To face page 144
One summer’s day in July, 1424, Jeanne d’Arc was seated, as was her wont, upon an ancient fallen menhir at the verge of the coppice. She was shelling peas, and she also had her knitting by her. The hour of the day was nearly that of the “Angelus,” when the frightened damsel heard an unusual rustling of the oaken branches overhead, and somewhere out of the tree or out of the sky voices sounded faintly upon her ear. At the same time a strange lurid light gleamed between her and the church-tower across the meadow. Laying aside her occupation, she listened breathlessly, almost in a trance, to what the “Voices” said; they were pitched in soothing female treble accents.
“Jeanne soit bonne et sage enfant,” said one; and another went on: “Va souvent à l’église.” Surely the heavenly speakers were Jeanne’s holy guardians, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. Jeanne was riveted to the spot, and moved not till the twilight brought her sister looking for her. Jeanne said nothing, but for seven days in succession she sat as at the first, and heard the same solemn words repeated; then on the seventh,—it was Saturday,—another wonder appeared to her: a very glorious holy one and a watcher,—the great St. Michael, God’s warring archangel, in shining armour,—stood before her under the great oak-tree, and bade her give heed to what he said. He told her eloquently and convincingly the story of the sad state of France—devoured by enemies, torn by factions, her King a fugitive uncrowned. When the heavenly visitant had finished his impassioned narrative, he bade Jeanne kneel, and, touching her shoulder with his flashing sword, said: “Jeanne va toy aux secours du roy de France.”
The girl swooned as soon as her ghostly visitor had vanished, and so was found, and borne to her couch by her brothers in alarm. In delirium for days and nights, she kept on repeating what the archangel had said, until, amid broken-hearted sobs, her grieving parents counted her as mad. All the gossips of the village and those from more distant homes shook their heads sadly, and said more fervently their Ave Marias. Jeanne was not mad, and after she had recovered her usual demeanour she related to her doubting father and mother and the good curé her mysterious story. The good priest proposed to exorcise the evil spirit which he was convinced was in her. Her father,—a matter-of-fact sort of man, and serious-minded, like all the peasant-folk of France,—thought a good thrashing was her deserts; her mother sided with her: she remembered the strange cry at her Jeanne’s birth. Jeanne heard all they had to say, and kept silence, her protestations only adding fuel to the fire of denunciation. She resumed her usual avocations, but daily sat to hear the “Voices,” as she called her ghostly visitants, and daily they repeated their strange instructions. She spent much time upon her knees in the church, and at last the curé, good man, gave heed to her infatuation. “If this be from God,” he said to himself, “no man may stay her.” He wondered, naturally, how this quiet and devout village girl could ever be the Divine instrument for the deliverance of France.
Jeanne’s simplicity and sincerity, her earnestness and good behaviour, however, gradually silenced unfriendly critics; and although most folk regarded her as mad, many believed her story and watched developments. The strange revelation of the maid of Domremy travelled far and wide, and brought many a neighbour and many a stranger to question her. Among the rest came Sieur Durand Laxaert, her mother’s uncle by marriage—a man of means, too, and well known the country round. He questioned Jeanne, he questioned her parents, he questioned the village curé, and then he went off and told the amazing story to his friend, Chevalier Robert de Baudricourt, the Captain of Vaucouleurs, a market-town in Champagne, not far from Domremy. The gallant Captain listened attentively, but when the story was completed he burst out laughing. “Why, man,” said he, “you and all of them are crazy! Just go back and box the child’s ears soundly; that’s the way to treat this sort of nonsense.”
The matter dropped so far as the Chevalier was concerned, but again, in the following January, Sieur Laxaert approached Baudricourt, and asked him to see his young niece. He consented, and Jeanne, wearing her coarse red homespun kirtle and heavy wooden shoes and her village girl’s coif, was introduced to the unbelieving Captain. He was dumbfounded by her appearance, for the lass was no village hoyden. Her figure was slender, her features refined; her great brown eyes,—staring into his face,—told only of simple faith and untarnished honour. Her voice was low and sweet, and there was a something eerie and incomprehensible about her which struck the good man, and made him feel uncomfortable. When he asked her what she wanted, she promptly replied: “I want to be led to the King of France.”
“My child,” de Baudricourt replied, “that I cannot do; but, if you wish, I will willingly take you to Nancy, and lead you to the Duke, your sovereign lord and mine. Prepare yourself at once for the journey.”
Amid the tears and protests of her parents and her friends Jeanne started, as she was, upon her eventful pilgrimage. At St. Nicholas de Pont,—a little town two leagues from Nancy,—she asked to be allowed to spend three hours in devotions in the church. When she reappeared, her face was wet with tears, and her long brown hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders. She did not seem to care. Her gaze was heavenward, and the only words she uttered were: “En avant!” With Sieur Laxaert was a comrade, a young man, Jehan de Novelonpont, better known as Jehan de Metz, of good birth and knightly carriage. He offered Jeanne his sword. She touched the hilt, and, smiling sadly, said: “Alas! young sir, that blade will be required erelong to slay thy country’s foes and God’s.” Thus they entered the capital of Lorraine.
Duke Charles received his strange visitor somewhat reluctantly. He was a man of shrewd common-sense, intolerant of superstition, and impatient of feminine assumptions—as his consort, Duchess Marguerite, learnt to her undoing. He asked curtly about her home and her occult powers, and jokingly invoked her aid in the cure of gout, to which he was martyr, and from which he was then suffering acutely. “This,” said he, “shall be the test of your pretensions to save France. Remove my pain, and I will take you to the King.” Jeanne shed tears, and, straightening out her rough woolsey skirt, she looked sadly up to heaven. At last she spoke: “Take me not, noble Duke, for a common jongleuse. First of all, noble Duke, I implore you to become reconciled to the Duchess, your wife; as for me, I am the unworthy instrument of God to set King Charles of France upon his throne and to scatter his enemies.” The Duke dismissed the maid with a wave of his hand. “Take her away,” he said; “be kind to her; maybe I will see her again shortly.” “Jeanne,” he added, “in a day or two you shall tell your tale before some noble lords.”