—I read it in the rapture that lit her face; then she saw what it was—her prison escort—and that light faded, never to revive again. And now her head began a piteous rocking motion, swaying slowly, this way and that, as is the way when one is suffering unwordable pain, or when one’s heart is broken; then drearily she went from us, with her face in her hands, and sobbing bitterly.
The sound of a drum shattered the silence, and for just a moment, she thought of the amazing freedom promised by her Voices—I could see it in the joy on her face; then she realized what it was—her guards—and that joy vanished, never to return. Now, her head began to rock sadly, swaying slowly back and forth, like someone enduring unimaginable pain or nursing a broken heart; then, with a heavy heart, she walked away from us, covering her face with her hands and crying deeply.
21 Respited Only for Torture
THERE IS no certainty that any one in all Rouen was in the secret of the deep game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal of Winchester. Then you can imagine the astonishment and stupefaction of that vast mob gathered there and those crowds of churchmen assembled on the two platforms, when they saw Joan of Arc moving away, alive and whole—slipping out of their grip at last, after all this tedious waiting, all this tantalizing expectancy.
THERE IS no certainty that anyone in all of Rouen knew about the elaborate scheme that Cauchon was playing, except for the Cardinal of Winchester. So you can imagine the shock and disbelief of the massive crowd gathered there and the groups of clergymen on the two platforms when they saw Joan of Arc walking away, alive and unharmed—finally slipping out of their grasp after all the long waiting and frustrating anticipation.
Nobody was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the universal astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was actually standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.
Nobody could move or speak for a while; the shock was so overwhelming, and it was hard to believe that the stake was just sitting there empty and its victim was gone.
Then suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions and charges of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones: a stone came near killing the Cardinal of Winchester—it just missed his head. But the man who threw it was not to blame, for he was excited, and a person who is excited never can throw straight.
Then suddenly everyone erupted in anger; curses and accusations of betrayal started flying everywhere; yes, even stones: one nearly hit the Cardinal of Winchester—it just barely missed his head. But the guy who threw it wasn’t at fault, because he was worked up, and someone who’s worked up can never throw accurately.
The tumult was very great, indeed, for a while. In the midst of it a chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to opprobriously assail the August Bishop of Beauvais himself, shaking his fist in his face and shouting:
The chaos was intense for a while. During it, a chaplain of the Cardinal even abandoned decorum enough to angrily confront the esteemed Bishop of Beauvais himself, shaking his fist in his face and shouting:
“By God, you are a traitor!”
"Seriously, you're a traitor!"
“You lie!” responded the Bishop.
“You're lying!” responded the Bishop.
He a traitor! Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman that any Briton had a right to bring that charge against.
He's a traitor! Oh, far from it; he was definitely the last Frenchman that any Brit should have said that about.
The Earl of Warwick lost his temper, too. He was a doughty soldier, but when it came to the intellectuals—when it came to delicate chicane, and scheming, and trickery—he couldn’t see any further through a millstone than another. So he burst out in his frank warrior fashion, and swore that the King of England was being treacherously used, and that Joan of Arc was going to be allowed to cheat the stake. But they whispered comfort into his ear:
The Earl of Warwick lost his temper as well. He was a tough soldier, but when it came to the intellectuals—when it involved subtle manipulation, schemes, and deceit—he couldn't see any better than anyone else. So he expressed his frustration in his straightforward warrior style and declared that the King of England was being betrayed and that Joan of Arc was going to get away with her crimes. But they whispered reassuring words in his ear:
“Give yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her again.”
“Don't worry, my lord; we’ll have her back soon.”
Perhaps the like tidings found their way all around, for good news travels fast as well as bad. At any rate, the ragings presently quieted down, and the huge concourse crumbled apart and disappeared. And thus we reached the noon of that fearful Thursday.
Perhaps the same news spread everywhere, because good news travels just as quickly as bad. In any case, the uproar eventually settled down, and the massive crowd broke apart and faded away. And so we arrived at noon on that terrifying Thursday.
We two youths were happy; happier than any words can tell—for we were not in the secret any more than the rest. Joan’s life was saved. We knew that, and that was enough. France would hear of this day’s infamous work—and then! Why, then her gallant sons would flock to her standard by thousands and thousands, multitudes upon multitudes, and their wrath would be like the wrath of the ocean when the storm-winds sweep it; and they would hurl themselves against this doomed city and overwhelm it like the resistless tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march again!
We were two young people who were happy—happier than words can express—because we were unaware of the secret, just like everyone else. Joan's life was saved. We knew that, and that was enough. France would hear about the disgraceful events of this day—and then! Well, then her brave sons would rally to her banner by the thousands, countless numbers, and their anger would be like the fury of the ocean when the storm winds hit; they would charge at this doomed city and overpower it like the unstoppable tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march again!
In six days—seven days—one short week—noble France, grateful France, indignant France, would be thundering at these gates—let us count the hours, let us count the minutes, let us count the seconds! O happy day, O day of ecstasy, how our hearts sang in our bosoms!
In six days—seven days—one short week—noble France, grateful France, outraged France, would be banging on these gates—let ’s count the hours, let’s count the minutes, let’s count the seconds! Oh happy day, oh day of joy, how our hearts sang within us!
For we were young then, yes, we were very young.
For we were young back then, yes, we were really young.
Do you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep after she had spent the small remnant of her strength in dragging her tired body back to the dungeon?
Do you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep after she had spent the last bit of her strength dragging her tired body back to the dungeon?
No, there was no rest for her, with those sleuth-hounds on her track. Cauchon and some of his people followed her to her lair straightway; they found her dazed and dull, her mental and physical forces in a state of prostration. They told her she had abjured; that she had made certain promises—among them, to resume the apparel of her sex; and that if she relapsed, the Church would cast her out for good and all. She heard the words, but they had no meaning to her. She was like a person who has taken a narcotic and is dying for sleep, dying for rest from nagging, dying to be let alone, and who mechanically does everything the persecutor asks, taking but dull note of the things done, and but dully recording them in the memory. And so Joan put on the gown which Cauchon and his people had brought; and would come to herself by and by, and have at first but a dim idea as to when and how the change had come about.
No, she couldn’t find any rest with those hunters on her trail. Cauchon and some of his people tracked her down to her hideout right away; they found her confused and exhausted, both mentally and physically drained. They told her she had renounced her previous choices; that she had made certain promises—one of them being to wear women's clothing again; and that if she went back on this, the Church would kick her out for good. She heard their words, but they didn’t register with her. She was like someone under the influence of a drug, desperate for sleep, desperate for peace from the harassment, desperate to be left alone, and who mindlessly complied with everything her tormentors demanded, barely absorbing what was happening and only vaguely remembering it. So, Joan put on the dress that Cauchon and his followers had brought; and she would eventually come back to herself, but at first, she would only have a faint idea of when and how the change had occurred.
Cauchon went away happy and content. Joan had resumed woman’s dress without protest; also she had been formally warned against relapsing. He had witnesses to these facts. How could matters be better?
Cauchon left feeling happy and satisfied. Joan had put on women's clothing again without any objections; she had also been officially warned not to go back to her previous ways. He had witnesses to these facts. How could things be any better?
But suppose she should not relapse?
But what if she doesn’t relapse?
Why, then she must be forced to do it.
Why, then she has to be made to do it.
Did Cauchon hint to the English guards that thenceforth if they chose to make their prisoner’s captivity crueler and bitterer than ever, no official notice would be taken of it? Perhaps so; since the guards did begin that policy at once, and no official notice was taken of it. Yes, from that moment Joan’s life in that dungeon was made almost unendurable. Do not ask me to enlarge upon it. I will not do it.
Did Cauchon suggest to the English guards that if they decided to make their prisoner's treatment harsher than ever, no official action would be taken? Maybe he did; because the guards immediately started that approach, and no official response followed. Yes, from that moment on, Joan's life in that dungeon became nearly unbearable. Don't ask me to elaborate on it. I won't.
22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer

FRIDAY and Saturday were happy days for Noel and me. Our minds were full of our splendid dream of France aroused—France shaking her mane—France on the march—France at the gates—Rouen in ashes, and Joan free! Our imagination was on fire; we were delirious with pride and joy. For we were very young, as I have said.
FRIDAY and Saturday were awesome days for Noel and me. Our heads were filled with our amazing dream of France—France shaking her mane—France on the move—France at the gates—Rouen in flames, and Joan free! Our imaginations were on fire; we were overwhelmed with pride and joy. Because we were really young, as I mentioned.
We knew nothing about what had been happening in the dungeon in the yester-afternoon. We supposed that as Joan had abjured and been taken back into the forgiving bosom of the Church, she was being gently used now, and her captivity made as pleasant and comfortable for her as the circumstances would allow. So, in high contentment, we planned out our share in the great rescue, and fought our part of the fight over and over again during those two happy days—as happy days as ever I have known.
We had no idea what had been going on in the dungeon the day before. We thought that since Joan had renounced her past and been welcomed back by the Church, she was being treated kindly now, and her imprisonment was made as pleasant and comfortable as possible under the situation. So, feeling very content, we mapped out our role in the big rescue and imagined our part in the struggle repeatedly during those two joyful days—some of the happiest days I’ve ever experienced.
Sunday morning came. I was awake, enjoying the balmy, lazy weather, and thinking. Thinking of the rescue—what else? I had no other thought now. I was absorbed in that, drunk with the happiness of it.
Sunday morning arrived. I was awake, enjoying the warm, laid-back weather and thinking. Thinking about the rescue—what else? That was my only thought now. I was completely immersed in it, euphoric with happiness.
I heard a voice shouting far down the street, and soon it came nearer, and I caught the words:
I heard a voice yelling way down the street, and before long, it got closer, and I caught the words:
“Joan of Arc has relapsed! The witch’s time has come!”
“Joan of Arc has fallen back! The witch’s time is here!”
It stopped my heart, it turned my blood to ice. That was more than sixty years ago, but that triumphant note rings as clear in my memory to-day as it rang in my ear that long-vanished summer morning. We are so strangely made; the memories that could make us happy pass away; it is the memories that break our hearts that abide.
It stopped my heart, it turned my blood to ice. That was over sixty years ago, but that triumphant note is just as vivid in my memory today as it was that long-lost summer morning. We are made in such a strange way; the memories that could bring us joy fade away; it’s the memories that shatter our hearts that linger on.
Soon other voices took up that cry—tens, scores, hundreds of voices; all the world seemed filled with the brutal joy of it. And there were other clamors—the clatter of rushing feet, merry congratulations, bursts of coarse laughter, the rolling of drums, the boom and crash of distant bands profaning the sacred day with the music of victory and thanksgiving.
Soon other voices joined in that cry—tens, scores, hundreds of voices; all the world seemed filled with the harsh joy of it. And there were other sounds—the pounding of rushing feet, cheerful congratulations, bursts of loud laughter, the beating of drums, the boom and crash of distant bands desecrating the holy day with the music of victory and gratitude.
About the middle of the afternoon came a summons for Manchon and me to go to Joan’s dungeon—a summons from Cauchon. But by that time distrust had already taken possession of the English and their soldiery again, and all Rouen was in an angry and threatening mood. We could see plenty of evidences of this from our own windows—fist-shaking, black looks, tumultuous tides of furious men billowing by along the street.
About the middle of the afternoon, Manchon and I were called to Joan’s dungeon—a call from Cauchon. By that time, the English and their soldiers had become suspicious again, and all of Rouen was in an angry and threatening mood. We could see plenty of evidence of this from our own windows—people shaking their fists, dark looks, and angry waves of men surging down the street.
And we learned that up at the castle things were going very badly, indeed; that there was a great mob gathered there who considered the relapse a lie and a priestly trick, and among them many half-drunk English soldiers. Moreover, these people had gone beyond words. They had laid hands upon a number of churchmen who were trying to enter the castle, and it had been difficult work to rescue them and save their lives.
And we found out that things at the castle were really bad; a huge crowd was there who thought the relapse was a lie and a priestly scheme, including a lot of drunk English soldiers. Plus, they had gone further than just talking. They had grabbed a number of clergy trying to enter the castle, and it was tough to get them out and save their lives.
And so Manchon refused to go. He said he would not go a step without a safeguard from Warwick. So next morning Warwick sent an escort of soldiers, and then we went. Matters had not grown peacefuler meantime, but worse. The soldiers protected us from bodily damage, but as we passed through the great mob at the castle we were assailed with insults and shameful epithets. I bore it well enough, though, and said to myself, with secret satisfaction, “In three or four short days, my lads, you will be employing your tongues in a different sort from this—and I shall be there to hear.”
And so Manchon refused to leave. He said he wouldn’t take a step without protection from Warwick. The next morning, Warwick sent a group of soldiers to escort us, and then we went. Things hadn’t gotten any better in the meantime; in fact, they’d gotten worse. The soldiers kept us safe from physical harm, but as we made our way through the large crowd at the castle, we were hit with insults and degrading names. I handled it well enough, though, and thought to myself, with a bit of secret satisfaction, “In just three or four days, you guys will be using your words in a very different way—and I’ll be there to witness it.”
To my mind these were as good as dead men. How many of them would still be alive after the rescue that was coming? Not more than enough to amuse the executioner a short half-hour, certainly.
To me, these guys were as good as dead. How many of them would still be alive after the rescue that was on the way? Definitely not enough to keep the executioner entertained for more than half an hour.
It turned out that the report was true. Joan had relapsed. She was sitting there in her chains, clothed again in her male attire.
It turned out that the report was true. Joan had relapsed. She was sitting there in her chains, dressed once more in her male clothing.
She accused nobody. That was her way. It was not in her character to hold a servant to account for what his master had made him do, and her mind had cleared now, and she knew that the advantage which had been taken of her the previous morning had its origin, not in the subordinate but in the master—Cauchon.
She didn’t blame anyone. That was just how she was. It wasn’t in her nature to hold a servant responsible for what their master had made them do, and now her mind was clear; she realized that the manipulation she experienced the day before came not from the subordinate but from the master—Cauchon.
Here is what had happened. While Joan slept, in the early morning of Sunday, one of the guards stole her female apparel and put her male attire in its place. When she woke she asked for the other dress, but the guards refused to give it back. She protested, and said she was forbidden to wear the male dress. But they continued to refuse. She had to have clothing, for modesty’s sake; moreover, she saw that she could not save her life if she must fight for it against treacheries like this; so she put on the forbidden garments, knowing what the end would be. She was weary of the struggle, poor thing.
Here’s what happened. While Joan was sleeping early on Sunday morning, one of the guards stole her women’s clothes and replaced them with her men’s clothing. When she woke up, she asked for her dress back, but the guards refused to return it. She argued, insisting she wasn't allowed to wear men’s clothing. But they kept refusing. She needed clothes for modesty; besides, she realized she couldn't save her life if she had to fight against betrayals like this, so she put on the forbidden garments, fully aware of the consequences. She was exhausted from the struggle, poor thing.
We had followed in the wake of Cauchon, the Vice-Inquisitor, and the others—six or eight—and when I saw Joan sitting there, despondent, forlorn, and still in chains, when I was expecting to find her situation so different, I did not know what to make of it. The shock was very great. I had doubted the relapse perhaps; possibly I had believed in it, but had not realized it.
We had followed Cauchon, the Vice-Inquisitor, and the others—about six or eight of them—and when I saw Joan sitting there, downcast, abandoned, and still in chains, especially when I expected her situation to be so different, I didn't know how to react. The shock was overwhelming. I had maybe doubted her relapse; perhaps I believed it, but I hadn’t fully grasped it.
Cauchon’s victory was complete. He had had a harassed and irritated and disgusted look for a long time, but that was all gone now, and contentment and serenity had taken its place. His purple face was full of tranquil and malicious happiness. He went trailing his robes and stood grandly in front of Joan, with his legs apart, and remained so more than a minute, gloating over her and enjoying the sight of this poor ruined creature, who had won so lofty a place for him in the service of the meek and merciful Jesus, Saviour of the World, Lord of the Universe—in case England kept her promise to him, who kept no promises himself.
Cauchon’s victory was total. He had looked stressed, irritated, and disgusted for a long time, but all of that was gone now, replaced by contentment and calm. His flushed face was filled with peaceful and spiteful happiness. He swaggered in his robes and stood grandly in front of Joan, legs spread apart, lingering like that for over a minute, reveling in her misery and taking pleasure in the sight of this poor, broken person, who had secured such a high position for him in the service of the humble and compassionate Jesus, Savior of the World, Lord of the Universe—if England kept its promise to him, who never kept promises himself.
Presently the judges began to question Joan. One of them, named Marguerie, who was a man with more insight than prudence, remarked upon Joan’s change of clothing, and said:
Presently, the judges began to question Joan. One of them, named Marguerie, who was a man with more insight than common sense, commented on Joan's change of clothing and said:
“There is something suspicious about this. How could it have come about without connivance on the part of others? Perhaps even something worse?”
“There’s something off about this. How could it have happened without others being involved? Maybe even something worse?”
“Thousand devils!” screamed Cauchon, in a fury. “Will you shut your mouth?”
“Thousand devils!” shouted Cauchon, in a rage. “Will you keep quiet?”
“Armagnac! Traitor!” shouted the soldiers on guard, and made a rush for Marguerie with their lances leveled. It was with the greatest difficulty that he was saved from being run through the body. He made no more attempts to help the inquiry, poor man. The other judges proceeded with the questionings.
“Armagnac! Traitor!” shouted the guards, rushing at Marguerie with their lances pointed. He barely escaped being impaled. Poor man, he stopped trying to help with the investigation. The other judges continued with the interrogations.
“Why have you resumed this male habit?”
“Why have you started doing this guy thing again?”
I did not quite catch her answer, for just then a soldier’s halberd slipped from his fingers and fell on the stone floor with a crash; but I thought I understood Joan to say that she had resumed it of her own motion.
I didn't quite hear her answer because, at that moment, a soldier dropped his halberd, and it hit the stone floor with a loud crash. But I thought I understood Joan to say that she had taken it back on her own.
“But you have promised and sworn that you would not go back to it.”
“But you promised and swore that you wouldn’t go back to it.”
I was full of anxiety to hear her answer to that question; and when it came it was just what I was expecting. She said—quiet quietly:
I was really anxious to hear her answer to that question; and when it finally came, it was exactly what I expected. She said—calmly:
“I have never intended and never understood myself to swear I would not resume it.”
“I never meant and never thought I would swear that I wouldn’t take it up again.”
There—I had been sure, all along, that she did not know what she was doing and saying on the platform Thursday, and this answer of hers was proof that I had not been mistaken. Then she went on to add this:
There—I had been certain all along that she didn't know what she was doing or saying on the platform Thursday, and her response was proof that I hadn’t been wrong. Then she continued to add this:
“But I had a right to resume it, because the promises made to me have not been kept—promises that I should be allowed to go to mass and receive the communion, and that I should be freed from the bondage of these chains—but they are still upon me, as you see.”
“But I have the right to take it back because the promises made to me haven’t been kept—promises that I would be allowed to go to mass and receive communion, and that I would be freed from the burden of these chains—but they are still on me, as you can see.”
“Nevertheless, you have abjured, and have especially promised to return no more to the dress of a man.”
“Still, you have renounced it and have specifically promised to never wear men's clothing again.”
Then Joan held out her fettered hands sorrowfully toward these unfeeling men and said:
Then Joan held out her shackled hands sadly toward these unfeeling men and said:
“I would rather die than continue so. But if they may be taken off, and if I may hear mass, and be removed to a penitential prison, and have a woman about me, I will be good, and will do what shall seem good to you that I do.”
“I would rather die than keep living like this. But if I can be let go, hear mass, be moved to a penitential prison, and have a woman with me, I will behave well and do whatever you think I should do.”
Cauchon sniffed scoffingly at that. Honor the compact which he and his had made with her?
Cauchon scoffed at that. Honor the agreement he and his group had made with her?
Fulfil its conditions? What need of that? Conditions had been a good thing to concede, temporarily, and for advantage; but they have served their turn—let something of a fresher sort and of more consequence be considered. The resumption of the male dress was sufficient for all practical purposes, but perhaps Joan could be led to add something to that fatal crime. So Cauchon asked her if her Voices had spoken to her since Thursday—and he reminded her of her abjuration.
Fulfill its conditions? Why bother? Conditions were useful to agree on, temporarily, and for a benefit; but they've served their purpose—let's consider something newer and more important. Going back to wearing men's clothes was enough for all practical reasons, but maybe Joan could be convinced to do something else that could be seen as a serious offense. So Cauchon asked her if her Voices had talked to her since Thursday—and he reminded her of her denial.
“Yes,” she answered; and then it came out that the Voices had talked with her about the abjuration—told her about it, I suppose. She guilelessly reasserted the heavenly origin of her mission, and did it with the untroubled mien of one who was not conscious that she had ever knowingly repudiated it. So I was convinced once more that she had had no notion of what she was doing that Thursday morning on the platform. Finally she said, “My Voices told me I did very wrong to confess that what I had done was not well.” Then she sighed, and said with simplicity, “But it was the fear of the fire that made me do so.”
“Yeah,” she replied; and then it turned out that the Voices had spoken to her about the rejection—told her about it, I guess. She genuinely reaffirmed the divine origin of her mission, and she did it with the calm demeanor of someone who wasn’t aware that she had ever deliberately rejected it. So I was convinced once again that she had no idea what she was doing that Thursday morning on the platform. Finally, she said, “My Voices told me I did very wrong to admit that what I had done was not right.” Then she sighed and said simply, “But it was the fear of the fire that made me do it.”
That is, fear of the fire had made her sign a paper whose contents she had not understood then, but understood now by revelation of her Voices and by testimony of her persecutors.
That is, fear of the fire had made her sign a document whose contents she hadn’t understood at the time, but now understands through the revelation of her Voices and the testimony of her persecutors.
She was sane now and not exhausted; her courage had come back, and with it her inborn loyalty to the truth. She was bravely and serenely speaking it again, knowing that it would deliver her body up to that very fire which had such terrors for her.
She was clear-headed now and not worn out; her courage had returned, along with her natural loyalty to the truth. She was speaking it boldly and calmly again, aware that it would lead her body straight to that very fire that terrified her so much.
That answer of hers was quite long, quite frank, wholly free from concealments or palliations. It made me shudder; I knew she was pronouncing sentence of death upon herself. So did poor Manchon. And he wrote in the margin abreast of it:
That answer of hers was pretty long, totally honest, and completely free from hiding anything or making excuses. It sent a chill down my spine; I knew she was sealing her own fate. Poor Manchon knew it too. And he wrote in the margin next to it:
“RESPONSIO MORTIFERA.”
"Deadly response."
Fatal answer. Yes, all present knew that it was, indeed, a fatal answer. Then there fell a silence such as falls in a sick-room when the watchers of the dying draw a deep breath and say softly one to another, “All is over.”
Fatal answer. Yes, everyone there knew it was, without a doubt, a fatal answer. Then there was a silence like the one that settles in a hospital room when those waiting by the dying take a deep breath and whisper to each other, “It’s all over.”
Here, likewise, all was over; but after some moments Cauchon, wishing to clinch this matter and make it final, put this question:
Here, too, everything was done; but after a few moments, Cauchon, wanting to wrap this up and make it final, asked this question:
“Do you still believe that your Voices are St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?”
“Do you still think that your Voices are St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?”
“Yes—and that they come from God.”
“Yes—and that they come from God.”
“Yet you denied them on the scaffold?”
“Yet you denied them on the gallows?”
Then she made direct and clear affirmation that she had never had any intention to deny them; and that if—I noted the if—“if she had made some retractions and revocations on the scaffold it was from fear of the fire, and it was a violation of the truth.”
Then she clearly stated that she had never intended to deny them; and that if—I noted the if—“if she had made some retractions and revocations on the scaffold, it was out of fear of the fire, and it was a betrayal of the truth.”
There it is again, you see. She certainly never knew what it was she had done on the scaffold until she was told of it afterward by these people and by her Voices.
There it is again, you see. She definitely never understood what she had done on the scaffold until these people and her Voices told her afterwards.
And now she closed this most painful scene with these words; and there was a weary note in them that was pathetic:
And now she ended this most difficult scene with these words; and there was a tired tone in them that was deeply moving:
“I would rather do my penance all at once; let me die. I cannot endure captivity any longer.”
“I’d rather just do my punishment all at once; just let me die. I can’t stand being trapped any longer.”
The spirit born for sunshine and liberty so longed for release that it would take it in any form, even that.
The spirit created for joy and freedom longed to be free so much that it would accept any form of release, even that.
Several among the company of judges went from the place troubled and sorrowful, the others in another mood. In the court of the castle we found the Earl of Warwick and fifty English waiting, impatient for news. As soon as Cauchon saw them he shouted—laughing—think of a man destroying a friendless poor girl and then having the heart to laugh at it:
Several judges left the place feeling troubled and sad, while the others seemed to be in a different mood. In the castle courtyard, we found the Earl of Warwick and fifty English waiting, anxious for news. As soon as Cauchon saw them, he shouted—laughing—imagine a man ruining a defenseless poor girl and then having the nerve to laugh about it:
“Make yourselves comfortable—it’s all over with her!”
“Get comfortable—it's all done for her!”
23 The Time Is at Hand
THE YOUNG can sink into abysses of despondency, and it was so with Noel and me now; but the hopes of the young are quick to rise again, and it was so with ours. We called back that vague promise of the Voices, and said the one to the other that the glorious release was to happen at “the last moment”—“that other time was not the last moment, but this is; it will happen now; the King will come, La Hire will come, and with them our veterans, and behind them all France!” And so we were full of heart again, and could already hear, in fancy, that stirring music the clash of steel and the war-cries and the uproar of the onset, and in fancy see our prisoner free, her chains gone, her sword in her hand.
THE YOUNG can fall into deep despair, and that’s how it was with Noel and me right now; but the hopes of the young quickly rise again, and so it was with ours. We recalled that vague promise of the Voices and told each other that the glorious release was going to happen at “the last moment”—“that other time wasn’t the last moment, but this is; it will happen now; the King will come, La Hire will come, and with them our veterans, and behind them all of France!” And so we felt hopeful again, and could already hear, in our minds, the stirring music, the clash of steel, the battle cries, and the chaos of the charge, and in our imaginations see our prisoner free, her chains gone, sword in hand.
But this dream was to pass also, and come to nothing. Late at night, when Manchon came in, he said:
But this dream was also bound to fade away and mean nothing. Late at night, when Manchon walked in, he said:
“I am come from the dungeon, and I have a message for you from that poor child.”
“I’ve come from the dungeon, and I have a message for you from that poor kid.”
A message to me! If he had been noticing I think he would have discovered me—discovered that my indifference concerning the prisoner was a pretense; for I was caught off my guard, and was so moved and so exalted to be so honored by her that I must have shown my feeling in my face and manner.
A message for me! If he had been paying attention, I think he would have realized that my indifference about the prisoner was just an act; I was caught off guard and felt so moved and honored by her that I must have let my emotions show on my face and in my behavior.
“A message for me, your reverence?”
“A message for me, Your Honor?”
“Yes. It is something she wishes done. She said she had noticed the young man who helps me, and that he had a good face; and did I think he would do a kindness for her? I said I knew you would, and asked her what it was, and she said a letter—would you write a letter to her mother?
“Yes. It’s something she wants done. She mentioned she noticed the young guy who helps me, and that he has a nice face; and did I think he would do her a favor? I said I knew you would, and asked her what it was, and she said a letter—would you write a letter to her mom?
“And I said you would. But I said I would do it myself, and gladly; but she said no, that my labors were heavy, and she thought the young man would not mind the doing of this service for one not able to do it for herself, she not knowing how to write. Then I would have sent for you, and at that the sadness vanished out of her face. Why, it was as if she was going to see a friend, poor friendless thing. But I was not permitted. I did my best, but the orders remain as strict as ever, the doors are closed against all but officials; as before, none but officials may speak to her. So I went back and told her, and she sighed, and was sad again. Now this is what she begs you to write to her mother. It is partly a strange message, and to me means nothing, but she said her mother would understand. You will ‘convey her adoring love to her family and her village friends, and say there will be no rescue, for that this night—and it is the third time in the twelvemonth, and is final—she has seen the Vision of the Tree.’”
“And I told you that you would. But I said I would do it myself, and gladly; but she insisted that my efforts were too much, and she thought the young man wouldn’t mind doing this favor for someone who couldn’t do it for herself since she didn’t know how to write. Then I would have called for you, and at that, the sadness disappeared from her face. It was like she was about to see a friend, poor lonely thing. But I wasn’t allowed to. I tried my best, but the rules are still as strict as ever; the doors are closed to everyone but officials; just like before, only officials can talk to her. So, I went back and told her, and she sighed and became sad again. Now, this is what she asks you to write to her mother. It’s partly a strange message that means nothing to me, but she said her mother would understand. You will ‘send her loving affection to her family and her friends in the village, and say there will be no rescue, for tonight—and it’s the third time this year, and it’s final—she has seen the Vision of the Tree.’”
“How strange!”
“How weird!”
“Yes, it is strange, but that is what she said; and said her parents would understand. And for a little time she was lost in dreams and thinkings, and her lips moved, and I caught in her muttering these lines, which she said over two or three times, and they seemed to bring peace and contentment to her. I set them down, thinking they might have some connection with her letter and be useful; but it was not so; they were a mere memory, floating idly in a tired mind, and they have no meaning, at least no relevancy.”
“Yes, it’s strange, but that’s what she said; and she mentioned that her parents would understand. For a while, she got lost in her dreams and thoughts, her lips moving, and I caught her muttering these lines. She repeated them two or three times, and they seemed to bring her peace and contentment. I wrote them down, thinking they might connect with her letter and be useful, but that wasn’t the case; they were just a fleeting memory in a weary mind, and they have no meaning, at least none that matters.”
I took the piece of paper, and found what I knew I should find:
I picked up the piece of paper and found exactly what I expected to find:
And when in exile wand’ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee, Oh, rise upon our sight!
And when we’re wandering in exile, we’ll faintly long to catch a glimpse of you, Oh, show yourself to us!
There was no hope any more. I knew it now. I knew that Joan’s letter was a message to Noel and me, as well as to her family, and that its object was to banish vain hopes from our minds and tell us from her own mouth of the blow that was going to fall upon us, so that we, being her soldiers, would know it for a command to bear it as became us and her, and so submit to the will of God; and in thus obeying, find assuagement of our grief. It was like her, for she was always thinking of others, not of herself. Yes, her heart was sore for us; she could find time to think of us, the humblest of her servants, and try to soften our pain, lighten the burden of our troubles—she that was drinking of the bitter waters; she that was walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
There was no hope left. I realized that now. I understood that Joan’s letter was a message to Noel and me, as well as to her family, meant to eliminate any false hopes from our minds and to inform us directly of the blow that was about to hit us, so that we, being her soldiers, would see it as a command to handle it as was fitting for us and for her, and to accept the will of God; and in doing so, find relief from our grief. It was just like her, because she always thought of others, not herself. Yes, her heart was heavy for us; she could take the time to think about us, the most humble of her servants, and try to ease our pain, lighten our burdens—she who was tasting the bitter waters; she who was walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I wrote the letter. You will know what it cost me, without my telling you. I wrote it with the same wooden stylus which had put upon parchment the first words ever dictated by Joan of Arc—that high summons to the English to vacate France, two years past, when she was a lass of seventeen; it had now set down the last ones which she was ever to dictate. Then I broke it. For the pen that had served Joan of Arc could not serve any that would come after her in this earth without abasement.
I wrote the letter. You’ll understand what it cost me, without me needing to explain. I wrote it with the same wooden stylus that had inscribed the first words ever dictated by Joan of Arc—that powerful call for the English to leave France, two years ago, when she was just seventeen; it had now recorded the last words she would ever dictate. Then I broke it. Because the pen that had served Joan of Arc could not be used by anyone who came after her in this world without being diminished.
The next day, May 29th, Cauchon summoned his serfs, and forty-two responded. It is charitable to believe that the other twenty were ashamed to come. The forty-two pronounced her a relapsed heretic, and condemned her to be delivered over to the secular arm. Cauchon thanked them.
The next day, May 29th, Cauchon called his serfs together, and forty-two showed up. It's kind to assume the other twenty were too embarrassed to attend. The forty-two declared her a returned heretic and sentenced her to be handed over to the secular authorities. Cauchon thanked them.
Then he sent orders that Joan of Arc be conveyed the next morning to the place known as the Old Market; and that she be then delivered to the civil judge, and by the civil judge to the executioner. That meant she would be burnt.
Then he ordered that Joan of Arc be taken the next morning to the place known as the Old Market; and that she be handed over to the civil judge, and from the civil judge to the executioner. That meant she would be burned.
All the afternoon and evening of Tuesday, the 29th, the news was flying, and the people of the country-side flocking to Rouen to see the tragedy—all, at least, who could prove their English sympathies and count upon admission. The press grew thicker and thicker in the streets, the excitement grew higher and higher. And now a thing was noticeable again which had been noticeable more than once before—that there was pity for Joan in the hearts of many of these people. Whenever she had been in great danger it had manifested itself, and now it was apparent again—manifest in a pathetic dumb sorrow which was visible in many faces.
All afternoon and evening on Tuesday, the 29th, news spread quickly, and people from the countryside flocked to Rouen to witness the tragedy—all those who could show their English sympathies and secure admission. The crowds thickened in the streets, and the excitement escalated. It was striking once more—just as had been seen before—that many of these people felt pity for Joan. Whenever she faced great danger, it had shown itself, and now it was evident again—expressed in a sorrowful silence that could be seen on many faces.
Early the next morning, Wednesday, Martin Ladvenu and another friar were sent to Joan to prepare her for death; and Manchon and I went with them—a hard service for me. We tramped through the dim corridors, winding this way and that, and piercing ever deeper and deeper into that vast heart of stone, and at last we stood before Joan. But she did not know it. She sat with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, thinking, and her face was very sad. One might not know what she was thinking of. Of her home, and the peaceful pastures, and the friends she was no more to see? Of her wrongs, and her forsaken estate, and the cruelties which had been put upon her? Or was it of death—the death which she had longed for, and which was now so close?
Early the next morning, Wednesday, Martin Ladvenu and another friar were sent to Joan to prepare her for death; and Manchon and I went with them—a tough task for me. We walked through the dim hallways, winding this way and that, going deeper and deeper into that massive stone structure, until we finally stood before Joan. But she didn’t notice us. She sat with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, lost in thought, and her face was very sad. It wasn’t clear what she was thinking about. Was it her home, the peaceful fields, and the friends she would never see again? Was it her grievances, her abandoned life, and the injustices she had suffered? Or was it about death—the death she had longed for, which was now so near?
Or was it of the kind of death she must suffer? I hoped not; for she feared only one kind, and that one had for her unspeakable terrors. I believed she so feared that one that with her strong will she would shut the thought of it wholly out of her mind, and hope and believe that God would take pity on her and grant her an easier one; and so it might chance that the awful news which we were bringing might come as a surprise to her at last.
Or was it the kind of death she would have to face? I hoped not; because she only feared one type, and that one was filled with unspeakable horrors for her. I believed she was so scared of that one that with her strong will, she would completely push the thought out of her mind, hoping and believing that God would have mercy on her and give her an easier one; and so it could turn out that the terrible news we were bringing might finally catch her off guard.
We stood silent awhile, but she was still unconscious of us, still deep in her sad musings and far away. Then Martin Ladvenu said, softly:
We stood quiet for a while, but she still didn’t notice us, lost in her sad thoughts and somewhere far away. Then Martin Ladvenu said softly:
“Joan.”
"Joan."
She looked up then, with a little start and a wan smile, and said:
She looked up then, a bit surprised and with a faint smile, and said:
“Speak. Have you a message for me?”
“Speak up. Do you have a message for me?”
“Yes, my poor child. Try to bear it. Do you think you can bear it?”
“Yes, my poor child. Try to hang in there. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Yes”—very softly, and her head drooped again.
“Yes”—very softly, and her head bent down again.
“I am come to prepare you for death.”
“I have come to prepare you for death.”
A faint shiver trembled through her wasted body. There was a pause. In the stillness we could hear our breathings. Then she said, still in that low voice:
A faint shiver ran through her frail body. There was a pause. In the stillness, we could hear our breathing. Then she said, still in that quiet voice:
“When will it be?”
“When is it happening?”
The muffled notes of a tolling bell floated to our ears out of the distance.
The distant sound of a ringing bell reached our ears.
“Now. The time is at hand.”
"Now. The moment is here."
That slight shiver passed again.
That little shiver happened again.
“It is so soon—ah, it is so soon!”
“It’s too soon—oh, it’s too soon!”
There was a long silence. The distant throbbings of the bell pulsed through it, and we stood motionless and listening. But it was broken at last:
There was a long silence. The distant throbbing of the bell echoed through it, and we stood still, listening. But it finally shattered:
“What death is it?”
"What kind of death?"
“By fire!”
"By fire!"
“Oh, I knew it, I knew it!” She sprang wildly to her feet, and wound her hands in her hair, and began to writhe and sob, oh, so piteously, and mourn and grieve and lament, and turn to first one and then another of us, and search our faces beseechingly, as hoping she might find help and friendliness there, poor thing—she that had never denied these to any creature, even her wounded enemy on the battle-field.
“Oh, I knew it, I knew it!” She jumped up frantically, tangled her fingers in her hair, and started to twist and cry, oh, so sorrowfully, mourning and grieving and lamenting. She turned to each of us in turn, searching our faces desperately, hoping to find help and kindness there, poor thing—she who had never denied these to anyone, not even her injured enemy on the battlefield.
“Oh, cruel, cruel, to treat me so! And must my body, that has never been defiled, be consumed today and turned to ashes? Ah, sooner would I that my head were cut off seven times than suffer this woeful death. I had the promise of the Church’s prison when I submitted, and if I had but been there, and not left here in the hands of my enemies, this miserable fate had not befallen me.
“Oh, how cruel it is to treat me this way! Must my body, which has always been pure, be destroyed today and turned to ashes? Ah, I would rather have my head cut off seven times than endure this terrible death. I had the promise of the Church’s prison when I submitted, and if I had just been there, instead of left here in the hands of my enemies, I wouldn't be facing this miserable fate.”
“Oh, I appeal to God the Great Judge, against the injustice which has been done me.”
“Oh, I call upon God the Great Judge, to address the injustice that has been done to me.”
There was none there that could endure it. They turned away, with the tears running down their faces. In a moment I was on my knees at her feet. At once she thought only of my danger, and bent and whispered in my hear: “Up!—do not peril yourself, good heart. There—God bless you always!” and I felt the quick clasp of her hand. Mine was the last hand she touched with hers in life. None saw it; history does not know of it or tell of it, yet it is true, just as I have told it. The next moment she saw Cauchon coming, and she went and stood before him and reproached him, saying:
There was no one there who could handle it. They turned away, with tears streaming down their faces. In an instant, I was on my knees at her feet. Immediately, she only thought of my safety, leaned down, and whispered in my ear: “Get up!—don’t put yourself in danger, you kind heart. There—may God bless you always!” and I felt her hand squeeze mine. Mine was the last hand she touched in her life. No one witnessed it; history doesn’t acknowledge it or speak of it, yet it’s true, just as I’ve shared it. The next moment, she saw Cauchon approaching, and she went to stand in front of him and confronted him, saying:
“Bishop, it is by you that I die!”
“Bishop, it’s because of you that I’m dying!”
He was not shamed, not touched; but said, smoothly:
He wasn't embarrassed, wasn’t affected; but said, smoothly:
“Ah, be patient, Joan. You die because you have not kept your promise, but have returned to your sins.”
“Ah, be patient, Joan. You are dying because you didn't keep your promise and went back to your sins.”
“Alas,” she said, “if you had put me in the Church’s prison, and given me right and proper keepers, as you promised, this would not have happened. And for this I summon you to answer before God!”
“Unfortunately,” she said, “if you had put me in the Church’s prison and assigned me proper guards, as you promised, this wouldn’t have happened. And for this, I call you to account before God!”
Then Cauchon winced, and looked less placidly content than before, and he turned him about and went away.
Then Cauchon flinched, looking less calmly satisfied than before, and he turned around and walked away.
Joan stood awhile musing. She grew calmer, but occasionally she wiped her eyes, and now and then sobs shook her body; but their violence was modifying now, and the intervals between them were growing longer. Finally she looked up and saw Pierre Maurice, who had come in with the Bishop, and she said to him:
Joan stood there for a while, lost in thought. She felt calmer, but now and then she wiped her eyes, and occasionally sobs shook her body; however, the intensity of her sobs was lessening, and the pauses between them were getting longer. Finally, she looked up and saw Pierre Maurice, who had entered with the Bishop, and she said to him:
“Master Peter, where shall I be this night?”
“Master Peter, where will I be tonight?”
“Have you not good hope in God?”
“Don’t you have faith in God?”
“Yes—and by His grace I shall be in Paradise.”
“Yes—and by His grace, I will be in Paradise.”
Now Martin Ladvenu heard her in confession; then she begged for the sacrament. But how grant the communion to one who had been publicly cut off from the Church, and was now no more entitled to its privileges than an unbaptized pagan? The brother could not do this, but he sent to Cauchon to inquire what he must do. All laws, human and divine, were alike to that man—he respected none of them. He sent back orders to grant Joan whatever she wished. Her last speech to him had reached his fears, perhaps; it could not reach his heart, for he had none.
Now Martin Ladvenu heard her confession; then she asked for the sacrament. But how could he give communion to someone who had been publicly cut off from the Church and was now as unqualified for its privileges as an unbaptized pagan? The brother couldn't do this, so he sent a message to Cauchon to ask what he should do. All laws, both human and divine, meant nothing to that man—he respected none of them. He sent back orders to give Joan whatever she wanted. Her last words to him may have frightened him; they certainly couldn't touch his heart, because he didn't have one.
The Eucharist was brought now to that poor soul that had yearned for it with such unutterable longing all these desolate months. It was a solemn moment. While we had been in the deeps of the prison, the public courts of the castle had been filling up with crowds of the humbler sort of men and women, who had learned what was going on in Joan’s cell, and had come with softened hearts to do—they knew not what; to hear—they knew not what. We knew nothing of this, for they were out of our view. And there were other great crowds of the like caste gathered in masses outside the castle gates. And when the lights and the other accompaniments of the Sacrament passed by, coming to Joan in the prison, all those multitudes kneeled down and began to pray for her, and many wept; and when the solemn ceremony of the communion began in Joan’s cell, out of the distance a moving sound was borne moaning to our ears—it was those invisible multitudes chanting the litany for a departing soul.
The Eucharist was now brought to that poor soul who had longed for it with such deep desire all these lonely months. It was a solemn moment. While we had been deep in the prison, the public courts of the castle had filled with crowds of ordinary men and women who had heard what was happening in Joan’s cell and had come with softened hearts to do—they didn’t know what; to hear—they didn’t know what. We were unaware of this, as they were out of our sight. There were also large crowds of the same kind gathered in masses outside the castle gates. And when the lights and other elements of the Sacrament passed by on their way to Joan in the prison, all those crowds knelt down and began to pray for her, many in tears; and when the solemn communion ceremony began in Joan’s cell, a distant sound reached our ears—a mournful chorus of those unseen crowds chanting the litany for a departing soul.
The fear of the fiery death was gone from Joan of Arc now, to come again no more, except for one fleeting instant—then it would pass, and serenity and courage would take its place and abide till the end.
The fear of a fiery death was gone from Joan of Arc now, to return no more, except for one brief moment—then it would fade away, and peace and bravery would take over and stay until the end.
24 Joan the Martyr
AT NINE o’clock the Maid of Orleans, Deliverer of France, went forth in the grace of her innocence and her youth to lay down her life for the country she loved with such devotion, and for the King that had abandoned her. She sat in the cart that is used only for felons. In one respect she was treated worse than a felon; for whereas she was on her way to be sentenced by the civil arm, she already bore her judgment inscribed in advance upon a miter-shaped cap which she wore:
AT NINE o’clock the Maid of Orleans, Savior of France, stepped out with the grace of her innocence and youth to sacrifice her life for the country she loved so deeply, and for the King who had betrayed her. She sat in the cart usually reserved for criminals. In one way, she was treated worse than a criminal; because while she was heading to be sentenced by the legal authority, she already wore her judgment written in advance on a miter-shaped cap that she had on:
HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER
HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER
In the cart with her sat the friar Martin Ladvenu and Maetre Jean Massieu. She looked girlishly fair and sweet and saintly in her long white robe, and when a gush of sunlight flooded her as she emerged from the gloom of the prison and was yet for a moment still framed in the arch of the somber gate, the massed multitudes of poor folk murmured “A vision! a vision!” and sank to their knees praying, and many of the women weeping; and the moving invocation for the dying arose again, and was taken up and borne along, a majestic wave of sound, which accompanied the doomed, solacing and blessing her, all the sorrowful way to the place of death. “Christ have pity! Saint Margaret have pity! Pray for her, all ye saints, archangels, and blessed martyrs, pray for her! Saints and angels intercede for her! From thy wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O Lord God, save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech Thee, good Lord!”
In the cart with her sat Friar Martin Ladvenu and Master Jean Massieu. She looked youthful, beautiful, sweet, and saintly in her long white robe. When a burst of sunlight illuminated her as she stepped out from the darkness of the prison and paused for a moment in the arch of the somber gate, the gathered crowds of the poor murmured, “A vision! A vision!” and dropped to their knees in prayer, with many women weeping. The moving invocation for the dying rose again, picked up and carried along like a grand wave of sound, accompanying the condemned, comforting and blessing her through the sorrowful journey to the place of execution. “Christ, have mercy! Saint Margaret, have mercy! Pray for her, all you saints, archangels, and blessed martyrs, pray for her! Saints and angels intercede for her! From your wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O Lord God, save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech you, good Lord!”
It is just and true what one of the histories has said: “The poor and the helpless had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of Arc; but these we may believe were not unavailing. There are few more pathetic events recorded in history than this weeping, helpless, praying crowd, holding their lighted candles and kneeling on the pavement beneath the prison walls of the old fortress.”
It’s fair and true what one of the accounts has stated: “The poor and the helpless had nothing but their prayers to offer Joan of Arc; but we can believe these were not in vain. There are few more moving events documented in history than this weeping, helpless, praying crowd, holding their lit candles and kneeling on the ground beneath the prison walls of the old fortress.”
And it was so all the way: thousands upon thousands massed upon their knees and stretching far down the distances, thick-sown with the faint yellow candle-flames, like a field starred with golden flowers.
And it was like this the whole time: thousands upon thousands were kneeling, stretching far into the distance, dotted with faint yellow candle flames, like a field filled with golden flowers.
But there were some that did not kneel; these were the English soldiers. They stood elbow to elbow, on each side of Joan’s road, and walled it in all the way; and behind these living walls knelt the multitudes.
But there were some who didn’t kneel; these were the English soldiers. They stood shoulder to shoulder on either side of Joan’s path, forming a barrier the entire way; and behind these living walls, the masses knelt.
By and by a frantic man in priest’s garb came wailing and lamenting, and tore through the crowd and the barriers of soldiers and flung himself on his knees by Joan’s cart and put up his hands in supplication, crying out:
By and by, a desperate man in priest's clothes rushed in, crying and mourning. He pushed through the crowd and the soldiers and fell to his knees beside Joan's cart, raising his hands in prayer and shouting:
“O forgive, forgive!”
"Please forgive me!"
It was Loyseleur!
It was Loyseleur!
And Joan forgave him; forgave him out of a heart that knew nothing but forgiveness, nothing but compassion, nothing but pity for all that suffer, let their offense be what it might. And she had no word of reproach for this poor wretch who had wrought day and night with deceits and treacheries and hypocrisies to betray her to her death.
And Joan forgave him; she forgave him with a heart that only knew forgiveness, only compassion, only pity for anyone who suffers, no matter their wrongdoing. And she had no words of reproach for this poor soul who had worked tirelessly with lies, betrayals, and deceit to lead her to her doom.
The soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved his life. What became of him is not known. He hid himself from the world somewhere, to endure his remorse as he might.
The soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved his life. What happened to him isn't known. He hid away from the world somewhere, trying to cope with his guilt as best as he could.
In the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the stake that had stood before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The platforms were occupied as before, the one by Joan and her judges, the other by great dignitaries, the principal being Cauchon and the English Cardinal—Winchester. The square was packed with people, the windows and roofs of the blocks of buildings surrounding it were black with them.
In the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the stake that had been there before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The platforms were occupied as before, one by Joan and her judges, and the other by important dignitaries, the main ones being Cauchon and the English Cardinal, Winchester. The square was packed with people, and the windows and roofs of the surrounding buildings were filled with onlookers.
When the preparations had been finished, all noise and movement gradually ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was solemn and impressive.
When the preparations were complete, all noise and movement slowly stopped, and a tense stillness settled in that was serious and striking.
And now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas Midi preached a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch of the vine—which is the Church—becomes diseased and corrupt, it must be cut away or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine. He made it appear that Joan, through her wickedness, was a menace and a peril to the Church’s purity and holiness, and her death therefore necessary. When he was come to the end of his discourse he turned toward her and paused a moment, then he said:
And now, at Cauchon's command, a clergyman named Nicholas Midi delivered a sermon, explaining that when a branch of the vine—which represents the Church—gets sick and corrupted, it needs to be cut off or it will infect and ruin the entire vine. He made it seem like Joan, due to her wrongdoing, was a threat to the Church’s purity and holiness, and therefore her death was necessary. When he finished his speech, he turned to her and paused for a moment, then he said:
“Joan, the Church can no longer protect you. Go in peace!”
“Joan, the Church can't protect you anymore. Go in peace!”
Joan had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the Church’s abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness, waiting in patience and resignation for the end. Cauchon addressed her now. He had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to her, and had brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing that she would proclaim the truth—that she had never knowingly abjured—and so bring shame upon him and eternal infamy. He contented himself with admonishing her to keep in mind her wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of her salvation. Then he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate and cut off from the body of the Church. With a final word he delivered her over to the secular arm for judgment and sentence.
Joan had been placed entirely apart and was clearly visible, to show that the Church had abandoned her. She sat there in her solitude, waiting patiently and resignedly for the end. Cauchon spoke to her now. He had been advised to read the terms of her denial to her and had brought it along, but he changed his mind, worried that she might reveal the truth—that she had never intentionally denied her faith—and thus bring shame upon him and eternal disgrace. He settled for urging her to remember her wrongdoings, to repent, and to think about her salvation. Then he formally declared her excommunicated and cut off from the Church. With one last statement, he handed her over to secular authorities for judgment and sentencing.
Joan, weeping, knelt and began to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh, no—for the King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, and penetrated all hearts with its passionate pathos. She never thought of his treacheries to her, she never thought of his desertion of her, she never remembered that it was because he was an ingrate that she was here to die a miserable death; she remembered only that he was her King, that she was his loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his cause with evil reports and false charges, and he not by to defend himself. And so, in the very presence of death, she forgot her own troubles to implore all in her hearing to be just to him; to believe that he was good and noble and sincere, and not in any way to blame for any acts of hers, neither advising them nor urging them, but being wholly clear and free of all responsibility for them. Then, closing, she begged in humble and touching words that all here present would pray for her and would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might look friendly upon her and feel pity for her in their hearts.
Joan, crying, knelt down and started to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh, no—for the King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, reaching everyone's hearts with its emotional depth. She didn’t think about his betrayals toward her, she didn’t think about his abandonment of her, she didn’t remember that it was because he was ungrateful that she was about to die a terrible death; she only remembered that he was her King, that she was his loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his cause with false claims and lies, while he wasn’t there to defend himself. So, in the face of death, she set aside her own troubles to urge everyone around her to be fair to him; to believe that he was good, noble, and sincere, and not in any way responsible for her actions, neither suggesting nor pushing them, but being entirely free of any blame for them. Then, in conclusion, she humbly and movingly asked everyone present to pray for her and to forgive her, both her enemies and those who might feel sympathy for her in their hearts.
There was hardly one heart there that was not touched—even the English, even the judges showed it, and there was many a lip that trembled and many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even the English Cardinal’s—that man with a political heart of stone but a human heart of flesh.
There was hardly a heart there that wasn't moved—even the English, even the judges showed it, and many lips trembled and many eyes were blurred with tears; yes, even the English Cardinal’s—that man with a political heart of stone but a human heart of flesh.
The secular judge who should have delivered judgment and pronounced sentence was himself so disturbed that he forgot his duty, and Joan went to her death unsentenced—thus completing with an illegality what had begun illegally and had so continued to the end. He only said—to the guards:
The secular judge who was supposed to deliver the verdict and announce the sentence was so shaken that he neglected his responsibility, and Joan went to her death without a sentence—thus finishing what had started as an unlawful process and continued that way until the end. He only said—to the guards:
“Take her”; and to the executioner, “Do your duty.”
“Take her,” and to the executioner, “Do your job.”
Joan asked for a cross. None was able to furnish one. But an English soldier broke a stick in two and crossed the pieces and tied them together, and this cross he gave her, moved to it by the good heart that was in him; and she kissed it and put it in her bosom. Then Isambard de la Pierre went to the church near by and brought her a consecrated one; and this one also she kissed, and pressed it to her bosom with rapture, and then kissed it again and again, covering it with tears and pouring out her gratitude to God and the saints.
Joan asked for a cross. No one was able to provide one. But an English soldier broke a stick in two, crossed the pieces, tied them together, and gave her this cross, moved by the kindness in his heart; she kissed it and placed it in her bosom. Then Isambard de la Pierre went to the nearby church and brought her a consecrated one; she also kissed this one, pressed it to her bosom in joy, and then kissed it again and again, covering it with tears and expressing her gratitude to God and the saints.
And so, weeping, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed up the cruel steps to the face of the stake, with the friar Isambard at her side. Then she was helped up to the top of the pile of wood that was built around the lower third of the stake and stood upon it with her back against the stake, and the world gazing up at her breathless. The executioner ascended to her side and wound chains around her slender body, and so fastened her to the stake. Then he descended to finish his dreadful office; and there she remained alone—she that had had so many friends in the days when she was free, and had been so loved and so dear.
And so, crying, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed the harsh steps to the stake, with Friar Isambard beside her. Then she was helped up to the top of the wood pile built around the lower part of the stake and stood on it with her back against the stake, while the world stared up at her, breathless. The executioner came up to her side and wrapped chains around her slender body, fastening her to the stake. Then he went down to complete his terrible task; and there she stayed alone—she who had so many friends when she was free and had been so loved and cherished.
All these things I saw, albeit dimly and blurred with tears; but I could bear no more. I continued in my place, but what I shall deliver to you now I got by others’ eyes and others’ mouths. Tragic sounds there were that pierced my ears and wounded my heart as I sat there, but it is as I tell you: the latest image recorded by my eyes in that desolating hour was Joan of Arc with the grace of her comely youth still unmarred; and that image, untouched by time or decay, has remained with me all my days. Now I will go on.
All these things I saw, although dimly and blurred by tears; but I could take no more. I stayed where I was, but what I’ll share with you now I learned from others’ eyes and mouths. There were tragic sounds that pierced my ears and hurt my heart as I sat there, but it’s as I tell you: the last image captured by my eyes in that devastating hour was Joan of Arc, her beautiful youth still intact; and that image, untouched by time or decay, has stayed with me all my days. Now I will continue.
If any thought that now, in that solemn hour when all transgressors repent and confess, she would revoke her revocation and say her great deeds had been evil deeds and Satan and his fiends their source, they erred. No such thought was in her blameless mind. She was not thinking of herself and her troubles, but of others, and of woes that might befall them. And so, turning her grieving eyes about her, where rose the towers and spires of that fair city, she said:
If anyone thought that now, in this serious moment when all wrongdoers reflect and admit their faults, she would take back her previous decision and claim her great deeds had actually been wrong and that Satan and his demons were the cause, they were mistaken. She had no such thought in her innocent mind. She wasn’t focused on herself and her problems, but on others and the misfortunes that could happen to them. And so, looking around with her sorrowful eyes at the towers and spires of that beautiful city, she said:
“Oh, Rouen, Rouen, must I die here, and must you be my tomb? Ah, Rouen, Rouen, I have great fear that you will suffer for my death.”
“Oh, Rouen, Rouen, must I die here, and will you be my grave? Ah, Rouen, I’m really afraid that you will bear the consequences of my death.”
A whiff of smoke swept upward past her face, and for one moment terror seized her and she cried out, “Water! Give me holy water!” but the next moment her fears were gone, and they came no more to torture her.
A wisp of smoke drifted up past her face, and for a brief moment, fear took hold of her, and she shouted, “Water! Give me holy water!” but in the next instant, her fears vanished, and they didn’t return to torment her.
She heard the flames crackling below her, and immediately distress for a fellow-creature who was in danger took possession of her. It was the friar Isambard. She had given him her cross and begged him to raise it toward her face and let her eyes rest in hope and consolation upon it till she was entered into the peace of God. She made him go out from the danger of the fire. Then she was satisfied, and said:
She heard the flames crackling beneath her, and a wave of concern for a fellow being in danger swept over her. It was Friar Isambard. She had given him her cross and asked him to hold it up to her face so she could find hope and comfort in it until she found peace with God. She urged him to escape the threat of the fire. Once he was safe, she felt relieved and said:
“Now keep it always in my sight until the end.”
“Now always keep it in my sight until the end.”
Not even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, endure to let her die in peace, but went toward her, all black with crimes and sins as he was, and cried out:
Not even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, stand to let her die in peace, but approached her, all covered in crimes and sins as he was, and shouted:
“I am come, Joan, to exhort you for the last time to repent and seek the pardon of God.”
“I've come, Joan, to urge you one last time to repent and seek God's forgiveness.”
“I die through you,” she said, and these were the last words she spoke to any upon earth.
“I die through you,” she said, and those were the last words she spoke to anyone on earth.
Then the pitchy smoke, shot through with red flashes of flame, rolled up in a thick volume and hid her from sight; and from the heart of this darkness her voice rose strong and eloquent in prayer, and when by moments the wind shredded somewhat of the smoke aside, there were veiled glimpses of an upturned face and moving lips. At last a mercifully swift tide of flame burst upward, and none saw that face any more nor that form, and the voice was still.
Then the thick, dark smoke, pierced with bright red flames, rolled up in a heavy mass and concealed her from view; and from the depths of this darkness, her voice rose strong and clear in prayer. When the wind occasionally pushed some of the smoke aside, there were fleeting glimpses of her upturned face and moving lips. Finally, a sudden rush of flames shot upward, and no one saw that face or form again, and the voice fell silent.
Yes, she was gone from us: JOAN OF ARC! What little words they are, to tell of a rich world made empty and poor!
Yes, she was gone from us: JOAN OF ARC! What little words they are, to tell of a rich world made empty and poor!
CONCLUSION

JOAN’S BROTHER Jacques died in Domremy during the Great Trial at Rouen. This was according to the prophecy which Joan made that day in the pastures the time that she said the rest of us would go to the great wars.
JOAN’S BROTHER Jacques died in Domremy during the Great Trial at Rouen. This was according to the prophecy that Joan made that day in the pastures when she said the rest of us would go to the great wars.
When her poor old father heard of the martyrdom it broke his heart, and he died.
When her poor old father heard about the martyrdom, it shattered him, and he passed away.
The mother was granted a pension by the city of Orleans, and upon this she lived out her days, which were many. Twenty-four years after her illustrious child’s death she traveled all the way to Paris in the winter-time and was present at the opening of the discussion in the Cathedral of Notre Dame which was the first step in the Rehabilitation. Paris was crowded with people, from all about France, who came to get sight of the venerable dame, and it was a touching spectacle when she moved through these reverent wet-eyed multitudes on her way to the grand honors awaiting her at the cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no longer the light-hearted youths who marched with us from Vaucouleurs, but war-torn veterans with hair beginning to show frost.
The mother received a pension from the city of Orleans, and she lived on that for many years. Twenty-four years after her famous child's death, she traveled to Paris in the winter and attended the opening of the discussion at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, which was the first step toward the Rehabilitation. Paris was packed with people from all over France, eager to see the esteemed lady, and it was an emotional scene as she made her way through the respectful, tearful crowds on her way to the great honors waiting for her at the cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no longer the carefree youths who had marched with us from Vaucouleurs, but battle-hardened veterans with hair beginning to show signs of gray.
After the martyrdom Noel and I went back to Domremy, but presently when the Constable Richemont superseded La Tremouille as the King’s chief adviser and began the completion of Joan’s great work, we put on our harness and returned to the field and fought for the King all through the wars and skirmishes until France was freed of the English. It was what Joan would have desired of us; and, dead or alive, her desire was law for us. All the survivors of the personal staff were faithful to her memory and fought for the King to the end. Mainly we were well scattered, but when Paris fell we happened to be together. It was a great day and a joyous; but it was a sad one at the same time, because Joan was not there to march into the captured capital with us.
After the martyrdom, Noel and I went back to Domremy, but soon after, when Constable Richemont took over from La Tremouille as the King’s main adviser and started carrying out Joan’s great work, we suited up and returned to the battlefield, fighting for the King throughout the wars and skirmishes until France was freed from the English. That was what Joan would have wanted from us; and whether she was alive or not, her wishes were our law. All the remaining members of her personal staff remained loyal to her memory and fought for the King until the end. We were mostly spread out, but when Paris fell, we happened to be together. It was a great and joyful day; but it was also a sad one because Joan wasn’t there to march into the captured capital with us.
Noel and I remained always together, and I was by his side when death claimed him. It was in the last great battle of the war. In that battle fell also Joan’s sturdy old enemy Talbot. He was eighty-five years old, and had spent his whole life in battle. A fine old lion he was, with his flowing white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and his indestructible energy as well; for he fought as knightly and vigorous a fight that day as the best man there.
Noel and I were always together, and I was by his side when death took him. It was during the final major battle of the war. In that battle, Joan's tough old adversary Talbot also fell. He was eighty-five years old and had spent his entire life in combat. He was a magnificent old lion, with his flowing white mane and wild spirit; yes, and his unbeatable energy as well; because he fought as bravely and fiercely that day as the best man there.
La Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always fighting, of course, for that was all he enjoyed in life. I did not see him in all that time, for we were far apart, but one was always hearing of him.
La Hire endured his suffering for thirteen years, always fighting because that was what he loved most in life. I didn't see him during that time since we were far apart, but I always heard updates about him.
The Bastard of Orleans and D’Alencon and D’Aulon lived to see France free, and to testify with Jean and Pierre d’Arc and Pasquerel and me at the Rehabilitation. But they are all at rest now, these many years. I alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan of Arc in the great wars.
The Bastard of Orleans, D’Alencon, and D’Aulon lived to witness France’s freedom, and to share their testimonies alongside Jean, Pierre d’Arc, Pasquerel, and me during the Rehabilitation. But they have all been at peace now for many years. I am the only one left of those who fought alongside Joan of Arc in those great wars.
She said I would live until those wars were forgotten—a prophecy which failed. If I should live a thousand years it would still fail. For whatsoever had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.
She said I would live until those wars were forgotten—a prophecy that didn't come true. Even if I lived a thousand years, it would still be wrong. Because anything that was connected to Joan of Arc is immortal.
Members of Joan’s family married, and they have left descendants. Their descendants are of the nobility, but their family name and blood bring them honors which no other nobles receive or may hope for. You have seen how everybody along the way uncovered when those children came yesterday to pay their duty to me. It was not because they are noble, it is because they are grandchildren of the brothers of Joan of Arc.
Members of Joan’s family got married, and they have left behind descendants. Their descendants are part of the nobility, but their family name and lineage give them honors that no other nobles receive or could hope for. You saw how everyone we encountered yesterday bowed when those children came to show their respect to me. It wasn’t because they are noble; it’s because they are the grandchildren of Joan of Arc’s brothers.
Now as to the Rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims. For reward he allowed her to be hunted to her death without making one effort to save her. During the next twenty-three years he remained indifferent to her memory; indifferent to the fact that her good name was under a damning blot put there by the priest because of the deeds which she had done in saving him and his scepter; indifferent to the fact that France was ashamed, and longed to have the Deliverer’s fair fame restored. Indifferent all that time. Then he suddenly changed and was anxious to have justice for poor Joan himself. Why? Had he become grateful at last? Had remorse attacked his hard heart? No, he had a better reason—a better one for his sort of man. This better reason was that, now that the English had been finally expelled from the country, they were beginning to call attention to the fact that this King had gotten his crown by the hands of a person proven by the priests to have been in league with Satan and burned for it by them as a sorceress—therefore, of what value or authority was such a Kingship as that? Of no value at all; no nation could afford to allow such a king to remain on the throne.
Now about the rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims. In return, he let her be hunted to her death without lifting a finger to save her. For the next twenty-three years, he was indifferent to her memory; indifferent to the fact that her good name was tarnished by the priests because of the things she did to save him and his throne; indifferent to the fact that France felt ashamed and longed to see the Deliverer’s reputation restored. For all that time, he was indifferent. Then he suddenly changed and wanted to seek justice for poor Joan himself. Why? Had he finally become grateful? Had remorse softened his hard heart? No, he had a better reason—a better one for his kind of man. This better reason was that, now that the English had finally been driven out of the country, they were starting to highlight the fact that this King had received his crown from someone proven by the priests to be in league with Satan and burned as a sorceress for it—so what value or authority did such a kingship really have? None at all; no nation could afford to have such a king on the throne.
It was high time to stir now, and the King did it. That is how Charles VII. came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done the memory of his benefactress.
It was the right moment to make a move, and the King did just that. That's how Charles VII became filled with urgency to honor the memory of his benefactor.
He appealed to the Pope, and the Pope appointed a great commission of churchmen to examine into the facts of Joan’s life and award judgment. The Commission sat at Paris, at Domremy, at Rouen, at Orleans, and at several other places, and continued its work during several months. It examined the records of Joan’s trials, it examined the Bastard of Orleans, and the Duke d’Alencon, and D’Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Courcelles, and Isambard de la Pierre, and Manchon, and me, and many others whose names I have made familiar to you; also they examined more than a hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you—the friends of Joan in Domremy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and other places, and a number of judges and other people who had assisted at the Rouen trials, the abjuration, and the martyrdom. And out of this exhaustive examination Joan’s character and history came spotless and perfect, and this verdict was placed upon record, to remain forever.
He appealed to the Pope, who appointed a large group of church officials to investigate the facts of Joan’s life and make a judgment. The Commission met in Paris, Domremy, Rouen, Orleans, and several other locations, working for several months. They reviewed the records of Joan’s trials, interviewed the Bastard of Orleans, Duke d’Alencon, D’Aulon, Pasquerel, Courcelles, Isambard de la Pierre, Manchon, and me, along with many others whose names you already know; they also questioned over a hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you—including Joan's friends from Domremy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and various other places, as well as several judges and others who were involved in the Rouen trials, the renunciation, and the martyrdom. After this thorough investigation, Joan’s character and history were found to be flawless and exemplary, and this judgment was officially recorded to stand forever.
I was present upon most of these occasions, and saw again many faces which I have not seen for a quarter of a century; among them some well-beloved faces—those of our generals and that of Catherine Boucher (married, alas!), and also among them certain other faces that filled me with bitterness—those of Beaupere and Courcelles and a number of their fellow-fiends. I saw Haumette and Little Mengette—edging along toward fifty now, and mothers of many children. I saw Noel’s father, and the parents of the Paladin and the Sunflower.
I was there for most of these events and recognized many faces I haven't seen in twenty-five years; among them were some beloved faces—our generals and Catherine Boucher (married now, unfortunately!), and there were also some other faces that filled me with bitterness—Beaupere, Courcelles, and several of their fellow villains. I saw Haumette and Little Mengette—now nearing fifty and mothers of many kids. I also saw Noel’s father and the parents of the Paladin and the Sunflower.
It was beautiful to hear the Duke d’Alencon praise Joan’s splendid capacities as a general, and to hear the Bastard indorse these praises with his eloquent tongue and then go on and tell how sweet and good Joan was, and how full of pluck and fire and impetuosity, and mischief, and mirthfulness, and tenderness, and compassion, and everything that was pure and fine and noble and lovely. He made her live again before me, and wrung my heart.
It was wonderful to hear the Duke d’Alencon praise Joan’s amazing skills as a general, and to hear the Bastard back up these praises with his eloquent words. He went on to describe how sweet and good Joan was, full of courage and passion, as well as mischief, joy, kindness, compassion, and everything pure, admirable, and beautiful. He brought her to life for me again, and it tugged at my heart.
I have finished my story of Joan of Arc, that wonderful child, that sublime personality, that spirit which in one regard has had no peer and will have none—this: its purity from all alloy of self-seeking, self-interest, personal ambition. In it no trace of these motives can be found, search as you may, and this cannot be said of any other person whose name appears in profane history.
I have completed my story of Joan of Arc, that amazing young woman, that incredible person, that spirit which in one way has had no equal and will have none—this: its purity from any trace of selfishness, self-interest, or personal ambition. You won’t find any hint of these motives, no matter how hard you look, and this can't be said about anyone else whose name appears in secular history.
With Joan of Arc love of country was more than a sentiment—it was a passion. She was the Genius of Patriotism—she was Patriotism embodied, concreted, made flesh, and palpable to the touch and visible to the eye.
With Joan of Arc, love for her country was more than just a feeling—it was a deep passion. She was the embodiment of Patriotism—she personified it, making it real, tangible, and visible.
Love, Mercy, Charity, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music—these may be symbolized as any shall prefer: by figures of either sex and of any age; but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr’s crown upon her head, and in her hand the sword that severed her country’s bonds—shall not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all the ages until time shall end?
Love, Mercy, Charity, Courage, War, Peace, Poetry, Music—these can be represented in any way people choose: with images of any gender and any age; but a slender girl in her youth, wearing a martyr’s crown and holding the sword that freed her country—couldn’t this, and nothing else, symbolize PATRIOTISM for all time?
Download ePUB
If you like this ebook, consider a donation!