These were the last words of the conversation which Joan heard. She suddenly disappeared, but she did not go home. She wended her way to the church, which was always open. Never had her heart been so troubled and full of strange longings, never had she been so powerfully moved to hold communion with her saint. It was not so much the desire to make a votive offering of her wreath as it was the unspeakable sorrow of the fatherland and the wretched plight of the poor Dauphin that urged her to this sacred spot. And was this strange? If her sympathetic nature made her shed tears over the slight suffering of a bird, how much more would it force her to weep over the story of universal misfortune which she had just heard! Why should not the courage with which she had defended her sheep from the wolf display itself now even more decidedly? And why should she not believe in her very soul that her favorite saint would perform a miracle of rescue?
“Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed from the depth of her heart. “Oh that I could clothe my limbs in armor and wield the sword for the right! I would ask for nothing better in life. No sacrifice would be too great to accomplish it. Then, surely, the beloved saints would not refuse to help me.”
In such a spirit she entered the sacred house. It was empty. The shadows of evening, mingling with the clouds of incense smoke which still lingered in the church, were intensified by the feeble light of a small lamp. She thrilled with sacred awe as she advanced through the mysterious gloom. In her exalted mood it seemed to her that Saint Catherine smiled, as with trembling hand she placed the wreath upon her altar. In transports of sorrow and gratitude, of divine trust, and of overwhelming desire for action, she knelt at the altar, and her soul ascended to the celestial abodes. She knew no prayers except the Lord’s Prayer, the Credo, and the Ave Maria, but the more she repeated them the more completely was she spiritually absorbed.
Thus little by little she sank into that species of ecstasy in which the ordinary spiritual functions are suspended and there remain only the sacred feeling of heavenly contemplation and the free play of the fancy. It is a condition which differs from actual dreaming only in its danger, for there is danger that this ecstatic feeling once aroused may become real, and its possessor may behold illusive pictures of the fancy. The enthusiast may believe he sees real objects and hears actual voices. He may believe them to be messages from heaven, never asking himself whether such fancies will stand the test of reason. Because of ecstasies like these, deeds have been committed which have darkened the page of history with everlasting shame. But when these ecstasies arise from exalted moral ideas they may achieve results which are far beyond mere human strength and secure imperishable fame for the enthusiast.
Thus it was with this simple child praying at the altar. In her ecstatic fancy she saw the roof of the church open, and her favorite Saints Catherine and Margaret floating down through the clouds of incense. She heard them saying, “Keep thy heart unsullied, Joan, for Heaven has chosen thee as the champion of France.”
The vision disappeared. The dream was over. But in that instant the career of this child was determined. She was the subsequent Maid of Orleans.
Chapter II
The Dauphin and La Hire
By the storm of an April day in the year 1428, four years after the events related in the preceding chapter, a man was detained at home in the castle of Chinon.[11] His costume showed that he was of the highest rank, and the apartment also was furnished in a style of princely luxury. As it was apparent, however, that these luxurious surroundings were the survivals of an older period, evidently the present occupant of the castle either did not care to improve them or could not afford to do it. As a matter of fact the shabbiness of his own costume favored the latter inference. The morose expression of his face, which had but little that was attractive in it, deepened this impression. Nothing about it indicated any higher ambition than the gratification of his physical desires. His appearance gave the impression that he was at least thirty-five years of age, but in reality he was only twenty-six. This man was the Dauphin of France, afterwards King Charles the Seventh.
Before him stood a young and beautiful woman, whose face was in striking contrast with his. A dignified royal presence, eyes flashing with spirit and resolution, womanly gentleness and kindness,—such were the characteristics portrayed in her beautiful countenance. Some of its lines indicated troubles of the heart, but her present trouble was of another kind.
This lady was Marie of Anjou, the proud consort of the Dauphin. They were both standing, for in the excitement of their conversation they had evidently risen from their seats.