King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

Duke René, on his part, showed no hesitation in accepting the high honour the inspired Maid had paid him. He kissed her hand, a peasant’s hand,—strange act for a royal knight!—smitten with the girl’s piety and devotion; he, too, was religiously affected. Jeanne became an heroic figure in his estimation. What clean-minded lad is there, or has ever been, who is not marvellously affected by a handsome, dashing girl, irrespective of her rank in life? What traces some have seen of a tenderer passion still than youthful admiration were surely hard to diagnose in that first burst of emotional romance: it may have bloomed later, but René’s heart was in the safe-keeping of Isabelle. Times and manners then lent colour to the insinuation, possibly, for love and lovers were freer then than now from social conventions. René departed for Bar-le-Duc, to prepare for the expedition. He gave immediate orders to raise the siege of three fortresses, Metz, Vézelise, and Vaudémont, and, calling off the troops encamped there, he returned quickly to Nancy, to escort Jeanne to the King of France. He found her arrayed in quasi-armour, with spurs on her mailed boots; her head alone was uncovered, save for the glory of her abundant hair. She wore a sash of white silk, the gift of Duchess Marguerite; her horse, too, had white silken favours. The cavalcade started from the castle, René and Jeanne riding side by side in front. Through byways they went,—an ever-increasing host of armed men and camp-followers,—avoiding notice as best they could, marching by night, resting by day, to avoid the scattered bands of English foemen.

The pilgrimage,—for such it really was,—partook not only of a religious and a warlike character,—for Jeanne insisted on attending Mass en route, and prevailed upon her escort to say their daily prayers,—but it exhibited elements of gaiety; with Duke René rode a company of minstrels, with Jehan Durant of Bar as their leader. To him René paid 30 gold florins a month—“to make warlike melody for keeping up my men’s brave hearts,” he said. At Troyes, Jeanne and her escort were received rapturously; the Bishop placed in her hand a white silken oriflamme, a banner made by ladies of the city, and censed and blessed her, and so they won their way to Tours.

Before entering that ancient loyal city,—under the special charge of the holy warrior St. Martin,—Jeanne requested René to send to the neighbouring village of Fierbois, and “ask the curé of the Church of St. Catherine for a sword which hangs,” she said, “over the high-altar.” It was a famous weapon, although the doughty knight whose it had been was unremembered. The blade was of finely tempered steel, and richly damascened with golden crosses and silver lilies—the emblems of Jeanne’s spiritual sponsors. The sword itself, in size and shape, was like St. Michael’s own. She told René that the “Voices” had revealed this relic to her, and had bidden her hang it on her hip. At Tours, also, René had news of the whereabouts of the King, who, sad to say, was a fugitive in and out of his own dominions and those of his neighbours. Charles VII. was at Chinon, safe in its majestic castle—much like that of Windsor in extent, position, and distinction.

It came certainly as a grievous shock to all that enthusiastic expedition to find the King,—“poor as a church mouse and defenceless as a rabbit,”—engaged in frivolities and excesses. The Court at Chinon was the maddest and the merriest in France. Duke René, true to his promise, at once sought out the King, and arranged an interview with the Maid of Domremy, although His Majesty at first refused “to be troubled with a country wench.” The meeting was held in the Grand Logis of the enceinte of the Château du Milieu. Chinon, indeed, had three castles connected with one another: The Château de St. Georges was a sort of advanced fortress, built by Henri Plantagenet (Henry II. of England) in the twelfth century, but greatly dilapidated 300 years later; the Château du Milieu, the most important part of Chinon, contained the royal apartments; and the Château de Couldray, the most ancient, dating from the time of the heroic Thibaut le Tricheur, early in the tenth century. Henry II. died in the Grand Logis, where King Charles VII. had his temporary residence. In the Salle du Trône, with its vast chimney-piece of sculptured stone and its famous painted windows, the King summoned his courtiers, and, disguised as an ordinary noble of the Court, he mingled with them, giving out as his reason that he should “test the wench’s power of divination. If she picks me out at once, then I will hear what she has to say; if not, I won’t have anything to do with her.”

Jeanne was brought into the splendid apartment, filled with the pageantry of France, and dazzling enough to have disturbed any ordinary girl’s equanimity. She made, taught by René, an obeisance to the empty throne, and then he told her she must find the King among the company. Without a moment’s hesitation she went straight up to the Sovereign incognito, bowed low, and said softly: “Sire, you are Charles the Dauphin.” Very much astonished by Jeanne’s appearance and demeanour, and still more by her certainty as to his identity, Charles acknowledged himself, and, leading the unabashed damsel with René aside into the embrasure of a window, he asked her to give him her message. This Jeanne did with candour and emphasis, and furthermore astounded “the Dauphin,” as she persisted in calling him,—he had not been crowned King, of course,—by “revealing,” as he told René afterwards, “certain secrets known only to myself and God.” What these “secrets” were has puzzled curious inquirers. Probably they concerned happenings during the King’s youth, and affected the question of his legitimacy. He, too, was at one time proposed as the husband of the “Pride of Lorraine,” the heiress Isabelle. Anyhow, as known to Jeanne d’Arc, they were the usual exaggerations of Court and country gossip. Kings, knights, and ladies, and their doings, ever cause peasants topics for discussion.

“Gentle Dauphin,” the Maid said, “I am sent to you to tell you that you shall be crowned at Reims.” The Court was divided; part held with la Trémouille, the Chancellor, against Jeanne’s pretensions, some of the baser sort attempted to make sport of her rusticity, but the majority sided with Duke René, who was now more than ever impressed with the bearing of his “Queen.”

II.

All sorts of plans were propounded to test the virtue and the devotion of the young Domremy shepherdess. René and those of his following denounced most of them as indecent and preposterous, but he allowed two inquiries to be instituted: one with reference to Jeanne’s orthodoxy in religion, and the other with respect to her personal chastity. The King approved both these expedients, and confided to René,—youth though he was,—their superintendence and execution.

Still acting as Jeanne’s escort, René took her and a number of Court chaplains, together with the worthy Curé of Domremy and Sieur Laxaert,—both of whom had been sent for from Lorraine,—to Poitiers, for examination by a special conclave of Bishops and theologians. Poitiers was famous for its divinity schools and its École de Droit, wherein thousands of students were instructed in doctrinal matters and subjects of metaphysical science. The Holy See had there an office of the Congregation of Rites and a permanent secretariate of hagiology. The quaint old capital of Poitou was also renowned for the shrine of St. Radegonde, which attracted annually vast numbers of pilgrims to kiss Le Pas de Dieu, Christ’s footprints, where he stood communing with his gentle servant. Radegonde and Jeanne had ground for mutual sympathy. Perhaps Jeanne knew the story of her prototype.

Do what they would, the holy men of Poitiers could not make Jeanne deviate ever so little from the thread of her story. “The Voices,” she said, “speak to me daily, and I feel that my three saints are with me constantly.” She answered all their questions fearlessly, and very greatly were they impressed by her sincerity and amazed at her knowledge of divinity. No flaw was to be discovered in her orthodoxy, nor did she yield at all to insinuations of witchcraft. Indeed, the whole assembly was affected by her religious enthusiasm, and a careful précis was preserved of all that transpired during the examination. This was, in truth, the first step to the beatification of St. Jeanne d’Arc.

Returning to Chinon, the Maid awaited her second ordeal—the inquisition by a panel of matrons. This delicate business was taken in hand by Queen Yolande and certain ladies well known for probity and prudence. Jeanne submitted herself gladly enough to the “good mother” of her true knight, René d’Anjou and Bar. They speedily reached a decision respecting the character of the Maid of Domremy. Emphatically they repudiated all suggestions of immorality, and declared that Jeanne d’Arc was a virgo intacta, “as chaste in mind and body as the Holy Virgin herself.” “La Pucelle,” as they styled her, “is,” they affirmed, “a child of God, the peculiar charge of St. Catherine and St. Margaret, whose saintly virtues she desires to cultivate. She is no witch, nor in the pay of any evil-minded persons. She is directly inspired by God, and St. Michael is her protector.”

This testimony Queen Yolande delivered personally to King Charles, and persuaded him to see the Maid once more and converse more fully with her. The result of this intercourse was amazing: Charles became another man. The persuasions of his faithful and devout consort, Queen Marie, had completely failed to rouse him, and the exhortations of Queen Yolande had no more than excited his curiosity, but the village maid from Lorraine succeeded in inspiring the trifling, inept Sovereign with new life and energy. He sent for René, and named him his lieutenant, and recommitted “La Pucelle” to his care. With the young Duke was his trusty friend and Mentor, Armand Barbazan, one of the most perfect soldiers and gentlemen in France, the precursor of another knight “sans peur et sans reproche”—Bayart. Together they elaborated a plan of campaign which would be in obedience to the mysterious “Voices” of “La Pucelle.” This they submitted to la Trémouille, Dunois, “le Bâtard,” and La Hire, Charles’s trusted counsellors. It was the latter, probably, who uttered that veiled rebuke to the King: “Sire, I never knew any Prince so happy in his losses as you!”

These sapient commanders agreed that the first move in the new operations was the raising of the siege of Orléans. The King acquiesced; he, too, had done his part, for he had, upon his own initiative, detached the Duke of Burgundy from his alliance with the English, and had thus very materially prepared the way to Reims and his coronation. Jeanne d’Arc was, of course, apprised of this decision, and she was asked what part she proposed to take. After a night-long vigil in the grand old church of St. Maurice, where she held communion with the “Voices,” she told René that she should be by his side “as leader of the vanguard.”

The Maid had done very much upon the forced march from Nancy to Chinon to reform the discipline and the freedom of the soldiers. She forbade swearing and the use of strong drink. Gambling of every kind, and resort to fortune-telling mummers, she penalized, as well as every other illicit distraction. She expelled in person les filles de joie—the gay women who hung upon the fringe of the army and demoralized both officers and men. Daily she insisted upon Mass being celebrated on the field of march, and moved each man to offer his own orisons upon his bended knee. Among her immediate attendants were priests and acolytes—strange comrades, perhaps, for Duke René’s minstrels; but, then, the two cults,—Religion and Chivalry,—were ever in intimate affinity: all-honoured Blessed Mary first, and the saints of God, and all respected the persons of the weaker sex around them.

It was a well-found, well-disciplined, and well-led army that left the sheltering battlements of Chinon on April 29, 1429—it was a momentous move. Some in river barges, some in saddle, some afoot, traversed the lovely spring-smiling valley of the Loire. Forest echoes were awakened and church-bells set chiming in response to holy litanies of Church and lilting songs of chivalry. Peasants put lighted candles on the lintels of doors and windows of their rude hovels; every castle and manoir displayed their banners and boomed their guns en route. In the churches the Host was exposed on decorated altars, and Miserere sung.

Before bidding farewell to King Charles, La Pucelle,—fully armed, cap-à-pie, in burnished steel armour of Zaragoza damascened with gold, wherein she had been clothed by Queen Yolande’s royal hands,—took her place upon the foot-pace of the high-altar of St. Maurice. She placed her white oriflamme and her crimson-sheathed sword of Fierbois upon the sacred stone for episcopal benediction, and then, dedicating her mission and herself once more solemnly to the God of battles, assumed her trophy and her weapon. Led by René, she slowly passed down the nave of the grand old church, and out by the great portal, whence, mounting her strong white charger, she rode off amid enthusiastic plaudits and many hearty prayers, to put herself at the head of the French host, and thus awaited the signal to advance.

What a thrilling scene it must have been! Nothing in modern warfare could ever equal in circumstance and emotion that pageant pilgrimage. It was the last hope of France going forth to conquer or to die, led by a young shepherd-girl and a youthful royal knight. La Pucelle’s absolute reliance on the help of God, her remarkable courage, and the spell she had cast over the King, his army, and his Court, were all rendered more convincing to the common mind by the magic of her personal appearance. She was hailed as “Nostre Royne en blanche!” The bright sun shone upon her resplendent white armour, and the sharp breeze unfurled her snow-white banner; her white charger, too, enhanced the tout ensemble. She rode the most conspicuous object in that dazzling cavalcade, and no wonder her followers regarded her as almost supernatural.

At Tours and at Blois “Stations” were made for absolution, and from the latter place Jeanne caused René, in her name, to write an ultimatum to the Duke of Bedford, the English Regent of France and Generalissimo of the English army. She ordered him and his co-commanders to cease devastating fair France, sorely stricken as she was, and to avoid the clash of arms by retiring before her Heaven-directed forces. “Thou hast had,” she said, “noble Duke, thy fill of human bleed. Seek now the Divine pardon, for nothing shall stay me till I have planted my banner upon the walls of Orléans. Give back to me the keys of all the towns you have seized, destroy no more property, repent and retire.”

Alas for human foresight! human quarrels mar heroic achievements: la Trémouille, Dunois, and La Hire were not at one with one another—each sought his own; but that being impossible, all three determined that they would master René, Barbazan, and Jeanne. La Pucelle had made up her mind to approach Orléans from the right bank of the Loire; but her rivals led their troops to the other side, whence the fortifications could only be reached by crossing the impregnable bridge or by boat. Jeanne, however, was not to be denied, and she determined to make an assault at once and at all costs. Seeing herself misled, she summoned René once more for council, and Guy de Laval, a young knight,—second only to René in devotion to La Pucelle,—joined the deliberations. A storming-party was chosen,—regardless of the opposition of the three churlish commanders,—and Jeanne put herself at its head without any hesitation. Confidence and enthusiasm prevailed: Jeanne stood upon the broken bridge whilst René and Guy hammered at the portcullis; and thus upon May 8 Orléans was captured. Among the wounded was the Maid herself, not severely, to be sure, but the sight of her blood lent frenzied prowess to her soldiery. With her escort she rode through the streets crowded with famished, suffering people, who blessed,—nay, almost worshipped,—her. She halted at the cathedral of Sainte Croix, and held communion with the “Voices,” and then she went to rest awhile in the humble abode of Sieur Jacques Bouchier, an honest citizen attached to the suite of the Duke of Orléans. René lodged at the ducal palace.

The English withdrew to Paris, where a truce was agreed to by Louis, Cardinal de Bar, in the name of his nephew, Duke René—a very singular arrangement, but it was the efficient cause of a general suspension of hostilities. Charles VII. called a council of war at Blois, which decided that, as the way was now absolutely open, La Pucelle should fulfil her mysterious but triumphant mission by conducting “the Dauphin” to his coronation.

A great wave of patriotism swept over France. Men asked one another whether this was not the prelude to deliverance from 300 years of foreign aggression, and the first step towards the reformation of civil disorder. Charles rose to his magnificent opportunity, and rallied all the French Sovereigns in a league of peace and stability. Even the implacable Duke of Burgundy, who hated René de Bar and Charles de Lorraine irreconcilably, was minded to join in the general rapprochement. La Pucelle dictated a letter to him, conjuring him to renounce his petty jealousies for the love of Christ and St. Mary, to make his peace complete with King Charles of France, and to turn his hand against the common enemy. “Come,” she said, “with us to Reims, there to cement the good-will of all good men in France.” The Duke actually made some preparations for the journey, but at the eleventh hour pride got the better of his reason, and his hand never grasped those of his brother Sovereigns nor that of La Pucelle. Notwithstanding all France was en route to Reims that July, attracted magnet-like by the Maid’s white steel mail and oriflamme.

The Cathedral of Reims,—whose marvellous “Glory of Mary” over the great western portal Viollet le Duc called “the most splendid piece of Gothic architecture in the world,”—had been the coronation theatre of all the Kings of France since Henry I. in 1027; but no such ceremony had equalled in interest and in grandeur that of July 17, 1429. The summer sun awoke betimes the loyal citizens and the thousands of strangers within their gates; the genial morning breeze ruffled out gay banners and pageant garlands which decorated lavishly each house and street, and soon the world and his wife were on foot to the cathedral.

There was certainly very much more than a mere suspicion of fin bouquet in that fresh morning air; each worthy had filled his flask with generous vin de la montaigne, with which to quaff jovially the good healths of Charles and Jeanne and René, inseparable in the popular mind. “Le Roy, La Pucelle, et le preux Cavalier”—that was the toast.

What a motley crowd it was! Some, too, of the hated English were there, courageously incognito; but, then, Reims was quite as cosmopolitan in the fifteenth century as she is in the twentieth, with her 30,000 Yorkshire and Worcestershire wool-weavers. Probably, however, no forced Yorkshire rhubarb found its way then, as now, into the vats of the vintners!

It was a well-dressed crowd, for St. Frisette,—one of the patrons of the city,—has all along had her devotees, and no coiffeurs are so famous as those of her romantic cult. Indeed, her influence in fashion is for ever memoralized by the costumes and headgear, correctly chiselled, of the statues of the cathedral.

Saints, prophets, kings, and queens, in stone, high up in the galleries of the exterior of the cathedral, looked down approvingly, or the reverse, upon the rare show and its spectators. The gargoyles of Reims were ever famous for their unusual benignity. They were all animation and sparkled in the sunshine; merriment became emphatic within the floriated arches of the buttresses. In each a laughing angel in stone was exercising her witchery and adding heavenly hilarity to the general good-humour. The whole sacred building was en fête; it is still the merriest building in Christendom; its sculptured stones have imbibed the effervescence of rare champagne for centuries!

Within the sacred building all was solemn and restrained. Resplendent gem-like glass of the thirteenth century, skilfully leaded in the clerestory windows of the nave, produced a chiaroscuro of scintillating coloured light, wherein the spirits of the mighty and the beauteous dead were mustering to take, unseen, their sympathetic parts in the gorgeous functions of the day. Freshly-worked tapestries, covering the aisle walls, shared with the vitreous glories the telling of pageant stories of religion and romance.

The “Sacré,” or coronation, of King Charles was an unique ceremonial. Supported upon either hand by the most distinguished Sovereign Princes of France,—Louis III., King of Sicily and Duke of Anjou, and his brother René, Duke of Barrois and heir-consort of Lorraine,—he passed majestically up the nave under the heavy golden canopy of state. Another Anjou Prince, Charles, Duke of Maine, nephew of Louis and René, bore the monarch’s train—his cousins all. The Grand Peers, with one exception, Burgundy, marched alongside in sovereign dignity and pride. Strange it was that no royal ladies graced the auspicious sacring. Queen Marie bore no part; she, indeed, remained at Bourges, and recited her “Hours” in solitude. Neither Queen Yolande of Sicily-Anjou nor Duchess Isabelle of Bar-Lorraine was present, but the place of First Lady was, for all that, occupied by a “Queen,” the Queen of the coronation—“la Royne blanche—Jeanne.” Such a “Queen” had never stood beside a Sovereign kneeling for his crown before the high-altar of Reims. The fabled fame of saintly Queen Clotilde paled before the brilliant triumph of plain Jeanne d’Arc. How she bore herself in this her hour of miraculous victory, and what part she took in the stately ceremonial, historians have scantily related, and painters only imaginatively recorded: no précis has come down to us, no artist made a sketch upon the spot.

Immediately after the King and his royal supporters walked with dignity La Pucelle, in her flashing white armour. In her right hand she bore, at the salute, the crimson-sheathed sword of St. Catherine of Fierbois. Her head was bare, save for her lustrous locks of hair; but some pious souls thought they saw a saint’s nimbus around her brow; it was, perhaps, a ring of sunny halo—a reflection from her mail of steel, or a coronal of coloured glories shot through the stained-glass windows. By the Maid’s side marched her young and true esquire, Louis de Contes, bearing unfurled her magic oriflamme.

It was said that Jeanne had not intended to take any part in the actual coronation of her Sovereign; it was quite enough for her that Charles and she had entered Reims together. She was resting quietly and prayerfully, communing with her patron saints, and listening, as was her daily wont, of course, to the “Voices,” within her modest chamber in the humble hostelry,—now the Maison Rouge,—where her parents from Domremy had put up, when René and a Sovereign’s escort clattered up to the door and commanded in the King’s name the Maid’s presence within the cathedral. At once she donned her armour, and, giving René her hand, she walked with him across the cathedral place to where the King was awaiting her.

“The people,” it is recorded, “looked on with awe and wonder. Thus had actually come to pass the fantastic vision that floated before the eyes of the young village girl of Domremy, and had thrilled all France.” When La Pucelle had taken up her station on the royal daïs, she grasped her white silken banner in her right hand, saying to those around her: “This oriflamme hath shared the dangers: it has a right to the glories!” That ensign of victory still towers up aloft in the nave of Reims Cathedral, above the very spot where Jeanne stood and Charles was crowned—an abiding mascot of faith and chivalry. We may well imagine the heroine casting her eyes over that splendid temple of God and its occupants, and resting at last mesmerically upon the glorified figures of her three beloved holy ones beaming down upon her from the choirs of saints in the clerestory windows. St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Margaret, were all there, and their Master, too, for out and away from the empyreal realm, and beyond the burning sun of heaven, for the coronation of Charles VII. of France at Reims was the apotheosis of Jeanne d’Arc of Domremy. “The glory of God,” as some said who saw her, “there transformed the village maid into a bride of Christ”—a substantial Queen of Heaven.

Immediately after the anointing, the coronation, and the other ritual acts, were complete, Jeanne knelt down before her King, her eyes brimful of tears, and said softly to him: “Gentle King, now is fulfilled the pleasure of God. I pray you thank Him humbly with me, and let us thank, too, the good saints Michael, Catherine, and Margaret, who have so wonderfully aided us. Now my mission to you, my King, is fulfilled, I pray you release me, that I may depart with my parents to my simple home. One thing only I crave: it is that my beloved village shall be free for ever from taxation, and that their land and tenements shall be retained by my people. Sire, I bid you farewell.”

A few days subsequent to the coronation, Charles held a council of war at Reims to decide the plan of operations against the enemies of France, and he again sent René to the Maid’s lodging to bid her attend. “You have,” said the King to Jeanne, “not yet quite fulfilled the task you set yourself. The English still possess our gates. I need your presence and your services to rid France of her foes.” The Maid, sad at heart that more bloodshed had to deluge the soil of the devastated land, had no choice but to resume her martial garb, and once more to mount her war-steed. The council was divided in opinion: some agreed with la Trémouille, Dunois, and La Hire, and others sided with René and Barbazan,—with them was Jeanne,—and they prevailed. An advance in force on Paris was the order of the day. Upon August 13 René, with Jeanne, led the vanguard of the King’s forces across the Marne. At Montpiloir a pitched battle was fought, wherein Jeanne wrought terror in the breast of superstitious foemen, and René covered himself with glory. The pick of the English army, under the Regent himself, the Duke of Bedford, was worsted, after knightly encounters of noble champions and prodigies of valour on both sides had been keenly scored. Wherever the white oriflamme of La Pucelle chanced to be advanced, there was panic; the English regarded her as a supernatural being whom no human bravery could withstand. Defeat became a rout, and ten days after leaving Reims the victorious French army followed Jeanne and René into St. Denis and recovered the royal sepulchres.

During these sanguinary operations two royal ladies, each in her castle boudoir,—at Angers and at Nancy,—were devoured with anxiety and apprehension: the mother and the wife of René—“good” Queen Yolande and “fair” Duchess Isabelle. Their part was to watch and pray, for each was exercising a lieutenant-generalcy for her absent hero. Very well could they each have donned their coats of mail, like Jeanne d’Arc, for each was to the manner born; but the closer ties and dearer of motherhood could not be renounced. Queen Marie also played nobly the woman’s part; she had her family cares also, and, now that her consort was like a lion roused, her tact and love had much to do to restrain his ardour. Charles was not a soldier born, nor had he been trained in military command, so his presence in the field was fraught with risk and danger; his forte was in reserve. Whilst Marie grasped the bridle of his charger, Agnes Sorel loosened the girdle of his mail, and he quietly reposed at Loches.

La Pucelle now assumed another rôle. By heavenly advice she had been content to guide the destiny of Charles; now her “Voices” bade her command in person the army of France against the foe. The experienced military leaders, one and all, were discounted, and on September 8 she took actual command-in-chief, and opened the attack on Paris. It was on the waning of that fête-day of the Virgin that Jeanne, in all her flashing panoply of war, scaled the first ladder raised against the Port St. Denis; but, alas! before she could place her foot upon the battlement her thigh was pierced by an arrow, and she fell. Shades, too, of night were falling, and René sounded the retreat, whilst many a gallant heart trembled more for La Pucelle than for the temporary check. Helped by Guy de Laval and Jean de Clermont, as constant as himself, the young chief of the staff placed tenderly the wounded Maid upon a sumpter-horse, and himself led her to the nuns’ quarters at the Chapelle de St. Denis hard by, and assisted to dress her wound.

René rallied the flower of the French forces, and many a grizzled warrior and many a beardless recruit felt the influence of his enthusiasm—whilst all were ready to lay down their lives for La Pucelle, and mingle their blood with hers. A quaint couplet says:

Paris fell, and Charles came to his own, whilst René bade farewell to La Pucelle, and hurried off to Bar-le-Duc, where brave and fair Isabelle was holding her own and his with difficulty against unscrupulous and unpatriotic factions. Jeanne felt the absence of her most trusty ally keenly, and missed his energetic counsels; but she bravely resumed the conduct of the war, instructed by her heavenly patrons. A crisis, however, was approaching—a crisis which was momentous in its consequence for herself. Called to give siege to Compiègne on May 24, 1430, she was taken prisoner, and the hopes of France were wrecked. Without La Pucelle the fight was impossible, and René had gone too!

The rest of the story of La Pucelle is, alas! soon told. What she said to Charles, Duke of Lorraine, at the outset of her mission might well be said of her now that she was hors de combat: “La lutte sera vive, mais j’ai le plan précis pour triompher!” (The struggle will be fierce, but I have a plan of certain victory!). It was said that Jeanne was captured by some archers from Picardy, who crept unseen between the legs of her escort. By them handed over to John, Duke of Luxembourg, she was sold to the English. The Tour de la Pucelle still marks the spot. Not a hand in France was raised to rescue the holy maiden. Charles himself, who owed all to her, seems to have forgotten her very soon after his return to Loches and to the arms of his “belle des belles,” Agnes Sorel. René was fighting for his own in Lorraine and Bar, and could do nothing for his heroine. La Pucelle was taken from fortress to fortress, each prison being more fearsome than the last. She was subjected to insult and injury, treachery and outrage, and, deserted by everyone, she remained reliant only upon God. Her trial as an enemy and a sorceress was a mockery; even her own people turned against her; her straightforward answers and her superhuman fortitude baffled her judges. At last she was condemned and shut up in a cage of iron, her feet fettered with irons, and her body stripped almost to nakedness. Alas that God, whose devoted servant she was, should have destined her to this last stage of despair! Through all her bitter trials and sufferings she maintained an undaunted demeanour. Were her “Voices” hushed now that she prayed for death? When some English bigots approached to taunt her, she answered meekly: “Je sais bien que les Anglois me feront mourir” (I know perfectly well that the English will put me to death).

A year’s captivity and cruelty, harsh and revolting, found the spotless, unselfish, and pious “Maid of Orléans” in her twentieth year—alas! so young to die—a human wreck; but, mercifully, an end was put to her sufferings at Rouen on May 30, 1431. Burnt to death in the market-place,—calling upon Jesus, Mary, Michael, Catherine, and Margaret,—her fiendish murderers hardly allowed the fire to cool before they raked up her poor grey ashes, and then cast them with maledictions into the swirling Seine. So perished Jeanne d’Arc, the child of God, the deliverer of her country. Now her place is among the saints: she is St. Jeanne d’Arc.

It was said that her heart was found intact after the fire had burnt itself out, and that as one stooped to pick it up a white dove fluttered before his face!

Ill news travels apace. René de Bar et Lorraine heard of the tragedy at Rouen, and was broken-hearted. He dismissed his captains, his courtiers, and his minstrels, and shut himself up in his castle at Clermont, where he chided his soul with tears and fastings. His was the bitter cry: “Ma Royne blanche, Jeanne, est mort—helas! ma Royne est mort!”

The heart, too, of Charles, the King, reproached him before he died; he could never really have forgotten La Pucelle. A little girl was born to him and Queen Marie six months after Jeanne’s martyrdom; her name was “Jeanne,” as he said, “en reconnaissance et pour mes péchés.”

In the Register of Taxes the space against Domremy was left vacant until the great revolution, except for the entry: “Néant, à cause de la Pucelle.” Her parents’ cottage is still preserved, although the Bois Chènus is no more. The memory of Jeanne d’Arc will never die.

CHAPTER VI
MARIE D’ANJOU—“LA PETITE REINE DE BOURGES”

Marie d’Anjou’s betrothal and marriage to Charles de Ponthieu, Dauphin of France, in 1422, was a supreme master-stroke of statecraft which only such a remarkable mother and Queen as Yolande of Sicily-Anjou could effect. She, with all her prescience, could not have forecast the future of France proper and her many sovereign sister States, which was, in its happy fruition, due to that far-seeing nuptial contract. Marie’s son, Louis XI., made France one nation much as she is to-day.

When Queen Yolande so anxiously took charge of the young Dauphin, and had him educated with her own children, she was quite prepared for any mental and physical development in her son-in-law which might be expected to result from his unhappy parentage. No doubt she did what was possible to correct faults of heredity and to develop such latent excellencies as had not been wholly vitiated in the child’s infancy. Still, we may be sure she had a heart full of trouble as she witnessed the degeneration of her son-in-law from paths of probity and virtue.

In truth, the marriage of Princess Marie was, in a strict sense, a sacrifice and an oblation. The mating of her dearly loved daughter, a girl of unusual promise, with a youth of evil ancestry and unworthy predispositions must have cost the devoted mother much.

Marie was remarkable for rare beauty of person—pale, with perfect features; tall, with a graceful figure, and distinguished by her regal carriage.

In personal appearance Charles was unattractive: his figure was insignificant and ill-formed; his head was unduly large; he had large feet and hands, whilst his legs were short and bowed, and this caused an ungraceful gait; his face was sickly-looking and pock-marked, with a prominent nose, a wide and sensual mouth, and a heavy jaw; his eyes were small and somewhat crisscross; he had coarse dark hair and heavy eyebrows. If his destiny had not been a throne, he might just as well have found his career in a stable. With all these personal disadvantages, Charles was naturally warm-hearted and affectionate; he was possessed of a cool judgment, very affable and considerate, and, when roused, a very lion in the way. The marks of his evil mother’s influence never left him; the crushing of his natural inclinations and opportunities in childhood warped and unbalanced his mental calibre.

It was said scoffingly of him by those who were bereft of feeling: “Le Dauphin est un fou, fils d’un insensé et d’une prostituée.”[A] Jean Juvenal des Ursins perhaps went too far in the opposite direction, for in 1433 he wrote in his “Chronicle” concerning the King: “Sa vie est plaisante à Dieu; il n’y-a-en aucun vice.”[B]

The first notice we find of the life of Marie d’Anjou, however, does not refer to her union with Charles VII., but her betrothal, when only five years old, to Jehan de Beaux, Prince of Taranto, her kinsman. He was the son of the Prince of Taranto who accompanied King Louis II., Marie’s father, on his romantic journey to Perpignan, in 1399, to welcome Princess Yolanda d’Arragona. Descended in direct line from Charles, first Duke of Anjou, younger brother of St. Louis IX., his grandfather was Philippe, second son of Charles III. and Marguerite of France. Through the last-named Princess a sad stain besmirched the shield of the silver lilies. Jehanne and Blanche de Luxembourg, daughters of Otto IV., Count of Burgundy, married respectively King Philippe the “Tall” and King Charles the “Fair” of France. Charged with witchcraft, they were imprisoned for life in the Château de Dourdan, where they were tonsured, scourged, and tortured—although they were the most beautiful and most highly cultured women of their day—together with their sister-in-law Marguerite, but she returned to her husband in 1314. Their terrible experiences were made traditional in the family, and, naturally, did not conduce to success in courtship.

No doubt the idea which fixed itself in the minds of Louis II. and Yolande with respect to this betrothal was the strengthening of the claims of Anjou, of the younger line, upon the crown of Naples, by the alliance of the two branches of the house. Why this arrangement was set aside, or when, it is hard to say. Some chroniclers aver that the young Prince was drowned at sea off Taranto; others, that he had different views; and, more likely than all, others attribute the renunciation to the action of Queen Yolande, who, directly she had obtained charge of the person of the young Dauphin Charles, determined a more brilliant match politically, if a less attractive one psychologically.

Possibly Queen Yolande hardly realized, at the date of that auspicious marriage, how its consummation would affect herself. High-toned as she was, and assertive of Anjou’s prestige, she could not know that Queen Isabeau’s absolute declension from rectitude would, by force of contrast alone, throw her own worthy aims into emphatic prominence. That marriage was the opening of the portals of imperial interest to the personal guidance of the strongest mind and will in France. She became actually the power on the throne, not behind it. Her hand directed the issues of life and death between the rival Powers—France and England. Yolande became at once the ruler of France and the dictator of her foreign policy. What has history to say about all this? Nothing, or next to nothing. Historians,—the most narrow-minded and most easily biassed of writers,—have not cared to trace and teach the ethics of the personality of this ruler of men and States.

The genesis of the paramount influence of women in the public and private life of France was undoubtedly in the reign of Charles VII. He was successively in the hands of Isabeau, his unworthy mother; of Yolande, his noble mother-in-law; of Marie, his much-enduring wife; and of Agnes Sorel, his inspiring mistress. Happily for him, he was withdrawn early from the immediate care of Queen Isabeau, but her intrigues later on brought out the latent bad elements of his character. What saving grace was his, was his through Yolande of Sicily-Anjou. His wife and his chief mistress were given him for two distinct purposes: Marie kept the wolf from the door and emboldened her faint-hearted spouse, whilst Agnes cheered his troubled spirit and impelled his motive-power. There is a quatrain of Francis I. which is interesting from the fact that his versification leaves it doubtful whether Marie or Agnes was actually his good genius: he names both in the first line:

Marie and René d’Anjou and Charles de Ponthieu were educated together, and for four years or more were inseparable companions. The betrothal of Charles and Marie was effected at the Palace of the Louvre, December 18, 1413, in the presence of the King and Queen of France and of the King and Queen of Sicily-Anjou. Charles VI. was then still King of France, and fully in possession of his senses. His troubles, political and mental, ranged from 1417 to 1422, when he had become no more than nominal Sovereign, driven from place to place, crushed, depressed, and suffering. Until his malady became hopeless, he was noted for his nobility of endurance, his chivalry of deportment, and his unselfish devotion to his duty. His Don Quixotic sort of life, however, was a mixture of smiles and frowns—joys and sorrows. Such a wife and mother as Queen Isabeau proved herself to be was quite enough to shatter the patience and the peace of the most stolid of men. There was not a more unhappy family in all France than that of its principal Sovereign, nor a more miserable home than that of its King.

Still, there were not wanting human touches which paint the character of King Charles VI. in sympathetic colours. In the King’s room at the Castle of Blois is a superb piece of tapestry, among many others, embroidered with the “Story of the Seigneur and Châtelaine de Courrages.” The “Annales Français” recount the following narrative: “The Seigneur de Courrages was called upon by the Parliament of Paris to fight in the ‘Lists’ with a certain Knight, Jehan Le Gris, for the honour of his wife, the Dame de Courrages. During the absence of her spouse in the Holy Land, the fair châtelaine gave her favours to an urgent lover, the Seigneur Le Gris, and he made love to her, quite naturally, in return. King Charles VI. was presiding at a tournament, and he noted the presence of the lady in question, but was amazed at her effrontery; for she was seated, superbly attired, in her state chariot, in view of the whole assemblage, whereas the custom of the time should have found her upon her knees in her closet, praying for her good man. The King despatched a herald to the impudent hussy, with a message that ‘it is inconceivable that anyone lying under so grievous a reproach should assume herself to be innocent till such time as that innocence shall have been made apparent.’ The brazen dame was ordered at once to dismount from her carriage and retire to her manoir. She was unwilling to bow to the royal command, and, hearing of this, the King sent another messenger, who was instructed to conduct the fair and frail delinquent beneath a scaffold, where she was ordered to cry aloud to God for mercy, and to the King for clemency. In the issue of arms, luckily for her, fortune favoured her husband, who unhorsed his adversary, and, after pinning him to the ground with his sword, compelled him to confess the villainies he had committed with his wife. Then the unfortunate man was hurried off to the scaffold,—beneath which Dame de Courrages was humbly kneeling,—and there and then hung up by the neck by way of justification of his miserable sweetheart.” What happened to the frail woman the chronicler has failed to tell; probably the Seigneur de Courrages took his erring wife home and administered a well-deserved flagellation in the privacy of his bedchamber, and condemned her to a period of imprisonment in the family dungeon upon a spare diet of bread and water! Such was the wholesome discipline for marital infidelity in the days of chivalry!

The marriage of Charles, Count of Ponthieu, and Marie, Princess of Sicily-Anjou, was solemnized at St. Martin at Tours, January 15, 1422. It was a year of rejoicing in France, for on May Day her King by descent, Charles VI., and her King by conquest, Henry V., entered Paris riding side by side in a splendid triumph of peace. Charles’s reason had returned to him with the return of happier days, and although the spectre of Isabeau was beside him, he managed to retain his senses and his vigour until October 21, when death mercifully heralded a new reign and a new régime in Paris.

The Dauphin and Dauphine spent their short honeymoon at Loches and Bourges, whence they were called to attend the Kings in Paris, and there they remained till Charles VI. died. Thereafter troubles once more devastated fair suffering France: the peace was broken, and a broken band of fugitives fled the capital. The Court sought refuge at Bourges.

“The King by misfortune in the warres grew so behindhand, both in fame and estate, that amongst other afflictions hee was subject to reproach and poverty, so that he dined in his small chamber attended only by his household servants. Pothou and La Hire, coming to Châteaudun to ask for succour, found him at table with no more than a rump of mutton and two chickens. He had neither wine nor dessert, and only two attendants, whilst his carriage had no relay of horses and only two grooms. He was reproached for his love of fair Agnes (Sorel), but the Bishop of St. Denis reported that hee loved her onely for her pleasing behaviour, eloquent speech, and beauty; and that he never used any lascivious action unto her, nor never touched her beneath the chin.”

The Comptes de la Royne Marie record that the King and Queen were reduced to eat their meals off common pewter dishes, that they had little or no change of linen, and that the Queen sold all her jewels to purchase food and other necessaries. The townsfolk of the neighbourhood as well as the nobility contributed liberally to their Sovereigns’ wants. Jacques Cœur of Bourges in particular rendered them hospitality, for he was accustomed to send in daily the royal supper at his own expense. Cœur was a merchant, a jeweller, and a wine-grower, and waxed rich in trade, but never wavered in his loyalty. He became Charles’s treasurer, but after advancing him nearly 300,000 gold crowns, he was for some unknown reason cast into prison and condemned to execution and the confiscation of his goods. Queen Marie pleaded for their faithful subject, and gained his reprieve, but Jacques Cœur never recovered his liberty nor his property.

A gory stain was dashed upon the lily shield of France when the Duke of Burgundy was basely slain by Tanneguy de Châtel in the King’s presence. He had been one of Charles’s most devoted adherents, for he it was who, in 1418, carried off the youthful Dauphin, wrapped in a piece of arras, for safety to the Bastile, and whence he was allowed to escape to Poitiers. It was a time of terrible disaster. Paris was in open revolution, and all the possessions of the Crown were threatened with destruction. The English were marching all over France unopposed, for the French Court and Government were divided by the feuds of rival leaders. On June 12 the starving populace of the capital burnt the Hôtel de Ville, the Temple, and prison. Women were seized, outraged, and killed, and 1,600 murdered bodies were scattered in the streets and squares. The Count of Armagnac was the chief supporter of the Dauphin’s party, but Queen Isabeau joined hands with Jean “sans Peur,” Duke of Burgundy, against her husband,—alas! now quite imbecile,—and her only son.

A peace was patched up, and it was arranged that the Dauphin and the Duke should meet for mutual satisfaction at Montereau. The latter had no suspicion of foul-play, and Charles had no inkling of what was in de Châtel’s mind. The meeting was arranged upon the stone bridge crossing the Seine, on September 10, 1419. There the Dauphin, in full armour, awaited his rival’s approach. The Duke passed the two barriers on the bridge assured by the words: “Come if you please, Monseigneur. Fear not; the Dauphin is awaiting you.” At the young Prince’s feet the proud Jean knelt and did homage, but Charles put out no hand to raise him graciously nor paid him any compliment, but brusquely exclaimed: “Monseigneur, you and the Queen have disgraced France and me. I command you to leave that wicked woman alone and go back in peace to your dominions.”

The Duke, astounded, rose, and was about to offer some uncomplimentary reply, when he was struck down by Tanneguy de Châtel with his battle-axe, as he hissed out: “Thou art a traitor! Go thy way, base Burgundy!” Twenty swords leaped from their scabbards and finished the dastardly deed, and Charles, shocked beyond expression, mounted his horse and galloped off. Queen Isabeau was at Troyes, where she had been exiled by her son’s advisers, and the tragic death of her confederate roused the whole fury of her nature. She assembled the chief citizens, and made them an impassioned harangue:—

“Consider the horrors, faults, and crimes, perpetrated in this kingdom of France by Charles, soi-disant Dauphin of Vienne. It is here and now agreed that our son Henry, King of England, and our dear nephew, Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, shall not enter into relations with the said Charles.”

The assassination of the Duke of Burgundy weighed heavily upon the conscience of Charles; he never concealed his wish that his mother’s colleague should come by his end, but he never put his desire into exact words.

The year 1422 saw Marie d’Anjou seated, at least metaphorically, upon the throne of France. Both Kings of France died soon after her marriage,—Henry V. on August 31, and Charles VI. on October 21,—and Charles VII. and Marie were proclaimed King and Queen of France at Mehun-sur-Yèvre in Berry on November 10 following. They were crowned in Poitiers Cathedral on Christmas Day, where the new King had established his Parliament.