As the traveller, descending the valley from Neufchâteau, approaches the village of Domremy,[1] he will observe at his right upon an eminence of the nearest range of hills a stately chestnut-tree, its lower branches hung with wreaths of flowers, some fresh, some fading. If he does not mind a little fatigue and climbs to this spot, he will be richly rewarded for his exertions. The tree in itself is a sufficient compensation for his efforts, for who does not contemplate with admiration such a work of nature? Who does not listen with rapture to the gentle rustle of its leaves and find rest in its cool shade? But this tree has a still stronger attraction for those who believe its story. Ofttimes in the twilight they see happy sprites dancing round it with joyous faces, and the soft rustling of its leaves they declare is celestial whispers, for it is given to them to understand heavenly speech.
This tree is the “Fairy Tree.”[2]
The outlook from this spot will still further repay the traveller. A beautiful valley spreads out before him, bounded on either side by the forest-crowned heights of Argonne and Ardennes, between which the Meuse[3] winds its silvery way. Numerous villages dot these heights and are sprinkled here and there along the lower pasture-land. North and south gleam the towers of Neufchâteau and Vaucouleurs.[4] The nearest, and at the same time most pleasant of these villages, is Domremy, whose cottages, embowered in greenery, cluster about the little church of Saint Margaret. Many herds of cattle and sheep are feeding in the pastures between fields luxuriant with growing crops. Looking back, the eye catches the dusky summits of the Bois de Chêne,[5] and at the crossroad leading thither stands the chapel of Saint Catherine.
Between the chapel and the Fairy Tree, and somewhat nearer the latter, sparkles a bubbling spring whose curative powers were believed in by those of pious faith in the olden times.
Thus the scene appears under pleasant skies. But when the temperature suddenly changes, and the cold air rushes down into the valley, its mists are driven and scattered among the mountainous defiles. At such times superstitious villagers believe they see the fairies dancing round the tree, and even the saints of heaven in the wavering shapes of the mist.
Among the mysterious spots which have invested the neighborhood of Domremy with such fame and sacredness Bois de Chêne is not the least famous. One cannot enter its dark recesses without that peculiar feeling of awe which inspires a solitary wanderer in the presence of nature’s grandeurs,—a feeling which inevitably fills the mind of a superstitious person with a bewildering array of supernatural fancies. It was from this very forest that Merlin the wizard predicted the deliverer of France would come.
Think of a child of susceptible and fanciful nature, fed upon nursery tales full of superstitions, a child passionately fond of solitary reveries and fervent appeals to the saints, growing up in such an environment! Is it remarkable that such a child should see marvels on the earth and in the air, and the saints themselves in bodily image, and that she should hear their voices and listen devoutly to angelic music in the celestial regions?
Just such a child as this sat under the Fairy Tree on a beautiful spring morning in the year 1424.[6] She was a maiden of twelve years, and was tending a little flock of sheep grazing on the hillside. Even the casual observer would have noticed her striking appearance, for while the other girls were frolicking in the meadow below her, she sat leaning against the tree, gazing fixedly into space, and evidently thinking of other things than dance, and sport, and herds. Looking more closely into her lovely oval face and observing its transparent tints and delicate features, the question would at once suggest itself—How did such a slight, ethereal creature happen among the children of peasants? Those wonderful eyes did not merely reveal the self-unconsciousness of the visionary and the rapture of supernatural contemplation. They were clear mirrors of the heart, reflecting its inmost recesses and depths. That heart was the heart of an angel, the heart of a child so innocent it was impossible not to love her and sympathize with her.
As she sat there, a flock of little birds flew to the tree, filling the air with the music of their songs. Apparently she did not notice them, for she neither moved nor changed the expression of her face. They fluttered down from the tree and hopped about the dreamer, approaching her more and more nearly, until at last some of them lit on her head and shoulder. Now for the first time she was conscious of her little guests.
“Ah!” she exclaimed in a soft melodious voice. “You are here and I did not know it.” She quickly opened a little basket standing near her, sprinkled some crumbs upon the ground, and watched with childish delight the liveliness of her tiny companions. Her pleasure, however, was soon marred by a saucy and envious fellow in the little crowd, who pecked his neighbor. Chirping sorrowfully, the victim flew to the maiden’s feet.