Saints, prophets, kings, and queens, in stone, high up in the galleries of the exterior of the cathedral, looked down approvingly, or the reverse, upon the rare show and its spectators. The gargoyles of Reims were ever famous for their unusual benignity. They were all animation and sparkled in the sunshine; merriment became emphatic within the floriated arches of the buttresses. In each a laughing angel in stone was exercising her witchery and adding heavenly hilarity to the general good-humour. The whole sacred building was en fête; it is still the merriest building in Christendom; its sculptured stones have imbibed the effervescence of rare champagne for centuries!
Within the sacred building all was solemn and restrained. Resplendent gem-like glass of the thirteenth century, skilfully leaded in the clerestory windows of the nave, produced a chiaroscuro of scintillating coloured light, wherein the spirits of the mighty and the beauteous dead were mustering to take, unseen, their sympathetic parts in the gorgeous functions of the day. Freshly-worked tapestries, covering the aisle walls, shared with the vitreous glories the telling of pageant stories of religion and romance.
The “Sacré,” or coronation, of King Charles was an unique ceremonial. Supported upon either hand by the most distinguished Sovereign Princes of France,—Louis III., King of Sicily and Duke of Anjou, and his brother René, Duke of Barrois and heir-consort of Lorraine,—he passed majestically up the nave under the heavy golden canopy of state. Another Anjou Prince, Charles, Duke of Maine, nephew of Louis and René, bore the monarch’s train—his cousins all. The Grand Peers, with one exception, Burgundy, marched alongside in sovereign dignity and pride. Strange it was that no royal ladies graced the auspicious sacring. Queen Marie bore no part; she, indeed, remained at Bourges, and recited her “Hours” in solitude. Neither Queen Yolande of Sicily-Anjou nor Duchess Isabelle of Bar-Lorraine was present, but the place of First Lady was, for all that, occupied by a “Queen,” the Queen of the coronation—“la Royne blanche—Jeanne.” Such a “Queen” had never stood beside a Sovereign kneeling for his crown before the high-altar of Reims. The fabled fame of saintly Queen Clotilde paled before the brilliant triumph of plain Jeanne d’Arc. How she bore herself in this her hour of miraculous victory, and what part she took in the stately ceremonial, historians have scantily related, and painters only imaginatively recorded: no précis has come down to us, no artist made a sketch upon the spot.
Immediately after the King and his royal supporters walked with dignity La Pucelle, in her flashing white armour. In her right hand she bore, at the salute, the crimson-sheathed sword of St. Catherine of Fierbois. Her head was bare, save for her lustrous locks of hair; but some pious souls thought they saw a saint’s nimbus around her brow; it was, perhaps, a ring of sunny halo—a reflection from her mail of steel, or a coronal of coloured glories shot through the stained-glass windows. By the Maid’s side marched her young and true esquire, Louis de Contes, bearing unfurled her magic oriflamme.
It was said that Jeanne had not intended to take any part in the actual coronation of her Sovereign; it was quite enough for her that Charles and she had entered Reims together. She was resting quietly and prayerfully, communing with her patron saints, and listening, as was her daily wont, of course, to the “Voices,” within her modest chamber in the humble hostelry,—now the Maison Rouge,—where her parents from Domremy had put up, when René and a Sovereign’s escort clattered up to the door and commanded in the King’s name the Maid’s presence within the cathedral. At once she donned her armour, and, giving René her hand, she walked with him across the cathedral place to where the King was awaiting her.
“The people,” it is recorded, “looked on with awe and wonder. Thus had actually come to pass the fantastic vision that floated before the eyes of the young village girl of Domremy, and had thrilled all France.” When La Pucelle had taken up her station on the royal daïs, she grasped her white silken banner in her right hand, saying to those around her: “This oriflamme hath shared the dangers: it has a right to the glories!” That ensign of victory still towers up aloft in the nave of Reims Cathedral, above the very spot where Jeanne stood and Charles was crowned—an abiding mascot of faith and chivalry. We may well imagine the heroine casting her eyes over that splendid temple of God and its occupants, and resting at last mesmerically upon the glorified figures of her three beloved holy ones beaming down upon her from the choirs of saints in the clerestory windows. St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Margaret, were all there, and their Master, too, for out and away from the empyreal realm, and beyond the burning sun of heaven, for the coronation of Charles VII. of France at Reims was the apotheosis of Jeanne d’Arc of Domremy. “The glory of God,” as some said who saw her, “there transformed the village maid into a bride of Christ”—a substantial Queen of Heaven.
Immediately after the anointing, the coronation, and the other ritual acts, were complete, Jeanne knelt down before her King, her eyes brimful of tears, and said softly to him: “Gentle King, now is fulfilled the pleasure of God. I pray you thank Him humbly with me, and let us thank, too, the good saints Michael, Catherine, and Margaret, who have so wonderfully aided us. Now my mission to you, my King, is fulfilled, I pray you release me, that I may depart with my parents to my simple home. One thing only I crave: it is that my beloved village shall be free for ever from taxation, and that their land and tenements shall be retained by my people. Sire, I bid you farewell.”
A few days subsequent to the coronation, Charles held a council of war at Reims to decide the plan of operations against the enemies of France, and he again sent René to the Maid’s lodging to bid her attend. “You have,” said the King to Jeanne, “not yet quite fulfilled the task you set yourself. The English still possess our gates. I need your presence and your services to rid France of her foes.” The Maid, sad at heart that more bloodshed had to deluge the soil of the devastated land, had no choice but to resume her martial garb, and once more to mount her war-steed. The council was divided in opinion: some agreed with la Trémouille, Dunois, and La Hire, and others sided with René and Barbazan,—with them was Jeanne,—and they prevailed. An advance in force on Paris was the order of the day. Upon August 13 René, with Jeanne, led the vanguard of the King’s forces across the Marne. At Montpiloir a pitched battle was fought, wherein Jeanne wrought terror in the breast of superstitious foemen, and René covered himself with glory. The pick of the English army, under the Regent himself, the Duke of Bedford, was worsted, after knightly encounters of noble champions and prodigies of valour on both sides had been keenly scored. Wherever the white oriflamme of La Pucelle chanced to be advanced, there was panic; the English regarded her as a supernatural being whom no human bravery could withstand. Defeat became a rout, and ten days after leaving Reims the victorious French army followed Jeanne and René into St. Denis and recovered the royal sepulchres.
