It was pleasant by the river, despite the heat of the day. Bluebells and tall white plumes of spiræa vied with the brownish-yellow of mignonette and the rose of meadow pink in embroidering a delicate tracery of color against the vivid green of the valley. The smell of new mown hay made the air fragrant, and hills and meadows smiled under a cloudless sky. The workers laughed, and sang, and chatted, plying always the paddles; but at length the washing was finished. The sun was getting low behind the Domremy hills when the last snowy pieces were stretched upon the grass to bleach, and then, piling large panniers high with the garments that were dried the women lifted them to their backs, thrusting their arms into the plaited handles to steady them, and so started homeward. Isabeau Romée lingered to speak to her daughter.
“Leave the tables and paddles, little one,” she said, as she saw Jeanne preparing to take them from the water. “I will send the boys for them, and you have done enough for one day. Know you where the lads are? I have seen naught of them since dinner.”
“Father said that since the hay was cut, and there was no sign of rain, they might have the afternoon for themselves, mother. I think they went somewhere down the river to fish.”
“’Tis most likely,” said Isabeau. “I hope that they will not meet the Maxey boys anywhere. If they do, home will they come all bruised and bleeding, for never do boys from this side 65 of the river meet those from the Lorraine side that there is not a fight. I like it not.”
“’Tis because the boys of Domremy and Greux are Armagnacs, and those of Maxey-sur-Meuse are Burgundians,” explained Jeanne, who did not know that ever since the world has stood boys of one village always have found a pretext to fight lads of another, be that pretext the difference between Armagnacs and Burgundians, or some other. “How can they help it, mother, when even grown people fight their enemies when they meet?”
“True; ’tis no wonder that they fight when there is naught but fighting in the land.” Isabeau sighed. “Would there were no war. But there, child, let’s talk of it no more. I weary of strife, and tales of strife. Since the boys are somewhere along the river they needs must pass the bridge to come home. Do you, therefore, wait here for them, and tell them that they are to bring the tables and the paddles home. I will go on to get the supper.”
“Very well, mother,” assented Jeanne. So while her mother went back to the cottage, the great pannier of clothes towering high above her head, the little girl rinsed the box-shaped washing tables carefully, then drew them high on the banks; after which she sat down near the bridge to watch for her brothers.
She did not have long to wait. Suddenly there came shouts and cries from the Lorraine side of the river, and soon there came Jean and Pierre, her brothers, followed by other Domremy lads running at full speed, and in their wake came many Maxey boys, hurling insults and stones at their fleeing adversaries.
On Pierre’s head was a long, deep gash that was bleeding freely, and at that sight Jeanne burst into tears. She could not bear the sight of blood, and a fight made her cower and tremble. At this juncture there came from the fields Gérardin d’Épinal, a Burgundian, and the only man in Domremy who was not of the King’s party. He gave a great laugh as he saw the boys of his own village running from those of Maxey. Then knowing how loyal Jeanne was to the Dauphin, he cried teasingly: