Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Joan— “The signs I shall give will be my acts. You will then be able to judge whether they proceed from God.”

  Master Eraut— “What acts do you mean?”

  Joan— “Those that I have to accomplish by the will of God.”

  Francois Garivel— “Well, tell us what acts those will be. You will have to give more definite answers.”

  Joan— “They are three.”

  Brother Seguin— “Which is the first?”

  Joan— “The raising of the siege of Orleans, after which I shall drive the English out of Gaul.”

  Master Eraut— “And the second?”

  Joan— “I shall have the Dauphin consecrated at Rheims.”

  Brother Seguin— “And the third?”

  Joan— “I shall deliver Paris to the King.”

  Despite their prejudice against Joan and the ill will they entertained for the girl, whom they now saw for the first time, the members of the tribunal were struck no less by the Maid’s beauty and conduct than by the exactness of her answers, that bore an irresistible accent of conviction. The audience, composed mainly of France’s partisans, among whom was John of Novelpont, indicated by a murmur of approbation the increasingly favorable impression made upon them by the girl’s answers. Even some of the members of the tribunal seemed to begin to feel an interest in her. Alarmed at these symptoms, the Bishop of Chartres addressed Joan almost in a rage: “You promise to raise the siege of Orleans, to drive the English out of Gaul, to consecrate the King at Rheims and to place Paris in his hands? These are idle words! We refuse to believe you unless you give some sign to show that you are truly inspired by God, and chosen by Him to accomplish these truly marvelous things.”

  Joan (impatiently)— “Once more, I say to you, I have not come to Poitiers to display signs! Give me men-at-arms and take me to Orleans. The siege will be speedily raised, and the English driven from the kingdom. That will be the sign of my mission. If you do not believe me, come and fight under me. You will then see whether, with the help of God, I fail to keep my promise. These will be my signs and my actions.”

  Master Eraut— “Your assurance is great! Where do you get it from?”

  Joan— “From my confidence in the voice of my dear saints. They advise and inspire me in the name of God.”

  Brother Seguin (roughly)— “You speak of God. Do you believe in Him?”

  Joan— “I believe in Him more than you do, who can imagine such a thing possible as not to believe in Him!”

  Brother Aimery (with a grotesque Limousin accent)— “You say, Joan, that voices advise you in the name of God? In what tongue do those voices speak to you?”

  Joan (slightly smiling)— “In a better tongue than yours, sir.”

  The humorous and keen retort caused Joan’s partisans to laugh aloud, a hilarity in which several members of the tribunal shared. They now began to think that despite the lowliness of her condition, the cowherdess, as they called her, was no ordinary being. Some of the members of the tribunal began to look upon her as inspired; others, of a less credulous turn of mind, thought to themselves that, thanks to her beauty, her brightness and her valiant resolution, she might, at the desperate state of things, actually become a valuable instrument in the war. In short, it occurred to them that to declare Joan possessed of a demon, and thus reject the unexpected help that she brought the King would be to expose themselves to serious reproaches from the partisans of Joan who were witnesses to the interrogation, and that the reproaches would soon be taken up and repeated by public clamor. The Bishop of Chartres, the accomplice of the Sire of La Tremouille and of Gaucourt, was not slow to scent the disposition of the tribunal. In a towering passion he cried to his fellow judges: “Messires, the holy canons forbid us to attach faith to the words of this girl; and the holy canons are our guide!”

  Joan (proudly raising her head)— “And I tell you that the book of the Lord which inspires me is worth more than yours! In that book no priest, however learned he may be, is able to read!”

  Master Eraut— “Religion forbids women to wear male attire under pain of mortal sin. Why did you put it on? Who authorized you to?”

  Joan— “I am compelled to assume male attire, seeing I am to battle with men to the end of my mission. Evil thoughts will thus be removed from their minds. That is the reason for my disguise.”

  Francois Garivel— “And so you, a woman, are not afraid of shedding blood in battle?”

  Joan (with angelic sweetness)— “May God preserve me from shedding blood! I have a horror of blood! I wish to kill nobody; I shall carry in battle only a staff or a standard, to guide the armed men. I shall leave my sword in its scabbard.”

  Master Eraut— “Suppose our assembly declares to the King our Sire that, with a safe conscience, he may entrust you with armed men to enable you to undertake the raising of the siege of Orleans, what means would you adopt to that end?”

  Joan— “To the end of avoiding, if it is possible, any further shedding of blood, I shall first summon the English, in the name of God who sends me, to raise the siege of Orleans and return to their country; if they refuse obedience to my letter, I shall march against them at the head of the royal army, and with the help of heaven, I shall drive them out of Gaul!”

  Bishop of Chartres (disdainfully)— “You would write to the English, and you have just told us you do, not know A from B?”

  Joan— “I do not know how to write, but I could dictate, Seigneur Bishop.”

  Bishop of Chartres— “I take you at your word. Here are pens and a parchment. I shall be your secretary. Let us see! Dictate to me the letter to the English. Upon my faith, its style will be singular!”

  A deep silence ensued. Triumphantly the Bishop took up a pen, feeling sure he had laid a dangerous trap for the poor peasant girl, incapable, as he thought, of dictating a letter equal to the occasion. Even the partisans of Joan, although greatly incensed at the manifest ill will of the Bishop towards her, feared to see her succumb at this new trial. The minds of all were on tenter-hooks.

  Bishop of Chartres (ironically)— “Come, now, Joan, here I am ready to write under your dictation.”

  Joan— “Write, sir.”

  And the maid dictated the following letter with a mild but firm voice:

  “IN THE NAME OF JESUS AND MARY.

  “King of England, submit to the kingdom of heaven, and place in the hands of Joan the keys of all the towns that you have forced. She comes sent by God to reclaim those towns in the name of Charles. She is ready to grant you peace if you are willing to leave France.

  “King of England, if you do not do as I request you, then I, Joan, chief of war, will everywhere smite your men; I shall drive them out, whether they will or no. If they surrender at mercy, I shall grant them mercy; if not, I shall do them so much damage that nothing like it will have been seen in France for a thousand years back. What is here said will be done.

  “You, archers and other companions in arms who are before Orleans, be gone, by the Lord’s command, back to England, your own country. If not, fear Joan. You will remember your defeat! You shall not keep France! France will belong to the King to whom God gave the kingdom!”

  Joan broke off her dictation, and addressing herself to the Bishop of Chartres, who was stupefied at the virile simplicity of the letter, that, despite himself, he had been compelled to write, she said:

  “Sir, what are the names of the English captains?”

  Bishop of Chartres— “The Count of Suffolk, Lord Talbot and the knight Thomas of Escall, lieutenants of the Duke of Bedford, Regent for the King of England.”

  Joan— “Write, sir!

  “Count of Suffolk, Lord Talbot, Knight Thomas of Escall, all of you lieutenants of the Duke of Bedford, who styles himself Regent of the Kingdom of France for the King of England, make answer! Will you raise the siege of Orleans? Will you cease the great cruelty that you heap upon the poor people of the country of France? If you refuse the peace that Joan demands of you,
you will preserve a sad remembrance of your rout. The most brilliant feats of arms ever accomplished by the French in Christendom will be seen. We shall then see who will prevail, you — or heaven!

  “Written on Tuesday of the great week of Easter, of the year 1429.”

  Joan (addressing the Bishop of Chartres after having dictated)— “Sir, sign for me, if you please, my name at the bottom of this letter. I shall make my cross in God beside the signature, seeing I cannot write, and write the following address on the parchment: ‘To the Duke of Bedford who styles himself Regent of the Kingdom of France for the King of England.”

  The partisans of Joan, the members of the tribunal, even the Bishop of Chartres could hardly believe the evidence of their own senses: a poor rustic girl, only recently arrived from the heart of Lorraine, to hold in that letter a language that was at once so courteous, so dignified and so sensible — it bordered on a miracle.

  Aye, a miracle of courage! A miracle of sense! A miracle of patriotism! — readily accomplished by Joan, thanks to her superior native intelligence and her confidence in her own military genius, of which she now began to be conscious; thanks to her faith in the heavenly support promised to her by her mysterious voices; finally, thanks to her firm resolve to act bravely obedient to the proverb that she delighted in repeating — Help yourself, and heaven will help you!

  Much to the secret anger of the Bishop of Chartres, the declaration that the tribunal would make was no longer doubtful. Joan’s triumph in the hall of Rabateau was complete. The tribunal declared that, Joan’s virginity having been established, a demon could possess neither her body nor her soul; that she seemed inspired of God; and that the enormity of the public misfortunes justified the King to avail himself with a clean conscience of the unexpected and seemingly providential help. Despite his own shameful indolence, despite the opposition of the Sire George of La Tremouille, and fearing to exasperate public opinion, that was waxing ever more pronouncedly in favor of Joan, Charles VII found himself compelled to accept the aid of the peasant girl of Domremy; whom, however, he cursed and swore at in secret. Inclined now to believe Joan inspired, the slothful King fretted at the thought of the trials and cares that the threatened vigorous renewal of hostilities against the English was to inflict upon him. He feared to see himself compelled by the force of circumstances to show himself at the head of his troops, to ride up hills and down dales, to endure fatigue, to face danger. But he was compelled to yield to the current of enthusiasm produced by the promises of deliverance made by Joan the Maid. It was decided that Joan was to proceed to Blois, and thence to Orleans, where she was to confer with Dunois, Lahire, Xaintrailles and other renowned captains upon the raising of the siege of Orleans. An equerry named Daulon was attached to the service of the Maid, together with a young page of fifteen named Imerguet. She was given battle horses, and servants to attend to her needs. A special suit of armor was ordered for her. In remembrance of the prediction of Merlin, she demanded that the armor be white, as also one of her chargers, her pennon and her standard, on the latter of which she ordered two blue-winged angels to be painted, holding in their hands the stalk of a lily in blossom. Furious at not being able to catch Joan in the snares that they had spread for her, George of La Tremouille and his two accomplices, the Bishop of Chartres and the Sire of Gaucourt, pursued their darksome plots with increased intensity. It was agreed among them, and in line with their previously laid plans, that Gaucourt was to demand of Charles VII the command of the town of Orleans. The three intriguers expected by that means to block the Maid’s movements, ruin her military operations, and expose her to a first check that would forever confound her, or to allow her to be captured by the English in some sally when she was to be left in the lurch.

  On Thursday the 28th of April, 1429, Joan Darc left Chinon for Blois, where she was to join Dunois and Marshal Retz, before proceeding to Orleans. The peasant girl, now fast maturing into a warrior, started on the journey, her mind occupied with recollections of the child’s combat between the urchins of Maxey and of Domremy, a battle where she had for the first time vaguely felt her vocation for war, and also recalling the passage in the prophecy where the Gallic bard declared:

  “I see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light.

  He holds in his hands a royal crown.

  I see a steed of battle as white as snow —

  I see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver. —

  For whom is that crown, that steed, that armor?

  Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin

  From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks. —

  For whom that crown, that steed, that armor?

  Oh, how much blood!

  It spouts up, it flows in torrents!

  Oh, how much blood do I see! It is a lake,

  It is a sea of blood!

  It steams; its vapor rises — rises like an autumn mist to heaven,

  Where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes.

  Athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning,

  That crimson mist, I see a martial virgin.

  White is her armor and white is her steed.

  She battles — she battles — she battles still

  In the midst of a forest of lances.

  And seems to be riding on the backs of the archers.

  The steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin.

  For her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver.

  But for whom the royal crown?

  Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin

  From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.”

  PART III. ORLEANS.

  CHAPTER I.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 29, 1429.

  IN ONE WEEK the martial Maid, inspired by the love for her people and country, vanquished the English, triumphant since the battle of Poitiers, more than seventy years before, when John II and the coward nobility of France took to their heels. In one week the brave daughter of the people accomplished what for over seventy years had proved beyond the strength of the most illustrious captains. The week has been called The Week of Joan Darc.

  Night had set in, but it was a balmy night of spring, and anyone on the evening of April 29, 1429, who stood on the street leading to the Banier Gate, one of the gates of the town of Orleans, would have thought it was bright day. All the windows, at which the inhabitants crowded, were illuminated with lamps. To the light of these was joined that of torches with which a large number of armed bourgeois and artisans had furnished themselves and were ranged in a double row along the full length of the thoroughfare for the purpose of keeping back the crowd. The courage of these town soldiers had been severely tested by the perils of the siege which they had long sustained single handed, having at first refused to admit into the city the companies of soldiers that consisted of insolent, thievish and ferocious mercenaries. However, after many a brave attempt, and seeing their numbers reduced from day to day under the shot and fire of the besiegers, the townsmen of Orleans had found themselves compelled to accept and support the mercenary bands of Lahire, of Dunois, of Xaintrailles and of other professional captains, who hired themselves and their men for cash to whomsoever paid for their services. They were dangerous auxiliaries, ever drawing in their train a mob of dissolute women who were themselves no less thievish than the English.

  Accordingly, often had the councilmen of Orleans — resolute citizens, who bravely led their militia to the ramparts when these were assailed, or outside of the city when they made a sally — had lively disputes with the captains on the score of the misconduct of their men, or of their timidity in battle. These men, to whom arms was a trade, not having as the inhabitants themselves, families, property, their own hearths, to defend, were not particularly anxious about the speedy raising of the siege, well quartered and paid as they were by the town. It was, accordingly, with inexpressible impatience that the people of Orleans awaited the arrival of Joan Darc. Th
ey relied upon her help to drive the English from their redoubts, and to free themselves from the heavy burden of the French captains.

  A compact crowd of men, women and children, held back by a military cordon, filled the two sides of the thoroughfare, at the end of which the residence of Master James Boucher, the treasurer, was situated, and was even more brilliantly illuminated than any other. Presently the hum of the multitude was silenced by the loud and rapid peals from the belfry of the town hall, together with the roar of artillery, announcing the arrival of the Maid. The faces of the citizens, until recently sad and somber, now breathed joy and hope. All shared and expressed the opinion that the virgin girl of Lorraine, prophesied by Merlin, was coming to deliver Orleans. She was announced to be of divinely dazzling beauty, brave and instinct with a military genius that struck even Dunois, Lahire and Xaintrailles, all of them renowned captains at the time defending the city for pay, when on the previous day they met her at Blois. Two of their equerries, who had ridden ahead into Orleans during the day, reported the marvel, which spread from mouth to mouth, and they announced the entry of Joan Darc for that evening.

  Everywhere on her passage from Chinon to Blois, the equerries added, her march had been a continuous ovation, in which she was greeted by the joyful cries of the peasants, who for so long a time had been exposed to the ravages of the enemy, and was acclaimed by them as their redeeming angel sent by God. These, and similar accounts that were rife, revived the confidence of the townsmen. The crowd was especially dense in the neighborhood of the residence of Master James Boucher, where the heroine was to lodge.

  Nine o’clock struck from the tower of the Church of St. Croix. Almost at the same instant the sound of trumpets was heard at a distance. The music approached slowly, and presently the brilliant light of the torches revealed a cavalcade riding in. The little page Imerguet and the equerry Daulon marched ahead, the one carrying the pennon, the other the white standard of the warrior maid, on which two azure-winged angels were painted holding in their hand a stalk of lilies in blossom. Behind them followed Joan Darc, mounted on her white charger, caparisoned in blue, while she herself was cased in a light plate armor of iron that resembled pale silver — a complete suit, leg-pieces, thigh-pieces, and coat of mail, arm-pieces and a rounded breast-plate that protected her virginal bosom. The visor of her casque, wholly raised, exposed her sweet and handsome face, set off by her black hair cut round at the neck. Profoundly moved by the acclamations that the good people of Orleans greeted her with, and which she received as a homage to her saints, a tear was seen to roll down from her large black eyes, adding to their brilliancy. Already familiarized with the handling of a horse, she elegantly guided her mount with one hand, while with the other she held a little white baton, the only weapon that, in her horror of blood, she wished to use in leading the soldiers to battle. Behind her rode Dunois, accoutered in a brilliant suit of armor, ornamented in gold; behind these came, mixed among the councilmen of Orleans, Marshal Retz, Lahire, Xaintrailles and other captains. Among the latter was the Sire of Gaucourt, leading a reinforcement of royal troops to Orleans and invested with the command of the town. With a sinister look, and hatred in his heart, the sire meditated dark schemes. Equerries and bourgeois deputations from the town brought up the rear of the train, which soon was pressed upon from all sides by so compact a mass that for a moment Joan Darc’s steed could not move a step. Enraptured at her beauty and at her carriage at once so modest and yet so martial, men, women and children contemplated her with delirious joy and covered her with blessings. Some were even carried to the point of wishing to kiss her spurred boots half covered with the scales of her leg-pieces. As much touched as confused, she said naïvely to Dunois, turning towards him: