JOAN OF ARC

The Warrior Maid

By Lucy Foster Madison
author of “The Peggy Owen Books”

With Illustrations & Decorations by
Frank E Schoonover

The Penn Publishing Company
Philadelphia
1919

COPYRIGHT 1918 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

Joan of Arc

THE WARRIOR MAID

INTRODUCTION

In presenting this story for the young the writer has endeavored to give a vivid and accurate life of Jeanne D’Arc (Joan of Arc) as simply told as possible. There has been no pretence toward keeping to the speech of the Fifteenth Century, which is too archaic to be rendered literally for young readers, although for the most part the words of the Maid have been given verbatim.

The name of this wonderful girl has been variously written. In the Fifteenth Century the name of the beloved disciple was preferred for children above all others; so we find numerous Jeans and Jeannes. To render these holy names more in keeping with the helplessness of little ones the diminutive forms of Jeannot and Jeannette were given them. So this girl was named Jeannette, or Jehannette in the old spelling, and so she was called in her native village. By her own account this was changed to Jeanne when she came into France. The English translation of Jeanne D’Arc is Joan of Arc; more properly it should be Joanna. Because it seems more beautiful to her than the others the writer has retained the name of Jeanne in her narrative.

It is a mooted question which form of the name of Jeanne’s father is correct: D’Arc or Darc. It is the writer’s belief that D’Arc was the original writing, when it would follow that Jacques D’Arc would be James of the Bow or James Bowman, as he would have been called had he been an English peasant. For this reason the Maid’s surname has been given as D’Arc; though there are many who claim that Darc is the nearest the truth.

Acknowledgments are due to the following authorities into the fruit of whose labours the writer has entered: M. Jules Quicherat, “Condamnation et Réhabilitation de Jeanne d’Arc”; H. A. Wallon, “Jeanne d’Arc”; M. Siméon Luce, “Jeanne d’Arc à Domremy”; M. Anatole France, “Jeanne d’Arc”; Jules Michelet, “Jeanne d’Arc”; Monstrelet’s “Chronicles”; Andrew Lang, “The Maid of France”; Lord Ronald Gower, “Joan of Arc”; F. C. Lowell, “Joan of Arc”; Mark Twain, “Joan of Arc”; Mrs. Oliphant, “Jeanne D’Arc”; Mrs. M. R. Bangs, “Jeanne D’Arc”; Janet Tuckey, “Joan of Arc, the Maid,” and many others.

The thanks of the writer are also due to the librarians of New York City, Albany and Glens Falls who kindly aided her in obtaining books and information. Thanks are also due to the Rev. Matthew Fortier, S. J., Dean of Fordham University, New York City, for information upon a point for which search had been vainly made.

That this book may make a little niche for itself among other books upon the most marvellous girl the world has ever known, is the wish of

The Writer.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

JOAN OF ARC

11

CHAPTER I

A Children’s Festival

“Who-oo-ee!” The gleeful shout came from the lips of a little girl who stood, with her hands cupped about her lips, on the edge of a streamlet which divided the village of Domremy into two parts.

She was a slight little maiden, of some twelve summers, and as she gave the call she danced about in the warm sunshine as though unable to keep still from the mere joy of being. Her hair was very dark and very abundant. Her eyes were wonderful for their blueness and the steadfastness of their gaze. Her face, though comely, was remarkable not so much 12 for its beauty as for the happiness of its expression. She stood still listening for a moment after sending forth her call, and then, as the Sabbath quiet remained unbroken, she sent forth the cry again in a clear, sweet voice that penetrated into the farthest reaches of the village:

“Who-oo-ee!”

This time the shout was caught up instantly, and answered by many voices. The village wakened suddenly into life, as there poured forth from the cottages a goodly number of boys and girls who came running toward the little maid eagerly. She shook a finger at them reprovingly.

“Oh, but you are late,” she cried. “Here it is ten of the clock, and we were to start at nine. The day will be half gone before we get to the Tree. I was afraid that you had gone off without me.”

“Gone without you, Jeanne D’Arc,” exclaimed one of the girls. “Why, we couldn’t have any sport without you. I had to wait for my mother to fix my basket––that is the reason that I was late.”

“And I! And I!” chimed several other children in a chorus.

“Why didn’t you pack them yourselves?” demanded Jeanne, who seemed to be a leader among them. “I did mine, and Jean’s and Pierrelot’s too.”

“But where are the boys?” asked a lad. “They are not here.”

“They ran back to get more nuts,” answered the little girl. “Jean said that we must be sure to have plenty. There! They are coming now. Let’s get into line, and be ready to start as soon as they get here.”

13

Gleefully the children formed a line, and then took up their march toward the great wood which stretched in primeval abundance half a league to the westward of Domremy.

In all France there was not a more delicate, tranquil landscape than that of this broad valley of the Meuse, which extended in unbroken reaches between low hills, softly undulating, crowned with oaks, maples and birches. The trees were leafless now, and there were still ridges of snow to be seen among the hills, but already there were monitions of Spring in the air. The buds were swelling, springing grass carpeted the fields, and there was no longer ice in the river, which rippled its apple-green waters in the sunshine.

Along the valley the banks of the Meuse were dotted with many hamlets, villages and towns, and among them was Domremy, which nestled upon its western side in the county of Champagne. It was the greyest of the grey hamlets in this borderland. It consisted of a castle, a monastery, and a score of cottages which were grouped about a small church, but it was well favoured by Nature in that the meadow lands which lay around it were rich and fertile beyond those of most villages, and the vineyards which covered the southern slopes of the hills were famous all over the countryside.

It was the first fine day of March, 1424, and “Laetare Sunday.” “Laetare Sunday” the fourth Sunday in Lent was called, because during the mass of the day was chanted the passage beginning, “Laetare, Jerusalem”; but the children called it “The Day of the Fountains,” for upon this day the annual “Well Dressing” of the Spring which lay at the edge of the forest was observed, and the Fairy Tree was decorated. 14 In short, upon this day the children of the valley held high festival.

So, merrily they marched toward the wood; the boys carrying baskets of lunch, for they were to picnic, and the girls bearing garlands that were to be used for the decoration. It was a joyous party, for it was Spring; and all young things rejoice in Spring. There was a sweetness of leaf mold in the air that came to the senses with the penetrating quality of incense. A tender mist lay on the hills, and over all spread the radiant sky. The happy children laughed, and sang, and jested as they went, for the mild air animated them with a gentle intoxication.

And the little maid called Jeanne D’Arc was the blithest of them all. Hither and thither she darted, lightly as thistle down, seeming literally to bubble over with happiness. All at once she stooped, and plucked a long blade of grass, holding it up for inspection.

“See, Mengette,” she cried addressing a girl near her. “How long the grass is! And how warm the sun is! Oh, is not God good to give us so fine day for our pleasure?”

“He is good; yes,” assented the girl addressed as Mengette. Then as the little maid darted away she turned to the girl by her side: “Jeanne is so religious,” she commented with a shrug of her shoulders. “She cannot even play without speaking of God. I wish that she were not so good. And you wish it too, do you not, Hauviette?”

“Wish that Jeanne D’Arc would not be so good?” exclaimed Hauviette, who was a staunch friend of Jeanne’s. “Why, she would not be Jeanne D’Arc if she were not good.”

15

“I do not mean for her not to be good exactly,” demurred the first girl. “I meant that I wished she were not so pious.”

“Mengette, if the Curé should hear you,” breathed the second girl in shocked tones. “He would make you say many Ave Maries.”

“And who is to tell him what I say?” demanded Mengette, an expression of anxiety flitting across her face.

“Not I, Mengette, but I fear some of the others hearing such words may speak of them to the good Curé.”

“But the others speak as I do,” protested Mengette. “There is not one of them who does not think that Jeanne D’Arc is too pious.”

“Attend,” cried one of the lads at this moment using the peasant’s expression to attract attention. “Let’s see who shall be first to reach the tree. He who does so shall hang the first wreath.”

A gleeful shout went up at the words, and there followed a quick dash for the tree, which began before the speaker had made an end of what he was saying. Among the others Jeanne D’Arc threw up her head, laughing merrily, and darted forward. So fleet and light of foot was she that she soon distanced her companions. Easily could she have gained the goal had there not come a cry from Mengette, who at this instant stumbled and fell prone upon the grass. Like a flash Jeanne turned, and, seeing that Mengette had risen, and was standing bent over as though in pain, ran back to her.

“Are you hurt, Mengette?” she asked anxiously. “’Tis pity that you fell. Where is the pain?”

“In my knee,” sobbed Mengette. “And now I shall have 16 to lag behind; for walk fast I cannot. Do you run on, Jeanne. You were like to win the race, so fleet of foot were you. In truth, it seemed as though you were flying. Myself, I will reach the tree when I can.”

“Nenni,” replied Jeanne, using the strong peasant negative. “I will walk with you. ’Tis not far now, but the way would seem long to you should you traverse it alone when in pain. There! lean on me.”

With a sigh of relief that she was not to be left by herself Mengette leaned heavily on the arm of her friend, though the latter was younger and smaller than she. She thought naught of this. It seemed natural to her playmates to lean upon Jeanne D’Arc. So, slowly, with much groaning on Mengette’s part, the two friends came presently to the Fairy Tree, where the rest of the party were already assembled.

On the border of the Bois Chesnu (the woods of oaks), stood an ancient beech tree overhanging the highroad. “In Spring,” said the peasants of the valley, “the tree is as fair as lily flowers, the leaves and branches sweep the ground.” It had many names, but was usually spoken of as l’Arbre-des-Fées. Once upon a time, when the lords and ladies of Bourlemont dwelt at the castle which stood before the village, it had been called “The Ladies’ Tree.” For then the high born dames and their cavaliers feasted and danced about it with each renewal of Spring. But the castle had long been deserted, so the children had come to claim the tree for their own.

They called it The Fairy Tree, because it was believed that in the olden time the fairies used it for a trysting place. So now, with bursts of song and laughter, the girls hung their 17 garlands upon its ancient branches, then joining hands the lads and the lassies formed a ring, and circled around the tree, singing gayly.

It was a pretty sight: pastoral and innocent,––one that would have delighted the heart of a Corot. The singing children dancing about the tree, the red homespun frocks of the girls and the blue smocks of the boys making pleasing bits of color against the dark forest stretching behind them, and the distant village nestled on the banks of the apple-green river. Perhaps the festival was a survival of paganism; perchance a remnant of the tree worship of the ancient Celts interwoven with a traditional holiday; but the Church recognized it. On Ascension Eve the priest came there, and chanted the Gospel of Saint John to exorcise the spirits, so that neither fairies nor anything evil could harm the little ones of his flock.

After the ceremony of hanging the wreaths was completed a cloth was spread upon the grass, and the contents of the lunch baskets placed thereon. There were nuts, hard boiled eggs, and little rolls of a curious form, which the housewives had kneaded on purpose. In the midst of the preparations there came the clamor of bells drifting from the linked villages of Domremy and Greux, chiming the midday angelus.

Instantly little Jeanne, who was among the girls busied about the lunch arose and, turning toward the church of her own village, joined her palms, bending her forehead to them. Mengette, who had taken no part in getting the lunch ready because of her lamed knee, and who sat in the shade of the beech upon the grass, leaned over and poked Pierre, one of Jeanne’s brothers, in the side.

18

“Do as your sister does, Pierrelot,” she cried, pointing toward the reverent little maiden.

“Myself, I am not so devout,” he made answer. “Neither Jean, Jacquemin, nor I feel as Jeanne does, but such things are to her liking. My mother grieves that I am so slack in the matter. But Jeanne loves the church. She is a good sister.”

“And a good friend also, Pierrelot,” nodded the girl emphatically, remembering how Jeanne had come back to her while the rest of the party had gone on. “She might have been first at the tree, and so have won the right to hang her wreath first. Instead, she came back to help me.”

“Jeanne,” called Hauviette suddenly, as the angelus ceased to chime, and the devout little maid turned again toward her companions, “do you not wish that we could have our ‘Well dressing’ upon Thursday instead of ‘Laetare Sunday’? ’Tis said that then the fairies hold their tryst.”

“Pouf!” ejaculated Pierre, or Pierrelot, as he was usually called. “You would not find them an you did come. There are no fairies now. My godfather Jean says that there have been no fairies at Domremy for twenty or thirty years. So what would be the use of coming here Thursday?”

“But my godmother says that one of the lords of the castle became a fairy’s knight, and kept his tryst with her here under this very tree at eventide; so there must be fairies,” spoke Hauviette with timid persistency. “What do you think, Jeanne?”

“They come no more,” replied the little maid gravely. “Godmother Beatrix and the Curé both say that they do not. 19 They came in the olden time, but for their sins they come no longer.”

“Perchance they hold their meetings further back in the wood,” suggested another girl. “That may be the reason that they are not seen.”

“I shall see,” cried one of the boys rising, and starting toward the forest that extended its dark reaches behind them. “If there be fairies there, I, Colin, shall find them.”

“Do not go, Colin,” exclaimed Jeanne in alarm. “You know that there is danger both from wolves and wild boars.”

Few dared enter the wood, so thick it was, and the wolves it harbored were the terror of the countryside. So greatly were they feared, and such was the desire to be rid of the menace, that there was a reward given by the mayors of the villages for every head of a wolf, or a wolf cub, brought to them. So now a protesting chorus arose from the children as Colin, with a scornful “Pouf!” threw his shoulders back, and swaggered into the wood.

“’Tis time for the ‘Well dressing,’” declared Jean, another one of Jeanne’s brothers. “Let Colin look for the fairies if he will. Let us go to the Spring. ’Tis what we came for.”

“And so say I,” chimed in another boy.

“And I. And I,” came from others. As this seemed to be the desire of all there was an immediate stir and bustle. The remnants of the lunch were hastily gathered up, and put in baskets; some of the wreaths were taken from the tree, and then the line of march was formed. Just as they were ready to start, however, there came a shrill shout from the forest:

20

“A wolf! A wolf!” cried the voice of Colin. “Help! Help!”

Stock still stood the frightened children. Again the cry came. At once there was a stir in the line, and a babel of excited voices broke forth as Jeanne D’Arc was seen running pell-mell into the forest in the direction from which the voice of her playmate came.

Colin was standing in the midst of a blackthorn thicket when she reached him. There was no sign of wolf, or animal of any kind, and he burst into a peal of laughter as the little girl glanced about in amazement. As the sound of his mirth reached the waiting children they too, knowing from it that naught was amiss, ran into the wood. The mischievous boy doubled up, and rocked to and fro in glee.

“Oh, but you were well fooled,” he cried. “Look at Jeanne’s face. You were afraid. All but her, and what could she have done to help me an there had been a wolf?”

“She could have done all that you deserve to have done, Colin,” retorted Pierre, who was a manly little lad. “Shame upon you for crying out when there was naught to cry for. ’Twould serve you right should a real wolf set upon you. Your mother shall know how you sought to frighten us.”

“’Twas but in sport,” muttered Colin, somewhat crestfallen. He had thought that the jest would be treated as great fun, and now here they stood regarding him reproachfully. “’Twas but in sport,” he said again, but there was no answering smile on any of the faces around him. The matter was of too serious a nature to admit of jesting.

THE GOOSEBERRY SPRING

21

For a brief time only did the children stand about the boy, and then with one accord, though no word was spoken, they formed their line again, and started for the Spring. Colin followed after shamedfacedly.

At first the march was a silent one, for the incident had thrown a damper upon their spirits, but soon it was forgotten, and once more their voices rose in song and mirth. The boys and girls who were at the head of the party went rapidly, and suddenly caught sight of a streamlet of pure water springing from a wooded hole in a wooded hill, by the side of a wooden bench which formed a resting place about the middle of the slope. The streamlet at first spread into a basin which it had excavated for itself; and then, falling in a small cascade, flowed across the path where a carpet of cress had grown, and disappeared in the reeds and grasses. All about the margin of the Spring were gooseberry bushes intertwining their branches of greyish green, and these gave it the name of Gooseberry Spring.

It was believed that the water had miraculous healing powers, so the children in turn knelt by the side of the basin, and drank deeply of the limpid water. For one drink from this wonderful Spring, it was said, was an insurance against fever for a whole year. The garlands which had been carried from the Fairy Tree were now spread around the “Well,” a ring was formed, and the children danced and sang as they had done about the tree. The sun was setting before the games were ended, and the rustic festival was over. Then, tired but happy, the little folk set their faces toward home.

On the outskirts of the village Jeanne and her brothers met Jacques D’Arc, their father, who was driving his flocks and 22 herds from the commune for the night. He was a peasant of sturdy appearance, an upright man, unusually strict and careful of the behaviour of his children. Jeanne’s firm chin and wistful mouth were inherited from this parent. Now as they ran to help him in his task he greeted them briefly:

“There is company,” he told them. “Your Gossip[1] Beatrix has come, Jeanne, and two soldiers of France who have escaped from the Burgundians. By our Lady, this being upon the highroad has its drawbacks! ’Tis getting so that no day passes without some wayfarer stopping for bite and bed. The house is overrun.”

“But you like it, father,” reminded Jeanne, slipping her hand into his. “For do not the wayfarers bring you news of all that happens beyond the mountains?”

“That is well enough,” admitted Jacques grumblingly. “But even so, no man likes his house always full. There! let the matter rest. We must hasten with the cattle. The night grows apace.”

“And mother will have need of me to help her,” cried Jeanne, quickening her steps. “With so much company there will be much work to be done.”

[1]

Gossip––A name usually given to godmothers.

23

CHAPTER II

The Knight’s Story

The house where Jeanne D’Arc lived was a stone cottage with the roof sloping from a height on one side half way to the ground on the other. In front there were but two windows, admitting but a scanty light. Close by the door, as was usual in that country, were piles of faggots and farm tools covered with mud and rust. The enclosure served also as kitchen garden and orchard.

Beyond the cottage, scarce a stone’s throw distant, only separated from it by a small graveyard, stood the village church, and north of both buildings there was a square towered monastery.

A streamlet that flowed down into the Meuse trickled noisily by the cottage and church, dividing them from the other houses of the village. Perhaps it was because of this fact that the 24 church seemed to Jeanne to belong more to her and to her family than it did to the other inhabitants of Domremy. Born under its very walls, she was lulled in her cradle by the chime of its bells, and cherished a passionate love for them in her heart. Involuntarily the little girl paused with her hand on the latch to cast a lingering, tender glance at the church before opening the door of the cottage. Before she had crossed the threshold a tall woman, who was stirring the contents of a large iron pot which hung on a tripod before the fire, turned quickly at the sound of her sabots, and seeing that it was Jeanne hastily left her task and drew the maid once more without the door. It was Isabeau Romée,[2] the wife of Jacques D’Arc. In marriage the wife always retained her maiden name, so Jeanne’s mother was always spoken of as Isabeau Romée of Vauthon, her native village. She was mild in manner, but her usual serenity was at this moment disturbed by anxiety.

“Right glad am I that you have come, Jeanne,” she remarked. “Your Gossip Beatrix has been asking for you. She came this afternoon. And but a short time since two men-at-arms came, asking for supper and bed. Gentles they are, who have but escaped from the hands of the Burgundians, having been prisoners for many months. Sup them I will right gladly, but bed them I can not. The house is full. It galls your father that we must refuse them.”

“And why not bed them, mother? Let little Catherine sleep with you, and I can lie upon the floor before the hearth. Then the gentles may have my bed.”

25

“But you are wearied from your play, my little one, and to-morrow we go to the river to wash the clothes. You will need a good rest.”

“Fear not, mother; I shall sleep well,” answered Jeanne cheerily. “If the poor men have but escaped from prison perchance they have had naught but the cold stones of a dungeon to lie upon. Do let it be as I say, mother.”

“As you will then, my little one. In truth it would have grieved me sorely to refuse the bed, but I knew not what to do. You have a good heart, child. Go now, and carry in more faggots for the fire. The night grows chill, though the day was so warm. A bundle will not be too much for the chimney. Then bring forth the drinking cups and the knife for cutting the bread and put them upon the table. I will go to the oven for another loaf.”

“The dear child,” mused the mother as Jeanne obediently gathered up a large bundle of the faggots and turned toward the cottage. “The dear child! Ever ready is she to give up her own comfort for that of others. May our Lady watch over her!”

Meantime Jeanne had hastened into the house, and had thrown her bundle of faggots into the great chimney, over which hung a white stone mantel shaped somewhat like a pent house. On one side of the hearth flags sat an elderly woman who was amusing Jeanne’s sister, Catherine, a child a few years younger than she. Jeanne returned the woman’s warm greeting affectionately, then drew the deal table before the hearth, glancing as she did so at the two men who sat at the far end of the hearth flags.

26

One was a man of thirty-five or so; the other looked to be ten years his junior. That they were well born was apparent from their bearing and manner, but their armour and clothing were in sad condition. Their hucques[3] were in tatters, and only the closest inspection revealed that they had been of velvet. They wore no helmets, and many plates were missing from their rusty armour, leaving their bodies fair marks for arrows or cross bolts. Noting all this Jeanne was startled to observe that from the right arm of the younger knight a tiny stream of blood trickled through the steel sleeve. She was a timid girl with strangers, therefore it was a full minute before she could muster courage to approach the young man.

“You bleed, messire,” she said, touching him shyly on the shoulder.

“Eh? What?” The young man started quickly, for he had been dozing in his chair. “Oh! The wound?” following her glance at his arm. “’Tis naught. The scratch has but broken out anew.”

“It should be dressed,” asserted the little girl with concern. “I like not to see French blood flow.”

“She speaks truth, Bertrand,” interjected the older man. “A green wound tingles and burns, and there may be many a fray before us ere we behold Châlons. Here! I will be your squire for the nonce, and unbuckle your armour. ’Tis a good little maid!”

The young man addressed as Bertrand rose, and let his friend assist him to remove his armour, protesting against the need of it as he did so. Jeanne meantime brought a basin of water, 27 and when the knight had pushed back the sleeve of his doublet she washed the blood from the wound gently. Then, with all the deftness that Isabeau had taught her––for many were the wounded who had experienced their services––she applied a compress of oil, and bandaged the arm with bands of serge.

“I thank you, my little maid,” spoke the young man gratefully. “It does in truth feel better, and though but a scratch, was indeed painful. What is your name?”

“Jeanne, messire.”

“I will remember it, Jeanne. Who taught you to be so deft in such matters?”

“My mother, messire.” Jeanne blushed at being so interrogated.

“You have a gentle touch. If my arm does not heal quickly under such ministration it does not belong to Bertrand de Poulengy.”

Jeanne blushed again and withdrew quickly, carrying the basin with her. After placing a tall flagon, the wooden drinking cups, and the knife for cutting the bread upon the table she went to her godmother’s side, and sat down.

As she did so her father and mother entered. Upon her arm Isabeau carried a large ring of black bread, while Jacques brought another armful of faggots. They were a hard working, devout couple who strove to bring up their children,––of which there were five: three sons, Jacquemin, Jean, and Pierre; and two daughters, Jeanne and Catherine,––to love work and religion. Jacques D’Arc was a doyen; that is, a village elder; the chief man in Domremy after the mayor. He was of such substance that he was enabled to raise his family in comfort, and 28 to give alms and hospitality to the poor wandering friars, and other needy wayfarers then so common in the land.

“Sit up, messires,” cried Jacques as his wife emptied the contents of the iron pot into a platter which she set on the table. “Eat, for you must be hungry. Ay! and thirsty too, I doubt not.”

“By our Lady, but that hath a welcome sound, honest Jacques,” cried the elder knight, starting up eagerly. “We are both hungry and thirsty. Neither of us has broken his fast since morning, and then the repast was but meagre. Bertrand, man, does not the flavor of that stew assail your nostrils deliciously?”

“It does indeed, Louis. Methinks that I shall do justice to it. The Duke of Lorraine does not regale his prisoners on such fare.”

“You were prisoners to the Duke of Lorraine?” questioned Jacques as he and his guests drew up to the table. The women and children sat apart waiting to eat later.

“Ay! and have been for these many weary months, Jacques. It seems like a miracle that we did at last escape, but so it has fallen out.”

“Tell of the manner of your taking and escape, if it please you, messire,” spoke Jacques. “’Twill enliven the hour, and we are of the King’s party here.”

“Right well do we know that, Jacques D’Arc, else we would not have tarried here. Domremy is well known to be for the King.”

“Ay! for the King and France. Save for one man the entire 29 village is against the Burgundians and the English invaders.”

“’Tis good to hear such report, Jacques. And now if you wish to hear the tale it pleases me well to tell it. Know then that in August last, I, Louis De Lude, and Bertrand de Poulengy here with six other men-at-arms did set forth from the town of Châlons for that of Tours, being sadly in need of armour. You must know that for armour there be none in all France that can compare with the smiths of Tours. Through fear of being set upon by either the enemy, or marauding bands, we travelled at night, avoiding the frequented roads and the towns known to be in possession of the hostile party. Thus we went for ten days with no untoward event happening, and on the morning of the eleventh day we broke into gratulation, for then we came in sight of the walls of Tours.

“The sun was an hour high, and all the gates of the town were open. Through them the country folk were passing with milk and fruit for the market. The sight was a welcome one to travellers weary of the road and road fare. With cries of pleasure we spurred our horses forward. When within a half league of the city the joyous exclamations died on our lips, for suddenly the gates were closed, leaving us and a few poor market people outside. The country people ran distractedly toward the town, uttering loud outcries as the watchman appeared on the ramparts, shouting something that we were not near enough to understand. Wondering at the action of the town, and the apparent terror of the people we wheeled, and saw the cause.

30

“The frequented road from the town wound a short distance away between two low hills, and over the green shoulder of one of these a dozen bright points caught and reflected the morning light. Even as we looked the points lifted, and became spears. Ten, twenty, thirty, still they came until we could no longer count them. We turned to make a dash back in the way we had come, and behold! springing up in front of us were other spears. We were caught; and, outnumbered though we were, there was nothing for it but to fight. And fight we did, for in a moment they were upon us.

“’Tis hard to know just what is happening when one is in the thick of combat. There were yells and wild cries as the two forces came together in a huddle of falling or rearing horses, of flickering weapons, of thrusting men, of grapples hand to hand. Who it was fell, stabbed through and through, or who still fought single combat I could not tell. It was over presently, and as I yielded up my sword in surrender I glanced about me; and lo! of our little band but three remained: Bertrand here, Jean Laval, and myself. We had fallen into the hands of Sabbat, the freebooter, the terror of Anjou and Touraine.

“He did not take us to his garrison at Langeaís, but retreated to those same low hills by the road, and there cast us into a pit to be held for ransom. Ransom? In sooth, he deserved none, for he took from us the livres we had for our armour. One hundred and twenty-five livres tournois did Bertrand and I have each for that purpose, and he took them. Ay! and likewise he robbed our comrades who were dead. But our armour they left us, because it was old. Three months we 31 stayed in that pit waiting for ransom, with bread and water for our daily fare. And truly it was the bread of sadness and the water of affliction. Jean died of his wounds, but Bertrand and I came through.

“And then it fell upon a day that some of my Lord Duke, Charles of Lorraine’s, retainers passed by the robbers’ lair on their way from Tours to Lorraine. Sabbat’s men set upon them even as they had done upon us. But the Duke’s men worsted them, and carried away not only many freebooters as prisoners but those also who were held captive by the marauders. Finding that Bertrand and I were Armagnacs, of the King’s party, they took us to the ducal palace at Nancy to be held for ransom. We were thrown into a dungeon there to await the return of the messenger to our friends, but whether money was ever sent either to Duke Charles or to Sabbat we know not. All that we know is that we lay waiting, waiting in that vile dungeon for weary days. So the time went by; long months that sapped our vigour, but which whetted our appetites for vengeance.

“We were not upon parole, though my Lord Charles had striven to put us there, so we watched for a chance to escape, as is the right of every prisoner. It came at length. Two days ago the old man, who was our keeper, came to us at eventide bearing the black bread that formed our meals. He had not brought the water, and Bertrand made a cry for it, grumbling loudly because it had not been fetched, saying that he was athirst. It confused the old man, because he had in very truth forgot the water, which he was loath to acknowledge. For this reason he neglected his usual caution of backing out of 32 the dungeon with his face toward us, and turned his back upon us. Instantly we sprang upon him, and easily overcame him. We bound him with his own garments, and then, possessing ourselves of his keys, went forth boldly. To our amazement we found our way into the courtyard without encountering any one. There were sounds of revelry from the palace, and creeping near we found that it was the anniversary of his birthnight, so Duke Charles held high carnival. It was the night of all nights favorable to an escape.

“The guard was relaxed so, unchallenged, we succeeded in placing a scaling ladder against the ramparts, and up we went. When we had reached the top, however, we were seen, and a shower of arrows were shot at us, wounding Bertrand. Two lance lengths high were the walls, but we dropped from them to the outside, landing, by God’s grace, on the edge of the moat. We crept close to the walls, and the fast falling darkness hid us from the view of the archers on the top.

“Doubtless they thought that we had fallen into the water, for presently the hue and cry died down, and we heard no sound that denoted that search was being made for us. Then cautiously we crossed the moat, fearful of its waters, but Saint Catherine, the friend of escaping prisoners, was with us, and reaching the other side we went forth free men once more. How we obtained horses and the manner of coming here have nothing of mark to relate. We did obtain them, and we came. And that, honest Jacques, is the tale. A common one in France.”

“Ay, messire; but too common,” agreed Jacques, shaking his head mournfully. “Truly, France has fallen upon evil days.”

33

“It has! It has! And to none other than Isabella of Bavaria do we owe them. By that infamous treaty of Troyes by which Charles, the Dauphin, was disinherited in favor of Henry Fifth of England the Queen lost us France.”

“She lost us France,” acquiesced Jacques. The younger knight spoke abruptly:

“I was at Troyes when that treaty was signed. ’Twas four years ago, and of April the ninth day. Well do I remember it; for at the same time the ceremony that betrothed our Lady Catherine to Henry of England was celebrated. The King, our poor mad King, was brought from his retreat to be made to sign the treaty, and the streets and the ramparts of the town were filled with people desirous of seeing him. The Dauphin was there, looking like death, and well he might; for the kingdom which was his by right, as well as his sister’s, was to be given to the butcher of Agincourt. His mother, Queen Isabella, was here, there, everywhere, flaunting a robe of blue silk damask and a coat of black velvet into the lining of which the skins of fifteen hundred minevers had gone. Shamelessly she made a gala day of the matter, and after the ceremony caused her singing birds, goldfinches, siskins, and linnets to be brought for her entertainment. And now, the Duke of Bedford is Regent of France, holding it for Henry Fifth’s son; and the Dauphin, who should be king since his father is dead, lies in retreat in Bruges. Isabella lost us France. The shameless woman!”

“Shameless indeed, Bertrand, but take courage. Have you never heard that though a woman should lose France, from the march of Lorraine a Virgin shall come for its redemption?”

34

“’Tis Merlin’s prophecy, Louis. ‘A Maid who is to restore France, ruined by a woman, shall come from the Bois Chesnu in the march of Lorraine,’ is the reading. Pouf! What could a maid do in such matters? I believe it not.”

“Nor I,” ejaculated Jacques. He laughed outright suddenly. “Why, the Bois Chesnu is our own wood out there,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Messire, ’tis a prophecy that will fail.”

“Scoff not, ye doubters,” cried Louis. “With God all things are possible. For my part, I would a Maid would come to the healing of France. But there! ’tis long since I have slept on aught but stones, and fain would I lie upon a bed. Good Jacques, if you have such a thing, show me it, I pray you. I am weary.”

“Then come, messires.” Jacques lighted a candle and led the way to an upper room, while Isabeau opened the doors of the cupboard bed on the far side of the room, and made it ready. Then she drew her children round her to hear their prayers and the Credo. After which the family went to their beds.

But Jeanne lay down upon the floor before the hearth.

[2]

Romée. So called by reason of a pilgrimage achieved either by her or some member of her family to Rome.

[3]

Hucques––Cloaks worn over the armour.

35

CHAPTER III

The Waves of War Reach Domremy

The condition of France in this year of grace, 1424, was deplorable in the extreme. For more than one hundred years war had raged between England and France. The kingdom which had been strong and splendid under the great Charlemagne had fallen into disintegration. Unity had no existence. By the treaty of Troyes, signed by the mad King, Charles VI, influenced by his unscrupulous queen, Isabella of Bavaria, Henry Fifth of England was made Regent of France during the lifetime of Charles, and assured of the full possession of the French throne after the mad King’s death, thus disinheriting the Dauphin. Of the fourteen provinces left by Charles Fifth to his successor only three remained in the power of the French crown.

36

It was Henry Fifth’s fond hope that by this treaty and by his marriage with a French princess the war would cease, and France would lie forever at the foot of England. For a time it seemed as though these hopes were to be justified. Then, in 1422 both he and the French king died, and the war broke out again.

The Duke of Bedford, Henry Fifth’s brother, assumed the regency of France until the young son of Henry Fifth, Henry Sixth, was old enough to be crowned. Charles, the Dauphin, meantime declared himself king and rightful heir, and many upheld his claim. But there were some, among them the Duke of Burgundy, the most powerful of the princes of France, who because of private injuries suffered at the hands of the Dauphin, sustained the claim of the English. Thus the country presented the sad spectacle of French princes warring against each other and the king more furiously than they did against the invader. Frenchmen were not Frenchmen; they were Burgundians, Armagnacs, Bretons, or Provencaux. The country was torn in pieces with different causes and cries. Bands of mercenaries and freebooters ravaged and pillaged the people with a cheerful disregard of the political party to which they belonged.

Under such conditions the distress of the country was great. Many regions were depopulated; in many the wild wood had over run the cultivated soil; in others agriculture could be practised only near castles and walled towns. Under the sound of the warning horn or church bell the cattle would run of themselves to places of refuge. When the country was so harried and devastated it behooved the villages and towns to keep a 37 watchman ever on the lookout for the glitter of lances that the inhabitants might have time to gather their cattle and retreat to a place of safety.

Nor had the march of Lorraine and Champagne, as the valley of the river was called, been exempt from the common woe. It was long an object of contention between monarch and duke, but had finally passed into the hands of the crown, so that its people were directly subject to the King. The march was not only the highroad to Germany, but it was, too, the frontier between the two great parties: near Domremy was one of the last villages that held to the Burgundians; all the rest were for Charles, the Dauphin. In all ages the valley had suffered cruelly from war: first, the war between duke and monarch for its possession; and now, the war between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs. At a time when the whole of Christendom was given up to pillage the men-at-arms of the Lorraine-Marches were renowned as the greatest plunderers in the world. Therefore, life at Domremy was one perpetual alarm. All day and all night a watchman was stationed on the square tower of the monastery, and the inhabitants held themselves ready to fly at a moment’s warning. And yet men sowed and reaped; women spun and wove; children romped and sang; and all the occupations of a rural people went on.

In the midst of these anxieties life at the house of Jacques D’Arc seemed calm and serene. March passed, and dewy April too had been gathered into the Book of Months. It was May. The trees were masses of foliage, the meadows starry with wild flowers, and the greenish water of the winding river was almost hidden by the dense clumps of rushes that grew 38 upon its banks. Vallis Colorum, the Valley of Colors, the Romans had called it, and truly in this fair May it was so radiant, and fragrant, and flowery that it well deserved the designation.

“Jeanne,” said Jacques D’Arc one morning as the little girl rose from the breakfast table and took her place before the spinning wheel, “you can not spin to-day. I need Pierrelot in the field, so that you must mind the sheep. Seedtime is short, and if we do not get the sowing done soon we can not reap a harvest.”

“Very well, father,” said Jeanne, rising. Taking her distaff, for the time spent in watching the flock was not to be passed in idleness, she went at once to the fold to lead out the sheep. Usually the stock of the villagers was kept in sheds attached to the houses, but the D’Arc family kept their animals in a separate building. It was still early, but the sheep were to be taken to the uplands, which lay beyond the common that could not now be used for pasturing because of the growing hay, so an early start was necessary.

There were already several little shepherdesses on the upland, and Jeanne waved her hand to Hauviette and Mengette, who were nearest. They too had their distaffs, and soon the three friends were seated together near the oak wood pulling the threads for spinning, chatting gaily, and ever and anon casting watchful glances at the browsing sheep. They were careful little maids, knowing well the value of the flocks they tended.

It seemed as though all of the inhabitants of the village were out in the open, so many men, and boys, and women were there 39 engaged in sowing the fields, or busied in the vineyards on the hill slopes. The morning was almost past when the quiet of the peaceful scene was broken by a hoarse shout from the watchman on the square tower of the monastery:

“The Burgundians! The Burgundians are coming! To the fortress for your lives.”

As his voice died away the bells of the church sounded the alarm. Noisily they pealed in a harsh and terrifying clamor, those bells which in turn celebrated the births, tolled for the dead, and summoned the people to prayer. Instantly the fields and vineyards became scenes of commotion and confusion. Hoarse shouts and cries rent the air. Men, women, and children ran frantically toward the village, carrying their farm tools, and driving the cattle pell-mell before them. From the cottages there poured forth the aged, the old men and women who could no longer work in the fields and who therefore cared for the young children and the houses while their juniors did the outside work. Both the old people and the children bore whatever of value they could carry from the cottages, and thus burdened all ran toward the castle.

As the watchman gave his cry Jeanne, Mengette, and Hauviette sprang excitedly to their feet. Dropping their distaffs the two latter girls, leaving their flocks, ran toward the fields where their elders were, forgetful of everything but their own safety. But Jeanne stood still, a little line of perplexity wrinkling her forehead. Sheep are nervous animals, and these had lifted their heads as though startled, and were beginning to bleat piteously. Once among the plunging, bellowing cattle nothing could be done with them. Should they break and run 40 into the forest they would be devoured by wolves. If they scattered in the meadows they would become the booty of the attacking party. In either case her father would be the loser. Only a second did she remain inactive, and then, clear and sweet, she sounded the shepherd’s call:

“Cudday! Cudday! Cudday!”

Bell-like her voice rose above the confusion. The old bell-wether of the flock recognized the tones of his shepherd, and started toward her. Jeanne turned, and started toward the village, stopping frequently to sound the call:

“Cudday! Cudday! Cudday!”

And quietly, confidently the old bell-wether followed her, bringing the flock with him. Half way to the village she met Pierre, who came running back to her. The lad was breathless and panting, but he managed to gasp:

“Father says, father says to leave the sheep, Jeanne.”

“Nenni, nenni,” returned Jeanne. “I can bring them in safely.”

At this moment there came a ringing shout from Jacques D’Arc:

“Leave the cattle and sheep, friends! Make for the castle! The foe is upon us.”

The terrified people glanced down the highroad along which the raiding party was approaching. There was but scant time to reach the fortress, and, as Jacques D’Arc had seen, it could only be done without encumbrance. Leaving the animals forthwith the villagers broke into a run, while Jacques hastened to his children.

41

“Father, I know that I could––” began Jeanne, but her father interrupted her vehemently,

“Talk not, but run, my little one. There is no time to lose.”

The castle stood on an island formed by two arms of the Meuse. Belonging to it was a courtyard provided with means of defense, and a large garden surrounded by a moat wide and deep. It was commonly called the Fortress of the Island. It had been the abode of those fair ladies and brave lords who were wont in the olden time to dance about the Fairy Tree. The last of the lords having died without children the property passed to his niece. The lady married a baron of Lorraine with whom she went to reside at the ducal court of Nancy, thus leaving it uninhabited. Wishing to have a place of retreat from attacks of marauding parties Jacques D’Arc and another man, on behalf of the villagers, leased the castle from the lady for a term of nine years.

The precaution had been useful on many occasions, but upon this bright, May morning it proved futile so far as the property of the villagers was concerned. The approach of the marauders was too rapid to permit the poor people to do more than to reach the castle in safety. Jacques D’Arc and his two children were the last to cross the drawbridge, which was instantly drawn up, and the gate was closed. They were safe, for it was a place that ten could hold against ten hundred.

Through the loop-holes the villagers beheld the scene that followed. With terrifying cries the raiders rode into the hamlet. Some rounded up the cattle and sheep preparatory to 42 driving them off; others hitched oxen to carts and drove them to the middle of the village, where still others piled the furniture from the cottages into the carts. Silent and tearless the hapless inhabitants watched while the hearths of their homes were torn up, and mantels demolished in the search for hidden treasure. Even the church was not exempt from the pillage. And then, that no part of misery might be spared to Domremy, the plunderers applied the torch to the houses.

Women wrung their hands, some dry-eyed, others with sobs and cries at sight of their blazing homes, while men gnashed their teeth, enraged that they were powerless to prevent the disaster. At length the ruffian band departed, carrying their booty with them.

Scarcely had they passed from view before the men were out and across the drawbridge, and on to fight the flames. Some of the cottages were too far consumed to be saved, but after the flames were extinguished a few were found that could be used with some thatching.

Among these was the house of Jacques D’Arc.

43

CHAPTER IV

The Aftermath

There was anguish in the eyes of Isabeau Romée as she crossed the drawbridge from the castle, and went slowly with her children to the ruined village. Other women about her wept, or gave vent to their despair in loud outcries; hers was the deeper grief that knows not tears.

And in what a state of desolation was the hamlet and its surroundings! The men-at-arms had plundered, ravaged, and burnt. Unable to exact ransom from the inhabitants, because of their timely arrival at the castle, it was evidently the design of the marauders to destroy what they could not carry off. The newly sown fields were trampled; the blossoming orchards blasted; those houses that had been rescued from the flames were badly damaged, and the entire village and its neighbour, Greux, had been sacked and pillaged. Upon what were the people to live? That was the question that confronted 44 them. Jacques D’Arc came to his wife as she stood in front of their cottage.

“The house still remains to us, Isabeau,” he said comfortingly. “The roof can be thatched so that we can soon be in it again. We will send to our market town of Neufchâteau for bread and grain. Did you look well to the money?”

“Yes, Jacques.” Isabeau took a bag from the folds of her gown, and handed it to him. It contained a small sum of money hoarded against just such an emergency as the present. Her husband took it with brightening countenance.

“Come now, ’tis not so bad,” he said. “We will send at once for the grain, that the fields may be resown without delay; and for bread that we may live. We shall do well.”

“Yes,” agreed his wife, but she looked at her children. And then, as though with that look her woe must forth, she turned upon him in a passionate outburst: “In all your life, Jacques, in all my life we have known naught but war. Must my children too live always in the midst of strife? Must they too sow for soldiers to reap? Build, for men-at-arms to burn? Be hunted like wild beasts, and killed if they cannot pay ransom? Must they too count on nothing; neither their goods, nor their lives? Oh, Jacques, must France always be torn by war?”

“You are beside yourself with sorrow, Isabeau,” chided Jacques but the gentleness of his tone took away the sting of the words. “’Tis no time to give way now. There is much to be done. We can but take up our burden, and do the best we can. With God lies the issue.”

“True, Jacques, true.” Isabeau pulled herself together sharply. “You are right; ’tis no time for grief. There is indeed 45 much to be done. Jeanne, do you take your little sister, and care for her while I see if aught of our stores has been overlooked. Many will there be for whom provision must be made.”

With this the brave woman gave the little Catherine into Jeanne’s keeping, while she went into the cottage. Resolutely winking back her own tears Jeanne took the weeping little girl to a tree, and sat down under it, drawing the child into her lap. Pierre followed her, Jacquemin and Jean going with their father to help him. Soon Mengette and Hauviette joined the D’Arc children, and presently all the boys and girls of the village found their way there, comforting each other and the little ones in their charge in whispers. Childhood is elastic, and soon under the familiar companionship fright wore away, and the young folks began to relate their experiences in subdued but excited tones.

“I saw a black Burgundian as big as a giant,” declared Colin. “Had I had a crossbow and bolt I would have killed him.”

“Pouf! You were afraid just as the rest of us were,” uttered Pierre scornfully. “Why, even the men did not try to fight, so many were the enemy. And if they could do naught neither could you.”

“The men could not fight without weapons, Pierre,” spoke Jeanne quickly. “They had none in the fields.”

“Myself, I shall be a man-at-arms,” went on Colin boastingly. “I shall wear armour, and ride a horse; and I shall go into France to help drive the Godons[4] out of it.”

Jeanne looked at him with sparkling eyes.

46

“Yes,” she cried eagerly. “’Tis what should be done. Oh! I would like to go too. Why do they not stay in their own country?”

“You?” Colin began to laugh. “You are a girl, Jeanne D’Arc, and girls go not to war. They can not fight.”

“I could.” A resolute light came into the little maid’s eyes, and her lips set in a firm line. “I know I could.” At this the others joined Colin in his laughter, and the boy cried gaily:

“I should like to see you. Oh, wouldn’t the Godons run when they saw you?”

Jeanne opened her lips to reply, but just then she heard the voice of her mother calling to her. So, shaking her finger at Colin, she rose obediently and went toward the cottage. Near the door stood her father gazing intently at a long rod that he held in his hand. So absorbed was he that he did not heed her approach. The little girl touched him lightly on the arm.

“What is it, father?” she asked gently. “Are you grieving over the cattle and the goods?”

Her father looked up with a start.

“I grieve, yes, my little one. But ’tis not so much about present ills as a future burden which we must bear. I know not how it is to be met. This rod, as you know, is the taille stick, and in July comes the tax which I must collect from Domremy and Greux. I like not to think about it, so heavy will it seem after the misfortune that has come upon these two villages.”

There were many duties that fell to the village elder (doyen), especially in troubled times. It was for him to summon the mayor and the aldermen to the council meetings, to cry the 47 decrees, to command the watch day and night, to guard the prisoners. It was for him also to collect taxes, rents, and feudal dues. An ungrateful office at any time, but one that would be doubly so in a ruined country. Jeanne knew that it was her father’s duty to collect the taxes, but she had not known that it might be a distasteful task. Now she looked curiously at the stick.

“Why does it have the notches upon it, father?” she asked.

“’Tis to show the amount due, my little one. There are two tailles:[5] la taille seigneuriale, which is paid serfs to their lord; and la taille royale, which is paid to the King. We, being directly subject to the King, pay la taille royale. The gentle Dauphin has much need of money, Sire Robert de Baudricourt of Vaucouleurs has told me. But the impost will be hard to meet after what has befallen us.” He sighed.

At this moment Jacques D’Arc was not a prepossessing sight. His clothes were dusty and begrimed with soot; his face and hands were black; but through the soot and grime shone the light of compassion for the burden which the people would have to bear. Jeanne saw naught of the soiled clothing or the blackened face and hands; she saw only that her father was troubled beyond the loss of his goods and cattle. Quickly she threw her arms about his neck, and drew his face down to hers.

“I would there were no tax, father,” she said wistfully.

“I would so too, my little one,” sighed he. “But there! wishing will not make it so. You have comforted me, Jeanne. But your mother is calling. Let us go to her.”

48

With her hand in his they went into the house, where Jacques deposited the stick in a corner. Isabeau met them, a pleased expression illuminating her countenance.

“See,” she cried, holding up a great loaf of black bread. “’Twas in the back part of the oven where it was not seen. Take it to your playmates, Jeanne, and give to each of them a piece of it. Children bear fasting but ill, and it will be long ere we have bread from Neufchâteau!”

Jeanne took the loaf gladly and hastened to her playmates. She knew that they were hungry, for none of them had eaten since early morning. Her appearance with the bread was greeted with cries of joy. Bread was a commonplace the day before; now it had become something precious. So little are blessings prized until they are gone.

The loaf was large, but even a large loaf divided into many pieces makes small portions. These were eaten eagerly by the children, and the youngest began to cry for more. Jeanne had foreseen that this would be the case, so had not eaten her share.

Quietly now she divided it among the smallest tots, giving each a morsel. Shamefacedly Pierre plucked her by the sleeve.

“You have had none,” he remonstrated. “And I––I have eaten all that you gave to me.”

“That is well, Pierrelot.” His sister smiled at him reassuringly. “I shall eat when the bread comes from the market town. We must go to the castle now. Mother said that we were to go there after we had eaten. Every one is to sleep there to-night.”

49

“But there are no beds,” broke in Colin in an aggrieved tone.

“No, Colin; there are no beds, but even so floors are better than the fields. There would be no safety outside the walls on account of the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Colin whitened perceptibly, and the children huddled closer together. “I did not think of wolves. Is there in truth danger?”

“The men fear so, because some of the cattle and sheep were trampled to death by the others, and their carcasses may draw them. We are to use the castle until the houses are thatched.”

The arrangements were as Jeanne had said. The nights were to be spent in the safety of the castle’s confines, while the days were to be devoted to the rebuilding of the village, and the resowing of the fields. Thus did the peasants with brave resignation once more take up their lives. For, no matter how adverse Fate may be, life must be lived; misfortune must be met and overcome.

And the times that followed were such as to try the endurance of the unfortunate inhabitants of Domremy to the utmost. It was the season of the year when there was a scarcity of provisions everywhere. From early Spring until the reaping of the new crops the stock of food in a rural community is at its lowest; so, though many villages of the valley shared their stores with their unfortunate neighbors their own needs had to be taken into consideration, therefore it came about that Famine reared his ugly head in the linked villages of Greux and Domremy. Many of the cruelly despoiled peasants died of hunger.

50

One day Jacques D’Arc gathered his family about him. They were in their own home by this time, but its furnishings were of the rudest. Before Jacques on the table lay a single loaf of bread, and by it stood a pail of water. He looked at them sadly.

“’Tis our last loaf,” he said, “and, of provision we have naught else. So this is our last meal, for I know not where another can be forthcoming. We will eat to-day; to-morrow we must do as we can. Take in thankfulness, therefore, what lies before us.”

With this he cut the loaf into seven parts, giving a portion to his wife first, then one to each of his children except Jeanne. Hers he kept beside his own. When all had been served he turned to her.

“Come here, my little one,” he said.

Timidly, for there was something in his tone that she did not understand, the little maid went to his side. Jacques encircled her with his arm.

“Have you broken your fast to-day, my child?”

Jeanne blushed, and hung her head as though guilty of wrong doing, but did not reply.

“You have not,” he asserted. “Yesterday Pierre saw you give all of your portion to your sister. The day before you kept but a small part for yourself, giving Catherine the rest. Is it not so?”

“Yes, father; but I go to the church and pray; then I do not need food.” Jeanne took courage as she told this, and raising her head looked at him bravely. “I do not feel very hungry.”

“Fasting is good for the soul, my child, but too much of it is 51 ill for the body. Stay, therefore, beside me that your father may see you eat your share.”

“But, father,” she began protestingly. He interrupted her:

“Eat,” he commanded. When Jacques spoke in that tone his children knew that resistance was useless, so silently Jeanne ate her portion. Nor would he permit her to leave his side until every crumb was swallowed. She did not sit again at table, but went to the open door and gazed down the highroad through tear-blinded eyes. Her heart was very full. Father and child were in close accordance, and she knew that he suffered because of his family’s misery. So down the valley she gazed wishing that she might do something to help him.

The valley had regained much of its loveliness. The trees had leaved again; the fields were green with the new crops, and the gardens gave promise of later abundance. There were still black gaps among the dwellings, however; significant reminders of the visit of the marauders. Suddenly as the little maid stood leaning against the door, something down the road caused her to start violently, and lean forward eagerly.

“Father,” she cried shrilly.

“Yes, Jeanne,” he answered apathetically.

“There are cattle and sheep coming down the highroad. They look like ours. What does it mean?”

Instantly Jacques sprang to his feet and hastened to the door. One look and he gave a great shout.

“They are ours,” he cried in ringing tones. “Friends, neighbours, come and see! The cattle have come back.”

From out of the cottages ran the people, incredulity turning to joy as their sight verified Jacques’ cry. The wildest excitement 52 prevailed as the flocks and herds in charge of a number of soldiers commanded by a young man-at-arms drew near. From him they learned what had happened.

When the lady of the castle, she who had gone to live with her spouse at the ducal court of Nancy, heard of the raid that had been made upon the villages, she protested to her kinsman, the Count of Vaudemont, against the wrong done to her, as she was the lady of Domremy and Greux.

Now the place to which the chief of the marauding band, Henri d’Orley, had taken the cattle and plunder was the Château of Doulevant, which was under the immediate suzerainty of the lady’s kinsman. As soon, therefore, as he received her message he sent a man-at-arms with soldiers to recapture the animals and the booty. This was done; not, however, without a fight, in which the young commander was victorious; and so he had brought the cattle home.

With tears and cries of joy the husbandmen welcomed them. There was food in plenty, too, so the village rejoiced, and life bade fair to be bright once more. Only the wise ones shook their heads ominously. For were they not likely to lose the beasts forever on the morrow?

Thus the days passed in the valley; nights of terror; dreams of horror; with war everywhere around; but Jeanne grew and blossomed as the lily grows from the muck of a swamp.

[4]

Godons––A term applied to the English.

[5]

From this word we have the English term “tally.”

53

CHAPTER V

Jeanne’s Vision

The summer gave place to winter; winter in turn was succeeded by spring, and again it was summer. Though there were raids in distant parts of the valley, and wild rumors and false alarms, Domremy was mercifully spared a second visitation. A strict watch was still kept, however, for glitter of lance along the highroad, or gleaming among the trees of the forest, but life resumed its tranquil aspect. The men toiled in the fields or the vineyards; women spun and wove, and looked after their households; children played or tended the herds and flocks on the common as of yore.

One warm afternoon in late July Jeanne, with others of her playmates, was on the uplands watching the flocks nibble the short green grass. The boys and girls were scattered over the uplands, but Mengette and Hauviette sat with Jeanne under 54 the shade of a tree. The three friends were never very far apart, and as usual their small fingers were busied with the threads of their distaffs.

It was a delicious afternoon. The air, though warm, was soft and balmy, and fragrant with the perfume of wild mignonette and linden flowers. In the fields the ripened wheat rippled in the breeze like a yellow sea, and scarlet poppies made great splotches of color against the golden heads. The Meuse flowed sluggishly through dense masses of reeds and bushes, almost hidden by their foliage. A lovely scene, for the Valley of Colors, always beautiful, was never more so than in Summer. A busy scene, too; for men and boys were working in the fields and vineyards, either cradling the ripened grain, or tying up the vines, heavy with bunches of grapes.

“The sheep grow restless,” spoke Jeanne suddenly, as she noticed that some of the animals were beginning to stray apart from their fellows. “They have nipped the grass clean here. ’Tis time to move them.”

“And I grow sleepy,” cried Mengette, yawning. “We have been here since early morning, so ’tis no wonder. If I keep on pulling threads from this distaff I shall do like Colin yonder: lie down on the grass and go to sleep.”

“He ought not to sleep while he has the sheep to attend to,” declared Hauviette, shaking her head. “They might stray into the vineyards, or the forest, and he would be none the wiser.”

“He knows that we would not let them if we saw them,” said Jeanne. “I think he depends on us to look after them, though his flock is the largest one here. He ought not to be sleeping if we move our sheep away.”

55

She arose as she spoke and went quickly over to where Colin lay stretched out on the grass. Jeanne had grown taller in the year that had passed. “She shot up like a weed,” her mother commented as she lengthened the girl’s red woolen frocks. There had come an expression of thoughtfulness into her face, and her eyes seemed larger and brighter, holding a look of wonderment as though she were puzzling over many things; but there was no change in her gayety and high spirits. The sleeping boy opened his eyes drowsily as she shook him.

“Wake, Colin,” she cried. “Wake, and attend to what I tell you. We are going to take our sheep further afield. You must wake to look after yours.”

But Colin pulled away from her grasp, and settled down for another nap. Jeanne shook him again vigorously.

“You must wake, you lazy boy,” she cried. “What would your father say to you should aught happen to the sheep? And we are going to move ours.”

Colin sat up reluctantly at this, rubbing his eyes, and muttering discontentedly. So drowsy did he appear that Jeanne realized that some sort of expedient must be used to rouse him.

“There stands a cluster of linden flowers yonder on the edge of the forest, Colin. They are unusually pretty, and I want them. Your mother wants some, too. I heard her tell you to bring her some from the fields. See if you can get to them before I do.”

“It’s too hot to run,” murmured the boy. “It’s just like a girl to want a race when it’s hot. I’d rather sit still.”

“But that is just what you must not do if you want to keep awake,” persisted Jeanne, who knew that Colin would go to 56 napping again if she left him as he was. “Come on! You never have beaten me at a race, and you can’t do it to-day.”

“Aw! I’ve never tried very hard,” grumbled Colin, getting to his feet reluctantly. “I’ll run, but I’d much rather stay here. I don’t see why girls want to pester a fellow so, anyway. And why do you want to take the sheep elsewhere? They’ll do well enough right here. Where did you say the flowers were?”

“Yonder.” Jeanne indicated a large cluster of the yellow linden flowers growing near an oak thicket on the edge of the wood. These flowers grew in great abundance around the village. “Girls,” turning toward her friends, “Colin thinks that he can beat me running to that bunch of linden blossoms.”

“The idea,” laughed Mengette teasingly. “Why, he can’t beat any of us; not even little Martin yonder, who is half his size,” indicating a small boy whose flock browsed just beyond Colin’s sheep. “We’ll all run just to show him. Besides, it’s the very thing to keep us from getting sleepy. Get in line, everybody. Come on, Martin. I’ll be the starter. There! You will all start at three. Attention! Attention! One, two, three,––Go!” And laughing merrily they were off.

Now Jeanne often ran races with her playmates. It was a frequent diversion of the children when they attended the animals on the uplands, care being always exercised to run in a direction that would bring no alarm to the flocks. Jeanne was very fleet of foot, as had been proven on more than one occasion. This afternoon she ran so swiftly, so easily, so without conscious effort on her part that it seemed as though she were upborne by wings. Reaching the flowers quite a few moments ahead of her companions she bent over them, inhaling their perfume 57 with a sense of rapture that she had never before experienced. Hauviette was the first one after her to reach the goal.

“Oh, Jeanne,” she cried, gazing at her friend with wonder. “I never saw any one run as you did. Why, your feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground.”

“Jeanne always runs as though she were flying,” spoke Mengette now coming up. “Anyway I’m glad that Colin didn’t beat us. He’s ’way behind us all, for here is Martin before him. For shame, Colin,” she cried, laughing, as the boy lumbered up to them. Colin was not noted for fleetness of foot. “Not only did Jeanne outstrip you, but Hauviette, Martin and I did likewise. All of us got here before you. You didn’t stand a chance for those flowers, even if Jeanne had not run.”

“I wasn’t waked up enough to run well,” explained Colin, rousing to the need of defending himself.

“Jeanne,” broke in little Martin suddenly, “go home. Your mother wants you. I heard her calling.”

“Mother wants me,” exclaimed the girl in surprise. “Why, that’s strange! I never knew her to call me before when I was out with a flock. Something must be the matter.”

“Maybe there is,” said the lad. “Anyway I heard her calling, ‘Jeanne! Jeanne!’ just like that.”

“Then I must go to her,” cried Jeanne. With this she turned and left them, hastening in some alarm to the cottage. Her mother glanced up in surprise from her sewing as she came through the door.

“Why, child, what brings you home so early?” she cried. “Has anything happened to the flocks?”

58

“Did you not call me, mother?” asked Jeanne innocently. “I thought that something was wrong.”

“Call you? No. What made you think that I called you?” questioned Isabeau sharply. “You should never leave the sheep alone on the uplands. The other children have enough to do to mind their own animals without attending to yours. What made you think that I called you?”

“Martin said that he heard you,” Jeanne told her simply. “He must have tried to trick me, because I beat him and Colin in a race. I will go back to the sheep.” She started to leave the room as she spoke.

“Martin is a naughty lad,” exclaimed Isabeau with some irritation. “Nay, Jeanne; do not go back. Pierre has just come from the fields, and I will send him. You can be of use here. I have let you tend the sheep because your father has been so busy that he could not spare the boys, and because of it your sewing has been neglected. Do you, therefore, take this garment and finish the seam while I attend to Catherine. She is fretful of late, and does not seem well. Go into the garden, where it is cool. I will speak to Pierrelot.”

Obediently the little maid took the garment that her mother held out to her, and going into the garden sat down under an apple tree. She was quite skillful in sewing. Her mother did exquisite needlework, and wished her daughter’s ability to equal her own. Jeanne wished it too, so took great pains to please Isabeau.

It was quiet in the garden. Quieter than it had been on the uplands. There had been merry laughter there, and songs and jests from the children. Here there were only the twitter of 59 birds, the rustle of the leaves in the breeze, and the humming of gold belted bees for company. So quiet was it that presently some little birds, seeing that they had nothing to fear from the small maiden sewing so diligently, flew down from the apple tree and began to peck at the grass at her very feet. Jeanne smiled as she saw them, and sat quite still so as not to frighten them. Soon a skylark rose from the grass in the meadow lying beyond the orchard, and in a burst of song flew up, and up into the air, mounting higher and higher until he shone a mere black dot in the sky. Still singing he began to descend, circling as he came earthward, dropping suddenly like an arrow straight into the grass, his song ceasing as he disappeared.

Jeanne had let her work fall into her lap as she watched the flight of the bird, now she took it up again and began to sew steadily. The air was still athrill with the skylark’s melody, and the child sewed on and on, every pulse in harmony with her surroundings. All at once something caused her to look up.

There was a change of some kind in the atmosphere. What it was she could not tell, but she was conscious of something that she did not understand. She glanced up at the sky, but not a cloud marred its azure. It was as serene, as dazzling as it had been all day. Bewildered by she knew not what she picked up her sewing again, and tried to go on with it, but she could not. She laid down the garment, and once more glanced about her. As she did so she saw a light between her and the church.

It was on her right side, and as it came nearer to her it grew in brightness. A brightness that was dazzling. She had never seen anything like it. Presently it enveloped her. Thrilled, 60 trembling, awed, too frightened to move, the little maid closed her eyes to shut out the glory that surrounded her. And then, from the midst of the radiance there came a voice; sweeter than the song of the skylark, sweeter even than the chime of the bells she loved so well. It said:

“Be good, Jeanne, be good! Be obedient, and go frequently to church. I called thee on the uplands, but thou didst not hear. Be good, Jeanne, be good.”

That was all. The voice ceased. Presently the light lessened; it faded gradually, and soon ceased to glow. The little girl drew a long breath, and fearfully lifted her eyes. There was naught to be seen. The garden looked the same as before. The little birds still pecked at her feet, the leaves still rustled in the breeze, the church wore its usual aspect. Could she have fallen asleep and dreamed, she asked herself.

At this moment Isabeau called to her from the door of the cottage:

“Take Catherine, Jeanne,” she said. “I do not know what ails the child. She frets so. I will brew a posset. Do you attend to her a few moments. Why, what ails you, my little one?” she broke off abruptly as Jeanne came to her. “Is aught amiss? You look distraught.”

Jeanne opened her lips to reply. She thought to tell her mother of the wonderful thing that had happened, and then, something in Isabeau’s expression checked the words. Perhaps the good woman was unduly worried. She was in truth overburdened with the cares of her household. Little Catherine was ailing, and an ailing child is always exacting. Whatever it may have been, Jeanne found the words checked on her 61 lips, and was unable to relate what had occurred. A girl trembling on the brink of womanhood is always shy and timid about relating the thoughts and emotions that fill her. The unusual experience was such as needed a sympathetic and tender listener. The mother was too anxious over the younger child to be in a receptive mood for such confidences. So when she said again:

“Is anything amiss, Jeanne?” The little girl only shook her head, and said in a low tone:

“No, mother.”

“I dare say that the trick that Martin played upon you has upset you,” commented Isabeau. “You ran the race, and then ran home thinking that something was wrong with us here. It was a mean trick, though done in sport. I shall speak to his mother about it. The boy goes too much with that naughty Colin.”

Jeanne started. The voice had said that it had called her on the uplands. Could it be that that was what Martin had heard?

If so, then it could not have been a dream. It had really happened. She found voice to protest timidly:

“Perhaps he did not mean to trick me, mother. Perhaps he really thought that he heard you calling me.”

“Pouf, child! How could he, when I did not call? There! a truce to the talk while I brew the posset. I hope that Catherine is not coming down with sickness.”

She hurried into the kitchen, while Jeanne, wondering greatly at what had taken place, took her little sister into the garden, and sat down under another tree.

62

CHAPTER VI

Jeanne’s Harsh Words

So, half from shyness, half from fear of ridicule, the child told no one of her strange experience, but often did the thought of the happening come to her, and she wondered what it could mean. Indeed so much did she dwell upon it that Mengette rallied her upon her abstraction.

“What has come over you, Jeanne?” asked the latter one day when she and Jeanne in company with other girls and women were at the river engaged in one of the periodical washings of the village. “Twice have I spoken to you, yet you have not answered. Has your mother been scolding you?”

“Mother scolding? Why, no!” Jeanne glanced up in surprise. “There is naught the matter, Mengette. I was just thinking.”

“Of what?” questioned her friend, but as Jeanne made no 63 reply she lowered her voice and said with some asperity: “You are thinking too much, Jeanne D’Arc. You are not a bit like yourself, and every one is noticing it. Why, when you come to a washing you come to laugh, to sing, to talk, and to have a good time; but you do naught but mope.” And Mengette gave the garments she was washing a vicious thump with the clothes-beater.

“Well, I haven’t moped so much but that my clothes are as clean as the ones you are washing,” retorted Jeanne, holding up some linens for inspection, and regarding her friend with a quizzical glance. “Mengette, those poor garments will be beaten to a thread if you pound them much harder.”

Mengette let her paddle drop, and pushed back her hair with her wet hands.

“I’d willingly beat them to a thread to hear you laugh, Jeanne. Now come up closer, and I will tell you something that Hauviette told me last night. I don’t want any one else to hear it.”

So, wooed for the time being from her thoughts, Jeanne moved her washing table closer to her friend’s, and the two girls were soon deep in a low toned conversation, punctuated by many peals of merriment. All along the bank of river the village women and girls kneeled over their box-shaped washing tables, open at one side, set in the water’s edge, talking as they worked, or sometimes singing roundels and catches. As Mengette had said, the pleasure of washing lay in the meeting of many women and girls, and in the chatting, laughter and news-telling between the thump, thump of the clothes-beaters. The sound of the paddles could be heard along the valley as they 64 beat and turned and dipped and turned again the coarse garments of their families. Thus labor that would have proved irksome performed by two or three alone was lightened by the communion and fellowship of the many.

It was pleasant by the river, despite the heat of the day. Bluebells and tall white plumes of spiræa vied with the brownish-yellow of mignonette and the rose of meadow pink in embroidering a delicate tracery of color against the vivid green of the valley. The smell of new mown hay made the air fragrant, and hills and meadows smiled under a cloudless sky. The workers laughed, and sang, and chatted, plying always the paddles; but at length the washing was finished. The sun was getting low behind the Domremy hills when the last snowy pieces were stretched upon the grass to bleach, and then, piling large panniers high with the garments that were dried the women lifted them to their backs, thrusting their arms into the plaited handles to steady them, and so started homeward. Isabeau Romée lingered to speak to her daughter.

“Leave the tables and paddles, little one,” she said, as she saw Jeanne preparing to take them from the water. “I will send the boys for them, and you have done enough for one day. Know you where the lads are? I have seen naught of them since dinner.”

“Father said that since the hay was cut, and there was no sign of rain, they might have the afternoon for themselves, mother. I think they went somewhere down the river to fish.”

“’Tis most likely,” said Isabeau. “I hope that they will not meet the Maxey boys anywhere. If they do, home will they come all bruised and bleeding, for never do boys from this side 65 of the river meet those from the Lorraine side that there is not a fight. I like it not.”

“’Tis because the boys of Domremy and Greux are Armagnacs, and those of Maxey-sur-Meuse are Burgundians,” explained Jeanne, who did not know that ever since the world has stood boys of one village always have found a pretext to fight lads of another, be that pretext the difference between Armagnacs and Burgundians, or some other. “How can they help it, mother, when even grown people fight their enemies when they meet?”

“True; ’tis no wonder that they fight when there is naught but fighting in the land.” Isabeau sighed. “Would there were no war. But there, child, let’s talk of it no more. I weary of strife, and tales of strife. Since the boys are somewhere along the river they needs must pass the bridge to come home. Do you, therefore, wait here for them, and tell them that they are to bring the tables and the paddles home. I will go on to get the supper.”

“Very well, mother,” assented Jeanne. So while her mother went back to the cottage, the great pannier of clothes towering high above her head, the little girl rinsed the box-shaped washing tables carefully, then drew them high on the banks; after which she sat down near the bridge to watch for her brothers.

She did not have long to wait. Suddenly there came shouts and cries from the Lorraine side of the river, and soon there came Jean and Pierre, her brothers, followed by other Domremy lads running at full speed, and in their wake came many Maxey boys, hurling insults and stones at their fleeing adversaries.

66

On Pierre’s head was a long, deep gash that was bleeding freely, and at that sight Jeanne burst into tears. She could not bear the sight of blood, and a fight made her cower and tremble. At this juncture there came from the fields Gérardin d’Épinal, a Burgundian, and the only man in Domremy who was not of the King’s party. He gave a great laugh as he saw the boys of his own village running from those of Maxey. Then knowing how loyal Jeanne was to the Dauphin, he cried teasingly:

“That is the way that the Burgundians and English are making the ‘Little King of Bourges’ run. (A term applied to the Dauphin Charles by his enemies.) Soon he will be made to leave France, and flee into Spain, or perhaps Scotland, and then we will have for our Sovereign Lord, Henry King of England and France.”

At that Jeanne grew white. Her tears ceased to flow, and she stood up very straight and looked at him with blazing eyes.

“I would that I might see thy head struck from thy body,” she said in low intense tones. Then, after a moment, she crossed herself and added devoutly: “That is, if it were God’s will, Gérardin d’Épinal.”

The words were notable, for they were the only harsh words the girl used in her life. Long afterward Gérardin d’Épinal told of them. Now he had the grace to blush, for he had not meant to rouse the little creature to such passion. With a light laugh he turned and went his way, saying:

“Don’t take such things so much to heart, Jeanne.”

The Domremy boys had reached their own side of the river 67 by this time, and therefore were safe from further attack from their rivals. Now they gathered about Jeanne, for they had heard what she had said to Gérardin.

“How did you come to speak so to him, Jeanne?” cried Jean.

Jeanne hung her head.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Yes; it was because of what he said about the gentle Dauphin; and too, I think, because of the cut in Pierre’s head.” And with that she put her arm about her brother, and drew him to her. “Does it hurt much?” she asked tenderly. “Come! let me wash it off before we go home. Mother likes not to see blood.”

“And neither do you,” exclaimed Pierre, noting her pale face. “Don’t bother about it, Jeanne. It doesn’t hurt very much.” He shrugged his shoulders with assumed indifference.

“Mother will not like it because you have been fighting,” went on the girl gravely.

“We didn’t mean to, Jeanne,” broke in Jean quickly. “We came to the river to fish, but some of the Burgundian boys came to the other side, and began to call us names, saying that we didn’t dare to come over and fight. We ran back to the village, and told the other boys who came back with us to show the Maxeys that we did dare, but not one of them was to be seen. So we crossed the bridge to the Lorraine side anyway, and––”

“They set upon us,” interrupted Pierre excitedly. “They had hidden in the bushes and behind trees, and as soon as we were fairly among them they threw themselves upon us. ’Twas an ambuscade just like when Roland was set upon at Roncesvalles.”

“And did the Domremy boys give a good account of themselves?” 68 queried Jeanne anxiously. “And how did you get the gash?”

Jean looked embarrassed.

“I did it,” he said at length. “It was like Olivier did to Roland. You see we were all so mixed up when the Maxey boys fell upon us that we couldn’t tell which were our boys, and which were not. So, in striking out with a stick that I carried, I thwacked Pierrelot on the head instead of one of them as I intended. But I made up for it afterward; didn’t I, Pierre?”

Pierre laughed as he nodded affirmation.

“So did I,” he said. “I knew that Jean would feel bad about hitting me, so we both made the Burgundians pay for it. Do we have to carry the tables and the paddles home, Jeanne? Or aren’t you through washing yet?”

“Yes; we have finished, Pierre. Mother said for you boys to carry the tables home, but since you are hurt I will help Jean with them.”

“Pouf! why, ’tis nothing but a scratch,” cried Pierrelot. “And you have been washing, too. I’ll carry my share, Jeanne. Now let’s be getting home. I’m hungry as a wolf.”

“So am I,” declared Jean.

The supper was waiting when they reached the cottage, and the boys’ story of the ambuscade was related again to their father and mother, who listened sympathetically. In the midst of the recital Jeanne slipped out, and went across the garden to the little church to vespers.

There was no one in the church but the Curé, and the good priest smiled as his little parishioner entered. He was always sure of one auditor, whatever the state of the weather, for 69 Jeanne attended all services. In one transept was an image of Saint Catherine, the patron saint of young girls, and before this the child knelt in prayer. It was deemed presumptuous for Christians to address God directly in prayer at this period, so that prayers were made to the saints, who were asked to make intercession for the suppliant. So Jeanne made her supplication to the saint, and then took her seat, for the people were coming in for the service.

Messire Guillaume Frontey, the priest, led them through a short benediction service, and comforted and refreshed,––Jeanne had been much wearied by the day’s work and religion was to her as the breath of life,––the child passed out into the garden.

There was a sweet coolness in the evening air, and the darkness was soft and agreeable after the glare of the summer sun. So pleasant was the night that Jeanne stopped under an apple tree, loath to enter the warm cottage. Presently, through the darkness, there came the light that she had seen before. A light so bright, so glowing in its radiance that she sank to her knees awed by the luminosity. She was not so frightened as when it had come before, yet still she dared not lift her eyes to gaze upon its wonder. Tremblingly she waited for the voice that she knew would follow. As it spake the bells of the church began to ring for compline. Mingled with their chimes sounded tones so sweet that her eyes filled at their tenderness:

“I come from God to help thee live a good and holy life,” it said. “Be good, Jeanne, and God will aid thee.”

That was all. The light faded gradually, and when it was gone Jeanne rose to her feet.

70

“It was the voice of an angel,” she whispered in awed tones. “The voice of an angel, and it spoke to me.”

And from that time forth Jeanne D’Arc had no doubt but that an angel had spoken to her. To children, especially religious little ones, Heaven is always very near, and that one of its denizens should come to them does not seem so improbable as it does to mature minds. For some time she stood lost in wonderment at the miraculous happening, then slowly and thoughtfully she went into the cottage, going at once to her own little room.

This room was on the side of the cottage toward the church where the eaves sloped low. From her tiny window she could see the sacred light on the altar, and with hands clasped, Jeanne knelt before the open sash, gazing devoutly upon it. It seemed to her that the threshold of Heaven was reached by that little church.

71

CHAPTER VII

Further Visions

From this time forth the Voice became frequent. Again and again she heard it; chiefly out of doors, in the silence and freedom of the fields or garden. In time the Heavenly radiance resolved itself into the semblance of a man, but with wings and a crown on his head: a great angel, surrounded by many smaller ones. The little maid knew him by his weapons and the courtly words that fell from his lips to be Saint Michael, the archangel who was provost of Heaven and warden of Paradise; at once the leader of the Heavenly Hosts and the angel of judgment.

Often had Jeanne seen his image on the pillar of church or chapel, in the guise of a handsome knight, with a crown on his helmet, wearing a coat of mail and bearing a lance. Sometimes 72 he was represented as holding scales. In an old book it is written that “the true office of Saint Michael is to make great revelations to men below, by giving them holy counsels.”

In very remote times he had appeared to the Bishop of Avranches and commanded him to build a church on Mount Tombe, in such a place as he should find a bull hidden by thieves; and the site of the building was to include the whole area trodden by the bull. The Abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel-au-Péril-de-la-Mer was erected in obedience to this command.

About the time that Jeanne was having these visions the English were attacking Mont-Saint-Michel, and the defenders of the fortress discomfited them. The French attributed the victory to the all-powerful intercession of the archangel. Therefore, Saint Michael was in a fair way to become the patron saint of the French instead of Saint Denys, who had permitted his abbey to be taken by the English. But Jeanne knew nothing of what had happened in Normandy.

The apparition was so noble, so majestic in its appearance that at first the little maid was sore afraid, but his counsels were so wise and tender that they overcame her fear.

One day he said to her: “Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret will come to thee. Act according to their advice; for they are appointed to guide thee and counsel thee in all that thou hast to do, and thou mayest believe what they shall say unto thee.”

Jeanne was glad when she heard this promise, for she loved both these saints. Saint Marguerite was highly honoured in the Kingdom of France, where she was a great benefactress. 73 She was the patron saint of flax spinners, nurses, vellum-dressers, and of bleachers of wool.

Saint Catherine had a church at Maxey on the other side of the Meuse, and Jeanne’s little sister bore her name. Often had she repeated the rhymed prayer that was used in the saint’s honour throughout the Valley of Colors:

Both the saints were martyrs. Jeanne had heard their stories many times from her mother, so she awaited their coming eagerly.

It was in the woods, near the Fairy Tree, that they first came to her. It was a Saturday, the day held sacred to the Holy Virgin, and Jeanne made a little pilgrimage through the forest up the hill path beyond Greux to the Oratory of Our Lady of Belmont. With her tiny savings the child had bought a candle to burn on the altar, and also carried wild flowers to make the holy place as fragrant as the forest at its doors. She finished her orisons, placed her candle on the altar and laid her flowers on the shrine, then slowly started down the hill path. Soon, finding herself near The Gooseberry Spring, she knelt upon its brink for a drink from its pellucid waters. It was very quiet in the clearing about the Spring, and over the grassy space lay a grateful shade. The day was warm, and after her drink Jeanne sat down on a natural seat formed by the gnarled roots of a tree. Her hands lay loosely, one reposing in the other in her lap. Her head drooped, and she lost herself in thought.

74

All at once an odour, marvellously sweet, diffused itself on the air about her. It was a perfume the like of which she had never inhaled before. She lifted her head quickly, and drew a long deep breath, glancing around her for the blossoms that emitted such fragrance.

As she did so there came a slight rustling of leaves among the trees, and from the Heavens there seemed to shoot downward a splendid effulgence. An unearthly light that flooded the place with glory. A look of rapture came into Jeanne’s face. She rose, and crossed herself devoutly, then curtsied low as from the splendor there issued two shining figures, clad like queens, with golden crowns on their heads, wearing rich and precious jewels. The little maid could not look upon their faces by reason of the dazzling brightness that proceeded from them, but she knelt and kissed the hem of their garments. Gravely the saints returned her salutations, then spoke, naming each other to her. So soft and sweet were their tones that the sound filled her with a vague happiness, causing her to weep.

“Daughter of God,” they said, “rise, and listen. We come to teach thee to live well that thou mayest be prepared for thy mission.”

Further they spoke to her, but soon the brilliancy began to dim, and Jeanne caught at their garments.

“Oh, do not leave me,” she cried entreatingly. “Take me with you.”

“Nay,” came the answer. “Thy time is not yet, Daughter of God. Thy work is yet to be done.”

OFTEN THEY APPEARED IN THE LITTLE GARDEN

75

With these words the gentle forms disappeared, and Jeanne flung herself upon the place where they had stood, weeping in an anguish of tenderness and longing.

The saints visited her nearly every day after this. She met them everywhere; sometimes in the woods, or near the Spring; often they appeared in the little garden close to the precincts of the church, and especially did they come when the bells were ringing for matins or compline. It was then that she heard the sweet words that they spoke most distinctly. So she loved the sound of the bells with which the voices mingled. Soon she grew to call the visions “My Voices,” for the appearance of her visitors was always more imperfect to her than the message. Their outlines and their lovely faces might shine uncertain in the excess of light, but the words were always plain.

The piety and devotion of the girl deepened into a fervid wonder of faith. She put aside the gayety of girlhood, and lived a simple, devout, tender life, helping her mother, obeying her father, and doing what she could for every one. It seemed to her that she was one set apart, subject to the Divine guidance. Nor did she tell any one of her experiences, but locked the Divine secret in her heart, showing forth the tenderness and gravity of one who bears great tidings. She became so good that all the village wondered at her, and loved her.

“Jeanne confesses oftener than any of you,” the Curé told his parishioners reprovingly. “When I celebrate mass I am sure that she will be present whether the rest of you are or not. Would that more of you were like her! Had she money she would give it to me to say masses.” The good man sighed. Money was not plentiful in Domremy.

But if she had not money the child gave what she had: flowers 76 for the altars, candles for the saints, and loving service to all about her. She was an apt pupil in the school of her saints, and learned well to be a good child before she conned the great lesson in store for her.

“Jeanne grows angelic,” Isabeau remarked complacently one day to Jacques. “There never was her like. So good, so obedient, she never gives me a bit of trouble. And what care she takes of her little sister! Catherine has been hard to attend this summer, so fretful and ailing as she is, but Jeanne can always quiet her. I know not what I should do without her. I am the envy of all the women in the village; for, they say, there is not another girl so good in the valley.”

But Jacques D’Arc frowned.

“Too quiet and staid is she for her age,” he remarked. “Have you marked, Isabeau, that she no longer dances with the other children? Nor does she romp, or play games with them. And the praying, and the church-going! There is too much of it for the child’s good.”

“Jacques!” exclaimed his wife in shocked tones. “How can you say that? The good Curé commends Jeanne for her devoutness. That can only do her good.”

“Then what is it?” demanded the father impatiently. “Could it be that some one is teaching the girl letters, that she is so quiet? Learning of that sort works harm to a lass.”

His wife shook her head emphatically.

“She knows not A from B, Jacques. Everything she knows is what she has learned from me. I have taught her the Credo, the Paternoster, the Ave Marie, and have told her stories of the saints: things that every well-taught child should know. 77 She is skilled, too, in housework. I have seen to that. And as for sewing and spinning, there is not her equal in this whole valley. There is naught amiss, Jacques. If there is, ’tis more likely the harm that she has received from tales of bloodshed which every passerby brings of the war. Often do I wish that we did not live on the highroad.” The good dame shook her head as she glanced through the open door of the cottage to the great road where even at that moment creaking wains were passing laden with the cloths of Ypres and Ghent.

Often instead of wagons there were men-at-arms, and Isabeau feared the glitter of lances. In war it is not assault and plundering that takes the heart and saps the courage, but the ever present dread that they will happen. Fugitives from the wars stopped for bite and sup, and recounted their stories which were often of great suffering. Such tales have effect, and Isabeau herself being influenced by them did not doubt but that her children were moved in like manner.

“The children hear too much of battles, and the state of France,” she added.

“Nay; such things make no lasting impression upon children, Isabeau. It is well that they should know something of what goes on beyond the valley. Perchance the child is threatened with the Falling Sickness. She wears no charm against it.”

It was an age of superstition. That Jacques D’Arc should believe that a charm could ward off epilepsy was only what all men believed at the time. He was an austere man, but fond of his family, and his daughter’s quietness and growing devoutness had aroused in him a feeling of uneasiness.

“There is naught amiss with the child, Jacques,” spoke his 78 wife, consolingly. “She would come to me with it if there were. She is becoming more thoughtful as she grows older; that is all.”

“I like it not,” grumbled Jacques, shaking his head as though but half convinced. “I much fear that something is wrong. It is not fitting that so young a girl should be so pious. Is not that a Friar turning in from the highway, Isabeau?”

79

CHAPTER VIII

Jeanne Receives a Gift and an Announcement

Isabeau glanced toward the man who was nearing the cottage. He was clad in the frock of the Order of Saint Francis, and was carrying a heavy staff.

“’Tis one of the Grey Friars,” she exclaimed; “and supper is not yet started. I must hurry to get it upon the table, for he may be hungry.”

“If it is a Grey Friar let him get on to Neufchâteau,” grumbled Jacques. “They have a house there, and ’tis but five miles further on.”

“Jacques,” ejaculated his wife reprovingly, “what are you saying? The poor father may be weary. If he were a man-at-arms you would give him welcome.”

“If he were a man-at-arms he would have something worth hearing to tell,” retorted Jacques. In spite of his words, however, he rose as the friar came to the door, and saluted him but with scant courtesy.

80

“Pax vobiscum, my son,” said the friar humbly. “Perchance for the love of God you will give a poor brother of the Order of the Blessed Francis somewhat to eat, and a place to abide for the night. I have travelled far, and am aweary.”

“Enter, father,” spoke Jacques shortly. “Supper will soon be upon the table, and a bed shall be made for you.”

“Thank you, my son. A benediction upon you, and upon your house,” returned the priest so mildly that Jacques’ manner softened. He was not usually churlish to guests, unbidden though they might be; but he was anxious and uneasy over his daughter, and her fervid zeal for the church caused him to regard churchmen with temporary disfavor. At the monk’s tone, however, he threw wide the door and gave him a seat with more show of cordiality.

The friar had scarcely seated himself before Jeanne entered, bearing a flagon of fresh water and a cup which she carried directly to him. Bending low before him she said gently:

“Drink, good father. You must be thirsty.”

“I am, my child.” The Franciscan quaffed the water gratefully, saying, as he gave back the cup: “I have travelled many leagues, even from Rome, where I have been upon a pilgrimage.”

“From Rome?” ejaculated Jacques D’Arc, turning round with eagerness. “Hear you that, Isabeau? The holy man has been to Rome. Hasten with the supper; he must be hungry.” With this he busied himself to make the priest more comfortable. To make a pilgrimage to Rome cast a glamour of sanctity about him who made it, and exalted him in the eyes of all men.

“THE HOLY MAN HAS BEEN TO ROME”

81

Jeanne smiled as her father and mother bustled about the friar, and quietly occupied herself with preparations for the supper. It was soon ready, and eaten with all the hearty relish of honest, human hunger. After it was over the best place by the fire was given the friar––already the evenings were beginning to grow chill––and the family gathered around him. As has been said before, in return for their entertainment travellers were expected to regale their hosts with whatsoever news they might be possessed of, or with tales of their travels or adventures. The Franciscan proved to be most agreeable.

He told of his pilgrimage, and described at length the appearance of the holy city. He spoke also of having seen and spoken with the holy Colette of Corbie, that famous nun whose miracles of healing were then the wonder of the Christian world.

At this they crossed themselves, and were silent for a little from very awe from having among them a man who had been so favored. Then Isabeau, who was devoted to sacred things and saintly legends, said timidly:

“Perchance, good father, you have about you a relic, or a ring that hath been touched by the blessed Sister Colette?”

“Would that I had,” spoke the friar devoutly. “I would cherish it above all things, but I have not. It is true, however, that I have a ring. It hath not been blessed, nor does it possess power to perform miracles. Nathless, it does have great virtue, having been made by a holy man, and by reason of herbs, which have been curiously intermingled with the metal under the influence of the planets, is a sovereign charm against the Falling Sickness.”

82

Jacques looked up with quick interest.

“Let us see the ring, messire,” he said. “That is, if it please you.”

“It pleases me right well,” answered the friar, drawing a small ring from the bosom of his frock.

It was of electrum, a kind of brass at this time called the gold of the poor. It was an ordinary trifle, but to the peasant and his family it was rich and wonderful. There was no stone or seal, but a broad central ridge, and two sloping sides engraved with three crosses, and the names Jesus and Maria. Such rings were common; sometimes instead of the holy names there were figures of Saints, the Virgin Mary, or a priest with the chalice. A ring, an amulet, a relic that was supposed to be blessed, or to have virtue against disease appealed to the marvel loving part of their natures, so that the people eagerly sought such articles. They desired above all else to possess the precious thing, or that they might touch it with some treasured possession that some of its virtues might pass into themselves. So now Jacques’ eyes met those of his wife’s in a glance of understanding. Isabeau voiced the thought that filled them.

“Would you sell this ring, good father?” she asked.

“Nay; it is not for sale. I but showed it in lieu of a precious relic. ’Tis but a bauble compared to many holy relics that I have seen. Nathless, the ring hath its properties.”

Jacques handed the ring back to him with regret showing plainly on his honest face.

“That I am sorry to hear,” he said. “The little one here hath no charm against the Falling Sickness, and I am 83 minded to buy it for her. She has been o’er quiet of late.”

The friar glanced at Jeanne, who had sat listening attentively to his stories with shining eyes. Then he smiled.

“If it is for this little maid who waited not to be bidden to bring me drink when I was weary and thirsty, I will sell,” he said. “Nay, not sell; but if ye are so minded to give alms for a convent that is being builded by the Sisters of Saint Claire, then may you have it. I know in very truth that it will prove efficacious against the Falling Sickness.” Again the priest smiled at Jeanne. There was naught about the pale purity of her face that denoted ill health, and therefore the good priest might speak with authority.

Jacques drew the girl to him, and taking the ring from the Franciscan fitted it to the third finger of her left hand.

“Do you like it, my little one?” he asked.

Jeanne’s eyes glistened. Like most girls she was fond of pretty things, and she had never had a ring. To her it was very precious.

“Are you in truth going to get it for me, father?” she cried.

“Yes.” Jacques nodded, pleased that she liked the trifle. “Isabeau, give the father the alms he wishes so that we may have the ring for the little one. It is given to you by both your mother and myself, my child,” he continued as Isabeau brought forth the alms for the friar. “Wear it as such, and may it protect you not only from the Falling Sickness but from other ills also.”

At this Jeanne threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him, then running to her mother kissed her also.

84

“It is so pretty,” she cried. “And see! it hath the two most holy names upon it.” Her glance rested lovingly upon the engraved characters.

“Let us see it, Jeanne,” spoke Pierre. “Sometime,” he whispered as she came to him to show it, “sometime I am going to give you a ring all by myself that shall be prettier than this.”

Jeanne laughed.

“Just as though any ring could be prettier than this, Pierrelot,” she said. “There couldn’t be one; could there, Jean?”

“Nenni.” Jean shook his head emphatically as he examined the ring critically. “I like it better than the one Mengette wears.”

“The Blessed Colette hath a ring which the Beloved Apostle gave to her in token of her marriage to the King of kings,” now spoke the Cordelier. “Many are there who come to Corbie to touch it, that they may be healed of their infirmities.”

Thus the talk went on; sometimes of the Saints and their miracles, then verging to the war, and the state of the kingdom. It was late when at length the family retired.

Jeanne was delighted with the gift. As a usual thing peasants did not bestow presents upon their families. Life was too severe in the valley, and necessities too hard to come by in the ferment of the war to admit of it. When next her Saints appeared, and Saint Catherine graciously touched the ring, Jeanne’s joy knew no bounds. Thereafter she was wont to contemplate it adoringly. But, while the ring might be sovereign against epilepsy, it did not rouse her into her oldtime joyousness.

She was very grave, very thoughtful, very earnest at this 85 time. She went on thinking for others, planning for others, sacrificing herself for others, just as always before. She ministered to the sick and to the poor, and gave her bed to the wayfarer as always, performing all her duties with sweet exactness, but she was quiet and abstracted. For her Saints came with greater frequency than ever now, and constantly they spoke to her of her mission.

“What can they mean?” she asked herself. “What is it that I am to do?” But weeks passed before she was told.

The smiling summer merged into Autumn, the season of heavy rains. Brooks rushed down from the hills, and the Meuse was swollen into a torrent, deep and rapid, which overflowed its banks in shallow lagoons. The clouds grew lower, leaning sullenly against the Vosges hills. Fogs came down thick and clinging. The river was rimed with frost. Snow and sleet drove along the Marches, and it was winter. The Valley of Colors lay grave, austere, and sad; no longer brilliantly hued, but clothed in a garb of white which gleamed palely when the clouds were scattered by the rays of a red, cold sun. There was no travel along the highway, and the gray, red-roofed villages were forced to depend upon themselves for news and social intercourse.

To all appearance life in the house of Jacques D’Arc went as peacefully, as serenely, as that of his neighbors, and in no wise differently. There was not one who suspected that Jeanne visited with saints and angels; that she walked with ever listening ear for the Voices to tell her what her divine mission was to be. No one suspected it, for even her youthful friendships continued, and she visited and was visited in turn by Mengette 86 and Hauviette; often passing the night with one or the other of them as has been the fashion of girls since the beginning of time. Both the girls rallied her on her changed spirits.

“Every one says that you are the best girl in the village, but that you are odd,” Hauviette confided to her one day in winter when she and Mengette were spending the afternoon with Jeanne.

The latter glanced up from her spinning with a smile. “And what do you say, Hauviette?”

“I say that you are better than any of us,” answered her friend quickly. “Still,” she hesitated, and then spoke abruptly, “there is a change though, Jeanne. You are not so lively as you were. You never dance, or race with us, or play as you were wont to do. What is the matter?”

“I know,” cried Mengette. “She goes to church too much. And she prays too often. My! how she does pray! Perrin le Drapier told me that when he forgot to ring the bells for compline she reproached him for not doing his duty, because she loved to pray then.”

“Don’t you, Mengette?” asked Jeanne quickly.

“Oh, yes. Why, of course,” answered Mengette. “But I don’t give the sexton cakes to ring the bells when he forgets them. You are getting ready to be a saint, aren’t you?”

Jeanne blushed scarlet at this, and did not speak.

“She is that already,” broke in Hauviette. “Perhaps she does not feel like playing or dancing.”

“That’s it,” spoke Jeanne suddenly, giving her friend a grateful glance. “I don’t feel like it any more.”

“Then we shan’t ask you to do it any more,” declared 87 Hauviette, who loved her dearly. “And you shan’t be teased about it, either. So there now, Mengette!”

“Oh, if she doesn’t feel like it, that’s different,” exclaimed Mengette, who was fond too of Jeanne in her own fashion. “But I do wish you did, Jeanne. There’s not half the fun in the games now as there was when you played. But I won’t say anything more about it. You’ll feel better about it by and by.”

So the matter was not referred to again by the two girls, though the change in Jeanne became more and more marked, as the days went by. Winter was nearing its close when at last she was told what her mission was to be. It was Saint Michael who unfolded it to her.

It was a cold morning, and the little maid had been to early mass. There had not been many present, and the house was cold, but the Curé smiled tenderly when he saw the small figure in its accustomed place, and Jeanne’s heart glowed in the sunshine of his approval. So she did not mind the chill of the church, but started on her return home in an uplifted and exalted frame of mind. To the child, nourished on sacred things, religion was as bread and meat. And then, all at once, the Light came.

It was of unusual splendor, and glowed with hues that stained the snow covered earth with roseate tints like those of the roses of Paradise. From the dazzling effulgence emerged the form of Saint Michael, clothed in grandeur ineffable. In his hand he held a flaming sword, and around him were myriads of angels, the hosts of Heaven whose leader he was. The old fear fell upon Jeanne at sight of his majesty, and she sank 88 tremblingly upon her knees, covering her face with her hands. But when the tender, familiar:

“Be good, Jeanne, and God will help thee,” fell from his lips, she ceased a little to tremble.

Then with infinite gentleness the archangel began to speak to her of France, and the “pity there was for it.” He told her the story of her suffering country: how the invader was master in the capital; how he was all powerful in the country north of the Loire; how internally France was torn and bleeding by the blood feud between the Duke of Burgundy and the disinherited Dauphin; how great nobles robbed the country which they should have defended, and how bands of mercenaries roved and plundered. The rightful king soon must go into exile, or beg his bread, and France would be no more.

The young girl’s heart already yearned over the woes of her distressed country, but now it swelled almost to bursting as she heard the recital from angelic lips. The “great pity that there was for France” communicated itself to her, and she felt it in every chord of her sensitive nature. The great angel concluded abruptly:

“Daughter of God, it is thou who must go to the help of the King of France, and it is thou who wilt give him back his kingdom.”

But at this Jeanne sprang to her feet, astounded.

“I, Messire? I?”

“Even thou, Jeanne. It is thou who must fare forth into France to do this. Hast thou not heard that France ruined by a woman shall by a virgin be restored? Thou art the Maid.”

89

But terrified and weeping the girl fell prostrate before him.

“Not I, Messire. Oh, not I. It cannot be.”

“Thou art the Maid,” was all he said.

With this Jeanne found herself alone.

90

CHAPTER IX

The Charge is Accepted

“Thou art the Maid.”

Over and over the young girl repeated the words in a maze of incredulity and wonder. That she, Jeanne D’Arc, should be chosen for such a divine commission was unbelievable. She was poor, without learning, a peasant girl who had no powerful friends to take her to the Court, and ignorant of all that pertained to war. Her judgment and common sense told her that such a thing could not be. True, the ancient prophecy of Merlin, the Magician, said that a maiden from the Bois Chesnu in the March of Lorraine should save France. True also was the fact that from her infancy she had played in that ancient wood; could even then behold its great extent from her father’s door. Yet, despite these actualities, it could not be that she was the delegated Maid.

91

So, while the archangel came again and again urging the high mission with insistency the girl protested shrinkingly. Time after time he said:

“Daughter of God, thou shalt lead the Dauphin to Reims, that he may there receive worthily his anointing.”

Again and again Jeanne replied with tears:

“I am but a poor girl, Messire. I am too young to leave my father and my mother. I can not ride a horse, or couch a lance. How then could I lead men-at-arms?”

“Thou shalt be instructed in all that thou hast to do,” she was told.

As time passed, unconsciously Jeanne became filled with two great principles which grew with her growth until they were interwoven with every fibre of her being: the love of God, and the desire to do some great thing for the benefit of her country. Her heart ached with the longing. So it came about that the burden of France lay heavy upon her. She could think of nothing but its distress. She became distrait and troubled.

Gradually, as the Voices of her Heavenly visitants grew stronger and more ardent, the soul of the maiden became holier and more heroic. She was led to see how the miraculous suggestion was feasible; how everything pointed to just such a deliverance for France. Her country needed her. From under the heel of the invader where it lay bruised and bleeding it was calling for redemption. And never since the morning stars sang together has there been sweeter song than the call of country. Ever since the Paladins of Charlemagne, as the Chanson de Roland tells, wept in a foreign land at the thought 92 of “sweet France,” Frenchmen had loved their native land and hated the foreigner. What wonder then, that when the divine call came, it was heard and heeded?

She still resisted, but her protests were those of one who is weighing and considering how the task may be accomplished. Months passed. There came a day in May, 1428, when Jeanne’s indecision ended. She was sixteen now, shapely and graceful, and of extraordinary beauty.

It was a Saturday, the Holy Virgin’s day, and the girl set forth on her weekly pilgrimage to the chapel of Bermont, where there was a statue of the Virgin Mother with her divine child in her arms. Jeanne passed through Greux, then climbed the hill at the foot of which the village nestled. The path was overgrown with grass, vines, and fruit-trees, through which she could glimpse the green valley and the blue hills on the east. Deeply embedded in the forest the chapel stood on the brow of the hill, and she found herself the only votary. She was glad of this, for to-day Jeanne wished to be alone. Prostrating herself before the statue, she continued long in prayer; then, comforted and strengthened, she went out of the chapel, and stood on the wooded plateau. To all appearance she was gazing thoughtfully off into the valley; in reality she waited with eager expectancy the coming of her celestial visitants.

Very much like a saint herself Jeanne looked as she stood there with uplifted look. There was in her face a sweetness and serenity and purity that reflected her spiritual nature. Her manner was at once winning, inspiriting and inspired. She did not have long to wait for the appearance of Saint Michael. Long communing with her Saints had robbed her 93 of all fear in their presence, so now when the archangel stood before her Jeanne knelt, and reverently kissed the ground upon which he stood.

“Daughter of God,” he said, “thou must fare forth into France. Thou must go. Thou must.”

For a moment Jeanne could utter no reply. She knew that the command must be obeyed. She had sought the retirement of the forest that she might inform her saints that she accepted the charge, and she most often met them in the silence and quiet of the fields, the forest, or garden. She had sought them to tell them of her decision, but at the thought of leaving her father, her mother, her friends, and the valley she loved so well, her courage faltered. Faintly she made her last protest:

“I am so young,” she said. “So young to leave my father and my mother. I can sew; can use with skill either the needle or the distaff, but I can not lead men-at-arms. Yet if it be so commanded, if God wills it, then I––” Her voice broke, and she bent her head low in submission before him.

At her words the wonderful light burst into marvellous brilliancy. It drenched the kneeling maiden in its dazzling radiance, pervading her being with a soft, warm glow. The faith that power would be given her to accomplish what was required of her was born at this instant; thereafter it never left her. When the archangel spoke, he addressed her as a sister:

“Rise, daughter of God,” he said. “This now is what you must do: Go at once to Messire Robert de Baudricourt, captain of Vaucouleurs, and he will take you to the King. Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine will come to aid you.”

94

And Jeanne D’Arc arose, no longer the timid, shrinking peasant girl, but Jeanne, Maid of France, consecrated heart and soul to her country. The time had come when she must go forth to fulfill her incredible destiny.

Henceforth she knew what great deeds she was to bring to pass. She knew that God had chosen her that through Him she might win back France from the enemy, and set the crown on the head of the Dauphin.

It was late when at length she left the precincts of the chapel, and passed down the hill path, and on to the fields of Domremy. Pierre was at work in one of the upland meadows, and as he wielded the hoe he sang:

It was the Song of Roland. The song that no French heart can hear unmoved. Jeanne thrilled as she heard it. Did Pierre too feel for their suffering country? Swiftly she went to him, and, throwing her arm across his shoulder, sang with him:

95

Pierre turned toward her with a smile.

“How you sang that, Jeanne. Just as though you would like to go out and fight for France yourself.”

“I would,” she replied quickly. “Wouldn’t you, Pierrelot?”

Something in her tone made the boy look at her keenly.

“How your eyes shine,” he said. “And somehow you seem different. What is it, Jeanne? The song?”

“Partly,” she told him.

“Well, it does make a fellow’s heart leap.” The youth spoke thoughtfully. “It always makes me feel like dropping everything to go out to fight the English and Burgundians.”

“We will go together, Pierrelot,” spoke his sister softly. “We––”

“What’s that about going to fighting?” demanded their father, who had drawn near without being perceived. “Let me hear no more of that. Pierre, that field must be finished by sundown. Jeanne, your mother has need of you in the house. There is no time for dawdling, or singing. Go to her.”

“Yes, father.” Dutifully the maiden went at once to the cottage, while Pierre resumed his hoeing.

The conversation passed from the lad’s mind, but it was otherwise with Jacques D’Arc. He had heard his daughter’s words, “We will go together, Pierrelot,” and they troubled him.

The following morning he appeared at the breakfast table scowling and taciturn, making but small pretence at eating. Presently he pushed back from the table. His wife glanced at him with solicitude.

“What ails you, Jacques?” she queried. “Naught have you 96 eaten, which is not wise. You should not begin the day’s work upon an empty stomach.”

“Shall I get you some fresh water, father?” asked Jeanne.

Jacques turned upon her quickly, and with such frowning brow that, involuntarily, she shrank from him.

“Hark you,” he said. “I dreamed of you last night.”

“Of me, father?” she faltered.

“Yes. I dreamed that I saw you riding in the midst of men-at-arms.”

At this both Jean and Pierre laughed.

“Just think of Jeanne being with soldiers,” exclaimed Jean. “Why, she would run at sight of a Godon.”

But there was no answering smile on the face of their father. According to his belief there was but one interpretation to be put upon such a dream. Many women rode with men-at-arms, but they were not good women. So now, bringing his fist down upon the table with a resounding thwack, he roared:

“Rather than have such a thing happen, I would have you boys drown her in the river. And if you would not do it, I would do it myself.”

Jeanne turned pale. Instantly it was borne in upon her that her father must not know of her mission. She knew that if now she were to tell of the wonderful task that had been assigned to her she would not be believed, but that he would think ill of her.

At this juncture her mother spoke, chidingly:

“How you talk, Jacques. What a pother to make over a dream. Come now! eat your breakfast, and think no more of it.”

97

But Jacques only reiterated his words fiercely:

“I would drown her rather than have a daughter of mine among soldiers.”

Jeanne glanced at her brothers, but their countenances were grave enough now, for they comprehended their father’s meaning. A sudden sense of aloofness, of being no longer part and parcel of her family, smote her. The tears came and overflowed her cheeks, for she was but a girl after all. To hide her grief she rose hastily, and ran to her own little room.

98

CHAPTER X

The First Step

From this time forth Jeanne’s family could not fail to notice the change that marked her bearing and appearance. Her eyes glowed with the light of a steadfast purpose, and the serene thoughtfulness of her countenance was illumined by a brightness that was like the rosy flush of dawn stealing upon the pale coldness of the morning. She was still simple in manner, but her shrinking timidity had vanished, and in its stead had come decision and an air of authority. She bore herself nobly, as became one who had been vested with the leadership of a divine mission. Yet of this outward expression of authority she was unconscious. The thought that filled her to the exclusion of all else was how she was to proceed to accomplish her task. For there were three things that she had to do for the saving of her country:

99

First: She must go to Robert de Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs.

Second: She must win back France from her enemies.

Third: She must lead the Dauphin to his anointing at Reims. How these things were to be brought to pass she did not know.

The walled town of Vaucouleurs lay some twelve miles to the northward of Domremy, and was the chief place of the district. Its captain, Robert de Baudricourt, was well known throughout the Valley of Colors. He was a blunt, practical man of the sword, who had married two rich widows in succession, and who had been fighting since he could bear arms, in the reckless wars of the Lorraine Marches. He was brave as a lion, coarse, rough, domineering, an ideal soldier of his time and country. Jacques D’Arc had had personal dealings with him in the Spring of the previous year when he had appeared before him to plead the cause of Domremy against one Guiot Poignant, and he had many tales to tell of the rough Governor. How could she approach such a man?

There was no hope of help at home. That she foresaw clearly as she recalled her father’s words concerning his dream. She knew that he would oppose her bitterly. Nor would her mother aid her, deeply as she loved her, to go contrary to her father’s will. Neither would they allow her to journey to Vaucouleurs unattended. The maiden made a mental review of the villagers in search of one to whom she might appeal for assistance, but rejected them sadly as their images passed before her. Clearly she must bide her time.

“But I must go soon,” she mused. “It is the will of God.”

100

Just at this juncture, when she knew not to whom to go, Durand Lassois, a cousin by marriage whom she called uncle because he was so much older than she, came to Domremy on a visit. Jeanne hailed his advent with eagerness. He lived with his young wife, who was Isabeau’s niece, in Bury le Petit, a hamlet lying on the left bank of the Meuse in the green valley, nine miles from Domremy, but only three from Vaucouleurs. Here was the help that she needed, for Durand was fond of Jeanne, and would do her bidding as unquestioningly as a mastiff obeys the child whom he adores.

So when Jeanne, taking him aside, asked him to take her home with him for a visit to her cousin, his wife, he assented readily.

“Aveline will be glad for you to come, Jeanne,” he said. “She is not well, and a visit from you will cheer her up.”

Jacques D’Arc made some objections when the subject was broached, but Isabeau was pleased and over-ruled them.

“It is the very thing,” she exclaimed. “The child has been in need of a change this long while. Nay, now, Jacques, say naught against it. She shall go. I wonder that we did not think of sending her there ourselves.”

“It must be for only a week, then,” said Jacques.

“A week is better than nothing,” spoke Durand Lassois. “Have no fear for her, Jacques. She shall be well looked after.”

So a few days later the uncle and niece started for Bury le Petit by way of the hill path beyond Greux. As they walked through the forest, fragrant with the breath of spring, Jeanne said abruptly:

101

“Uncle Durand, while I am at your house I wish you to take me to Vaucouleurs to see Sire Robert de Baudricourt.”

“You wish me to do what, child?” he asked in open-mouthed amazement.

“To take me to Vaucouleurs to see Sire Robert de Baudricourt.”

“What for?” demanded Lassois, staring at her.

“So that he may send me to the place where the Dauphin is, uncle. I must go into France to lead the Dauphin to Reims, that he may be crowned King there.”

Into the peasant’s honest face there came a troubled expression. Slowly he passed his hand across his brow, then stopped in the path and looked at her.

“It may be that we are walking too fast, little one,” he said gently. “Your mother said that you had not been well, and ’tis known that the sun sometimes plays strange tricks with the wits.”

“I am not daft, uncle, nor hath the sun unsettled my wits.” Jeanne showed neither surprise nor vexation at his words. “Have you not heard that a woman should lose France, and that a Maid should save France?”

“I have heard it,” admitted Durand slowly. “What then, Jeanne?”

“I am that Maid, Uncle Durand. I shall save France.” She spoke in a tone of quiet conviction.

The man drew a long breath and stared at her. He had known the maid all her short life. Knew of her good deeds, her purity and truthfulness; knew that all that could be urged against her was the fault of going to church too frequently. So 102 now, as he noted the clearness of her eyes and the calmness of her manner, he told himself that she believed what she said, and that whatever might be the nature of her affliction it was not madness.

“You must believe me, uncle,” spoke the girl pleadingly, “Have I not always been truthful?”

He nodded.

“I am so now. I am called of God to win back France from her enemies, and to lead the Dauphin to be crowned King at Reims. I go to the Captain of Vaucouleurs that he may grant men to me to take me to the gentle Dauphin. Will you take me to Sire Robert?”

Lassois did not reply. He could not. He stood for a long moment utterly incapable of speech. Jeanne went on in her soft, clear accents to tell him of her mission and of its divine origin. She was so earnest, she spoke with such assurance of the charge that had been laid upon her that in spite of himself Durand believed her. To the natural mind the wonder is not that angelic visitors come to the pure and good, but that they come so seldom. He leaned forward suddenly, and said:

“I’ll take you to Vaucouleurs, ma mie, if you wish to go. Jacques won’t like it, though. Have you thought of that?”

“I know, uncle, but it is the will of God. I must go,” she told him.

Involuntarily Lassois crossed himself. There was such a look of exaltation about the maiden that he felt as though he were in church.

“I’ll take you, Jeanne,” he said again. “But hark ye, child! 103 there must be no word of your Voices at the house. Neither Aveline nor her parents would believe you.”

“There will be many who will not believe me, uncle,” sighed she. She thought of the dear ones at Domremy who would not, and sighed again. “Even Sire Robert will not.”

“Then why go to him?” he demanded bluntly.

“It is commanded,” she answered. “Later he will believe.”

So the compact was made, and Jeanne had found the way to make the first step toward the fulfilling of her mission, and the journey was finished without further incident. However, it proved not so easy to leave for Vaucouleurs as she supposed it would be. Lassois and his young wife lived with her parents, the wife’s mother being Isabeau’s sister was therefore Jeanne’s aunt. Both mother and daughter welcomed their young kinswoman with delight, and took such pleasure in her society that they were unwilling that she should leave them even for a day. Thus four days went by before Durand was able to fulfill his promise. It was managed at last, however, and the maiden’s heart beat high as they left Bury le Petit behind them, and set their faces toward Vaucouleurs. Being but a three mile journey it was quickly made. Though born and bred in the valley it was the first time that she had ever seen the grim little fighting town where Robert de Baudricourt upheld the Standard of the Lilies against that of the Leopard. Therefore she looked about her with natural curiosity.

The width of the valley lessened here. The hills pressed so closely upon the river that the meadows lay at the very feet of the town. Within the walls the buildings clustered round the 104 base of a hill upon which stood the castle of the Governor and the church, overlooking the vast extent of hills and dominating the valley.

Without difficulty they entered the town, and climbed one of the narrow streets leading to the castle. The gates were open, for the bluff Captain was easy of access to his followers and townsmen. A number of soldiers were scattered about the courtyard burnishing armour, sharpening swords, and all as busy and merry as valiant men-at-arms should be. They cast curious glances at the pair, the rustic countryman and his fair companion, but on the whole were civil enough, permitting them to pass without hindrance into an ante-chamber of the castle.

“Shall I not speak to Sire Robert first, Jeanne?” questioned Lassois, who became all at once awkward and diffident. Secretly he hoped that the Governor would refuse to see his young kinswoman. He feared his ridicule. Jeanne shook her head.

“Let us go together, Uncle Durand. Go thou to thy master, the Sire Robert,” she added, turning to the page who now approached to learn what they wanted, “and tell him that Jeanne, the Maid, who comes with her uncle, would speak with him.”

“Ye must wait,” spoke the page pertly. “My master sits at meat.”

“Nathless thou wilt take the message,” spoke the girl so firmly and with so much of command that the youth’s insolent air became at once respectful. “My lord’s business is of importance. It must be attended to.”

105

The lad bowed, and left them. Soon he returned, saying:

“The Sire Captain says that you are to come to him. This way.” With this he conducted them through many a windy passage to the banqueting chamber.

A long table extended its length down the centre of the room, and around it were gathered the officers of the garrison. At the far end of this table stood a smaller one elevated above the other by a dais. At this table with three companions sat a brawny, gray-haired man whom Jeanne knew at once was the Governor.

Lassois, shy and ill at ease among so many gentles, stopped short just inside the door, and stood awkwardly twirling his cap in his hand. But Jeanne, who had been wont to tremble and blush before strangers, was in no wise abashed, but with noble and courteous bearing proceeded directly to the small table.

An involuntary exclamation of admiration escaped the rough soldier’s lips. The girl was clad in the ordinary red homespun frock of the peasant, and her abundant hair was entirely hidden under the coif worn by all women, but neither the poor dress nor the coif could conceal her beauty. So Robert de Baudricourt’s tones were as soft as his harsh voice would permit as he said:

“Thou art welcome, child. What wouldst thou have with me?”

“I am come to you, Sire Robert, sent by Messire,” she answered fearlessly, “that you may send word to the Dauphin and tell him to hold himself in readiness, but not to give battle to his enemies.”

106

A gasp of amazement came from Sire Robert. He did not speak, but, leaning forward, he regarded the maiden keenly. With perfect calm and self-possession she continued:

“Before mid Lent my Lord will grant him aid. But in very deed the realm belongs not to the Dauphin. Nathless it is Messire’s will that the Dauphin should be King, and receive the kingdom in trust. Notwithstanding his enemies the Dauphin shall be King; and it is I who shall lead him to his anointing.”

A moment of silence followed this startling announcement. Across the faces of the men-at-arms stole expressions of pity, then a murmur of compassion ran through the room as Sire Robert asked:

“Who is Messire?”

And Jeanne answered, “He is the King of Heaven.”

Now it happened that just before Lassois and Jeanne entered the hall the Governor and his men had been discussing the state of affairs in the country. It was noised about that the English were preparing for a new attack in force on the Dauphin’s territories south of the Loire. It was rumored also that the little wedge of loyal territory in which Vaucouleurs lay was to be the object of special attack by the Burgundians. That a young peasant girl, accompanied by a rustic, should calmly inform him that she should straighten out the difficulties of distressed France appealed to Robert as a huge joke. So, at her answer, he gave way to a great shout of laughter in which his men, as in duty bound, joined. Sire Robert had no sentiment, but was possessed of a coarse humour. Again and again the rafters rang with his merriment. When the 107 hilarity had somewhat subsided he beckoned Lassois to draw near.

“Come hither, rustic,” he said. “Is this thy daughter?”

“No,” replied Durand tremblingly. “She is the daughter of Jacques D’Arc.”

“So?” Sire Robert scanned the maid with new interest. “See you, my man,” he said. “The girl is daft; clean daft. As witless an innocent as ever it has been my lot to behold. Whip her well, and send her home to her father.”

Whip her? Lassois turned a startled glance upon the Governor as though he had not heard aright. Whip Jeanne, who was so good and sweet? The very idea was profanation. Cowed and frightened he grasped the maiden’s arm.

“Come,” he whispered. “Let’s be going.”

But calmly, courageously Jeanne faced the Governor.

“I go, Sire Robert, but I shall come again. For it is you who are appointed by the will of Messire to send me with an escort of men-at-arms to the aid of the Dauphin. My Voices have said so.”

Mad though they deemed the maiden, the men-at-arms and their Captain were impressed by the girl’s gravity and noble bearing as she spoke. In silence, therefore, they permitted the pair to pass from the room.

108

CHAPTER XI

A Trying Time

At the end of the week Lassois took Jeanne home. It was a return fraught with unpleasantness.

The girl’s visit to Sire Robert and her claim that she would lead the Dauphin to his anointing had been discussed and made a matter of sport by the soldiers of the garrison. From them it passed to the townspeople; from the townspeople to the country, and thence to Domremy. The whole valley buzzed with talk of it. Jacques heard the gossip in a passion of shame and anger. Therefore, when Lassois and his daughter entered the cottage he met them with scowling brow.

“What is this that I hear about your visiting Sire Robert de Baudricourt?” he demanded of Jeanne wrathfully. “Why did you go there? What business had you with him?”

Jeanne faced him bravely.

109

“I had to go,” she told him calmly. “It was commanded. Sire Robert has been appointed to give me men-at-arms to take me to the Dauphin that I may lead him to his anointing. I am to save France, father. It is so commanded by Messire, the King of Heaven.”

Her father’s jaw dropped. He stood staring at her for a long moment, then turned to his wife with a groan.

“She is out of her senses, Isabeau,” he cried. “Our daughter’s wits are wandering. This comes of so much church going and prayer. I will have no more of it.”

“Shame upon you, Jacques, for speaking against the church,” exclaimed Isabeau. “Say rather it hath come from the tales of bloodshed she hath heard. Too many have been told about the fireside. ’Tis talk, talk of the war all the time. I warned you of it.”

“Whatever be the cause I will have no more of it,” reiterated Jacques with vehemence. “Nay; nor will I have any more going to Vaucouleurs, nor talk of seeking the Dauphin. Do you hear, Jeanne?”

“Yes, father,” she answered quietly. “I grieve to go against your will, but I must do the work the Lord has appointed. Let me tell you––”

“Naught! You shall tell me naught,” cried Jacques almost beside himself with rage. “Go to your room, and stay there for the rest of the day. And hark ye all!” including his wife and sons in a wide sweeping gesture, “wherever Jeanne goes one of you must be with her. See to it. At any time she may go off with some roaming band of Free Lances. Rather than have that happen I would rather she were dead.” He turned upon 110 Lassois fiercely as Jeanne, weeping bitterly at his harsh words, obediently withdrew into her own little room.

“And you, Lassois! why did you not keep her from going to Vaucouleurs? You knew that I would not like it. You knew also that it would cause talk. Why, why did you permit it?”

“Aye, I knew all that, Jacques,” responded Lassois, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “But Jeanne really believed that she had received a divine command to go to Sire Robert. So believing, she would have gone to him in spite of all that I could have done. Therefore, was it not better that I should take her?”

“Durand speaks truly, Jacques,” spoke Isabeau. “The child is clearly daft. I have heard that such are always set in their fancies. What is past, is past. She has been to Vaucouleurs; therefore, it can not be undone. What remains to be done is to guard against any future wanderings.” The mother was as greatly distressed as the father, but out of sympathy for his woe she forced herself to speak of the occurrence with calmness.

“True,” muttered Jacques. “True. No doubt you could not do other than you did, Durand; but I wonder that you did it.”

“Jeanne does not seem out of her senses to me,” observed Lassois. “There is a saying, as you well know, that a maid from the Bois Chesnu shall redeem France. It might be she as well as another. She is holy enough.”

“Pouf!” Jacques snapped his fingers derisively. “It is as Isabeau says: she has heard too much of the state of the 111 realm, and of the wonderful Maid who is to restore it. The country is full of the talk. It could not mean her. She is but a peasant girl, and when hath a villein’s daughter ever ridden a horse, or couched a lance? Let her keep to her station. Don’t let such wild talk addle your wits, too, Durand. Now tell me everything that occurred at Vaucouleurs. The village rings with the affair. I want the whole truth.”

Lassois did as requested, and told all of the happening. Finding the girl’s parents so incredulous concerning her mission had somewhat shaken his belief in his niece, but the germ that remained caused him to soften the narrative a little. Jacques heard him through in silence. When Durand had finished the telling he bowed his head upon his arms as though the recital were beyond his strength to bear.

He was an upright man, just and honorable in his dealings with others. He stood well in the village, being esteemed next to the mayor himself. He was fond of his children, and had looked after their upbringing strictly. He wanted nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual, nothing but what was conventional and right to occur among them. He did not believe that his daughter had received a divine command. He did not know of her Heavenly visitants, nor would he have believed in them had he known. He thought that someway, somehow, she had become imbued with a wild fancy to be among men-at-arms; that, in consequence, she might become a worthless creature. The mere idea was agony. After a time he raised his head to ask brokenly,

“She told the Sire Captain that she would come again, Durand?”

112

“Yes, Jacques. She believes that she has been commanded so to do. She told you that; and whatever Jeanne thinks is the will of God that she will do.”

“She deludes herself,” spoke the father shortly, detecting the hint of faith underlying Lassois’ tone. “Think you that the Governor would listen to her if she were to go to him again?”

Lassois reflected.

“No,” he said presently. “I think he will not pay any attention to her.”

Jacques brightened. “That is well,” he nodded. “She shall not go if I can prevent it. She shall be guarded well. I shall see to it.”

Thereafter a strict watch was kept upon Jeanne’s every movement. One of her brothers, or Jacques D’Arc himself, was always with her. Instead of the tenderness that her father had always shown toward her there was now harshness and severity. Her mother too, though far from being cruel, was querulous and often spoke sharply to her. Isabeau knew her child’s pure heart too well to believe that the girl was actuated by any but the highest motives. She did think, however, that the child’s wits wandered, though the maiden performed her customary duties with care and exactness, and was worried and distressed in consequence.

In the village Jeanne found herself avoided. With the exception of Mengette and Hauviette her friends shunned her. The little hamlet was in a ferment of tattle. Whenever she appeared in any of the narrow streets heads were bent together and fingers pointed mockingly. Often the whispers reached her.

113

“There goes she who is to save France.”

“Jeanne D’Arc says she is to lead the Dauphin to his anointing.”

It was a trying time. Jeanne often shed tears over the jeers and taunts, but she wept in secret. Outwardly serene she submitted meekly to the espionage of her own people, and to the gibes of her neighbors. Had it not been for the consolation received from “Her Voices,” life would have been unendurable.

“Be patient, Daughter of God,” they said. “It will not be long. All will be well. Thy time will come soon.”

“Your father grieves over you, Jeanne,” spoke Isabeau one day after Jacques, stung beyond endurance by some remark he had heard against his daughter, was taking her severely to task. “He is cut to the heart that you should have gone to Vaucouleurs, and by your talk of the Dauphin. You must not be angry with him.”

“I am not, mother,” said the maiden sadly. “I know that he does not understand. Nor do you; but you will––in time.” She loved her parents dearly, and excused their rigorousness because she knew that they did not believe in her inspiration. Often had she tried to explain matters, but they would not listen.

“We understand only too well, little one,” responded Isabeau. “Jacques fears that you are bent upon seeking Sire Robert again. I have told him that you will not.” She gave Jeanne a questioning glance as she finished speaking.

“I must, mother. It is commanded.”

“Jeanne, give o’er such talk,” exclaimed her mother sharply. “Where did you get such notions? The neighbors say that you 114 got your affliction at l’Arbre-des-Fées. That you have been seen there alone, bewreathing the tree with garlands, and that while so doing you met a wicked fairy who was your fate. Is it true?”

“If there be fairies, mother, I have never seen them, and not in years have I carried wreaths to l’Arbre-des-Fées. I used to go there on Laetare Sunday with the boys and girls, but I go no longer. As to flowers, mother; I carry them only to the altar of Our Lady of Belmont, or offer them here to the Saints.”

“There is naught but good in that, so what makes the people talk so?” ejaculated the mother fretfully. “If you would but give up your talk of helping the Dauphin this tittle-tattle might be stopped. As it is, Jacques is distressed that you are so obdurate. He spoke to the Curé about exorcising you for the evil spirit.”

“Mother, did my father do that?” exclaimed the girl, the tears springing to her eyes.

“Oh, it is not to be.” The good dame herself had not approved this measure. She was in truth almost as much exercised over her husband as she was over her daughter. “Messire Guillaume Frontey would not hear of it, saying, that whatever might be the state of your wits your soul was as pure as a lily, because he confessed you almost daily. I advised Jacques––” Isabeau paused and subjected her daughter to a keen scrutiny, scarcely knowing how to proceed. She was in truth puzzled and a little awed by Jeanne’s new attitude and demeanor. Presently she continued abruptly:

“I was married when I was your age, Jeanne.”

115

“Were you, mother?” A slight smile stirred the corners of the girl’s mouth. She saw what was coming.

“Yes; and Mengette hath been betrothed since Eastertide. She is to be married after the harvest.”

“She told me, mother.”

“And of all of the girls of your age you and Hauviette alone remain unplighted. Hauviette hath the excuse of being a little young, but you––you are sixteen, and quite old enough for a home and a husband, Jeanne.”

“Mother!” There was such appeal in the maiden’s voice that Isabeau, deeming it caused by the suddenness of the announcement, turned quickly with outstretched hands. “You must not talk of marriage to me. I shall remain unwed until my task is finished. I have vowed it to ‘My Voices.’”

“Pouf, child! A home of your own, and a husband to look after will soon make you forget such notions, and so I told Jacques. Come now, be reasonable! I know some one who would gladly provide such a home. Let––”

“While France writhes in agony under the heel of the invader there shall be no marriage for me,” spoke Jeanne firmly, turning to leave the room.

“Nathless, whether you like it or not, you shall be married,” cried Isabeau, nettled by the girl’s words. “Your father has determined on it. Your plighted husband comes this evening to see you.”

Jeanne stood aghast. She had not dreamed that her parents would go so far. She stood for a moment without speaking, then she said quietly:

116

“My faith is plighted to none but my Lord. No man has it, nor shall have it until Messire’s mission is completed. ’Tis useless to speak of it.” Again she started to leave the room.

“Nathless, Colin de Greux will be here this evening,” exclaimed Isabeau thoroughly out of patience.

Colin? The merry nature that lay under Jeanne’s gravity surged upward, and a twinkle came into her eyes. All at once she laughed outright. Her mother glanced at her quickly, surprised and relieved.

“There! That’s better,” she said. “He will be here after supper, Jeanne.”

“It matters not, mother.”

Isabeau’s relief changed to perplexity at the words. There was something in the tone that did not satisfy her, but as it was nearer to an affirmative than she had hoped for she was fain to make the best of the matter; so made no further remark.

Colin de Greux came with the evening. He had grown tall with the years, and was not ill looking. He was still the same easy-going, lumbering, dull sort of fellow whose good opinion of himself rendered him impervious to rebuffs or coldness. He was not the youth that ordinarily Isabeau would have chosen for her child, but Jeanne had never encouraged attentions from the village lads, who now fought shy of her because of her extreme piety. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Jacques and Isabeau judged that marriage even with Colin was better than the fancies that filled their daughter’s mind. Beside, where another might be easily repulsed Colin could be induced to continue his wooing. Jeanne saw through this reasoning. She determined to make short shrift of Colin.

117

When the evening came, therefore, she took a hoe and went into the garden. Colin found her there industriously at work among the artichokes.

“How do you do, Jeanne?” he said sheepishly.

“Very well indeed, Colin.” Jeanne wielded the hoe vigorously, and gave no indication of quitting her seemingly absorbing task.

There came a silence. Had they been with the sheep on the uplands Colin would have been thoroughly at ease. As it was there was something about the maiden’s manner that disturbed his assurance. He had not been wont to feel so in her presence.

“It’s warm out here,” he ventured presently.

“Perchance you will find it cooler in the house,” intimated the girl sweetly.

“The family will be there,” he objected, looking suggestively at a bench under an apple tree. The youths and the maidens of Domremy always sat together when the suitor was approved by the parents. Jeanne’s cool, steadfast gaze disconcerted him.

“Why, yes, Colin, they will be there. You will find them all, I think. Jean and Pierre are with mother. Did you wish to see them?”

This roused Colin.

“No; I don’t wish to see them,” he said angrily. “I wish to talk to you, Jeanne D’Arc.”

“I am listening, Colin.” Jeanne quietly finished the hill which she was hoeing, then began on the next row, which was further removed from the youth, the tall heads of the artichokes nodding stiffly between them.

118

“But I can’t talk while you are hoeing,” he exclaimed. “And your father told me that I might talk to you.”

Jeanne laid down the hoe, and confronted him.

“Colin,” she said gravely, “mother told me that you would come, and why; but it is of no use. There are other girls in the village who would gladly marry you. I am resolved not to wed.”

“I don’t want any other girl for a wife but you, Jeanne. I have always liked you, and you know it. Besides, your father––”

“You cannot wed a girl against her will, Colin, and I shall not marry you. I am talking plainly, so that you will understand, and not waste your time.”

“But you shall,” muttered the boy wrathfully. “Your father tells me that you shall.”

Without a word Jeanne turned from him, and flitted swiftly into the church. It was her sanctuary, for Isabeau would not allow her devotions to be interrupted. Sulkily Colin re-entered the cottage.

Urged on by the girl’s parents, he was thereafter a frequent visitor, but his wooing did not speed. Somehow all his pretty speeches, all his self-assurance shriveled into nothingness when he was face to face with Jeanne. And serenely the maiden went her way, ignoring alike her father’s mandates, and her mother’s entreaties to marry the lad.

So sped the days.

119

CHAPTER XII

A Worsted Suitor

So the days sped. Presently rumours of another and more startling nature ran through the valley. Interest in Jeanne D’Arc, her mission, and Colin’s wooing paled before the news. It was noised that Antoine de Vergy, Governor of Champagne, had received a commission from the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France for Henry VI, to furnish forth men-at-arms for the purpose of bringing the castellany of Vaucouleurs into subjection to the English. The greatest alarm prevailed when the report was confirmed, that the Governor had in truth set forth. On the march, as was his custom, Antoine de Vergy laid waste all the villages of the loyal little wedge of territory with fire and sword. Domremy with its adjoining village of Greux lay in the southern part of the 120 castellany, between Bar and Champagne, and was therefore directly in the line of attack. Threatened again with a disaster with which they were only too well acquainted the folk of the two villages met in solemn conclave to determine what was to be done.

Men, women and children were in the assembly that had gathered before the little church to discuss the situation; their pale faces showing plainly that they realized to the full the calamity that menaced them. Life, liberty and property were all at stake, for everything would be swept away by the ravaging Antoine. The very imminence of the danger rendered them calm, but it was the calmness of despair. Resistance to the force that was with Antoine was out of the question, so what could they do?

“And why not retire to the Castle of the Island, my children?” queried Messire Guillaume Frontey, Curé of Domremy. “Surely, it hath proved a good refuge in other times of need. Is it not a secure stronghold?”

“We fear not, father,” responded a peasant. “Sire Antoine boasts that we can not hold it against him, as he knows of a secret passage whereby he can obtain entrance when he so chooses. We have made search for the passageway, but we cannot find it; though it is known to exist, for there be some in the village who have heard of it. Against others we can hold the castle; against him we fear to try.”

“Then may Our Lady preserve ye, my children,” exclaimed the priest solemnly. “What can be done?”

“This,” cried Jacques D’Arc, suddenly elbowing his way through the people until he stood by the Curé’s side in full 121 view of every one. “This, father, and friends: let us, as we fear to try the castle, gather our furniture in carts; then, driving our cattle and sheep before us, go to Neufchâteau which, being a town of Lorraine, will not be attacked. As you know, though it be a Burgundian belonging, its sympathies are with the Armagnacs.”

“That’s it, Jacques!” “Well said!” came from the villagers in a chorus of approval. “When shall we go?”

“Better to-day than to-morrow, friends,” shouted Jacques. “Better now than later. We know not when they will be upon us.”

There were cries of, “Right, Jacques!” followed by a hasty dispersal of the people to gather up their goods and cattle. A scene of disorder and confusion ensued as men and boys ran to the fields for the flocks and herds, which were quickly driven into the highroad, and women and girls stripped their linen chests and cupboards, and hurriedly piled their furnishings into ox carts.

Isabeau was weeping as she worked, for she might find the cottage burned and the village devastated upon her return. She had always known war. Her mother and her mother’s mother had known it. For ninety-one years it had raged, and the end was not yet. France was a wreck, a ruin, a desolation. Throughout the land there was nothing but pillage, robbery, murder, cruel tyranny, the burning of churches and abbeys, and the perpetration of horrible crimes. Seeing her grief Jeanne went to her mother, and put her arms about her.

“Be not so sorrowful, mother,” she said. “Before many years are sped the war will have come to an end. And this is 122 the last time that you will have to flee from the cottage.”

Isabeau brushed away her tears and looked at her daughter steadily. “Why do you speak so, Jeanne?” she asked. “It is as though you knew.”

“Yes, mother; I know. It will be as I say. And now let’s get the rest of the furniture in the cart. Father grows impatient.”

Curiously enough, Isabeau was comforted. She dried her eyes and gave way to grief no more. Jacques came in and seeing Jeanne so helpful, bringing order out of the chaos about her, spoke gently to her in quite his old tender manner. So that Jeanne’s heart was lighter than it had been since her return from Bury le Petit. The animals were in the highroad, the ox carts were drawn up behind them laden with the belongings of the villagers, the women and children stood ready, waiting for the word of departure to be given, to take up the line of march to Neufchâteau, when they were thrown into the greatest confusion by the advent of a man-at-arms who rode among them at speed, crying:

“March! March while there is time. Vaucouleurs is attacked, and Sire Antoine hath started a body of men this way.”

He was gone before the startled villagers had time to question him. For a time the greatest excitement prevailed, but something like order was restored at length, and with lingering, despairing looks at the homes they were abandoning the village folk started toward Neufchâteau, their market town, lying five miles to the southward of Domremy. The day was excessively 123 warm, and wearily the village folk followed the road through fields of wheat and rye, up the vine clad hills to the town. There were many of them, and their chattels were numerous, but the citizens received them cordially and lodged them as best they could.

Jacques conducted his family at once to the inn kept by a worthy woman, La Rousse by name, whom he knew. The move from Domremy had been made none too soon, for Antoine de Vergy’s men swept into the village but a few hours after the departure of its inhabitants, and both Domremy and Greux were laid waste.

To Jeanne the days that followed were tranquil and the happiest that she had known for a long time. As in Domremy she drove her father’s beasts to the fields, and kept his flocks. She also helped La Rousse about the household duties, greatly to the good dame’s satisfaction, and when she was not helping her hostess, or tending the cattle she passed all her time in church.

During the first few days of the stay in the market town Jeanne saw Colin frequently, but greatly to her relief he forbore to press his attentions upon her. Then she saw him no longer, and rejoiced thereat. Her thanksgiving was of short duration.

Dinner was over in the common room of the inn one day, and the guests––not numerous as it chanced––had broken up into groups; some lingering at the board where they had eaten, others clustering at small tables scattered about the rush strewn room. The great chamber, with its dusky walls and 124 blackened beams would have looked gloomy enough on a dark day, but the heat and bright sunshine of midsummer made it seem cool and restful.

In the nook formed by the outer angle of the huge projecting chimney, and so somewhat in the shadow, sat Jeanne waiting for the guests to leave the board that she might clear away the dinner. Her father and a man with whom he was conversing were the last ones to rise, and at once the girl came forward to begin her task. As she did so there came the sound of a dagger hilt beating upon the outside door at the further end of the room. Before Jeanne could reach it to open it the heavy door swung open quickly as though thrust inward by a strong hasty hand, and there entered a man garbed in priest’s raiment. Reverent always in her attitude toward priests the maiden bowed low before him.

“Is it your pleasure to have dinner, messire?” she asked when she had risen from her obeisance.

“In due time, my child,” he replied. “But first, I would speak with a pucelle who is here. One Jeanne, daughter of Jacques D’Arc.”

“I am she,” spoke the maiden in astonishment. “What would you of me, messire?”

At this juncture Isabeau, accompanied by La Rousse, entered the room. The latter hastened forward to welcome the newcomer when she paused, arrested by his words:

“I come from the Bishop of Toul, Judge of the Ecclesiastical Court having jurisdiction over Domremy and Greux. He cites thee, Jeanne, daughter of Jacques D’Arc, to appear before 125 him to show cause why thou dost not fulfill thy plighted troth to Colin de Greux.”

Throughout the long chamber there was a stir and murmur at the words, for Jeanne had become liked and esteemed by the guests, who had heard something of Colin’s wooing. La Rousse went to her in quick sympathy, for the girl stood dumbfounded.

So this was what Colin had been about in his absence? And her parents? Were they too concerned in the matter? She turned and looked at them searchingly. Isabeau could not meet her daughter’s eyes, but Jacques met her glance steadily. Long father and daughter gazed into each other’s eyes; Jeanne, with sorrowful reproach; Jacques with grim determination. Then slowly the girl turned again to the priest.

“When does messire, the bishop, wish to see me?” she asked.

“The second day from now, pucelle. If upon that day cause is not shown why thy pledge to Colin should not be kept the judge will deem that the troth stands, and that thy faith will be redeemed at once.”

Jeanne inclined her head deeply in acknowledgment, and started to leave the room. Isabeau ran to her.

“It is for thy good, little one. Now will you be ever near us. And Colin will make a kind husband.”

So spake Isabeau, but Jeanne made no reply. As she passed through the door she heard her mother say:

“She is as good as married, Jacques. She is too shy, too gentle to protest against it. She will do whatever the bishop decides without question.”

126

“Be not too sure of that,” spoke La Rousse before Jacques could reply. “These gentle maids have a way of turning at times, and Jeanne doth not lack spirit.”

“She hath ever been obedient, and will be now,” said Jacques confidently. “Save for this wild fancy of going to the Dauphin she hath ever been most dutiful.”

“Sometimes the gentlest maid will turn if pressed too hard,” repeated La Rousse.

And this was exactly what was happening. Jeanne was filled with sorrow that her parents should uphold Colin in trying to force her into an unwelcome marriage. For a brief time despair gripped her, for it was foreign to her nature and training to protest against those in authority over her, and should the judge sustain Colin it would mean the end of her mission. And then her soul rose up against it.

“I will not be forced into this marriage,” she decided suddenly. “I will go to Toul, and tell messire, the bishop, the truth of the matter. I will go.”

“Go, Daughter of God, and fear naught,” came the sweet tones of “Her Voices.” “Fear naught, for we will aid thee.”

Before the morning broke Jeanne rose to prepare for her journey. She knew that at this time the great gates of the archway leading into the courtyard of the inn would be closed, but there was a door, a small one used privately by La Rousse, that opened directly into the street. It was at the back of the inn, and unobserved Jeanne reached it, and passed out. It was ten leagues from Neufchâteau to Toul, and thirty miles was a long journey for a young girl to undertake alone and on foot. Also the distance lay back through the district over 127 which Antoine de Vergy’s men had swept with fire and sword. Roving bands of armed men might be encountered, but Jeanne’s gentle nature had attained the courage of desperation. She feared the marriage more than aught else, and were the action not protested there would be no evading it. So, upheld by the knowledge that her saints were with her, and an innocence that was heroic, she made the journey. In perfect safety she came at last in the dusk of the evening to Toul in Lorraine, footsore and weary, but with a heart serene and peaceful.

There were many churches in the old town, and, as was her custom, she at once sought a chapel and prostrated herself before the image of the Virgin Mother. Her orisons ended, she went forth in search of food and lodging. Jeanne being a peasant girl had not the wherewithal to pay her way, and so could not go to an inn. But when the condition of the land was such that townspeople themselves might become refugees should their towns be overcome by an enemy its denizens welcomed wayfarers warmly. So Jeanne soon found shelter with humble folk, and, as she was never idle wherever she might be, she gladdened the heart of the dame by helping about the house and spinning. And the next morning she went to the law courts.

Colin was already in the chapel, where the bishop was sitting. His self-satisfied expression gave place to one of surprise at sight of Jeanne, for he had supposed that she would not appear to contest the action. There were many of the Domremy people present also, brought hither as Colin’s witnesses.

128

Colin declared that Jeanne had been betrothed to him since childhood, and the maiden was much amazed when the villagers affirmed after him that they knew such an engagement existed. After they had spoken the bishop turned to the girl kindly and said:

“And where is thy counsel, my child?”

“I have none, messire.” Jeanne raised her grave eyes to the kind ones bent upon her. Eyes that were alight with purity and truthfulness. “I need none. I have but to speak the truth; have I not?”

“That is all; but––” The judge paused and regarded the slender maiden attentively. She was unlike a peasant maid, both in bearing and appearance. Winning and beautiful in the fresh bloom of young maidenhood, she had not the manner of a maiden who would plight her word, and then disregard it. “Proceed, advocate,” he said suddenly. “Let her take the oath. Swear, my child, with both hands upon the Gospels, that you will answer true to the questions that will be asked you.”

And kneeling before him Jeanne laid her small hands upon the missal, and said simply:

“I swear, messire.”

Then she answered concerning her name, her country, her parents, her godfathers and godmothers.

“And now, my child, tell me about this promise of marriage to Colin de Greux,” spoke the bishop.

“Messire, I never promised to marry him,” she answered earnestly. “I have plighted my faith to no man.”

“Have you witnesses to prove this?”

129

“There are my friends and neighbors, messire. They will answer for this.”

The judge leaned forward quickly.

“They have spoken against you, child. Didst not hear them say that they knew of your engagement to Colin?”

“Yes, messire; but I would question them.”

“Say on,” he said. “It is your right.”

So, one by one, they were recalled to the stand while Jeanne asked of each three questions:

Had he seen her at any of the dances or merry-makings with Colin?

Had he seen her at church, or any public place with Colin?

Had he ever heard her, Jeanne, speak of being engaged to Colin?

To these questions the witnesses were obliged to answer in the negative.

“Messire, would I not, were I betrothed to this man, go abroad with him to church, to dances, or to other public places?”

“It would seem so, my child; but, unless there were cause why should he take this action?”

“I have ever, messire, found my greatest happiness in going to church, and in prayer. For this reason I have received a command from my Lord, the King of Heaven, to perform a certain task. In pursuance of that command I went to Sire Robert de Baudricourt of Vaucouleurs to deliver to him a message. Because of this journey my parents, who do not believe in my mission, thought that my senses were wandering, and conceived the idea that to cure my fancies a marriage would be a good thing.

130

“Therefore, with their encouragement Colin came. Messire, the first time that he did so I told him that it was of no use, for marry him I would not. Neither him nor another. Did I not, Colin?”

She turned to the youth so quickly, asking the question with such abruptness, gazing steadily at him the while, that Colin, taken unawares, nodded affirmation unthinkingly. The bishop spoke instantly:

“Colin de Greux,” said he with sternness, “this maiden speaks with the sound of truth. It is our opinion that she hath given no promise. Therefore, do you make oath again, and say whether it was from this maiden, or from her parents that you received her faith.”

“It was from her parents,” confessed the youth sullenly.

“And not from the maid at all?”

“No, messire.”

“The girl hath then plighted no faith to you, and action against her is dismissed. You, young man, and her parents also would do well to let the marvellous child alone. The damsel is simple, good and pious. Nor do I find that her wits wander, for without advocate, or witnesses she hath established her case. Go in peace.”

Jeanne thanked him with tears, and with full heart returned to her abiding place. She had worsted Colin, and set at naught her parents’ wishes by so doing. How would they receive her?

Filled with this thought she trudged the thirty miles back to Neufchâteau.

131

CHAPTER XIII

Farewell to Home

To Jeanne’s surprise she was welcomed warmly. Certain of the Domremy people who had been Colin’s witnesses preceded her into Neufchâteau, and by the time she arrived all the village folk were cognizant of what had occurred. A reaction in her favor had set in; for, not only had she conducted her case without any aid whatsoever, but the bishop had commended her, and had spoken sharply to Colin, who now became the laughing stock of his neighbors. All the world loves 132 a lover, but it has only contempt for the suitor who brings ridicule upon either himself or his beloved.

Isabeau folded her daughter in her arms, holding her close to her heart and shuddering at the thought of the perilous journey the child had made rather than submit to an unwelcome marriage; while Jacques, moved out of his usual taciturnity, spoke to her with something of pride in his tones. For the first time it occurred to these good people that their daughter differed from other village maidens, and therefore required dissimilar treatment. More than once Jeanne found her parents regarding her with curious, puzzled looks, as though they wondered if she were in very truth their daughter.

La Rousse openly rejoiced at the outcome of the affair, and wished the maiden to remain with her indefinitely. But to this neither Jeanne or her parents would consent. And, after a fortnight’s stay, the family returned to Domremy.

Antoine de Vergy had done the work of despoliation thoroughly. Incensed because the villeins had fled with their cattle and belongings, thereby depriving him of booty and ransom which he could not exact from the chief men of the village by reason of their flight, he had ravaged and burned with more than his usual fury. The crops were entirely destroyed; the monastery, once as proud as a fortress with its square watchman’s tower, was now nothing but a heap of blackened ruins; the church also was burned, so that the Domremy folk must needs go to the church at Greux to hear mass; and but few cottages were left standing. But the people had their flocks and herds, and their house furnishings; then too it was summer; so, bravely, with the patience engendered by long suffering 133 they set to work once more to rebuild, rethatch, and repair their homes. As before, they lived in the castle while the work went on.

A veritable reign of terror was in all the region about. The misery and discomfort were inconceivable; yet somehow life went on. So the Summer waned, and with the first days of Autumn came the dire intelligence that Orléans, the strong independent old city sometimes called the key of the Loire, was besieged by the English. Should it fall France could not be saved.

The English acted badly in laying siege to the town of Orléans, for it belonged to Duke Charles, who had been a prisoner in their hands since the battle of Agincourt. Having possession of his body they ought to have respected his property, as was the custom. This conduct was regarded as unprecedented treachery, and Domremy buzzed with talk as pilgrims related tales of what was occurring. The English had built, it was said, fortified towers around the city, the very heart of France; and entrenched themselves there in great strength. The Tourelles were taken already, and the city was so invested that its inhabitants were starving.

“Such a thing is unheard of,” declared Jacques in the privacy of the cottage. “It is a deed unknown among the very Saracens. Who could guess that lords and knights of the Christian faith, holding captive the gentle Duke of Orléans, would besiege his own city? The leaguer is a great villainy.”

“The leaguer is a great villainy.” Jeanne repeated the words to herself, for the tidings of the siege were of the saddest to her. Her attachment to all the Royal House was strong, 134 and especially so to the captive poet. Sorrowfully she sought comfort from her “Voices” who loved the Land of the Lilies.

“Have no fear, Daughter of God,” they said consolingly. “Orléans shall be delivered, and by thee. Thy time is at hand. Go into France, and raise the siege which is being made before the city. Go, Daughter of God. Go!”

So they urged continually. But again the valley was shrouded in the cold white garb of winter, and still there seemed no way for her to leave the village. Over her girl heart hung the dread of leaving home and friends, though never once did she falter in her purpose. She was steadfast to that. The yoke of obedience always strong in the mind of a French maiden would not permit her lightly to disobey her parents. Jeanne was much troubled over it. They would never give consent. If she went she must go without it. No longer did they keep watch over her. Jacques had been more considerate of his daughter since she had shown herself capable of such resistance as she had given against Colin. Then too the raid of de Vergy’s men-at-arms, the flight to Neufchâteau with the after effects, and now the consternation felt by all loyal Frenchmen over the news of Orléans’ plight; these things had driven all thought of Jeanne’s fancy from their minds. She had been so dutiful, had submitted so sweetly to the espionage, and had shown no disposition to return to Vaucouleurs even though the journey to Toul had provided opportunity for it had she been so minded, that the parents no longer regarded such a journey as a possibility. Jeanne knew all this.

But they knew that she still had her purpose in mind, for the maiden had talked freely about it. Jeanne knew what 135 she had to do, and longed to be about it. Again and again she sought help from her “Voices.” They became peremptory in their commands, absolving her from the obedience due her parents. God’s command was higher, and this she must obey. So, certain as to her mission, she was inaccessible either to remonstrance or appeal. Now she looked about for means to accomplish her purpose.

The Old Year glided into the vale of discarded years, and the New Year ushered in January of 1429, which brought Jeanne’s seventeenth birthday. The sixth was cold and stormy, but if it was bleak and wintry without, within the cottage it was cheery and comfortable. The family gathered around a great fire of faggots on the afternoon of that day, each one busied with homely, needful work. Jacques and his eldest son, Jacquemin, were mending harness; Jean and Pierre were shelling corn against the next feed of the cattle; little Catherine, as she was still called, was polishing the copper and pewter on the dresser, while Jeanne and her mother sewed and spun alternately. All at once the crunching of wheels on the frosty snow was heard, followed shortly by a loud “Hallo!” as a vehicle stopped before the door. Jacques laid down his work with an exclamation.

“Now who can it be that fares forth in such weather to go visiting?” he said. “Open the door, Pierre, and see who is there.”

But Jeanne was already at the door before her father had finished speaking, and opened it wide to the visitor. She gave an ejaculation of joy as she saw who stood without.

“Come in, Uncle Durand,” she said. “You look cold.”

136

“And feel also, ma mie.” Lassois made at once for the great fire. “Jacques, man, you have cause to be thankful that you need not fare from the fireside on such a day as this. Pierre, will you see to the oxen? The poor brutes are well nigh frozen, and so am I.”

“Ye look it, Durand,” spoke Jacques. “There! come nearer to the fire. Isabeau, a hot drink will warm his vitals. Welcome, Lassois, welcome! ’Tis a cold day.”

“It is,” agreed Durand, rubbing his hands before the blaze.

“And how is Aveline?” asked Isabeau, as she placed a hot drink before him.

“She is not well, Isabeau, and the baby is peevish. It is that that brings me here to-day. Her father hath been taken with a distemper, and her mother is all taken up in looking after him. So Aveline wishes that Jeanne might come to stay for a short time. Will you let her go, Jacques?”

Jeanne listened anxiously for her father’s answer. She did not believe that he would give consent. Indeed Jacques was silent a long time before he made reply, but at length he said slowly:

“I see no harm in her going, Lassois. It hath been dreary here this winter, and the work heavy. She may go and stay with you three weeks, since Aveline is ailing. That is, if her mother is willing.”

“Why, yes,” spoke Isabeau quickly. “With a young baby Aveline needs some one with her to look after things. And it will give Jeanne a chance to hear the news. I doubt not but that Aveline will have much to tell her that will be of interest.”

137

Jeanne was amazed at the readiness with which the consent was given. She had not thought they would let her go, and it caused her wonder. But certainly they could not suppose that she would seek Robert de Baudricourt a second time, or perhaps Jacques relied upon Sire Robert’s good sense to send her home if she should seek him. So it was arranged that the maiden should return with Lassois to Bury le Petit the next day.

There was little sleep for the young girl that night. She knew that it was the last time that she would ever be in her own home, for she was resolved to go to Vaucouleurs as soon as Aveline was better. In this she would deliberately disobey her parents, but there was no other way.

“I would rather be torn apart by wild horses than go against their wishes,” she said to herself with tears. “But God commands it, and I must go.”

Her destiny called, and she followed the summons. All earthly ties must be subservient to her great purpose. Suffering France must be relieved, and it was her mission to give the aid.

Her time had come.

Therefore her good-byes to her parents, brothers, and little sister were very tender. She dared not speak of her mission, and if her loved ones noticed the tenderness of farewells that so short an absence did not seem to warrant they knew not the reason for them. So Jeanne passed from her father’s house, and climbed into the cart.

Mengette, whose home was near by, was at the window as Lassois’ cart passed. Jeanne waved to her, crying:

138

“Good-by, Mengette. God bless thee.”

All through the village she saw faces of friends and neighbors at the windows, or on their doorsteps, and bade them farewell. But as she drew near the home of Hauviette, and Lassois stopped for her to call to her friend, Jeanne shook her head.

“I can not speak to her, uncle,” she said chokingly. “I dare not. My heart would fail me, for I love her too dearly to say good-by.”

At Greux as they passed through she saw Colin in one of the narrow streets. Jeanne leaned out of the cart to call to him.

“Good-by, Colin,” she said. “God give you good fortune.”

“Where are you going?” spoke the youth shamefacedly. He had avoided Jeanne since the meeting at Toul.

“I go to Vaucouleurs,” she dared to say. “Good-by.”

“To Vaucouleurs?” repeated Lassois, turning to look at her as they left Colin behind. “But Aveline, Jeanne?”

“Did you think that I would leave her while she has need of me, Uncle Durand?” asked the maiden reproachfully.

“No, Jeanne; I knew that you would not. ’Twas a second only that I doubted.” Durand swung his goad over the oxen’s backs as he spoke, and the beasts swung into a trot.

But Jeanne turned for a last look at the valley she was leaving forever. Long she gazed at the red roofs of the village; at the ice bound river with its rushes rimed with frost; at the forest, bare and leafless; at the snow covered hills, and white shrouded meadows; at all the familiar objects hallowed 139 by association. Gazed until her tear-blinded eyes would permit her to look no more.

And so down the Valley of Colors for the last time passed Jeanne D’Arc.

140

CHAPTER XIV

Victory Over Doubting Hearts

Jeanne stayed at her uncle’s house with Aveline until the latter was quite well. Then, there being nothing further to hinder, she asked Lassois to take her to Vaucouleurs.

“Jacques won’t like it, Jeanne,” feebly remonstrated Durand, knowing full well that notwithstanding the fact he would do as his niece wished. “He didn’t before, you know; and neither did Isabeau.”

“I must go, Uncle Durand. Though I had a hundred fathers, or a hundred mothers, though I were the daughter of a King, I still should go. It is commanded.”

Durand made no further objection, though he knew that 141 both Jacques and Isabeau would censure him for yielding to her. He saw that Jeanne was not to be turned from her purpose, so made ready for the journey. Perhaps, like Jacques, he relied on the common sense of the Sire Robert to send the girl home, for he was cheerful enough when presently they were on their way to Vaucouleurs.

“You will return with me, Jeanne? This visit is for the day only, is it not?”

“No, uncle. I shall stay in Vaucouleurs until the Sire Captain gives me men-at-arms to take me to the Dauphin.”

“And if he does not? What then?”

“He will in time, Uncle Durand. My Voices have said so,” responded the maiden confidently.

Lassois sat for a time without speaking. There was as much awe as affection in the regard he bore his young kinswoman, and when she wore a look of exaltation as on this morning he felt as he did at the ringing of the angelus. But there was a practical side to the affair to be looked after as well as a spiritual, and he wished to be able to put the best face possible on the matter before Jacques; so after a little he queried:

“And where shall you bide at Vaucouleurs? Have you thought of that?”

“Why, yes, uncle. Mother has a friend, one Catherine le Royer, who lives in the town. I shall go to her. I am sure that she will give me welcome for mother’s sake.”

“Now that is well,” spoke Lassois in relieved tones. “I know Catherine, and her husband also. Henri le Royer, the wheelwright, he is. Good people they are, and pious.”

142

By this time they had reached the little walled town nestling among the low hills of the valley, and again Jeanne passed up the steep slopes of the hill upon which the castle stood.

As before when she had gone to him Robert de Baudricourt sat at meat with his captains. There was no smile on his face this time, however, when, in answer to the request that they might speak with him Jeanne and her uncle were ushered into the great dining hall. No smile, though Lassois was awkward and ill at ease, and Jeanne still wore the red homespun dress, and the village coif of the peasant. There was not the least flicker of amusement in his countenance as he said:

“Well, my little maid, what brings thee here this time?”

Jeanne courtesied low before she replied:

“My Lord Captain, know that God has commanded me many times to go to the gentle Dauphin, who must be and who is the true King of France, that he shall grant me men-at-arms with whom I shall raise the siege at Orléans, and take him to his anointing at Reims. And you, Sire Captain, must send or take me to him. It is commanded.”

For a long time Robert de Baudricourt sat silent, regarding the maiden with a troubled look. She was so earnest, was evidently so sincere in her demand, that he was perplexed. Was she inspired, or possessed? That was what his expression said as he gazed at her. If inspired her aid was not to be despised. If possessed she ought to be dealt with forthwith. In truth he knew not what to say to her. His own situation was far from pleasant. When Antoine de Vergy had raged through the valley the previous Summer he had infested the town of Vaucouleurs, and de Baudricourt had been obliged to yield it to him, though he had not yet given possession.

THERE WAS NO SMILE ON HIS FACE

143

It was one of those capitulations, common in those days, by which the Commander of a garrison promised to surrender his fortress by the end of a given time. This promise, however, ceased to be valid should the fortress be relieved before the day fixed for its surrender. So Sire Robert’s own condition was acute, and if the Dauphin were not in a position to come to his relief he himself would be caught in the coils of the enemy. Any promise of deliverance, however humble, was not to be treated lightly. Therefore, if he did not believe in Jeanne’s announcement he at least listened to it readily. At length he said:

“This matter should be given some thought, my little maid. Where do you bide? I would speak with you further concerning this.”

There was a stir of surprise among his men, for they noted with amazement that the Captain addressed the maiden as an equal.

“With Catherine le Royer, the wheelwright’s wife, messire,” answered Jeanne.

“I will speak with you again,” repeated Sire Robert. And Jeanne and Lassois, understanding that the interview was over for this time, withdrew.

Catherine and Henri le Royer were folk of Jeanne’s own humble station. The good dame welcomed the girl warmly, at first for her mother’s sake and then for her own. Jeanne had ever a way with women and girls, and but few days had elapsed ere she had completely won the heart of her hostess by her gentle ways, her skill in sewing and spinning, and her 144 earnest faith. Together they attended mass at the parish church, spun, sewed, or busied themselves about the house. Sometimes Jeanne climbed the hill to the royal chapel which adjoined the Governor’s castle, for there was a wonderful image of the Virgin in the crypt of Saint Mary’s before which she loved to pray.

News of her mission, the tidings that a young girl was come, who was appointed by God to save France spread through the town and surrounding country. The people flocked to see her, and those who came believed, won by her earnestness and simple sincerity. They were in no uncertainty at all as to her mission. A little mob hung about the cottage door to see her come and go, chiefly to church. The saying, “France lost by a woman shall be restored by a maid from the Marches of Lorraine,” was on every lip. And the excitement grew.

Again and again Jeanne sought the Governor, saying:

“I must to the gentle Dauphin. It is the will of Messire, the King of Heaven, that I should wend to the gentle Dauphin. I am sent by the King of Heaven. I must go even if I go on my knees. My Lord Captain, in God’s name, send me to the gentle Dauphin.”

But Sire Robert,––though he listened to her readily enough, and, impressed in spite of himself by her intense fervour, perceived a certain seriousness in the business,––remained deaf to her pleadings. He could not believe. What, a young girl fair and lovely as was this peasant maid to deliver France? The thing was absurd; and yet––he dared not send her home lest after all there might be truth in what she claimed. And so the matter rested.

145

The days dawned and waned, and still the men-at-arms were not provided. Jeanne shed bitter tears over the delay. She believed so implicitly in her Voices that she could not understand why others did not have the same faith. And the fame of her grew and spread, going out into the country even beyond the valley.

One day, as she was on her way to mass, a young man-at-arms pushed his way through the crowd which had gathered to see her to have a word with the wonderful peasant maid.

“Well, ma mie,” he said banteringly, “what are you doing here? Must the King be driven from his Kingdom, and we all turn English?”

“I came hither to the King’s territory, messire, to speak with Sire Robert that he may take me, or cause me to be taken to the Dauphin; but he heeds neither me nor my words. Notwithstanding, ere mid-Lent I must be before the Dauphin, were I in going to wear my legs to my knees.”

The reply was given with such intent seriousness that the young knight was impressed, and he spoke more gently:

“Know you not, maiden, that Louis, the little son of Charles, hath just been betrothed to the infant daughter of the King of Scotland? King James is to send Madame Margaret to France with an army of six thousand men before Whitsunday, which, as you know, is in May. What need, therefore, is there for you, a young girl, to go to the Dauphin?”

“I must go to the Dauphin, messire; for no one in the world, no king or duke or daughter of the King of Scotland[6] can 146 restore the realm of France. In me alone is help, albeit for my part, I would far rather be spinning by my poor mother’s side, for this life is not to my liking. But I must go, and so I will, for it is Messire’s command that I should go.”

“Who is Messire?” asked he.

“He is God,” she answered.

The young man was moved. He stretched out his hands suddenly as though he believed in spite of himself, and laid his hands between hers.

“There!” said he. “I, Jean de Novelonpont, commonly called Jean de Metz, pledge you my word, knightly fashion, my hands in your hands in token of fealty, that God helping me I will take you to the King.”

“You will, messire?” cried Jeanne joyfully.

“On my word of honour I promise it. When will you set forth?”

“This hour is better than to-morrow; to-morrow is better than after to-morrow,” she told him, her face illumined with smiles. It was the first gleam of hope that had lightened the weary days of waiting.

“I will make preparations at once,” he said, moved by her zeal and by her strong sense of the necessity of immediate operations. Then as he started to leave her, he turned.

“Would you travel in that garb, pucelle?”[7] he asked hesitatingly.

Jeanne smiled, divining the difficulties he foresaw were she to retain her woman’s garb in travelling. She had already 147 given the matter thought, and perceived that if she were to live among soldiers she must change the dress she wore. So she answered promptly:

“I will willingly dress as a man. In truth, it would be more seemly.”

De Metz nodded approval, and went his way. After this, because joys like sorrows come not singly, one after another began to believe in her. In a few days another man-at-arms came to her. He was an older man than de Metz and a graver. At his salutation Jeanne looked at him intently.

“Have I not seen you somewhere, messire?” she asked.

“I think not,” he answered lightly. “Methinks I should not have forgotten it had we ever met. Yet stay!” bending a keen glance upon her. “Are not you the little maid who dressed my wounded arm at your father’s house in Domremy?”

“It may be, messire.”

“It is,” he affirmed. “The wound healed quickly, for the treatment was good. So you are that little maid? And now you have come here with a mission? Tell me of it, pucelle. Can you in very truth do as you say: raise the siege of Orléans, and bring the King to his anointing?”

“Not I, messire; but my Lord, the King of Heaven, will do it through me. I am but his humble instrument.”

“Tell me of it,” he said again. “I have talked with Jean de Metz, but I would hear of it from you.”

There was no need for reserve concerning her mission, so Jeanne talked of it freely to him. Indeed she did so to whomsoever wished to hear about it. And when she had 148 made an end of the telling Bertrand de Poulengy placed his hands in hers as de Metz had done, and pledged her fealty, knightly fashion.

But though the men-at-arms were willing to set forth at once there was still delay; for, being in service with Sire Robert, they could not leave without his consent. Jeanne became impatient, knowing that Orléans could not hold out forever. She was cast down, not through want of faith in her divine mission, but because of the obstacles which unbelieving men like Baudricourt were putting in her way.

“In God’s name, gentle Robert,” she cried one day, meeting him at the foot of the hill where his castle stood, “you are too slow about sending me. This day hath a great disaster happened to the Dauphin. Send me quickly lest a worse befall him.”

“A disaster hath befallen the Dauphin?” exclaimed Sire Robert. “How could you know that a disaster hath befallen him to-day?”

“My Voices have told me,” she made answer. “A battle hath been lost near Orléans. Sire Robert, I must be sent to him.”

“I will see, I will see,” he said, looking troubled. “If this be true, as you have said, then shall you go to him. But is it by evil or by good spirits that you speak?”

Without waiting for a reply he left her abruptly. As Jeanne sat spinning with Catherine le Royer the next morning she was greatly surprised when the door opened suddenly, and the Governor himself, accompanied by Jean Fournier, the parish 149 priest, entered. At a sign from Sire Robert, Catherine quitted the room, and Jeanne was left with the two men. The priest immediately put on his stole, and pronounced some Latin words:

“If thou be evil, away with thee; if thou be good, draw nigh.” With this he sprinkled holy water about the room, and upon her.

Jeanne was hurt when she heard the words, for it was the formula used for exorcism. It was believed that if the village maiden were possessed of evil spirits they would be driven away. Having recited the formula and sprinkled holy water the priest expected, if the girl were possessed, to see her struggle and writhe in the effort to take flight. But there was nothing suspicious in Jeanne’s attitude. There was no wild agitation or frenzy. She had fallen on her knees when the priest put on his stole, and now anxiously, entreatingly, she dragged herself to him. Messire Jean Fournier stretched forth his hand in benediction over her.

“Whatever be the spirit with which she is filled, it is naught of evil,” he said to Robert de Baudricourt.

With this the two men left the cottage as abruptly as they had entered it. Jeanne burst into tears, and so Catherine found her.

“Messire Jean should not have used me so,” sobbed the maiden as she related the happening to her hostess. “I have confessed to him daily since I came to Vaucouleurs, and he should have known what manner of girl I was.”

“There, there, little one,” soothed Catherine, tenderly. “He 150 but did it to please the Sire Captain. Perchance now that the gentle Robert knows that evil spirits do not possess thee, he will give thee aid.”

The exorcism did in truth help Jeanne’s cause with the Governor. If the young girl were not possessed of evil it followed naturally that the power in her must be good; therefore he was at last willing to aid her. Secretly he had already sent a messenger to the King telling of the maiden, her mission, her saintly way of living, and asking that he might send her to him. He but waited the consent of Charles before starting Jeanne on her journey. This she did not learn until later.

Meantime she was restless. She longed to be about her work, and there seemed naught but hindrances. She felt that she must start, for she must be with the Dauphin by mid-Lent, and the time was short. One day Lassois came to see how she was, and also to bring news of her parents; for Jeanne had sent them a letter praying for their forgiveness and blessing. As she could neither read nor write the Curé had written it for her, and he had added details of the life she was living, her good deeds, her saintly ways, and aught else that he thought would set their minds at rest concerning her. Now she listened eagerly as Durand told her how the letter had been received.

“Jacques has heard a great deal about you from the people, Jeanne. Know you not that the whole countryside is talking of you? He has known all along how you were living, and what you were doing. He is still not reconciled to your leaving home, but he said that so long as you lived a good life you had his blessing and forgiveness. Isabeau wept when she heard the letter, but she sends love, and prays you to make 151 short work of the matter that you may soon be home again.”

“Would that I might, Uncle Durand,” groaned the girl. “But there seems naught but hindrance and delay. I should like to be at home with mother; if my work were done I could be. The time is so short. I can not, I must not wait longer.” She bowed her head and wept. Presently she dashed away the tears and turned to Durand as though an idea had come to her: “Uncle Durand,” she cried, “Will you take me into France?”

“You mean to walk there, Jeanne?” he asked amazed. “’Tis said to be all of a hundred and fifty leagues to where the Dauphin bides at Chinon.”

“Even so, I must go. If Sire Robert will not give me men-at-arms I must go without them. Will you go with me?”

“Yes,” he assented readily. Had Jeanne not been so preoccupied she would have seen the smile that lurked in his eyes. Lassois was a hard-headed, practical man, and he knew that the plan was not feasible. He hoped that his niece would see it too, so he added: “I will get Alain to go with us. ’Tis a dangerous journey even with men-at-arms for escort. When do we start?”

“At once,” cried the maiden eagerly. “The sooner the better. When the siege is raised, and the Dauphin crowned, I can go back home. And I will not leave them again. Go! get Alain, and let us start.”

Lassois left her, and Jeanne made her preparations quickly. Procuring a man’s jerkin, hose and doublet, she arrayed herself in them, and when Lassois returned with Alain, a friend of his who lived in Vaucouleurs, the three set forth. They had proceeded a league on the road to France when they came to 152 the shrine of Saint Nicholas, and this Jeanne entered as was her wont, and prostrated herself in prayer. When she arose the impatience, the restlessness were gone. She faced her companions with contrition.

“I was wrong,” she said with deep humility. “It is not meet that I go to the Dauphin in this manner. We must go back.”

Durand’s countenance expanded into a broad grin.

“Said I not so, Alain?” he cried, nudging his friend. “I said that she would soon see that it was not fitting that she should go thus. I said that soon we would turn back.”

Alain laughed also as Jeanne gazed at her uncle in astonishment.

“How did you know, uncle?”

“Why see, ma mie; the King would not receive you should you go to him thus humbly; but if you come from the Sire Captain with proper escort ’twill be easy to get his ear.”

“I see,” sighed Jeanne. “I was wrong. We will go back.”

She waited with more grace after this, and presently there came a day when her patience was rewarded. The messenger from the King rode into Vaucouleurs bearing a letter to the Governor which gave consent to send the young prophetess to him. Sire Robert sent at once for the maiden.

“You were right,” he said. “There was a disaster as you said near Orléans. The Battle of Herrings was lost at Rouvray. Colet de Vienne, the King’s messenger, tells me that Charles will receive you. Therefore, get you ready, for now you shall start for Chinon in a few days.”

Overjoyed Jeanne hastened back to her friends to tell the glad news. The impossible had happened. That which the 153 peasant maid had demanded was granted. She was to be taken to the King, and in the time fixed by herself.

The sweetness, the simplicity, the sturdy purpose of the maiden had won all hearts in the little walled town. Knowledge of her mission had deepened the interest felt in her, so now, as she was in very truth to begin her journey, they took upon themselves the expense of her outfit. A complete suit of masculine apparel was bought, a jerkin, a cloth doublet, hose laced to the coat, gaiters, spurs, a whole equipment of war, while Sire Robert gave her a horse. And Jeanne, with one girlish sigh at the sacrifice, took off her coif, let down her long dark locks, and gave a last look at them; then Catherine cut them round, page fashion, the maiden set on a cap, and was ready.

Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy were to accompany her, as well as the King’s messenger, Colet de Vienne, and the bowman, Richard, with two lancers, servants of the men-at-arms. These men proposed further waiting, as certain soldiers of Lorraine were infesting the country, but the maiden was not afraid, and said:

“In God’s name, take me to the gentle Dauphin, and fear not any hindrance or trouble we may meet. There hath been too much delay.”

At length, however, everything was in readiness, and on the twenty-third of February, the little company assembled before the gate, La Porte de France, with friends to watch the departure. Among them were the kind Lassois, Catherine and Henri le Royer, Jean Colin, canon of Saint Nicholas, to whom Jeanne had confessed at times.

154

The women trembled and wept as they looked at the girl, so fair in her young loveliness, and feared for her the perils of the journey. One of them cried:

“How can you set forth on such a journey when there are men-at-arms on every hand?”

But Jeanne turned a happy face toward them, and answered out of the serene peace of her heart:

“I do not fear men-at-arms. My way has been made plain before me. If there be men-at-arms my Lord God will make a way for me to go to my Lord Dauphin. For this I was born.”

Sire Robert also was present, and as he gazed at the bright face of the maiden his grim old heart was touched.

“Swear,” he said, making Jean de Metz kneel before him. “Swear that you will deliver this maiden whom I have confided to your care safely and surely to the King.”

And De Metz answered solemnly:

“I swear.”

And so from each and every man the Governor took the oath. Then belting his own sword about the girl’s slender waist, he said:

“Go! and come of it what may.”

And off into the mists that enveloped the meadows of the Meuse rode the little company down the road into France.