Joan of Arc

CHAPTER XII THE WEEK OF VICTORIES

On June 11th, as we have seen, Joan rode forth on her new errand. Beside food and ammunition, grateful Orleans furnished artillery for the expedition. Five sloops, manned by forty boatmen, brought heavy guns and field pieces down the river, while "twenty-four horses were needed to drag the chariot of the huge gun of position, resembling Mons Meg, now in Edinburgh Castle."[54]

Ropes and scaling-ladders, too, were provided; these were easily carried. Thus equipped, the troop marched bravely on, halting only when a short march from the town of Jargeau. The town apparently awaited them with little concern. Its walls were strong, its fosse deep and filled with water. Inside was the Earl of Suffolk with six hundred men, an ample number for defence. He was probably watching at this moment from the church tower, but he made no sign.

A discussion rose among the leaders of the advancing troop. Should they storm the fortress, or proceed by slower methods?

Joan was for the assault. "Success is certain," she said. "If I had not assurance of this from God, I would rather herd sheep than put myself in so great jeopardy."

She started on, and the others followed. Now a gate opened in the wall: a band of English rode out, and attacking the French skirmishers, drove them back. Thereupon the Maid seized the standard, rallied her men, repulsed the sally, and took possession of the suburbs of the town. So far, so good! Next morning the guns opened fire on both sides, and banged away merrily for some time, one of those from Orleans, La Bergère, demolishing one of the towers in the wall. Here seemed to be a practicable breach ready for the storming. A council was hastily called. The Maid, Alençon, Dunois, Xaintrailles—where was La Hire? Someone had heard that La Hire was at the moment holding a parley with the English commander. Sent for in haste (and in some heat, be it said; "I and the other leaders were ill content with La Hire!" says Alençon), he appeared with the tidings that Suffolk offered to surrender if no relief came within fifteen days.

Joan had summoned the enemy the night before, and was quite clear in her mind. If the English would depart in their tunics, without arms or armor, they might do so; otherwise the town should be stormed. The other leaders decided that the English might take their horses as well as doublets. Sir John Fastolf was coming from Paris, and it would be well to be off with the old foe before they were on with the new.

Suffolk, naturally enough, refused these terms. The French heralds sounded the assault.

"Forward, gentle Duke!" cried the Maid. "To the assault!"

Alençon hesitated. Was the breach definitely practicable?

"Doubt not!" cried the Maid. "It is the hour that God has chosen. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. Ah! gentle Duke," she added, with the pretty touch of raillery that was all her own; "are you afraid? Do you not know that I promised your wife to bring you back safe and sound, better than when you left?"

She had her way; the ladders were placed, the French swarmed to the assault, while on both sides the cannon thundered defiance. Watching with Alençon near the breach, Joan suddenly cried, "Stand aside! that gun—" and she pointed toward a certain cannon on the wall—"will slay you!" The Duke stepped aside. A few minutes later the Sieur de Lude, standing on the same spot, was killed by a shot from the gun she had indicated.

This time the Maid could not give warning; she was rushing into the breach, the faithful Duke at her side. Seeing this, Suffolk called out, begging to speak with Alençon; but it was too late. Alençon was already following his leader up a scaling-ladder.

No easy task, climbing a long ladder (for Jargeau walls were high), in plate armor, carrying a heavy standard; but so the Maid went. Part way up a stone struck her, tearing the standard and crushing in the light helmet she wore. She fell, but was up again in an instant.

"On, friends, on! God has judged them. Be of good courage; within an hour they are ours!"

It did not need an hour. In an instant, it seemed to Alençon, the city was taken, its commander captured, its defenders fleeing in disorder. Over a thousand men were slain in the pursuit; Joan and Alençon returned in triumph to Orleans, and once more the town went mad over its glorious Pucelle.

She might well have rested after this, one would think, but no! Two days later, she said to d'Alençon, "To-morrow, after dinner, I wish to pay a visit to the English at Meung. Give orders to the company to march at that hour!"[55]

They marched, came to Meung, took the bridge-head (a strong fortification) by assault, and placed a garrison there, but made no attempt to enter the city. This was a visit, not a capture. They slept in the fields, and next morning were on the march again. Beaugency, the next town, saw them coming, and the English garrison promptly evacuated the town, retiring into the castle, but leaving various parties in ambush here and there in sheds and outbuildings, to surprise the invaders.

The invaders refused to be surprised; planted their cannon, and began a bombardment in regular form. But that evening a singular complication arose. Word came to the two young commanders that Arthur of Richemont, Constable of France, was close at hand, with a large body of troops. Now Charles, or rather La Trémoïlle, was at daggers drawn with Richemont, and Alençon had received a royal mandate forbidding him to have any dealings with the Constable, who happened to be his own uncle. Here was a quandary! Alençon was loyal to the core; how could he disobey his sovereign? On the other hand he had no quarrel with his uncle, and the latter's help would be invaluable. They slept on their doubts and fears, an anxious and foreboding sleep. In the morning word came that the English army was advancing under Talbot and Fastolf. This was the precipitating drop in the cup of trembling. "To arms!" cried the soldiers; and Alençon and the Maid mounted their horses and rode to meet De Richemont.

The Constable also had received a royal mandate. He was forbidden to advance, on pain of high displeasure; if he did so, he would be attacked. Neither the Dauphin nor his followers would have anything to do with him. Richemont, who knew that this message came in reality from La Trémoïlle, about whom he cared nothing at all, continued to advance; and on the 16th day of June came upon Alençon and the Maid riding to meet him with Dunois, La Hire, and the rest.

"Joan," said the bluff Constable, "I was told that you meant to attack me. I know not whether you come from God or not; if you are from God, I fear you not at all, for God knows my good will; if you are from the devil, I fear you still less."

"Ah, fair Constable," said the Maid. "You have not come for my sake, but you are welcome!"

So all was well that ended well. The threatening breach was closed, and over it the allied forces rode on to meet the English.

These too had had their troubles. Talbot and Fastolf had met at Janville and held a council, but could not be of one mind. Fastolf, a cautious man, was for delay. Their men, he said, were disheartened by recent events; the French were in full flush of triumph with the send of victory behind them; best for themselves to stand fast, and keep such strongholds as were still theirs, leaving Beaugency to its fate.

This discreet plan little suited John Talbot. Give way, without battle, to a girl? Not he! though he had only his proper escort and such as elected to follow him, yet, he vowed, with the aid of God and St. George he would fight the French.

The weaker man yielded, albeit protesting to the last moment; the old lion marshaled his troops, and on June 18th at Patay, between Orleans and Châteaudun, rode out to battle.

It was evening of the 17th when the French, arrayed in order of battle on a little hill, "une petite montagnette," saw their enemy advancing across a wide plain. Beholding them Joan the Maid cried to those beside her, "They are ours! if they were hung from the clouds above me, we must have them!"

On came the valiant English, and ranged themselves in battle array at the foot of the little hill. Talbot knew well that the others had the advantage of position. Behoved him to break the line which stood so firm above him. He sent two heralds to say that "there were three knights who would fight the French if they would come down."

The French replied, "The hour is late: go to your rest for this day. To-morrow, if it be the good pleasure of God and Our Lady, we shall meet at closer quarters!"

The English did not follow this advice, but fell back on Meung, and spent the night in battering the bridge-head towers which the French had taken and were holding. Next morning they would assault and re-take the towers, then march to the relief of Beaugency.

Morning found them collecting doors and other things to shelter them during the storming of the forts; when a pursuivant came in hot haste from Beaugency, announcing that the French had taken town and fort and were now on their way to find the English generals.

Hereupon the said English generals dropped the doors and other things, departed from Meung, and took the road to Paris, marching in good order across the wide wooded plain of the Beauce. Behind them, but well out of sight, pricked the advancing French.

What followed reads more like a child's game than a life and death struggle of brave men. The French were seeking the English, but had no idea of their whereabouts. The Maid, being appealed to, said confidently, "Ride boldly on! You will have good guidance."

To Alençon, who asked her privately what they should do, she replied, "Have good spurs!"

"How? Are we then to turn our backs?"

"Not so! but there will be need to ride boldly; we shall give a good account of the English, and shall need good spurs to follow them."

On the morning of June 18th Joan said, "To-day the gentle king shall have the greatest victory he has yet had."

For some reason—probably because they wished to keep her in a place of safety, fearing ambuscades in this unknown country—Joan did not lead the advance this day. An enemy might lurk behind any clump of oak or beech; they would not risk their precious Maid in so precarious an adventure.

This was not to the Maid's taste; she was very angry, we are told, for she loved to lead the vanguard: however it chanced, La Hire was the fortunate gallant who rode forward, with eighty men of his company, "mounted on the flower of chargers," to find the English and report when found. Briefly, a scouting party.

"So they rode on and they rode on," till at last they saw on their right the spires of Lignerolles, on their left those of Patay, two little cities of the plain, thick set in woods. This was all they saw, for the English, though directly in front of them, were close hidden in thickets and behind hedges.

Talbot himself led the van. Coming to a lane between two tall hedges he dismounted, and, mindful it may be of the moment at Agincourt

selected five hundred skilled archers, and proceeded to instal them behind the hedges, declaring that he would hold the pass till his main and rear guard came up.

"But another thing befell him!" says the old chronicle.

On came La Hire and his eighty cavaliers, dashing across the open, crashing through the woods, who so merry as they?

Now these woods held other living things beside English archers. At the sound of crackling and rending branches, up sprang a noble stag, startled from his noonday rest, and fled through the forest as if the hounds were at his heels. So fleeing, the frightened creature rushed full into the main body of the English, hurrying to join Talbot. An Englishman is an Englishman, the world over. They did not know the French were near, but I am not sure that it would have made any difference if they had. Clear, loud, and triumphant, every man of them raised the "view halloo," as good sportsmen should. La Hire heard, and checked his horse instantly; sent back a message to Alençon and the Maid, the one word "Found!" formed his eighty in order of battle, and charged with such fury down Talbot's lane that the English archers were cut to pieces before they could loose a shaft.

Fastolf now came rushing up to join Talbot, but finding himself too late, drew rein, and suffered himself to be led—somewhat ignominiously, it was thought—from the field; "making the greatest dole that ever man made."

Well might he lament. The battle of Patay was followed by a massacre of the English, which the Maid was powerless to prevent. The French had suffered too long; the iron had entered too deep into their souls. As the world stood then, they would have been more or less than human to have held their hand from the slaughter. It seemed probable that Joan did not see all of the butchery, but she saw more than enough. "She was most pitiful," says the page d'Aulon, "at the sight of so great a slaughter. A Frenchman was leading some English prisoners; he struck one of them on the head; the man fell senseless. Joan sprang from her saddle and held the Englishman's head in her lap, comforting him; and he was shriven."[56]

Talbot was taken by Xaintrailles, and led by him before Alençon, the Maid and de Richemont.

"You did not look for this in the morning, Lord Talbot!" said Alençon, who had been a prisoner in England.

"It is the fortune of war!" said the old lion; and no other word of his is recorded.

The Week of Victories was over, and once more Joan returned to her Orleans, to joy-bells and masses, adoring crowds and friendly hearthstones. This time she found a present awaiting her at the house of Père Boucher, a present at once quaint and pathetic.

Fourteen years had passed since Agincourt was lost and won, and Charles of Orleans was still a prisoner in England, still writing poetry like his fellow-prisoner and poet, James I. of Scotland. He had heard of the grievous peril of his city, and of its glorious rescue by the wonder-working Maid. He would fain show his gratitude in some seemly and appropriate way. Therefore, "considering the good and agreeable service of the Pucelle against the English, ancient enemies of the King and himself," he ordered the treasurer (of Orleans) to offer in his name to the young heroine a suit—of armor?—By no means! a costume of state, "vêtement d'apparat," such as gentlewomen wore. The colors of his house were to be used; "a robe of fine scarlet cloth, with a tunic (huque) of dark green stuff." "A tailor of renown" was charged with the making of the costume; the items of expense have been preserved.

Two ells of scarlet cloth cost eight gold crowns; the lining, two crowns more. One ell of green stuff, two crowns. For making a robe and huque, with trimming of white satin, sendal, and other stuff, one crown. Total, thirteen gold crowns, equal to about twenty dollars of our money. Not an extravagant present, you say, in return for a royal city. But Joan had looked for no reward, and Charles gave what he could. Be sure that the Maid was well pleased with her costume of state; I cannot repeat too often that she was seventeen, and fair as a white rose. She may even have worn it—who knows? during those few days of rest, after Patay, at Père Boucher's. She loved pretty clothes. One can fancy the astonishment of Alençon, coming clanking in his armor to take counsel with his fellow-commander, to find her blushing rose-like in scarlet and green. It is a pretty picture. Those were the days of the hennin, but I cannot think that the Maid ever, even for a moment, crowned her short dark locks with that most hideous invention of fashion. We all know it in pictures; the single or double-horned headdress (I know not which is uglier!) often reaching monstrous proportions, with which the fashionable women of that day were infatuated. The single hennin was often two or three feet in height; the double one perhaps nearly as wide.

In the first year of the siege of Orleans one Friar Thomas preached a crusade against the extravagance of women's dress, and especially against the hennin. "He was so vehement against them," says Monstrelêt, "that no woman thus dressed dared to appear in his presence, for he was accustomed when he saw any with such dresses, to excite the little boys to torment and plague them. He ordered the boys to shout after them, 'Au hennin! au hennin!' even when the ladies were departed from him, and from hearing his invectives; and the boys pursuing them endeavored to pull down these monstrous head-dresses, so that the ladies were forced to seek shelter in places of safety. These cries caused many tumults between those who raised them and the servants of the ladies. For a time the ladies were ashamed, and came to mass in close caps, 'such as those of nuns.' But this reform lasted not, for like as snails, when anyone passes them, draw in their horns, and when all danger seems over, put them forth again—so these ladies, shortly after the preacher had quitted their country, forgetful of his doctrine and abuse, began to resume their former colossal head-dresses, and wore them even higher than before."

A terrible fellow, this Friar Thomas. Monstrelêt further tells us that "at sermons he divided women from men by a cord, having observed some sly doings between them while he was preaching."

Sometimes, after an eloquent sermon on the pains of hell and damnation, he would summon his hearers to bring him all games and toys; all hennins and other abominations of dress; and having a fire ready burning, would throw these vanities in and make an end of them for that time.

Here is a long digression about hennins; as I say, I do not believe Joan ever put one on her head; nor did Friar Thomas, so far as I know, ever come to Orleans.

CHAPTER XIII RHEIMS

Things began to look worse and worse for La Trémoïlle. "By reason of Joan the Maid," says the old chronicle, "so many folks came from all parts unto the king for to serve him at their own charges, that La Trémoïlle and others of the council were full wroth thereat, through anxiety for their own persons."

That figure of a united France, which shone so bright and gracious before the eyes of the Maid, was to La Trémoïlle and his minions a spectre of doom. They put forth all their forces of inertia and procrastination—mighty forces indeed when skilfully handled—and spun their cobwebs of intrigue close and closer about the foolish Dauphin.

Rejoicing Orleans thought her prince would come to share her triumph, and through her gates would ride forth to that coronation which was to consummate and render stable the glorious victories of the past weeks. They adorned their streets, hung out their richest tapestries for the royal visitor; but Charles was visiting La Trémoïlle at the latter's castle of Sully, and made no movement. Joan waited a day or two, and then took horse and rode to Sully. She had no time to waste, however it might be with others. Earnestly and reverently she besought Charles to make no more delay, but ride with her at once to Rheims for his coronation.

Charles regretted the severity of the Maid's labors; was very pleased at the victories; thought she ought to take a holiday; shortly, no one knows why, left Sully and went to Châteauneuf, fifteen miles down the river. Joan followed him, and again made her prayer. She wept as she knelt before him. The cruel toil, the bloodshed and the glory—was all to be for naught? The days were flying, every day bringing her nearer the end. The Dauphin, moved by her tears, bade her dry her eyes, all would be well.

But while Charles dawdled and La Trémoïlle shuffled his cards and spun his webs, France was rising. The news of Orleans and Patay flew on the wings of the wind, birds of the air carried it.

In La Rochelle the bells were rung; Te Deum was sung; bonfires blazed, and every child was given a cake to run and shout "Noël!" before the triumphal procession. The name of the Maid was on every lip, every heart beat high for her. Knowing this, as she must have known it, small wonder that she chafed and wept at the delay.

She rode to Gien, where long and weary councils were held, and ten more precious days wasted. Here people came flocking from all parts of the realm, to join her standard, for love of her and of France. The royal treasury was empty; no matter for that! Gentlemen who were too poor to equip themselves properly came armed with bows and arrows, with hunting knives, with anything that could cut or pierce. One gallant soldier, "Bueil, one of the French leaders," stole linen from the drying-lines of a neighboring castle to make himself decent to appear at court.

"Each one of them," says the old chronicle, "had firm belief that through Joan much good would come to the land of France, and so they longed greatly to serve her, and learned of her deeds as if they were God's own."

Miracle and portent sprang up to aid the cause. In Poitou knights in blazing armor were seen riding down the sky, and it was clear that they threatened ruin to the Duke of Brittany, who still favored the English.

The joints of the favorite were loosened, and his knees smote together; yet at this time none dared speak openly against him, though all knew that it was he who blocked the way. But for him, men said, the French might now be strong enough to sweep the English finally and completely from their soil.

John of Bedford, in Paris, trying his best to rule France, since that was the task that had been set him, wrote to his young master in England:

"All things here prospered for you till the time of the siege of Orleans, undertaken by whose advice God only knows. Since the death of my cousin of Salisbury, whom God absolve, who fell by the hand of God, as it seemeth, your people, who were assembled in great number at this siege, have received a terrible check. This has been caused in part, as we trow, by the confidence our enemies have in a disciple and limb of the devil, called Pucelle, that used false enchantments and sorcery. The which stroke and discomfiture has not only lessened the number of your people here, but also sunk the courage of the remainder in a wonderful manner, and encouraged your enemies to assemble themselves forthwith in great numbers."[57]

The enemies of England were not all encouraged. There were others besides La Trémoïlle at the councils of Gien who advised against the ride to Rheims. The way was long, and thick set with strong places garrisoned by English and Burgundians. There would be great danger for the Dauphin and all concerned.

"I know all that, and care nothing for it!" cried the Maid; and in desperation she rode out of the town and bivouacked in the open fields, her faithful comrades about her.

Deep as was her distress, her determination never wavered. She wrote to the people of Tournai, who had been faithful throughout to the Dauphin's cause, "Loyal Frenchmen, I pray and require you to be ready to come to the coronation of the gentle King Charles at Rheims, where we shall shortly be, and to come and meet us so soon as ye shall learn of our approach."

This was on June 25th; on the 29th, La Trémoïlle and the Dauphin yielded reluctantly enough to the irresistible force of public enthusiasm. The Maid had already started. The stage was set for the coronation; there was really no help for it.

So off they set for Rheims, Dauphin, favorite, court and all, following the Maid of Domrémy.

It was no holiday procession. As had been foreseen, there were obstacles, and plenty of them. Auxerre would not open its gates; sent, it was said, a bribe of two thousand crowns to save itself from assault; but sent also food (at a price!) to the advancing army.

Troyes, a little farther on, had sworn allegiance to England and Burgundy. Coronation at Rheims? The Trojans knew nothing about it. They had a garrison, English and Burgundian, five or six thousand good stout men; they snapped their fingers at Maid and Dauphin; would not hear of admitting them. Had not Brother Richard, the Cordelier friar, warned them against this Maid, saying that she was, or might be, a female Antichrist? Had he not bidden them sow beans in vast quantities in case of emergency?

Here were the beans, whole fields of them, in evidence! here was also Brother Richard himself, breathing forth fire and fury. Presently the holy brother, who seems to have been a second edition of Father Thomas, preaching repentance and practicing the destruction of vanities, came forth to exorcise the Maid; threw holy water at her, and made the sign of the cross. Joan laughed her pleasant, merry laugh; bade him take courage and come forward. She would not fly away, she assured him. Whereupon, at nearer view of the supposed sorceress and limb of evil, Brother Richard suffered a sudden change of heart; perceived that here was a thing divine; plumped down on his knees to do homage: but the good Maid knelt too, humbly, in token that she was "of like passions" with himself. Soon the pair were good friends, and the friar hurried back to the city and declared that the Maid was of God, and could if she wished fly over the walls.

Troyes heard, but kept its gates shut. Anxious council was held in the Dauphin's camp; La Trémoïlle advised retreat; had he not said all along, etc., etc.

The archbishop of Rheims, chancellor of France and a tool of La Trémoïlle, drew lurid pictures of the strength of Troyes and the contumaciousness of its people. They never would yield; the supplies of the army were running low. Best retire while they could do so with safety. The councillors were called on in turn for their opinion; some advised retreating, some passing by the obstinate town in hope of faring better elsewhere; hardly one favored an attack on the city.

When the turn came of Robert de Maçon, sometime chancellor (of Charles VI.), he said bluntly, "This march was begun not because we were rich in money or strong in men, but because Joan the Maid said it was the will of God. Let the Maid be summoned, and let the Council hear what she has to say on the matter!"

Joan was sent for, and was told the sense of the meeting; the lions in the path; the necessity of retreat.

To the Archbishop, who addressed her, she made no reply, but turned to her prince.

"Do you believe all this, gentle Dauphin?" she asked.

Charles was not sure, perhaps, what La Trémoïlle would allow him to believe. He made cautious answer; if the Maid had anything profitable and reasonable to say, she would be trusted.

"Good Dauphin," said the Maid in her clear thrilling voice, "command your people to advance to the siege, and waste no more time in councils; in God's name, before three days pass I will bring you into Troyes, by favor or force or valor, and false Burgundy shall be greatly amazed."

Even the Archbishop seems to have been impressed by these words.

"Joan," he said, "we could wait for six days were we sure of having the town, but can we be sure?"

"Have no doubt of it!" replied the Maid. Thereupon she mounted her horse and rode through the camp, banner in hand, exhorting, encouraging, ordering preparations for the assault.

Following the example of the English at Meung, she collected doors, tables, screens, to shelter the advance, bundles of fagots to fill in the ditches.

"Immediately," says Dunois (quorum pars magna, we may well believe), "she crossed the river with the royal army and pitched tents close by the wall, laboring with a diligence that not two or three most experienced and renowned captains could have shown."

All night she worked, never pausing for an hour. When morning broke, the burgesses of Troyes, looking over their battlements, saw an army in storming array; saw in the very front a slender figure in white armor, waving on her men.

"To the assault!" cried the Maid; and made a sign to fill the ditch with fagots. At the sight the hearts of the men of Troyes turned to water. They sent their Bishop to make terms, and the city opened its gates to the Dauphin and the Maid.

Four days later the Bishop of Chalôns appeared with the keys of his city, which the little Army of Triumph entered July 14th. At Chalôns Joan found several men of Domrémy, who had come from the village to see the glory of their own Maid. To one of them, her godfather, she gave a red cap—or some say a robe—that she had worn; she was full of kindly and neighborly words; told one of them who had been Burgundian in his sympathies that she feared nothing but treachery. About this time she said to the king, in Alençon's hearing, "Make good use of my time! I shall hardly last longer than a year."

Two days after this, halting at Sept-Saule, the Dauphin received a deputation from Rheims. The holy city had been strongly Anglo-Burgundian till now; had vowed unshakable loyalty to John of Bedford and Philip of Burgundy. But this was while Troyes still held out; Troyes, which had "sworn on the precious body of Jesus Christ to resist to the death." Now, Troyes had submitted, and her people wrote to those of Rheims begging them to do likewise, assuring them that the Dauphin was everything that was lovely and of good report; moreover, "une belle personne!" Their own Archbishop wrote too, charging them to make submission to their lawful prince. What was a holy city to do?

"Bow thy head meekly, O Sicambrian! adore——" was St. Remy speaking again in the person of this peasant maid? Must the city of Clovis bow like him, taking on new vows and forswearing old?

There seemed no help for it. Accordingly the deputation was sent, inviting Charles to enter his loyal city of Rheims; and people began to make ready for the coronation.

Rheims; Durocortorum of the Romans; an important town in the days of Caesar, faithful to him and to his followers, and receiving special favors in recognition of its fidelity.

The Vandals captured it in 406, and slew St. Nicasus; later, Attila and his Huns visited it with fire and sword. Later still, as we know, it saw the baptism of Clovis, and became the Holy City of France, where all her kings would fain be crowned. Did not men say that the phial of oil used in that kingly baptism by St. Rémy, and still preserved in his abbey, was brought to him by a white dove, straight from heaven? Accordingly the kings were crowned there, from Philip Augustus in 1180 to Charles X. in 1824.

Now, on the seventeenth day of July, 1429, Charles of Valois, seventh of that name, was to receive his solemn sacring, and to become king of France de jure, if not yet de facto. The ceremony began at nine in the morning.

"A right fair thing it was," wrote Pierre de Beauvais to the queen, "to see that fair mystery, for it was as solemn and as well adorned with all things thereto pertaining, as if it had been ordered a year before."[58]

First, a company of knights and nobles in full armor, headed by the Maréchal de Boursac, rode out to meet the Abbot of St. Rémy, who came from his abbey bringing the holy phial (ampoule). Then they all rode into the cathedral, and alighted at the choir-gate. There met them Charles the Dauphin, and presently received his consecration at the hands of the Archbishop, and was anointed and crowned king of France. The people shouted "Noël!" and blessed God for the auspicious day.

"And the trumpets sounded so that you might think the roofs would be rent. And always during that mystery the Maid stood next the King, her standard in her hand. A right fair thing it was to see the goodly manners of the King and the Maid."[59]

D'Albert carried the Sword of State; Alençon gave the accolade. Guy de Laval was there, and La Trémoïlle, and many others whose names we know; all in their brightest armor, we may be sure, with much clanking of swords and waving of banners. We hardly see them; all our eyes are for the Maid (she also in full armor, as becomes a good soldier), as she kneels before the King she has made, embracing his knees and weeping for joy.

"Gentle King," she says, "now is accomplished the Will of God, who decreed that I should raise the siege of Orleans and bring you to this city of Rheims to receive your solemn sacring, thereby showing that you are the true king, and that France shall be yours."

The chronicle adds, "And right great pity came upon all who saw her, and many wept."

If this might have been the end! if she might have turned now, in the hour of her triumph, her task accomplished, and the bidding of her Voices done—have turned away from the warfare and the pomp, the cabals and the intrigues, and gone back to Domrémy, to tend her sheep and mind her spinning-wheel, and dream over "the great days done!"

Tradition has long held that this was the wish of her heart, and that after the coronation she begged Charles to let her depart in peace, now that her mission was ended. This legend seems to have no foundation in fact; it probably sprang from the universal feeling; "Might it have been!" We shall see, however, that somewhat later she expressed to others her desire to depart. The relief of Orleans and the coronation of the king were all, says Dunois, that she actually claimed as her mission; beyond this all was vague. Still, the Voices said that the English must be driven from French soil, and Joan was the last one to take her hand from the plough while work was still to do. Forward then, in God's name, since thus it must be!

I have never seen Rheims Cathedral, and now I shall never see it with my bodily eyes; yet to me, as to all of this day and generation, it is intimately familiar in both its aspects. First we see it the crown and glory of Gothic architecture, the "frozen music," the "rugged lacework" whose praises men have sung for seven hundred years, yet whose beauty has never been expressed in words.

Next we see it—every child knows how. Let us not dwell upon it. One thought brightens against the dark background of ruin and desolation. Through all the four-years' agony of Rheims, while this sacred Heart of her was crashing and splintering under the deadly shell-fire; while the splendors of its great rose-window were tinkling in rainbow showers down on its uptorn pavements; while the very lead from its roofs was dripping down in those curious lengths and festoons of clinging particles which men now call "the tears of Rheims," one thing remained untouched. Before the Cathedral (which with its ruined and dying body seemed to shelter her), quiet through the thunders of the bombardment, marble on her marble steed, still sat the Maid of France.

CHAPTER XIV PARIS

Charles of Valois was king of France. The first of Joan's appointed tasks was fulfilled, and with clear faith and resolve she turned to the second. The English must be driven from the soil of France. To this end, the word was "Paris!" and on Paris, might the Maid have her way, the king's conquering army should march forthwith.

She and Alençon had thought to set out the day after the coronation; but on the very day of the ceremony, July 17th, came to Rheims an embassy from Philip Duke of Burgundy, asking for a truce.

Joan greatly desired peace with Burgundy, knowing that there could be no lasting victory without it. She had written to the Duke a month before this, but had received no reply; now, on July 17th, she wrote again in her simple direct fashion.

"High and mighty prince, duke of Burgundy, I, Joan the Maid, in the name of the King of Heaven, my rightful and sovereign Lord, bid you and the king of France make a good, firm peace, which shall endure. Do each of you pardon the other, heartily and wholly, as loyal Christians should, and, if you like to fight, go against the Saracens. Prince of Burgundy, I pray and beseech and beg you as humbly as I may, that you war no more on the holy kingdom of France, but at once cause your people who are in any places and fortresses of this holy kingdom to withdraw; and as for the gentle king of France, he is ready to make peace with you if you are willing, saving his honor; and I bid you know, in the name of the King of Heaven, my rightful and sovereign Lord, for your well-being and your honor and on your life, that you will never gain a battle against loyal Frenchmen; and that all who war in the holy kingdom of France war against King Jesus, King of Heaven and all the earth, my rightful and sovereign Lord. With folded hands I pray and beg you to fight no battle and wage no war against us, neither you, your soldiers, nor your people, for whatever number of soldiers you bring against us, know of a surety that they shall gain nothing, but it will be a great pity to see the great battle and the blood which will flow from those who come there against us. Three weeks ago I wrote and sent you good letters by a herald, bidding you to the king's consecration, which takes place to-day, Sunday, the seventeenth of this present month of July, in the city of Rheims, but I have had no answer, and have heard no news of the herald. To God I commend you, and may He keep you, if it please Him, and I pray God to bring about a good peace."[60]

The very day after came the Burgundian envoys, with peace on their lips. Joan could not know that a few days before, while she and Charles were before Troyes, Philip of Burgundy had entered Paris in person, and standing beside John of Bedford had proclaimed his wrongs, telling again the oft-told tale of his father's murder, and calling on the people of Paris to swear allegiance to himself and Bedford. Having done this, he dispatched his embassy to beguile Charles into a truce, which should give him and the English time to make further preparations.

Charles was always ready to be beguiled. For the moment, however, the tide of triumph and devotion was too strong for him. He was carried hither and thither by it; to the abbey of St. Macoul, where he "touched" for the King's Evil; to Soissons, the keys of which had been sent him in due submission. Everywhere he was received with joyful acclamations; everywhere the Maid rode before him, in the knight's or page's dress which she affected when not in armor, trunks and short coat of rich materials, well furred. What had become of the scarlet and green Orleans costume we do not know; in any case she could not have worn it on horseback.

The way lay clear before them to Paris, only sixty miles distant. One might think that even Charles VII. might have heard the Brazen Head of the fable speak loud and clear: "Time is!"

But Charles was listening to the men of Burgundy, and dawdling, which after all was the occupation he loved best. He spent four or five precious days at Soissons, then dawdled across the Marne to Château Thierry, where six hundred years later Yankee boys were to defend gloriously that soil of France which he betrayed and insulted. At Château Thierry he at least did one thing. On the last day of July "in favor and at the request of our beloved Joan the Maid, considering the great, high, notable and profitable service which she has rendered and doth daily render us in the recovery of our kingdom," the king declared the villages of Domrémy and Greux free from taxes forever. Through nearly three hundred years the tax-gatherer's book bore these words, written against the names of these two villages: "Nothing; for the Maid." In the reign of Louis XV. this freedom, with many others, came to an end.

As Charles loitered about the neighborhood, as contemptible a figure as History can show in all her ample page, the delighted people still flocked from neighboring towns and villages to do homage to him and the Maid. Joan loved these plain country folk with their joyous greetings. "What good devout people these are!" she exclaimed one day, as she rode between Dunois and the archbishop of Rheims. "Never have I seen any people who so greatly rejoiced over the coming of a king so noble. When I come to die, I would well that it might be in these parts."

"Joan," said the archbishop, "is it known to you when you will die, and at what place?"

Dunois, who rode at her bridle rein, reports her answer.

"Where it shall please God! Of the hour and the place I know no more than you. I have done that which my Lord commanded me, to deliver Orleans and have the gentle king crowned. Would that it might please God my Creator to suffer me to depart at this time and lay down my arms, and go to serve my father and mother in keeping their sheep, with my sisters and brothers, who would be right glad to see me."

And all the people shall say Amen!

Was the good Maid beginning to have glimpses of the clay feet of her idol? If so, she gave no sign. Her loyalty never wavered for an instant, but she was bewildered—how should she not have been?—at the result of her shining deeds. She had laid a kingdom at Charles's feet; he let it lie there, and drifted from place to place, dragging her with him. On August 5th she wrote a pathetic letter to the people of Rheims, doing her poor best to reassure them, who saw their new crowned king apparently deserting them.

"Dear and good friends," she says, "good and loyal Frenchmen, the Maid sends you her greetings"; and goes on to assure them that she will never abandon them while she lives. "True it is that the King has made a fifteen days' truce with the Duke of Burgundy, who is to give up to him the town of Paris on the fifteenth day. Although the truce is made, I am not content, and am not certain that I will keep it. If I do, it will be merely for the sake of the King's honor, and in case they do not deceive the blood royal, for, I will keep the King's army together and in readiness, at the end of the fifteen days, if peace is not made."[61]

Finally she bade the people trust her, and be of good heart—striving, poor soul, to lift their hearts, while her own was sinking daily—and to warn her if traitors should be found among them.

John of Bedford, one may think, was no less puzzled than the Maid. He too saw the kingdom at those loitering, shambling feet; but he was not the man to wait the pleasure of the shambler. He sent to England for five thousand stout men-at-arms, and established them in Paris. One division of this army bore a standard, in the centre of which appeared a distaff filled with cotton, with a half-filled spindle hanging to it. The field was set with empty spindles, and inscribed with the legend: "Now, fair one, come!"

At the same time Bedford sent a letter to Charles from Montereau, beginning, "You formerly self-styled Dauphin, and now calling yourself King," charging him with receiving help from an abandoned and dissolute woman, wearing men's apparel, and an apostate and seditious Friar; "both, according to Holy Scripture, things abominable to God." The duke begged the king to have pity on the unhappy people of France, and to meet him at some convenient place, where terms of peace might be discussed. It should be a true peace, not like that once made by Charles at this very Montereau, just before he treacherously slew the duke of Burgundy. Finally, Bedford challenged Charles to single combat (for which probably no man in France, unless it were La Trémoïlle, had less stomach) and appealed to the Almighty, who then as now was claimed as bosom friend by all would-be autocrats. Having dispatched this letter, which he hoped would sting Charles into action of some sort, John of Bedford went back to Paris, and set his army in battle array before the closed gates of the city.

Ever since the relief of Orleans, the English had not ceased to assure Joan as occasion served, that whenever and wherever they could lay hands on her they would burn her. The Maid was only too eager to give them their chance.

"I cry, 'Go against the English!'" she exclaimed.

At last, after endless "to-ing and fro-ing," Joan and Alençon took matters into their own hands, and started for Paris, leaving the king to follow as he might. On August 14th they encountered Bedford at Montépilloy, strongly intrenched, in an excellent position. The French advanced to within two bowshots, and boldly defied him to battle. But Bedford had no idea of giving them battle; forbade any general sortie—but, on the French knights' advancing to the very walls, shouting defiance—allowed a little genteel skirmishing here and there. The Maid herself, when she saw that the foe would not come out, "rode to the front, standard in hand and smote the English palisade." Nothing came of it, except a few more skirmishes. Next day the French retreated, thinking to draw their enemy out in pursuit; whereupon the wily Bedford turned about and went back to Paris, "having faced without disaster a superior French force, having encouraged his own troops, and shaken the popular faith in Joan."[62]

Finding the English gone, Joan, Alençon, and Charles went to Compiègne, which had recently sent in its submission, as had Beauvais and Senlis.

Compiègne received its precious king with apparent enthusiasm. With these three towns secure, Joan's spirit rose again for a moment. Now, at last, the way lay open. Forward to Paris, while time still was!

Charles found Compiègne a pleasant place, and saw no hurry; was busy, moreover, coquetting again with Burgundy.

"The Maid was in grief," says the chronicle, "for the King's long tarrying at Compiègne; and it seemed he was content, as was his wont, with such grace as God had granted him, and would seek no further adventure."

Once more the Maid set out with her faithful army, this time really for Paris, halting not till she reached St. Denis. No sooner was her back turned than Charles and La Trémoïlle concluded a general truce, to begin at once, August 28th, and to last till Christmas. The English might benefit by it whenever they wished; while it lasted, no more cities might submit to Charles, however much they might wish to do so. The Peace Party had triumphed for the moment.

Meanwhile the Maid was at the gates of Paris; with the king's permission, let us remember!

He allowed her to attack the city, practically at the same moment when he agreed to recognize Burgundy as holding it against her. Who shall read this riddle? The "Campaign of Dupes," as it has been called, has puzzled historians from that day to this. For us, it is perhaps enough to remember the inheritance of this wretched mortal, child of a mad father and a bad mother. He had already signed the pact with Burgundy when Alençon, after repeated efforts, finally succeeded in dislodging him from his perch at Senlis, and dragged him as far as St. Denis. Here he would be safe, and his near presence would hearten the troops. So thought Joan and Alençon, and so it proved for the moment. There was great rejoicing. "She will put the king in Paris," people said, "if he will let her!" and the men of Orleans and Patay rode about and about the city, examining the fortifications, seeking the best place for an assault, and sending inflammatory messages to their friends inside the walls, those who had once thrilled to the cry of "Armagnac!" and who were now ready to rally to the white standard of the Maid.

September 8th was the Festival of the birth of St. Mary the Virgin. As a rule, Joan did not like to fight on holy days; but the captains were eager to attack, her Voices did not forbid, her military instinct bade her strike. At eight in the morning, she, with old de Gaucourt and Gilles de Rais, advanced against the gate of St. Honoré, while Alençon with the reserve forces remained on guard in case of a possible sortie.

There are many accounts of this attack. A curious one is that of the Bourgeois de Paris, whose Journal throws so vivid a light on these wild times. The Bourgeois was an ardent Burgundian, and had no good to say of anything connected with the Armagnacs or their successors.

"Les Armenalx," he still calls the royal army; and tells how it appeared before Paris with "a creature in the form of a woman, whom they called the Maid." "They came," he said, "about the hour of High Mass, between eleven and twelve, their Pucelle with them, and great store of chariots, carts, and horses, all loaded with huge fagots to fill the fosses of Paris, and began to assault between the gate of St. Honoré and the gate St. Denis, and the assault was very cruel; and in attacking they said many ill words to those of Paris. And there was their Pucelle with her standard on the edge of the fosse crying to those of Paris, 'Yield you in the name of Jesus, to us, and that quickly, for if you do not yield before night, we shall enter by force, will you nill you, and all shall be put to death without mercy.'"

These last words do not ring true; we know that Joan was always for sparing life when it was possible. Another Anglo-Burgundian, Clément de Fauquembergen, describes how the people, at news of the attack, fled from the churches, where they were at prayers, and hid in their cellars; while the defenders of the city took their stations on the walls and made valiant defence, giving the assailants back shot for shot, bolt for bolt.

The first ditch was deep but dry, the second filled with water. Those watching from the walls saw a slender white-clad figure spring forward from the French ranks, lance in hand; saw it climb slowly and carefully down and up the steep sides of the dry ditch, and stand on the brink of the moat.

"The Maid! the Witch of Armagnac!" the murmur ran like flame along the walls, and archers and gunners sprang to their posts and took careful aim at the shining figure.

Serene, unmoved, amid a storm of bullets and arrows, the Maid stood beside the water, probing its black depth with her lance; calling on her men to follow her. So she stands for all time, one of the imperishable pictures.

Another moment, and a bolt from an arblast struck her down. Still, as she lay bleeding from a wound in the thigh, she ceased not to cheer the French on to the assault. Let them only fill the ditch, she cried, and all would be well; the city would be theirs.

It was not to be. The garrison, seeing her fall, redoubled their volleys of iron and stone; the assailants were weary, twilight was gathering, and no radiant armor shone through the dusk to light them on. Now it was night, and all but the Maid knew that the end had come. She, lying beside the ditch, refusing to be moved, still cried for the charge, still gave assurance of victory. At last, long after nightfall, Alençon and de Gaucourt, unable to prevail upon her otherwise, lifted her out of the fosse, set her on a horse, and rode back to the line.

"Par mon martin," she still cried, "the place would have been taken!"

One at least of the Burgundian chroniclers is of her mind. "Had anyone in the king's command," he says, "been as manly as Joan, Paris would have been in danger of capture; but none of the others could agree upon the matter."

Next morning, Friday the ninth, the Maid sent for Alençon and implored him to sound the trumpets and lead the assault. She would never leave the spot, she vowed, till the city was taken. Alençon was willing enough, and some of the captains with him; others demurred. While they debated the matter, came messengers from the king, with orders for them to return at once to St. Denis. La Trémoïlle had won, and Paris was lost.

Sick at heart, the wounded Maid, with faithful Alençon beside her, rode back, to find Charles busy with plans for retreat. Even Joan must now, one would think, have realized that all was over; yet the two comrades made one last gallant effort. The south wall of Paris might be less strong than that near the gate of St. Honoré. Alençon had already built a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis; how if they crossed this bridge with a chosen few and surprised the town?

Early next morning they rode forth on their perilous venture—to find the bridge destroyed by order of the king.

Now indeed Joan tasted the bitterness of defeat. She spoke no word, but her action spoke for her. She hung up her armor before the statue of the Virgin Mother in the cathedral.

Her Voices bade her stay in St. Denis, but for once she must disobey them, obedience not being in her power. Three days later Charles left the place, dragging his followers with him. A hasty march back to the Loire, and on September 21st the king dined at Gien, well out of the way of English and Burgundians.

"And thus," says the chronicle, "were broken the will of the Maid and the army of the king."