“Is the Bishop here?”
“Not yet; but if he does not come to-day, he will be here in the morning.”
“Well, surely, I arrived here at just the right time.”
“Did I not tell you so? I am so glad you are not stopping with that disagreeable Loup, for he could not have told you a word about this matter.”
“Of course not. He has not such a pious cousin who confesses to his reverence himself. But can I go now and see the tower and the cage?”
“Certainly, little friend; but listen. If you should meet that Loup, do not greet him, do not even look at him, for they say he has an evil eye—he might bewitch you.”
“I will keep it in mind.”
To his great disappointment Jean found the tower so well guarded that he could not be of the slightest assistance to Joan. He decided to withdraw and await events before forming any plans, and in the meantime make inquiries about Marie. While on his way back he heard from passers-by that the Bishop was momentarily expected, and that he would pass that way. As he did not wish unnecessarily to expose himself to the prelate’s gaze, he entered the Ursuline church. It was empty. He went to the usual spot, and scarcely had he placed his ear to the wall before he clearly heard a sob, which seemed to come through the stone. Trembling with excitement, he listened all the more intently, but in vain. All was silent. Had he or had he not been deceived? All at once it seemed to him as if it were the voice of the girl in the carriage which he met in the forest, and that she could be no other than Marie of Chafleur. He quickly made his plans. As he stood leaning against a door, near which he had been kneeling apparently engaged in devotion, he pressed a piece of wax against the lock, went at once to a locksmith’s in an out of the way street, and said his master wished a key made from the impression.
The next evening, when all Rouen was out to see the young King Henry of England make his entrance, Jean again found the church empty. He tried his key and it opened the door. He emerged into a long, dark passage-way which skirted the wall. If he was right in his calculations, he would find the prison between this passage and the church. He felt along the wall, for he could see nothing. He was right. There was a door near the corner. It must lead to the prison out of which had come the sound of sobbing. With trembling hand he took another impression, groped his way back, closed the door in the church wall, and departed. The next day he obtained the second key. He now forsook the church for a time and devoted his attention exclusively to the fate of Joan. The strangest reports were circulated about her; but they were so incredible and withal so dreadful, that he paid little attention to them. What pained him the most was the certainty that he could do nothing to help her.
Thus matters stood on that 30th of May of the memorable year 1431. The sun gayly shone that morning, and the birds sang joyously in the trees and among the flowers. The doors of Rouen stood wide open. From far and near the multitude gathered. There was a sea of heads on the sides of the great market-place, and in the streets leading to it, and windows and roof-tops were crowded. In the middle of the square were three high platforms. Two of them, which faced each other, were evidently set apart for those directly concerned in the proceedings. The general interest centred, however, in the third platform, of the use of which there could be no doubt. The flooring rested upon a pile of wood so arranged that the logs made steps, and from the centre of the platform rose a stake to a man’s height. The base of the pile was surrounded with bundles of fagots smeared with resin and pitch.