“Listen. The English might easily regard a messenger to him as a spy, which, by Our Lady, would grieve me. But then again, even if they should hold you as a prisoner it would be uncomfortable, for money is so scarce in our treasury that you might have to wait a long time for your release.”
“I do not think, noble sir, that the English will catch me.”
“Then you will undertake the mission?”
“I await your commands.”
“Rest to-day and to-morrow. The day after to-morrow you shall have the letter for the Bishop.”
As the road to Rouen led directly through the English district it was practically impossible for a messenger to make the journey on horseback. Jean therefore decided to go on foot, disguised as a peasant. As the cities around Orleans were in possession of the English, he was continually forced to take divergent routes. He made a wide circuit around Paris, and at last approached Rouen from the east. While on this part of his journey he stopped in a forest one noon to rest and enjoy his simple meal. While thus engaged, he suddenly heard a female voice crying for help. He sprang up, and ran to the road whence the cry had come. Concealing himself behind some bushes, he watched and listened. He heard the distant rattle of a carriage and the clatter of armor toward the east. A heavy travelling carriage soon came lumbering along the rough road, accompanied by half a dozen men at arms.
“Has a shameful crime been committed, and did the cry come from that carriage?” said Jean to himself. “What! I think I know the arms on the carriage door. Why, certainly. They are the Duke of Luxemburg’s. But I must be sure of it.” With this he rushed from his hiding-place. “Halt!” he shouted, brandishing his knobbed stick.
The coachman and attendants were astonished. It seemed incredible that a single man, armed with such a weapon, should dare to order them to halt. While they prepared for resistance they watched, not so much the young man as the thickets, for they were suspicious that other peasants might make their appearance. During this brief waiting Jean discovered what he had feared, and what he was so anxious to ascertain. Scarcely had his “halt” died away when a girl’s face appeared at the carriage door.
“Help! help!” she cried, in terror. “Help! They are dragging me to a convent—”
A smothered exclamation of pain followed the last word. Some one inside the carriage had pulled her back and stifled her cries. Instead of the girl’s face there now appeared at the door the wrathful face of a knight.
“Seize the dog,” he shouted. “Do not kill him. I must have him alive.”
The men at arms prepared for action at once, but Jean did not stir. He stood immovable as a statue, staring at the door. The distress which he was powerless to relieve threatened his own undoing, but he remained as if glued to the spot, trying to identify the personality of the victim. He had only caught a fleeting glance of her, but that glance left an impression that could not be effaced. She was a girl of fifteen or sixteen years, and so radiantly beautiful that even her expression of poignant suffering and fear could not diminish her charm.
Meanwhile the men at arms were arranging their plan. They evidently intended to surround and overpower him, but their movements were too slow to suit the knight in the carriage. “Well,” he roared, “what are you waiting for? Seize him!”
The command brought Jean to his senses, and the first glance revealed his danger. With a quick rush he broke through the circle of his assailants and ran back into the thicket.
“Follow him, ride him down,” furiously cried the knight.
The men at arms rode after him, but before they could overtake him he had disappeared in the woods, where they could not follow him on horseback. To dismount and pursue him on foot would have been a rash undertaking, so they turned about only to receive violent reproaches and curses from their master, who was forced to resume his journey without his wished-for victim.
Jean did not go far, for he well knew they would not dare to follow him into the forest. Leaning against a tree, he watched the carriage, which took the road to Rouen. His first impulse was to follow it and keep it in sight, but, upon second thought, he remembered he was not at that moment his own master, but was in the service of another, and that under such circumstances he had no right to risk his liberty or his life. Accordingly he let the carriage go on several hours before he resumed his journey.
Making allowance for the precautions he must take, it would be three or four days before he could reach Rouen. On the way he made several inquiries as to the whereabouts of the carriage, so that when he entered that city on the evening of the fourth day, he knew it was there. At the inn where he put up he passed himself off as a fugitive peasant who desired an interview with the bishop, that he might tell him of the sufferings of himself and his fellow villagers. As his story was a probable one, he hoped there would be no opposition to his remaining there. He was told that the bishop arrived two days before in the company of the Duke of Luxemburg, and had brought a young novice to the convent of Saint Ursula. He had gone away again with the Duke, but only for a short time.
Whenever Jean ventured out of the inn, he took his way to the convent. He could see only its outer walls, and yet he was drawn to it over and over again. Near the convent stands the church of Saint Ursula. As its doors were always open there was nothing to prevent him from entering and praying fervently for the unhappy girl he had seen in the forest. One day he as usual selected a spot close to the wall between the church and the convent for his devotions. This wall must have been in frequent use, for there was a door in it opening upon a passage-way to the other buildings. While Jean was praying the church was empty, and in the gathering shades of evening the sacred room was quiet and restful. In the profound silence it seemed to him that he heard human sobs in the distance. He listened intently. There could be no doubt of it. He was not deceived. The sound seemed to come out of the wall. He placed his ear against the stone, and distinctly heard a woman’s painful ejaculations between alternate groans and gentle sobs. A cold sweat stood on his brow. He felt rooted to the spot. The longer he listened the fiercer grew the storm in his breast. At last he could endure it no longer. He rushed out into the air. His heart was almost bursting. “The captive lady!” he cried, “can it be she?”
His despair drew him again to the spot, and again he listened. His pulse beat so feverishly, and he was under such excitement, that it was impossible for him to judge calmly, but he fancied he recognized the voice.
During the remainder of his stay in Rouen Jean spent his time almost exclusively in trying to discover the fate of this unfortunate one, but it was in vain. He only found that he was drawing attention to himself, and this attention at last became so apparent that after delivering the letter to the Bishop he was forced to leave Rouen abruptly and make his way back.
Four leagues distant from Cambray[15]the towers of Beaurevoir Castle rise from forest-crowned heights. In selecting this spot the builders combined the useful and the beautiful, for the castle was famous both for its strength and for its attractive situation. The view from the upper windows and from the towers repaid the appreciative observer at any season of the year, but he would have lingered longest in admiration when park and gardens, wood and meadow, field and grove were decked in the beauty of early spring, when the thickly clustered villages, east, west, and north, smiled amid their luxuriant crops, or when on the southern heights the Argonne forest was clad in its most gorgeous greenery. How much more attractive the beauties of this spot must have been to a child whose greatest delight was to be among the flowers of the garden and meadow, the birds in the parks, and the varied scenery! How closely such a child must have been attached to such a spot! How strong its temptation to pass all its time with nature!
Just such a child as this had been allured to the park and gardens by the sunshine of an early April day in the year last named,—a girl blooming with color, vigorous with health. At a distance she appeared to be about eighteen years of age, but closer observation showed she could not have been much over fifteen. Of all the beautiful things in this beautiful scene she was the most attractive, as she frolicked and skipped about like a fawn, bounding over the flowery meadows for the first time. As she ran about in the sunshine she gave expression to her childish joy at each fresh manifestation of the marvellous work of spring, and broke out in most exultant exclamations when she discovered the first violets in the grass.
Two ladies slowly following her, and engaged in earnest conversation, were attracted by her outcries. “There now,” said one of them, a somewhat slender person with angular features and sharp eyes, “you see what an undisciplined creature she is. Is it proper for her to behave in such a manner? This comes of letting her have her own way. How often have I protested! But of what use is it? When you see that your talking is of no avail it is best to hold your tongue. If you do not, then they say, ‘Oh, yes, that’s the way envious old spinsters always talk.’”
The other lady, whose handsome face, beaming with good nature, was in striking contrast with that of her companion, cast an appealing glance at her. “Oh, dear Rosette, are you not mistaken? Who would dare to insult my husband’s sister by making such a remark?”
“Oh, well, you know people often think many things they do not say.”
“That is true. But even if they do, why should you conclude they are thinking things about you they do not venture to say?”
“I cannot give you any precise reason.”
“Then I must tell you it is not kind to think evil of others, especially of your own friends, unless you have sufficient cause to do so. But never mind. You were speaking of Marie. You are offended with the behavior of the poor child.”
“Child! A fine child she is,—ha! ha! You ought to have known some time ago that she is no longer a child. She is a grown-up girl.”
“Let us hope she may not discover it for a long time yet. How happy she would be if she could always preserve her childlike nature! Look at her, dear Rosette! Is it not a beautiful sight—such an innocent child, sporting in pure delight?”
The sister-in-law turned up her nose.
“But why is not her behavior proper?” continued the other. “Proper! What is proper? Are not many things proper which are called highly improper? Marie is in her own world here. She has grown up in it, is attached to it, and enjoys herself in it. You cannot imagine how delighted I am to see her thus. Poor little one! Orphaned at an early age, she has never known the comfort of a father’s or mother’s embraces, and shall I begrudge her her harmless pleasures?”
“It would be much better if she were to begin leading a more quiet and serious life right away, in preparation for her future.”
“What has the future in store for her?”
“Is she not intended for the convent?”
“Who says so? She is sole heir of Louis of Chafleur, who has left her a rich property. Why should she take the veil?”
“She will not take it voluntarily. I think it is the wish of your husband.”
“I think you are mistaken. At least, I do not know of any such plan. John simply said that a convent would be the safest retreat for Marie in case the tumult of war should invade the Argonne forest. To seek the shelter of a convent and to take the veil are two different things.”
Rosette’s eyes glistened with malicious triumph as she looked at Marie, who at that instant came bounding forward with a bunch of violets and put an end to the conversation; her look seemed to say, “I know some things better than you.”
While this was going on in the park, two men were standing at an upper window of the castle. They were considerably beyond middle age, and resembled one another in a certain cold, crafty, calculating expression of countenance. One of them wore the usual costume of a knight, the other the conventional dress of a high church dignitary. One was John of Luxemburg, lord of the castle; the other, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais.
“The girl is really a handsome child,” said the Bishop, as he looked at Marie.
“Oh, yes,” slowly assented the lord of the castle. “But,” he added with a peculiar twinkle of the eye, “I know something that is more beautiful.”
The prelate understood. “Hm! I won’t dispute that. These are fine possessions. It would be a pity to have them pass into the hands of strangers.”
“You have echoed my very thought, your reverence. So I think we are agreed on the general point.”
“You mean that in these times of disturbance there is no place where Marie will be so secure as in the cell of a convent.”
“Exactly, and unless I am mistaken that is also what you mean.”
“In a general sense, yes; but we have not yet considered the most important point.”
“Let us come to it.”
“The question arises, How is the girl to be secured for the convent? and next, How is she to be taken there?”
“I will see that she is taken there. As to the rest of the business, I appeal to the experience of your reverence.”
“Hm! a difficult task when, as in this case, the novice has the utmost aversion to a convent.”
“It is not so difficult as appears at first sight. I know of similar cases where the task has been successfully accomplished.”
“Yes, but under peculiar circumstances.”
“The circumstances in our case are similar.”
The Bishop’s face wore a crafty expression. “That is truly quite another thing. Let us hear about it.”
“Of course Marie’s property remains in possession of her guardian until she reaches legal age, when it is at her disposal.”
“That is clear. But what will the Church get?”
“Patience, your reverence. If she should not reach that age—and that is not impossible—”
“Well?”
“I understand that in such a case the property is legally mine.”
“That is also clear. But what will the Church get?”
“In that case we can make an agreement as to how much the Church shall have.”
“We understand each other, noble knight. But supposing she reaches legal age?”
“Then the Church must see to it that the legal requirements are not binding. I say ‘legal requirements.’ You understand me, holy father?”
“Perfectly, my noble friend. Sometimes we have had to grant exemptions from requirements which afterwards were shown to have been void because of irregularities.”
“I am glad we understand each other so well.”
“Yes, but what will the Church get?”
“The same as in the other case, namely, a share of the property, only the Church will not come into actual possession until after the death of the testatrix.”
“Hm! It seems to me, my noble friend, that you not only propose to take the lion’s share, but the entire prize. The Church would have the first claim in case of death.”
“You haven’t let me finish, your reverence. Until the death of the heir I will secure you, as the representative of the Church, a yearly income of three hundred pounds.”
“Dear uncle, see these beautiful violets,” she cried
“Dear uncle, see these beautiful violets,” she cried
The Bishop’s eyes glistened. “And the security?” he said, stretching out his hand.
“My word, the word of a nobleman;” and they shook hands.
A pause ensued. Each of the men, in the stillness, seemed to be studying whether he might not find eventually that he had been overreached and had not received his proper share. The Bishop was the first to come to a decision, and asked, “When shall we begin our work, noble friend?”
“At once, if you are ready.” Thereupon he rang a bell, and ordered the servant who answered it to call Mademoiselle de Chafleur.
It was not long before Marie came running into the room, full of joyous exultation. “Dear uncle, see these beautiful violets,” she cried. “Oh, what delicious perfume!”
“Very beautiful indeed. They are messengers sent by Spring to the other flowers.”
“It must be so. Oh, you cannot imagine how beautiful the park is already! Tell me quickly what I am to do, so that I can return soon.”
“So you find it very pleasant in the park?”
“Oh, I could stay there always.”
“I am all the more sorry, then, that you will have to leave it soon.”
“What! Leave! Uncle, I do not understand you.”
“Yes, child. The tumult of war approaches nearer and nearer.”
“What of that? Is not the castle safe? Let the Englishmen come. We will send those long-nosed gentlemen home again. Yes, ‘we,’ I say, for you know I am a Chafleur.”
“I have the highest respect for your courage, my little Amazon, but the English will not be greatly scared by it. No, child, I must find a safer place for you.”
“And my aunts?”
“Oh, that is a different matter. My wife and sister must submit to the inevitable.”
“And I can also.”
“No, child. Your father sacredly intrusted you to me. I should not be keeping my word if I exposed you to the dangers of war.”
“But I say again, uncle, and you have said yourself, that the castle is safe enough.”
“Still it can be taken; but no enemy will dare to attack the sacred walls of a convent.”
“A convent! What do you mean? Do you intend to make me a nun? Me! A nun! Ha! ha! ha! I shall die a-laughing.”
“It is not always nuns who find shelter in a convent.”
“Nevertheless, uncle, and once for all, I say I will have nothing to do with a convent.”
“Then tell me what you will do, for you cannot stay here.”
“Are you in earnest, uncle?”
“Absolutely so.”
The tears came to the girl’s eyes. Sobbing, and throwing her arms around his neck, she exclaimed: “Uncle, you cannot send me away from you.”
“It is for your safety, my child.”
“But I do not wish any special safety. Where my aunts can stay, I can stay.”
“It is of no use. No use. My decision is final.”
The girl stood erect. She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at the knight with a strange and distressed expression. Gradually her look became colder and more fixed, and at last he realized her undaunted determination.
“My decision is made too, uncle. I will not go to a convent. I would rather fall into the hands of the English. But the situation is not so desperate as that. I will let my kinsman La Hire know. He will protect me. Let me have a messenger, uncle. In an hour I will have a letter ready.” Thereupon she left the room.
“Well, what do you think now, noble knight?” began the Bishop.
“Pah!” he replied, “I will send her a messenger who will throw her letter into the first forest brook he comes to, and return without seeing La Hire.”
On the morning of the fourteenth day after this scene, a heavy travelling carriage stood in the castle yard with an escort of six armed men. Marie lay sobbing in the arms of Madame de Luxemburg. Still sobbing, she at last followed the impatient lord of the castle to the carriage. Nothing had been heard from La Hire, and when, as John of Luxemburg had said, an attack upon the castle was likely to be made, he told Marie he would accompany her to her kinsman. At the first inn they met the Bishop of Beauvais, apparently by accident. As he was journeying in the same direction he accepted the knight’s invitation to take a seat in the carriage.
Overcome with grief, and not expecting any trickery, Marie at first did not notice the road they were taking. After passing three or four inns, however, she saw that they were going west instead of south. Not even then did she suspect treachery. They easily satisfied her inquiries by pretending they must take a circuitous route to avoid encountering the English. When, however, they kept on in the same direction the next day, her suspicions were fully aroused.
“Uncle,” she said, “you cannot deceive me any longer; you are not taking me to Chinon. What are you going to do with me?”
“I will not deceive you, child,” replied the knight, for pretense was useless any longer. “I cannot carry out my plan to take you to Chinon. The whole district of the Loire is in the hands of the English. I cannot even get back to Beaurevoir, so nothing remains but—”
“But what?” she piteously exclaimed.
“The convent.”
She uttered a scream of terror.
“Be quiet,” said the knight, harshly. “If you scream again I will silence you in a way that may not be agreeable.”
They were in a forest where fugitive peasants might be in hiding. Even at a distance from it, he had been fearful lest the girl might attract some one’s attention. He wished to reach his destination without being observed, and was particularly anxious no one should even suspect where he was or what he was doing.
Marie was not frightened by his threat, but a quick glance showed her they were in a forest where no help of any kind could be expected. In despair she sank back into a corner of the carriage. Anger, desperation, and scorn raged by turns in her breast, until at last, overcome by exhaustion, she buried her face in her hands and wept.
The vigorous “halt” of a manly voice aroused her from her wretched condition. In an instant she was at the carriage door. Her first glance fell upon a handsome youth who was advancing courageously toward the carriage. The reader knows who he was.
“Help! help!” she involuntarily cried. “They are taking me to a convent.”
Her guardian pulled her back, and silenced her cries by holding his handkerchief over her mouth. She tried desperately to release herself,—but what availed her weakness against the strength of a trained knight? In her anguish the image of the brave youth rose before her, and her anxiety about his fate made her forget her own. She listened intently to all that was going on outside. She trembled when it seemed impossible for her to escape, but at last she exulted when she knew that he was safe.
It was late at night when the carriage came to a stop. Marie knew by the call of a watchman that they were either before a city or a castle. The Bishop gave his name, and the creaking gate opened. The carriage passed through several dark streets, and stopped at last before a large, gloomy building. Here also the Bishop’s name was an Open Sesame; the heavy bolts were pushed back, the carriage rolled over a paved yard, and with a hollow, fateful sound the gate was closed and locked.
Marie shook as in an ague fit. She realized that she was a prisoner, and perhaps was cut off from all the pleasures of life; but not a sound escaped her lips. Her mute sorrow alone reproached her persecutors. She did not know she was in the Ursuline Convent at Rouen, but she had no doubt it was some convent in the Bishop’s diocese. Evidently they were ready to receive an exalted guest, whom they had expected, in a manner befitting her station. The abbess, a lady of middle age, who, judging by her speech and manners, might have been of high rank, was awaiting her in the parlor. After the Bishop had exchanged a few words with her, the abbess turned to Marie and said: “May your entrance among us be blest, Mademoiselle de Chafleur. I hope these sacred walls will furnish you both the outward security which you need, and your heart that peace which the world cannot give.”
There was something so cordial, and withal so winning, in the tone with which she spoke these words, that Marie pressed her extended hand to her lips with the utmost sincerity, and covered it with kisses. She longed to throw herself into the arms of this gracious lady, and weep away her sorrow as she would on a mother’s breast. Her longing was so overpowering that she sank upon her knees and moistened the abbess’s hand with her tears.
“Save me, gracious lady, save me,” she implored. “I am the victim of a conspiracy. They have deceived me, brought me here by force, and torn me from all that is dear and sacred to me.”
The astonished abbess cast an inquiring glance at the Bishop. “The novice,” he said in reply to it, “is here because it is the wish of her guardian, a lord of Luxemburg, who alone has authority to act for her. Therefore it is idle to talk of force. To your—”
“I am not a novice,” cried Marie, rising. “I am Marie of Chafleur. My guardian has control of my property, but he has no right arbitrarily to dispose of my person.”
“I trust your ability,” resumed the Bishop, “to remove these worldly ideas, which are unbecoming within these sacred walls, and to implant in this perverse soul the spirit of quiet resignation and Christian humility. I authorize you to employ all the means which are at your command to produce this result, and I have no doubt of their efficacy.”
The last words were spoken with a peculiar intonation which was in the nature of a command to the abbess, but of the significance of which the poor child had not the most remote idea. The abbess, who understood well enough what was expected from her, made a quiet sign of assent, and the two men took their leave, firmly convinced that their work was completed successfully.
Marie was assigned to the usual cell and left alone. She first went to the grated window. It looked out only upon the yard. With a pitiful sob she threw herself upon the hard couch. Her tears flowed, and she gave vent to her anguish in melancholy ejaculations. At last she knelt before the crucifix and poured out her aching heart in long and fervent prayer. Again she quietly sought her couch. She was now able to think calmly over recent events. As she was ignorant of what was in store for her, she was still buoyant with the hopefulness of youth. She thought of La Hire, whom she had known as an honorable knight. The image of the young man also mingled pleasantly in her thoughts of the future. She decided she would write again to La Hire. He could not have deserted her. Thus consoling herself, she sank into kindly slumber. Poor child! Little she knew that her letters could not find their way into the outside world without first being read by the superior.
One day two nuns, commissioned to acquaint her with the rules of the Ursuline order, visited her. Her declaration that she did not wish to know them made no impression upon the sisters. They performed their duty, and then withdrew to make their report. Shortly afterwards another sister entered, and summoned the novice to prepare herself by prayer and fasting for the vow which she was shortly to take.
“What means this farce?” said Marie. “I am not a novice. I will not join your order. I will not take a vow.”
“Our wishes are useless within these walls,” replied the sister. “We must do what the superior, the abbess, and the rules of the order command.”
“What is that to me? I am not one of you.”
“You will do well, sister, to submit to the inevitable.”
“And what if I do not?”
“Then they will force you to submit.”
“Force me, Marie of Chafleur! I should like to hear how they propose to do it.”
“I can tell you, sister. They will lock you in your cell and let you go half starved.”
“Well, I would rather wholly starve than take the vow.”
“They will thrust you into a gloomy prison.”
“Go on.”
“They will come daily to your prison and punish you without mercy.”
Marie shrieked aloud. She clenched her fists. Her lips quivered. “Woman,” she at last exclaimed, “the devil has sent you to tempt me! Leave me. Go and report that I will suffer death rather than consent.”
“I must first do what I have been ordered, sister.” Thereupon the nun knelt before the crucifix and repeated aloud the prayers which were prescribed as a preparation for the vow. When she had finished she withdrew. What she had said came to pass. Marie first was locked in her cell and given only a scanty bit of bread. When that proved of no avail she was put into the prison. It was her loud laments which Jean had heard while praying in the church of Saint Ursula, for the prison was only separated from the church by a single wall.
News of the siege of the City of Orleans by the English at last reached the village of Domremy. No one was more deeply affected by it than Joan, for she believed from what her confessor had told the villagers that with the fall of Orleans the King’s cause would be lost, that there was no hope for the raising of the siege, and that the wretchedness of the fatherland would then be complete.
Scarcely had Joan heard the news before she left the village to meditate upon this new situation in some one of her favorite solitudes. She was at this time about seventeen years of age, blooming and beautiful in person, but unchanged in nature and habits. She longed to abandon herself to her thoughts and impressions in solitude as she used to do when tending her father’s flocks. Deep down in her heart she felt the sorrows of others now as she did then, and was moved by the same irresistible desire to help them. She longed to prostrate herself before her saints, to look into the clouds with supernatural vision and see their figures and hear their voices as she used to do. Her communion with the spiritual world at this time had become so intimate that she could question her saints and hear their instant replies. The Fairy Tree, under which she fed the birds, the miraculous spring where the fawns frisked about her, and the chapel at the cross-road near the oak forest, in which she had most of her visions, were her favorite resorts. In this chapel she knelt before the image of Saint Catherine, unconscious of the outside world. The burden of her fervent prayer was the necessities of the country, the rescue of the City of Orleans, and the coronation of the King.
“O that I were a man! O that I were a commander!” she sighed. “I would rush to the rescue. Perhaps it is not impossible. Does not the wolf fly from me when my saints are near? Can I not hide my maiden’s figure in the garb of the soldier? Are not these limbs strong enough to wear armor? What if the dear saints should commission me to rescue the fatherland!”
Absorbed in such thoughts and longings, she lost herself in communion with the celestial world, and in a vision she saw her favorite saints in the glowing clouds.
“Why do you tarry, Joan?” said the voices. “Cities and villages are being destroyed every day. Daily the blood of the people is being shed. Arise! Execute the decree of Heaven.”
“But,” said Joan, “how may I know it is Heaven which sends me?”
“The signs of your mission will not fail.”
“And what is my mission?”
“To raise the siege of the city of Orleans, and conduct the King to his coronation at Rheims.”
“How shall I begin?”
“Go to the King and offer yourself to him as commander of the army.”
“To whom shall I apply so that I may reach the King?”
“Go to the knight, Robert of Baudricourt.[16]He will help you.”
Joan returned home, and remained several days deeply absorbed in contemplating the mission to which she had been assigned. She would often steal away to her little chamber and weep bitterly; for although she felt exalted by the heavenly decree, still, it seemed impossible for her secretly to leave all the dear ones at home,—father, mother, brothers, and sister. And yet she must go secretly, for her father never would approve of her purpose or consent to her going, and no other way suggested itself. They had grown so accustomed to seeing her absorbed in silent and solitary meditations that they kept aloof from her at such times. It had been village gossip for years that she communicated with spirits and practised magic. In what other way indeed could her mastery of the wild beasts be explained? Her brother Pierre, however, who was devotedly attached to her, was an exception. He never pained her by suspicions. She had no secrets from him, and she came to him now in perfect confidence and wept upon his breast.
“It is not true, Pierre,” she said, looking up at him with her beautiful tearful eyes, “that you mock at me as the others do?”
“How can you think such a thing of me, little sister?”
“Oh, I do not think it, my brother.”
“And yet your question seems to imply that you do.”
“Not at all, Pierre. I know very well that you love me, but you must tell me so over and over again. I know very well you do not mock me, but even that does not satisfy me. I must have the assurance from your own lips.”
“I know very well, Joan, that you are a favorite with your saints, that they manifest themselves to you in the clouds, and that you talk with them as you talk with us.”
“Yes; you believe me when I tell you these things. But when I tell the others—”
“Oh, my sister, they do not know you as I do. I know that you never speak an untruth.”
“And yet my actions now must be deceitful. Alas! Pierre, that is what distresses me.”
“But remember, little sister, that you are obeying the celestial ones, that it is the fatherland which calls you.”
“And still it grieves me, my brother. I go about here just as usual. Father, mother, and all the others think that I shall always go on this way, and I let them think so, and purposely strengthen this belief while I am preparing to leave them secretly. Oh, Pierre, they will never forgive me.”
“Why should you distress yourself with such thoughts, my sister? You know that you must undertake this mission. And it is right you should, for the will of Heaven is superior to the human will. When father and mother and the others hear what Heaven has accomplished through you, do you not think they will forgive you?”
“Your words have done me good, my brother,” cried Joan, her clear, brilliant eyes shining with happiness. “Would that I could always have you by my side and hear your voice! If you were near I would fear no one whom I may encounter.”
“I will go with you, my sister.”
“No, Pierre, you cannot.”
“And why not?”
“Is it not enough for me to bring sorrow to our parents? Would you add to that sorrow by secretly going away also?”
“You are right. I ought not to go. You are obeying the decree of Heaven, but I cannot offer that plea. But I know of some one who might go with you.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Laxart. He also loves you, and he will not have to ask permission of any one.”
“But will he go?”
“I will speak to him about it.”
The next day (in the year 1429)—it was the day of the Three Holy Kings—Joan crossed the snow-covered valley to the Fairy Tree, sprinkled crumbs for the birds as usual, and listened to their grateful songs. Soon afterwards she was lost in deep reverie in the chapel at the cross-roads, and while in this state her enraptured eyes beheld her saints, Catherine and Margaret, in the clouds.
“The hour has come, Joan,” she heard them say. “Arise! the Queen of Heaven will be with you.”
“But I must go all alone,” she replied. “They will call me an adventuress.”
“Not so! Your protector is already at the door.”
As Joan arose she saw a man approaching the chapel. With joyous surprise she recognized her uncle, Duram Laxart.
“I know all, Joan,” he exclaimed. “I am ready to escort you as soon as you need my protection. I have already been to Vaucouleurs and have seen the knight Baudricourt. Start as soon as you can get ready. We will lodge with Wagner, whom you know.”
Before the astonished maiden could reply her uncle was off in the direction of Vaucouleurs.
The time for departure had come at last. Deeply agitated, she stood at the door of the chapel, and looked once more with tearful eyes out over the valley. Once more her gaze lingered upon the miraculous spring, the Fairy Tree, and her home at Domremy, and her soul was filled with tender and sacred associations.
“Farewell, O Wonder Tree, where I have spent so many happy hours,” she said between her sobs. “And you, little birds, farewell! Alas! Joan can never feed you again. In vain will you wait for her. Farewell, dear spring, whose music I have heard so often in my happy dreams. Tell the deer I cannot play with them again. Farewell, loved valleys and fields! How happy I was when I played here with the companions of my childhood! Alas! I shall never see you again! Farewell, my father! My beloved mother, farewell! And you, my Pierre, my good, dear brother. Oh, how hard it is to leave you! Alas! never again shall I look into your true eyes, never again hear words of love and sympathy from your lips. Farewell all, all farewell! Grieve not that I leave you. Be not angry. It cannot be otherwise. No! it must be so, for Heaven has decreed it, and the fatherland has called me. Away, Joan, away! The struggle is at hand.”
No one could have seen the simple peasant maiden at that moment, her eyes shining as the tears glistened on their lashes, no one could have realized her strength of will in giving up all that had filled her soul with sorrow as she thought of leaving it, no one could have watched her passing down the valley like a soldier defiant of danger, without the conviction that it was an event fraught with the highest significance for France.
Joan found her uncle at Wagner’s house in Vaucouleurs. He had already called upon Baudricourt, but was sent away with instructions to reprove his silly niece and take her back to her parents. Though not in the least discouraged, Joan spent the night in prayer, and in the morning went to see Baudricourt. She found him in the company of Jean de Nouillemport de Metz. Both laughed when they learned the nature of her errand, but she spoke with such sincere conviction of her celestial visions that Baudricourt at last dismissed her with a promise to give the matter serious consideration. Subsequently, when Joan prayed in the church, and the people came in crowds to see “the saint,” a priest approached her with a crucifix to see if she was possessed of the devil. Joan fell upon her knees and kissed the holy symbol, and the priest declared, “She may be mad but she is not possessed.” On her way out of the church she met the knight Nouillemport de Metz, to whom she thus appealed: “Alas! No one will believe me, and yet France can be saved only by me.” The words reminded him of the prophecy of Merlin. After observing her more closely, and recognizing her spiritual purity and her resolute determination of purpose, he expressed his willingness to take her to the Dauphin, and he had little difficulty in persuading Baudricourt to join him. A few days afterwards Joan was delighted to find herself on the way to Chinon with the knights and their men at arms. In her costume she looked like a slim, handsome page rather than a trooper. Chinon was more than one hundred and fifty leagues away, and for half that distance the country was occupied by the English. Hence they were obliged to make wide circuits, and frequently halt in the forests and ford rivers. After a fourteen days’ march they reached the city of Gien[17]on the Loire. The news spread like wildfire that the Maiden who, according to Merlin’s prophecy, was to rescue France, had come, and all hastened to extend her an enthusiastic welcome.