by Eugène Sue
“She proved herself a coward! And she was thought so brave!”
“Well, in the face of the pyre one may well tremble! Just look at those fagots soaked in pitch.”
“When one thinks that the whole pile will be in flames all around Joan like so much straw on fire, singeing and consuming her flesh!”
“My hair stands on end at the bare thought.”
“Poor child! What a torture!”
“What else can you expect? Our seigneurs and the doctors of canon law condemn her. She must be guilty!”
“Such learned men could not be mistaken. We must believe them.”
“When the Church has uttered herself we must bow down in silence. A body has religion, or has none.”
“Well, I have no suspicions. I am an Armagnac and a royalist, and I detest the English rule. I looked upon Joan as upon a saint before her condemnation. Now I cannot even take pity upon her. It would be throwing discredit upon her judges. My religion as a good Catholic shuts my mouth. We must believe without reasoning.”
“Did not the ecclesiastical tribunal show how merciful the Church is by accepting Joan’s repentance?”
“But why did she relapse!”
“So much the worse for her if she is now burned. It will be her own doing.”
“You must admit that by voluntarily going to the pyre she proves her courage. She is an intrepid girl!”
“She is simply displaying her rebellion and idolatrous boastfulness.”
“Did not Joan Darc defeat the English in a score of battles? Did she not have the King consecrated at Rheims? Answer!”
“What you say is true. But our seigneurs the bishops judge such matters differently, and better than we could. This is the way I reason, and it is as simple as correct: The Church is infallible; the Church condemns Joan; consequently Joan is guilty.”
This method of reasoning, which sways the minds of the more orthodox, prevails over the timid and rare utterances that betoken interest in and sympathy for Joan; she is destined to behold even those who had remained French under English rule led astray by the recent Pharisees, and impassibly assist at her execution, the same as her master Jesus, who, sentenced to a malefactor’s death, saw the poor and suffering people whom he loved so well, look gapingly on at the execution of a sentence of death that was also pronounced by the holy doctors of the law and by the priests of his time.
Suddenly a deep commotion is seen swaying the mob. It announces the approach of the condemned woman.
Standing on a cart drawn by a horse, Joan Darc is clad in a “san benito,” a long black gown painted over with tongues of flame, and bearing on her head a pasteboard mitre on which are printed the words: “Idolatress,” “Heretic,” “Relapsed Sinner.” The monk Isambard of La Pierre, one of her judges, stands near her on the wagon and imparts to her the last consolations. She seems to listen to him, but his tokens of compassion reach her ear only as a confused sound. She no longer expects aught from man. Her face, raised to heaven, looks into infinite space. She feels detached from earth, she has shaken off her last human terrors. For a moment she is overcome with fear. “Oh!” cries she, sobbing, “must my body, so clean of all stain, be destroyed by fire! I would prefer to be beheaded!” But after this last cry, drawn from her by the dread of bodily pain, her soul resumes its mastery, and the virgin of Gaul proceeds resolutely to the pyre. The wagon stops at the foot of the platform on which the Cardinal of Winchester, the two Bishops and the captains are enthroned, in their mitres and their casques.
The monk Isambard of La Pierre alights from the cart and motions Joan Darc to follow him. He assists her with his arm, seeing that the length of her robe impedes her movements. The unhappy girl walks with difficulty. Arrived before the main platform, the monk addresses the victim:
“Joan, kneel down, to receive in a humble posture the excommunication and sentence that Monseigneur the Bishop of Beauvais is to pronounce upon you.”
Joan Darc kneels down in the dust at the foot of the platform that is covered with purple. Bishop Peter Cauchon rises, bows to the Cardinal of Winchester, and advances to the edge of the platform.
From the ranks of the English soldiers the cries are heard:
“The devil take any further prayers!”
“On with the execution!”
“Is it a new scheme to keep the strumpet from roasting? We have had enough dilly-dallying!”
“Look out, Bishop! You shall not cheat us this time!”
“To the pyre, without further ado! To the pyre with the sorceress! Death to the girl or to the Bishop!”
Bishop Cauchon silences the growing tumult with a significant gesture and says in a sonorous voice: “My very dear brothers, if a member suffers, the apostle said to the Corinthians, the whole body suffers. Thus when heresy infects one member of our holy Church, it is urgent to separate it from all others, lest its rottenness contaminate the mystical body of our Lord. The sacred institutions have decided, my very dear brothers, that, in order to free the faithful from the poison of the heretics, these vipers may not be allowed to devour the bosom of our mother the Church. Wherefore we, Bishop of Beauvais, by divine grace, assisted by the learned and very reverend John Lemaitre and John Graverant, Inquisitors of the faith, say to you Joan, commonly styled the Maid: — We justly pronounced you idolatrous, a soothsayer, an invoker of devils, bloodthirsty, dissolute, schismatic and heretic. You abjured your crimes and voluntarily signed this abjuration with your own hand. But you quickly returned to your damnable errors, like the dog returns to his vomit. On account of this do we now excommunicate you and pronounce you a relapsed heretic. We sentence you to be extirpated from the midst of the faithful like a rotten, leprous member, and we deliver you, and abandon you, and cast you off into the hands of secular justice, and request it that, apart from your death and the mutilation of your members, it treat you with moderation!”
The sentence is received with an explosion of shouts of ferocious joy. The English soldiers signify their satisfaction. The mob looks at Joan Darc with horror. One of the assessors descends from the platform and speaks to Isambard in a low voice, whereupon the latter turns to Joan:
“You have heard your sentence, rise, my daughter.”
Joan Darc rises, and pointing to heaven as if taking the spheres for her witness, says in a loud voice and with an accent of crushing reproach to Bishop Cauchon, who remains standing near the edge of the platform above her:
“Bishop! Bishop! I die at your hands!”
Despite his audacity, Peter Cauchon trembles, grows pale, bows his head before the girl’s anathema, and hastens to resume his seat near the Cardinal.
Two executioners draw near at the words of the prelate consigning Joan Darc to the secular powers. Each seizes her by an arm and they lead her to the pyre, Isambard following.
“Father,” says Joan to the latter, “I wish to have a cross, so as to die contemplating it.”
The request being overheard by several English soldiers, they answer:
“You need no cross, relapsed sinner!”
“Witch! To the fagots with you!”
“You only want to gain time!”
“We have had enough delays — death to the heretic!”
“To the fagots! To the fagots!”
The monk Isambard says a few words in the ear of the assessor; the latter leaves hurriedly in the direction of a neighboring church. One of the two executioners, a fellow with a blood-stained apron and a hardened face, who also overhears Joan’s request, feels deeply affected. Tears are seen to gather in his eyes. He pulls his knife from his belt, and cuts in two a stick that he holds in his hand; in his hurry he drops his knife to the ground, takes a string from his pocket, ties the two pieces of wood in the shape of a rude cross, roughly thrusts aside two English soldiers who stand in his way, and then, handing the cross to the monk, falls back a few steps, contemplating the victim with something akin to adoration.
The monk passes the cross to Joan Darc, who, sei
zing it with transport and taking it to her lips, says: “Thank you, Father!”
“I have sent to the Church of St. Ouen for a large crucifix bearing the image of our Savior. It will be held at a distance before your eyes as long as possible. Address your prayers to Jesus Christ,” the monk answered in a low voice.
“Tell them to hold it high so that I may see the image of the Savior to the very end.”
Again cries break out from the ranks of the English soldiers:
“Will there ever be an end of this?”
“What is the tonsured fellow whispering to the witch?”
“Let him travel to the devil in her company!”
“To the fagots with the witch, and quickly, too!”
“To the flames, both the monk and the Maid!”
Led to the foot of the pyre, Joan Darc measures its height with her eyes and is unable to suppress a shudder; the executioners wave their torches in the air in order to enliven their flames; two of them precede the victim to the masonry platform within the pile of fagots; they cover it up with straw and twigs, the top layer of the heaped-up combustibles; they then hold up the iron clamps that are fastened to the stake.
“Climb up this way,” says one of the executioners to Joan Darc, pointing to the stairs, “you will not come down again, witch!”
“I shall accompany you, my dear daughter, to the top of the pyre,” says the monk.
Joan Darc slowly ascends the steps, greatly embarrassed in her movements by the folds of her gown, and reaches the top of the pyre. A tremendous shout breaks forth from the mob. When the noise subsides, Joan cries out aloud: “God alone inspired my actions!”
Hisses and furious imprecations drown her voice. The Cardinal of Winchester, the Bishops, judges, and captains rise simultaneously so as to obtain a better view of the execution. After placing Joan standing with her back against the stake, one of the executioners fastens her to it by the waist and neck with iron carcans; a chain holds her feet; only her hands remain free, and with them she clasps the rough wooden cross that one of the English executioners has just fashioned for her, and that she holds close to her lips. A priest in a surplice, carrying one of those large silver crucifixes usually borne at the head of processions, arrives in a hurry; he places himself at a distance opposite the pyre and holds up the crucifix as high as his arms allow him. It is the crucifix that the monk Isambard has sent for. He points it out to Joan Darc. She turns her head towards it and keeps her eyes fastened upon the image of Christ.
“Come, reverend Father,” says one of the executioners to the monk Isambard, “do not stay here. The flames are about to shoot up.”
“In a moment,” answers the monk; “I shall follow you. I only wish to finish the prayer that I began.”
“I shall make you come down faster than you would like, my reverend mumbler of prayers,” observes the executioner in a low voice.
The two executioners descend from the platform of the pyre; the monk administers to Joan Darc the supreme consolations.
Suddenly a dry and lively crackling is heard from the base of the pyre, followed by puffs of smoke and thin tongues of flame.
“Father!” cries Joan Darc anxiously, “descend! Descend quickly! The pyre is on fire!”
Such is the sublime adieu of the victim to one of her judges!
The monk descends precipitately, casting an angry look at the executioners. These light the pyre at several places. Volumes of black smoke rise upward, and envelop Joan Darc from the public gaze. The fire glistens; it runs and twines itself through the lower layers of the fagots; presently the pile is all on fire; the flames rise; they are fanned by the breeze that blows away the cloud of smoke, and Joan Darc is again exposed to view. The fire reaches the straw and twigs on top of the platform on which her feet rest. Her gown begins to smoke. Firmly held by the triple iron bands that clasp her neck, waist and feet, she writhes and utters a piercing cry:
“Water! Water!”
A second later, as if regretting the vain appeal for mercy that pain drew from her, she exclaims:
“It is God who inspired me!”
At that moment Joan Darc’s gown takes fire and the flames that flare up from it join the hundred other lambent tongues that shoot upward. From the midst of the tall furnace a voice in a weird accent is heard to exclaim:
“JESUS!”
The virgin of Gaul has expiated her immortal glory.
The flames subside, and finally go out. A smoldering brasier surrounds the base of the masonry pile that served as the center for the pyre. At its top, and held fast by the iron clamps fastened to the charred and smoking stake, is seen a blackened, shapeless, nameless something — all that is left of the Maid.
The two executioners place a ladder on the side of the stone pile; they climb up, strike down with their axes the members of her who was Joan Darc, and with the help of long iron forks hurl them all down into the brasier. Other executioners lay fresh fagots on the heap. Tall flames re-rise. When the second fire is wholly extinguished nothing remains but reddish ashes interspersed with charred human bones, a skull among them. The ashes and bones are gathered by the executioners and thrown into a wooden box, which they lay on a hand-barrow, and, followed by a large and howling mob, the executioners proceed to the banks of the Seine, into which they throw the remains of the redeeming angel of France.
Finally, the Cardinal, the Bishops, the captains and the ecclesiastical judges leave the market place of Rouen in procession, in the same order that they had entered. They have gloated over the death of Joan Darc. The justice of the courtiers, of the warriors and of the infallible clergy is satisfied.
EPILOGUE.
I, JOCELYN THE Champion, now a centennarian as was my ancestor Amael who fought under Charles Martel and who later knew Charlemagne, wrote the above narrative, a part of which, the tragedy of Joan Darc’s execution, I witnessed with my own eyes.
On the eve of her execution I arrived in Rouen from Vaucouleurs. Communication was difficult in those days between distantly located provinces. It thus happened that the tidings of Joan’s captivity at Rouen and her trial did not for some time reach her family. Finally apprized thereof by public rumor, her family was anxious to learn of her fate, but, despite their desolation, they neither were able nor did they dare to undertake the long journey. I called upon Denis Laxart, the worthy relative of Joan whom I had long known intimately, and offered him to go to Rouen myself. My fervent admiration for the plebeian heroine inspired me with the resolution. Despite my advanced age, I was not frightened by the perils of the journey. But I was poor. This difficulty was overcome by Denis Laxart and several good people of Vaucouleurs. The necessary funds were scraped together, a horse was bought, and I started with my grandson at the crupper.
Arrived at Rouen on May 29, 1431, after encountering no end of difficulties, I learned of the solemn abjuration of Joan Darc and saw how her enemies pronounced her a fraud and her former friends, a coward. I was not then aware of the black plot that had brought about the apostasy; nevertheless, my own instinct and reasoning, the recollection of my frequent conversations with Denis Laxart, who had often recounted to me the details of Joan’s childhood, and finally the reports of her glorious deeds that penetrated as far as Lorraine — everything combined to point out to me that an abjuration that so utterly belied the courage and loyalty of the martial maid concealed some sinister mystery.
The following day I appeared early at the market place, taking my grandson with me. We managed to stand in the front ranks of the mass that witnessed the execution and that crowded us forward. We were pushed so far forward that we stood near the benign executioner who volunteered to fashion a cross for the unhappy victim, and who in his haste dropped his knife. It fell at my grandson’s feet. I took it up and shall preserve it as the emblem that is to accompany this narrative.
Immediately after the execution of Joan Darc I was the witness of a strange incident. Near myself and my grandson was a priest wrapped up in his gown and
cowl. He mumbled to himself. He had watched with seeming indifference the preparations for Joan Darc’s execution, until when, writhing with pain, she cried out: “Water! Water!” At these words the priest trembled. He raised his hands to heaven and murmured: “Mercy! Oh, mercy!” Finally, when with her last breath Joan Darc made the supreme invocation— “Jesus!” the priest cried out in a suffocated voice:
“I am damned!”
He immediately dropped to the ground, a prey to violent convulsions. He still lay there in a tremor when the mob left the market place to follow the executioners who were to throw the remains of Joan Darc into the Seine. Moved with pity for the man whom all others took no notice of, or considered possessed of an evil spirit, my grandson and myself raised him and took him to our inn that faced the market place. We carried him to our room and tended him. By degrees he came to himself and looked upon us with distracted eyes that seemed to reveal deep repentance and also terror, as he cried: “I am damned! I am the accomplice and instrument of the Bishop of Beauvais in the killing of Joan! God will punish me!”
That priest was the Canon Loyseleur. The gowned monster did taste repentance — strange, incredible revulsion, that I never would have believed had I not myself witnessed its unquestionable evidence. The wretch was devoured with remorse; he admitted his guilt to us, and when he noticed the horror that his admissions filled us with he cried: “A curse upon the help I rendered to you, Bishop of Beauvais, assassin!” With quavering voice he asked me whether I pitied Joan. My tears answered him. He then wished to know who I was, and learning of my passionate admiration for the virgin of Gaul and my desire for the sake of her desolate family, to be informed upon what had happened, Canon Loyseleur seemed struck by a sudden thought, and asked me to wait for him at the inn that very evening. “Never,” said he, “shall I be able to make amends for or expiate my crime; but I wish to place in your hands the means to smite the butchers of the victim.”
That same evening Canon Loyseleur brought to me a bundle of parchments. It contained:
