by Eugène Sue
Presently a distant and increasing noise announces the approach of the train. The crowd presses and becomes more compact outside the cemetery. The procession draws near, escorted by English archers. At its head march the Cardinal of Winchester in the Roman purple, and the Bishop of Beauvais with a gold mitre on his head, a gold crosier in his hand and over his shoulders the chasuble of violet silk, resplendent in embroidery. Behind them and in his monk’s frock comes the inquisitor John Lemaitre, together with Peter of Estivet, the official institutor of the process, William Erard and two registrars, carrying parchments and writing portfolios.
A few steps behind them, and sustained by two penitents whose grey robes, covering them from head to foot, are pierced with two holes at the elevation of their eyes, Joan advances slowly. Her weakness is extreme, and although her eyes are wide open she does not seem to be wholly awake; she still seems under the effect of the soporific and tonic of the night before. She seems to look without seeing, and to hear with indifference the hisses of the mob that, incited by the example of the English soldiers, makes hostile demonstrations against the victim. On Joan’s head is a high mitre of black pasteboard which bears in large letters the following words: “Heretic,” “Idolater,” “Apostate.” A long robe of coarse black wool envelops her from the neck down to her bare feet. She halts for a moment before the scaffold, while the Cardinal, the Bishop and other prelates take their seats upon it. At a signal from one of the registrars, the two penitents, holding Joan under the arms, help her to ascend the stairs of the scaffold. The sky is this day of an admirable clearness; the sun shines brilliantly; the pleasant warmth of its rays penetrates and gradually warms Joan Darc, who still shivers from the dampness of the subterraneous dungeon in which she has so long lain buried night and day. She inhales the bracing and pure air with delight, and in full draughts. The atmosphere of her cell was so heavy, so fetid! She seems to revive; her chilled and clogged blood courses anew with the delight of life; she experiences an indescribable sense of happiness at the contemplation of that azure sky bathed in light, and at the sight of the green grass of the cemetery, studded here and there with spring flowers. At a little distance stands a clump of trees, near the abbey. The birds chirp in their foliage, the insects hum — everything seems to sing and express delight on that sweet May morning. The sight of nature that Joan has so long been deprived of — she who was from early infancy accustomed to live on the meadows and in the woods — transports her into a sort of ecstasy. She forgets her sufferings, her martyrdom, her sentence and even the abjuration that she is about to pronounce. If her thoughts at all fall upon these topics, the only effect is the pleasurable reminder that she is soon to be free. Oh, free! to be free! To see her village again! the oak forest, the Fountain of the Fairies, the smiling and shady banks of the Meuse! To see again her family, her friends, and, renouncing the bitter illusions of glory, escaping the royal ingratitude, the hypocrisy, the hatred and the envy of men, quietly spend her days in Domremy at her rustic labors as in the happy days of yore! And that, all that at the price of a few words pronounced before her butcher-judges, those monsters of iniquity! Oh, at this moment of physical exaltation Joan would sign her abjuration with her own blood. Her heart-beats, pulsating with hope, smother within her the austere voices of her honor and her faith. In vain do these whisper to her: “Be not faint-hearted! Bravely uphold the truth in the teeth of those false priests, and you will be delivered from your trials, not for a day, but for all eternity!” These voices are not now listened to; her physical delight is too vast. Suddenly she is recalled to her condition by the voice of Bishop Cauchon who severely says to her:
“Joan, down on your knees; bow your head!”
Joan Darc kneels down without removing her eyes from the beautiful blue of the sky, from the radiant light of the sun from which she seeks to draw the strength necessary to persevere in her resolution of abjuring. A profound silence falls upon the crowd, the front ranks of which can hear the words uttered on the scaffold, and Bishop Cauchon, crossing himself, proceeds:
“My very dear brothers, the Lord said it to his apostle St. John, the palm tree cannot of itself produce fruit if it does not live. Thus, my very dear brothers, you must persevere in the true life of our holy mother the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, which our Lord Jesus Christ built with his right hand. But, alack! there are perverse souls, abominable and idolatrous (he points at Joan Darc) filled with heretical crimes, who rise with an audacity that is truly infernal against the unity of our holy Church, to the great scandal and to the painful horror of all good believers. (To Joan Darc with a menacing voice:) There you are now upon a scaffold, in the face of heaven and of men. Is the light to enter at last your haughty and diabolical soul? Will you at last submit in all humbleness your words and acts to the Church militant, the enormities of your acts! your monstrous words! according to the infallible judgment of the priests of the Lord? Reflect and answer! If not, the Church will abandon you to the secular arm and your body will go up in the flames of the pyre.”
These words produce a deep commotion among the crowd. The majority of those present are hostile to Joan Darc. A small number feel sincere pity for her. These various sentiments find expression in cries, imprecations and charitable utterances:
“She has not yet been condemned, the witch! Death to the abominable idolater!”
“A door of safety is being held open to her. Death to the heretic!”
“By St. George! Upon the word of an English archer, I shall set the Bishop’s house on fire if the strumpet is not brought to the pyre at once!”
“Mercy will be extended to her! And yet with her sorceries she has exterminated our invincible army!”
“Her partisans want to save her!”
“I hope they may succeed! Poor girl! She has suffered so much! Mercy for her!”
“How pale and thin she is! She looks like a ghost! Take pity upon the poor creature!”
“She fought for France. And after all, we are French!”
“Speak not so loud, my friend, the English soldiers may overhear you!”
“Jesus! My God! To burn her! Her who was so brave and so pious! It would be an act of barbarism!”
“Is it her fault that God inspired her?”
“If saints appeared before her, and spoke to her, all the greater the honor!”
“How can a bishop of the good God dare to pronounce her a sorceress!”
“Death! Death to the witch!”
“Death! Death to the she-devil!”
“To the pyre with the strumpet of the Armagnacs!”
At these ferocious cries and infamous insults Joan Darc’s terror redoubles. The ignominy that awaits her if she does not abjure rises before her. To abjure means to escape mortal shame; to abjure means to regain freedom! Joan Darc resigns herself. Still her loyalty and conscience revolt at that supreme moment, and instead of completely renouncing her errors, she mutters on her knees: “I have sincerely stated all my actions to my judges; I believed I acted under the command of God. I do not wish to accuse either my God or anybody. If I have sinned I alone am guilty. I rely upon God. I implore His mercy.”
“Subterfuges!” cried Bishop Cauchon. “Subterfuges! Yes, or no; do you consider true what the priests, your only judges in matters of faith, declare concerning your actions and words — words and acts that have been pronounced fallacious, homicidal, sacrilegious, idolatrous, heretical and diabolical? Answer! (Joan is silent) I call upon you a second time to answer! (Joan is still silent) I ask you a third time to answer! You are silent? You are an abominable criminal!”
Yes, the heroine remains silent, racked by a supreme internal struggle. “Abjure!” whispered to her the instinct of self-preservation. “Do not abjure! Do not lie! Courage! Courage!” cries her conscience; “maintain the truth unto shame and death!” The wretched girl wrings her hands, and remains silent, a prey to distracting agonies.
“Alack!” exclaims Bishop Cauchon, addressing the people. �
�My very dear brothers! You see the stiff-neckedness of this unhappy woman! She spurns her tender mother the Church, that extends her arms to her with love and pardon! Alack! Alack! The evil spirit has taken a firm hold of her who might now have been Joan. Her, whose body shall have to be delivered to the burning flames of the pyre! Her, whose ashes will be cast to the winds! Her, who, deprived of the holy Eucharist at the moment of death, and loaded down with the decree of excommunication, is about to be cast into the bottom of hell for all eternity! Alack! Alack! Joan, you willed it so. We believed in your repentance, we consented not to deliver you to the secular arm. But you persist in your heresy. Then listen to your sentence!”
While the Bishop is recalling the formula of the sentence several English soldiers brandish their lances and cry: “Let an end be made of this!”
“Throw the witch quickly into the fire!”
“Death to the magician!”
At the same time other voices from the crowd cry:
“Poor, brave girl! Mercy for her!”
“Lord God! How can she deny her visions! Mercy! Mercy!”
“It would be a lie and cowardice on her part! Courage! Courage!”
Bishop Cauchon rises, terrible, and with his hands extended to heaven makes ready to utter the final curse upon the accused. “Joan!” he cries, “listen to your sentence. In the name of the Church, we, Peter, Bishop of Beauvais by the mercy of God, declare you—”
Joan Darc interrupts the approaching imprecation with a shriek of terror, clasps her hands, and collapses upon the scaffold, crying: “Mercy! Mercy!”
“Do you submit yourself to the judgment of the Church?” again asks Bishop Cauchon.
Livid and her teeth chattering with terror, Joan Darc answers: “Yes, I submit myself!”
“Do you renounce your apparitions and visions as false, sacrilegious, and diabolical?” the Bishop asks.
Wholly broken down, and in a gasping voice, Joan makes answer: “Yes — yes — I renounce them — seeing the priests consider them wicked things. I submit to their opinion — I shall submit to everything that the Church may order — Mercy! Have pity upon me!” and cowering upon herself, she hides her face in her hands amidst convulsive sobs.
“Oh, my very dear brothers!” exclaims Bishop Cauchon with an affectation of charity. “What a beautiful day! What a holy day! What a glorious day! that on which the Church in her maternal joy opens her arms to one of her children, repentful after having long wandered from the fold! Joan, your submission saves your body and your soul! Repeat after me the formula of abjuration.” The Bishop beckons to one of the registrars, who brings to him a parchment containing the formula of abjuration.
Violent outcries break out from the crowd. The English soldiers and the people of the Burgundian party feel irritated at the prospect of the Maid’s escaping death, and break out into imprecations against the judges. They charge the Bishop and the Cardinal with treason and threaten to burn down their houses. The English captains share the indignation of their men. One of the former, the Earl of Warwick, steps out of the group in which he stands, rushes up the stairs of the scaffold, and approaching the prelate says to him angrily, in a low voice: “Bishop, Bishop, is that what you promised us?” “Be patient!” answers the prelate, also in a low voice; “I shall keep my promise; but calm your men; they are quite capable of massacring us!”
Sufficiently acquainted with Peter Cauchon to know he can trust him, the Earl of Warwick again descends from the platform, joins his companions in arms, and communicates the Bishop’s answer to them. The latter hasten to distribute themselves among the ranks of the soldiers, whose anger they appease with assurances that the witch will be burned despite her abjuration. But while one part of the mob is enraged at the Maid’s abjuration and the Bishop’s pardon, another, consisting of the people who pity Joan, is thrown into consternation. This feeling soon makes way for indignation. She denies her visions; then they were false pretences; she lied when she claimed to be sent by God. And if her visions were true, she is now disgracing herself by a shameful act of cowardice. Coward or liar — such is the judgment they now pass upon Joan Darc. The infernal ecclesiastical plot is skilfully hatched; through it the sympathy once felt for the heroine is extinguished in the hearts of her partisans themselves. On her knees upon the scaffold, cowering down, and her face covered by her hands, Joan Darc seems a stranger to what passes around her. Overcome by so many conflicting emotions, her mind again begins to wander, she seems to have but one fixed idea — to escape the disgrace of the stake.
Silence being finally restored, Peter Cauchon rises with the parchment in his hands and says: “Joan, you shall now repeat with your heart and your lips, the following formula of abjuration, in the measure that I pronounce it. Listen!” and he proceeds to read in a voice that is heard by the remotest ranks of the pressing crowd: “‘Any person who has erred in the Catholic faith, and who thereafter by the grace of God has returned to the light of truth and to the bosom of our holy mother the Church, must be careful not to allow himself to be provoked by the evil spirit into a relapse. For this reason, I, Joan, commonly named the Maid, a miserable sinner, recognizing that I was fettered by the chains of error, and wishing to return to the bosom of our holy mother the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, I, Joan, to the end of proving that I have returned to my tender mother, not in false appearance, but with my heart, do hereby confess, first, that I gravely sinned by falsely causing others to believe that I had apparitions and revelations of God in the forms of St. Marguerite and St. Catherine and of St. Michael the archangel.’” Turning to Joan, the Bishop asks: “Do you confess having wickedly sinned in that, and of having been impious and sacrilegious?”
“I confess it!” comes from Joan Darc in a broken voice.
An outburst of cries from the indignant mob greets the confession of the penitent. Those now most furious are the ones who were before moved with tender pity for her.
“So, then, you lied!”
“You imposed upon the poor people, miserable hypocrite!”
“And I, who felt pity for her!”
“The Church is too indulgent!”
“Think of accepting the penitence of so infamous a cheat!”
“Upon my word, comrades, she is quite capable of being possessed of the devil as the English claimed! The strumpet and liar!”
“And yet her victories were none the less brilliant for all that!”
“Aye! through witchcraft! Are you going to show pity for the liar?”
“Fear of the fagot makes one admit many a thing!”
“Then she is a coward! She has not the courage to uphold the truth in the face of death! What faint-heartedness!”
Silence is restored only by degrees. Joan Darc hears the frightful accusations hurled at her. To return to her first declarations would be an admission of fear. Her mind wanders again.
Continuing to read from the formula of abjuration, Bishop Cauchon says: “‘Secondly, I, Joan, confess to have grievously sinned by seducing people with superstitious divinations, by blaspheming the angels and the saints, and by despising the divine law of Holy Writ and the canonical laws.’” Addressing Joan the Bishop asks: “Do you confess it?’
“I confess it!” murmurs Joan.
Bishop Cauchon proceeds to read: “‘Thirdly, I, Joan confess having grievously sinned by wearing a dissolute garb, deformed and dishonest, in violation of decency and nature; and by wearing my hair cut round, after the fashion of men, and contrary to modesty’ — Do you confess that sin?”
“I confess it!”
“‘Fourthly, I, Joan, confess having grievously sinned by boastfully carrying armor of war, and by cruelly desiring the shedding of human blood.’ — Do you confess it?”
Joan Darc wrings her hands and exclaims: “My God! Can I affirm such things?”
“What! You hesitate!” exclaims Bishop Cauchon, and he adds, addressing her in a low voice: “Be careful, the fagots await you!”
�
�I confess it, Father,” stammers Joan.
“Joan, do you confess having cruelly desired the effusion of human blood?” asks Bishop Cauchon in a thundering voice.
“I confess it!”
Loud cries of horror go up from the mob, while the English soldiers brandish their weapons at Joan. Some men pick up stones to stone the heroine to death. The imprecations against her redouble threateningly.
“The harpy waged war out of pure cruelty!”
“She merely wished to soak herself in blood!”
“And the Church pardons her!”
“At one time I felt great pity for the wretch. Now I say with the English, Death to the tigress who lived on blood!”
“You fools! Do you believe these priests? Do you think Joan went after battle to drink the blood of the slain?”
“You defend her?”
“Yes! Oh, why am I alone?”
“You are a traitor!”
“He is an Armagnac!”
“Death to the Armagnac!”
The mob beats Joan’s defender to death. As to herself, her condition is now such that she no longer is aware of aught she hears or says. She has practically lost consciousness. She barely has enough strength to respond mechanically, “I confess it,” each time she hears Bishop Cauchon ask her, “Do you confess it?” In the midst, however, of her weakness and the wandering of her mind, one thought she is fully conscious of, the thought that her agony cannot last long; within a short time she would be dead or free! Poor martyr!
Bishop Cauchon continues to read: “‘Fifthly, I, Joan, confess that I grievously sinned in claiming that all my acts and all my words were inspired to me by God, His saints and His angels, while in truth I despised God and His sacraments and I constantly invoked evil spirits.’ — Do you confess it?”
“I confess it!”
“She confesses that she is a witch!” cries a voice from the mob.
“By St. George, she has exterminated thousands of my countrymen by her sorceries! And shall she escape the fagots!”
