CHAPTER V

JEANNE D’ARC--“LA PUCELLE,” “LA BLANCHE REINE DE FRANCE”

I.

“Give me Duke René de Barrois, the noble son of good Queen Yolande, to guide me into France.” The request was made by a simple village maiden aged not more than seventeen years, and the personage she addressed was Charles II., Duke of Lorraine. It was an extraordinary request; the occasion, too, was extraordinary.

Born on the Feast of the Epiphany in the year 1412, of worthy peasants, at Domremy, in Alsace,--Jacques d’Arc and Isabelle Romée, his wife,--Jeanne was the younger of their two daughters; she had three brothers older than herself. Domremy was a squalid little hamlet, like many another upon the Meuse, boasting of the mother-church of the commune--a grim old building, but glorified by many figures of holy saints in its coloured windows. The nearest village was Maxey, upon the borders of Lorraine. The villagers were in constant feud--Domremy for the King of France and her own Duke at Nancy, Maxey for the Duke of Burgundy and the hated English. Sieur Jacques d’Arc and his three stalwart, hard-working sons were as ready with the pike as they were handy with the plough. Mère Isabelle and her two daughters were zealous backers of their menfolk.

Sieur Jacques was, as peasant farmers went, a man of substance and well connected. He had saved a goodly sum of money, and owned, perhaps, the biggest flock of sheep in the country-side. Milch cows and fattening oxen grazed his wide meadows. He was a man of probity, and had served the ancestral office of Maire of Domremy for many a year. Mère Isabelle excelled in stitchery as well as in the rearing of poultry and the cultivation of her fair garden plot. When about to be delivered of her youngest child, she dreamed three times that she should bear a girl, and that she should become famous in her country’s history. The narrative goes on to say that many unusual circumstances attended her child’s nativity: a fierce thunderstorm shook the dwelling, and mysterious voices uttered the strange cry: “_Aux secours! aux secours de la France!_”

Jeanne, the little daughter, was duly christened by the curé, and from her mother’s womb she was a child of dedication--St. Catherine and St. Margaret were her spiritual sponsors. Precocious from her weaning, both in physical growth and mental development, she grew up a devotee at Mass and shrine. She sought solitude and silence, and declined to share her playmates’ games. Other children thought her odd, and old crones shook their heads and pitied Sieur Jacques and his worthy spouse. Jeanne’s favourite resort was a thicket near her parents’ home,--Le Bois Chènus it was called,--an oak-wood grove where her father’s pigs greedily sought for acorns. The Bois had, however, a weird repute; it had been, centuries before, a sacrificial site of heathen worship, and the village folk avoided it at night, for they said they saw strange figures under the trees and heard strange sounds,--in fact, the wood was haunted.

One summer’s day in July, 1424, Jeanne d’Arc was seated, as was her wont, upon an ancient fallen menhir at the verge of the coppice. She was shelling peas, and she also had her knitting by her. The hour of the day was nearly that of the “Angelus,” when the frightened damsel heard an unusual rustling of the oaken branches overhead, and somewhere out of the tree or out of the sky voices sounded faintly upon her ear. At the same time a strange lurid light gleamed between her and the church-tower across the meadow. Laying aside her occupation, she listened breathlessly, almost in a trance, to what the “Voices” said; they were pitched in soothing female treble accents.

“_Jeanne soit bonne et sage enfant_,” said one; and another went on: “_Va souvent à l’église_.” Surely the heavenly speakers were Jeanne’s holy guardians, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. Jeanne was riveted to the spot, and moved not till the twilight brought her sister looking for her. Jeanne said nothing, but for seven days in succession she sat as at the first, and heard the same solemn words repeated; then on the seventh,--it was Saturday,--another wonder appeared to her: a very glorious holy one and a watcher,--the great St. Michael, God’s warring archangel, in shining armour,--stood before her under the great oak-tree, and bade her give heed to what he said. He told her eloquently and convincingly the story of the sad state of France--devoured by enemies, torn by factions, her King a fugitive uncrowned. When the heavenly visitant had finished his impassioned narrative, he bade Jeanne kneel, and, touching her shoulder with his flashing sword, said: “_Jeanne va toy aux secours du roy de France_.”

The girl swooned as soon as her ghostly visitor had vanished, and so was found, and borne to her couch by her brothers in alarm. In delirium for days and nights, she kept on repeating what the archangel had said, until, amid broken-hearted sobs, her grieving parents counted her as mad. All the gossips of the village and those from more distant homes shook their heads sadly, and said more fervently their _Ave Marias_. Jeanne was not mad, and after she had recovered her usual demeanour she related to her doubting father and mother and the good curé her mysterious story. The good priest proposed to exorcise the evil spirit which he was convinced was in her. Her father,--a matter-of-fact sort of man, and serious-minded, like all the peasant-folk of France,--thought a good thrashing was her deserts; her mother sided with her: she remembered the strange cry at her Jeanne’s birth. Jeanne heard all they had to say, and kept silence, her protestations only adding fuel to the fire of denunciation. She resumed her usual avocations, but daily sat to hear the “Voices,” as she called her ghostly visitants, and daily they repeated their strange instructions. She spent much time upon her knees in the church, and at last the curé, good man, gave heed to her infatuation. “If this be from God,” he said to himself, “no man may stay her.” He wondered, naturally, how this quiet and devout village girl could ever be the Divine instrument for the deliverance of France.

Jeanne’s simplicity and sincerity, her earnestness and good behaviour, however, gradually silenced unfriendly critics; and although most folk regarded her as mad, many believed her story and watched developments. The strange revelation of the maid of Domremy travelled far and wide, and brought many a neighbour and many a stranger to question her. Among the rest came Sieur Durand Laxaert, her mother’s uncle by marriage--a man of means, too, and well known the country round. He questioned Jeanne, he questioned her parents, he questioned the village curé, and then he went off and told the amazing story to his friend, Chevalier Robert de Baudricourt, the Captain of Vaucouleurs, a market-town in Champagne, not far from Domremy. The gallant Captain listened attentively, but when the story was completed he burst out laughing. “Why, man,” said he, “you and all of them are crazy! Just go back and box the child’s ears soundly; that’s the way to treat this sort of nonsense.”

The matter dropped so far as the Chevalier was concerned, but again, in the following January, Sieur Laxaert approached Baudricourt, and asked him to see his young niece. He consented, and Jeanne, wearing her coarse red homespun kirtle and heavy wooden shoes and her village girl’s coif, was introduced to the unbelieving Captain. He was dumbfounded by her appearance, for the lass was no village hoyden. Her figure was slender, her features refined; her great brown eyes,--staring into his face,--told only of simple faith and untarnished honour. Her voice was low and sweet, and there was a something eerie and incomprehensible about her which struck the good man, and made him feel uncomfortable. When he asked her what she wanted, she promptly replied: “I want to be led to the King of France.”

“My child,” de Baudricourt replied, “that I cannot do; but, if you wish, I will willingly take you to Nancy, and lead you to the Duke, your sovereign lord and mine. Prepare yourself at once for the journey.”

Amid the tears and protests of her parents and her friends Jeanne started, as she was, upon her eventful pilgrimage. At St. Nicholas de Pont,--a little town two leagues from Nancy,--she asked to be allowed to spend three hours in devotions in the church. When she reappeared, her face was wet with tears, and her long brown hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders. She did not seem to care. Her gaze was heavenward, and the only words she uttered were: “_En avant!_” With Sieur Laxaert was a comrade, a young man, Jehan de Novelonpont, better known as Jehan de Metz, of good birth and knightly carriage. He offered Jeanne his sword. She touched the hilt, and, smiling sadly, said: “Alas! young sir, that blade will be required erelong to slay thy country’s foes and God’s.” Thus they entered the capital of Lorraine.

Duke Charles received his strange visitor somewhat reluctantly. He was a man of shrewd common-sense, intolerant of superstition, and impatient of feminine assumptions--as his consort, Duchess Marguerite, learnt to her undoing. He asked curtly about her home and her occult powers, and jokingly invoked her aid in the cure of gout, to which he was martyr, and from which he was then suffering acutely. “This,” said he, “shall be the test of your pretensions to save France. Remove my pain, and I will take you to the King.” Jeanne shed tears, and, straightening out her rough woolsey skirt, she looked sadly up to heaven. At last she spoke: “Take me not, noble Duke, for a common jongleuse. First of all, noble Duke, I implore you to become reconciled to the Duchess, your wife; as for me, I am the unworthy instrument of God to set King Charles of France upon his throne and to scatter his enemies.” The Duke dismissed the maid with a wave of his hand. “Take her away,” he said; “be kind to her; maybe I will see her again shortly.” “Jeanne,” he added, “in a day or two you shall tell your tale before some noble lords.”

All over Lorraine and Barrois internecine war was rife; noble rose against noble, and yeoman and peasant joined the fray. The most serious was the rivalry of René, the young Duke of Bar, and Antoine, Count of Vaudémont, concerning the rights of succession to the dukedom of Lorraine. Metz, into which de Vaudémont had thrown himself, was invested by the Barrois troops, splendidly led by the boy-warrior--he was but twenty years of age. A messenger from Charles requested a truce, and invited both commanders to join him at Nancy to take counsel with their peers upon the strange claims of a shepherd-girl from Domremy. With Duke René rode a score of knights and nobles; Count Antoine was accompanied by a like company. Upon the morrow of their arrival at the capital, Duke Charles assembled them and others in the great courtyard of the castle, and sent for Jeanne, who, still attired in her peasant garb, knelt at his feet and kissed his hand. Then she surveyed the assembly furtively, as though prepared for insult or worse, and quietly repeated her strange story amid general scoffs and impatience. One noble knight alone gave serious heed,--René, Duke of Bar. Duke Charles taunted her with her inability to mount a horse, much more to lead an army.

“Jeanne,” said he, “thou hast never bestridden a charger, thou canst not bear a lance!”

“Sire,” she replied, “mount me, and see if I cannot both ride and hold my own.”

A quiet palfrey,--the property of Duchess Marguerite,--was led into the courtyard by its groom, but Jeanne refused to mount. “Give me,” she demanded, “the charger of that Prince yonder,” pointing to René of Sicily-Anjou and Bar. The Prince lifted her into the saddle, and his gentleness, reverence, and good looks, differentiated him from the rest of that knightly assemblage.

“What is thy name, brave Prince?” she asked.

“René de Bar,” he said.

“What!” the Maid replied, “the noble Duke of Bar, the gallant son of good Queen Yolande of Anjou. You shall be my escort into France.”

With that she laid firm hold of the heavy lance, offered by a young esquire, placed it correctly in stay, and smartly gathered up the reins. Saluting Dukes Charles and René, she drove the heels of her wooden shoes into the horse’s sides, and dashed round and round the courtyard, the lance in position, and then out into the open. Astonishment marked each noble countenance, and then loud applause greeted this quite unexpected display; it enlisted to her cause most of the spectators, who had meant to cry down the girl’s ineptitude, but now were perfectly ready to follow her. With difficulty Jeanne reined in her mount, and slowly cantered into the courtyard again. Saluting in correct knightly fashion the Duke, her Sovereign, and beckoning René once more to her side, she dismounted with his help, rendered up her lance, and fell at Charles’s feet.

The Duke gently raised the palpitating, girlish form, and aloud exclaimed: “May God grant the accomplishment of thy desires! I see thou hast both courage and intelligence.” Jeanne then turned to René, and, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, looked up innocently but intently with her great brown eyes, into his open, truthful face, and said: “You, my Prince, will help me, I am sure. There is none other here in whom I know I can put my whole trust. You are like the blessed Michael who speaks to me and strengthens me. You are a Christian knight; you will lead me into France.” The Maid’s partiality for René de Bar gave rise, unworthily, to evil gossip with respect to their mutual relations. She was attracted to him by the tales of the country-side. Domremy was so near to the scenes of his military achievements in Lorraine that news of him and his prowess affected greatly the younger folk. The fact that he was the husband of their Princess Isabelle, “the Pride of Lorraine,” greatly added to his local fame.

The noble company at the castle moved into the hall of audience, and there Jeanne laid before them fully all her loyal aims--heaven-directed, as she said. She told them, too, the story of the “Voices,” and craved their assistance in her enterprise. “We will traverse France together,” she exclaimed, “until we find King Charles. We will crown him at Reims, and we will then cast out our country’s enemies. Saints Michael, Catherine, and Margaret, will protect us and our homes!”

This amazing speech by a young country girl roused general enthusiasm, and the mysterious magic of her voice and manner disarmed all opposition. Each belted knight drew forth his steely blade, and, tossing it on high, swore to be her henchman. “_Vive la nostre Royne! à bas les Anglois!_” they cried aloud together. These acclamations hurtled stridently through gallery, way-ward, and postern, and away they flew in increased volume past the portcullis, till every citizen in Nancy and the labourers in the fields around joined in the ecstatic chorus: “_Vive la nostre Royne Jeanne!_” Rich and poor, noble and simple, and the children, too, pressed into the castle precincts to catch a sight of the humble yet brave messenger of God, and perchance to touch her person or her dress, seeking infection from the virtue and valour which possessed her. Jeanne’s reception and recognition at Nancy Castle attained the proportions of a Bretagne _pardon_. Church-bells clanged for her, priests blessed her, and relics of saints were exposed with the Blessed Sacrament on her behalf.

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.

Next to popular and soldierly estimation of the heroism of La Pucelle, was universal admiration for the courage and resourcefulness of the young Duke de Barrois. He with his brother, King Louis of Sicily, were also the champions of the knightly “Lists,” although Jeanne had prayed _her_ warrior not to risk his neck in such encounters. René, indeed, was the hero, as Jeanne was the heroine, of that wonderful campaign. Only half the truth was told of his abilities in that saying of the Maid: “René de Bar is worth more than a squadron of cavalry!”

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:

“La dit il mante la fière bande Que le fier Prince René commande!”

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.