Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc: Chapter 24

Chapter 24

24 Joan the Martyr

AT NINE o'clock the Maid of Orleans, Deliverer of France, went forth in
the grace of her innocence and her youth to lay down her life for the
country she loved with such devotion, and for the King that had abandoned
her. She sat in the cart that is used only for felons. In one respect she
was treated worse than a felon; for whereas she was on her way to be
sentenced by the civil arm, she already bore her judgment inscribed in
advance upon a miter-shaped cap which she wore:

HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER

In the cart with her sat the friar Martin Ladvenu and Maetre Jean
Massieu. She looked girlishly fair and sweet and saintly in her long
white robe, and when a gush of sunlight flooded her as she emerged from
the gloom of the prison and was yet for a moment still framed in the arch
of the somber gate, the massed multitudes of poor folk murmured "A
vision! a vision!" and sank to their knees praying, and many of the women
weeping; and the moving invocation for the dying arose again, and was
taken up and borne along, a majestic wave of sound, which accompanied the
doomed, solacing and blessing her, all the sorrowful way to the place of
death. "Christ have pity! Saint Margaret have pity! Pray for her, all ye
saints, archangels, and blessed martyrs, pray for her! Saints and angels
intercede for her! From thy wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O Lord God,
save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech Thee, good Lord!"

It is just and true what one of the histories has said: "The poor and the
helpless had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of Arc; but these we
may believe were not unavailing. There are few more pathetic events
recorded in history than this weeping, helpless, praying crowd, holding
their lighted candles and kneeling on the pavement beneath the prison
walls of the old fortress."

And it was so all the way: thousands upon thousands massed upon their
knees and stretching far down the distances, thick-sown with the faint
yellow candle-flames, like a field starred with golden flowers.

But there were some that did not kneel; these were the English soldiers.
They stood elbow to elbow, on each side of Joan's road, and walled it in
all the way; and behind these living walls knelt the multitudes.

By and by a frantic man in priest's garb came wailing and lamenting, and
tore through the crowd and the barriers of soldiers and flung himself on
his knees by Joan's cart and put up his hands in supplication, crying
out:

"O forgive, forgive!"

It was Loyseleur!

And Joan forgave him; forgave him out of a heart that knew nothing but
forgiveness, nothing but compassion, nothing but pity for all that
suffer, let their offense be what it might. And she had no word of
reproach for this poor wretch who had wrought day and night with deceits
and treacheries and hypocrisies to betray her to her death.

The soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved his
life. What became of him is not known. He hid himself from the world
somewhere, to endure his remorse as he might.

In the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the stake
that had stood before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The platforms were
occupied as before, the one by Joan and her judges, the other by great
dignitaries, the principal being Cauchon and the English
Cardinal--Winchester. The square was packed with people, the windows and
roofs of the blocks of buildings surrounding it were black with them.

When the preparations had been finished, all noise and movement gradually
ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was solemn and impressive.

And now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas Midi
preached a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch of the
vine--which is the Church--becomes diseased and corrupt, it must be cut
away or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine. He made it appear
that Joan, through her wickedness, was a menace and a peril to the
Church's purity and holiness, and her death therefore necessary. When he
was come to the end of his discourse he turned toward her and paused a
moment, then he said:

"Joan, the Church can no longer protect you. Go in peace!"

Joan had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the
Church's abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness, waiting
in patience and resignation for the end. Cauchon addressed her now. He
had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to her, and had
brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing that she would
proclaim the truth--that she had never knowingly abjured--and so bring
shame upon him and eternal infamy. He contented himself with admonishing
her to keep in mind her wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of
her salvation. Then he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate and cut off
from the body of the Church. With a final word he delivered her over to
the secular arm for judgment and sentence.

Joan, weeping, knelt and began to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh, no--for
the King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, and penetrated all
hearts with its passionate pathos. She never thought of his treacheries
to her, she never thought of his desertion of her, she never remembered
that it was because he was an ingrate that she was here to die a
miserable death; she remembered only that he was her King, that she was
his loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his
cause with evil reports and false charges, and he not by to defend
himself. And so, in the very presence of death, she forgot her own
troubles to implore all in her hearing to be just to him; to believe that
he was good and noble and sincere, and not in any way to blame for any
acts of hers, neither advising them nor urging them, but being wholly
clear and free of all responsibility for them. Then, closing, she begged
in humble and touching words that all here present would pray for her and
would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might look friendly upon
her and feel pity for her in their hearts.

There was hardly one heart there that was not touched--even the English,
even the judges showed it, and there was many a lip that trembled and
many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even the English
Cardinal's--that man with a political heart of stone but a human heart of
flesh.

The secular judge who should have delivered judgment and pronounced
sentence was himself so disturbed that he forgot his duty, and Joan went
to her death unsentenced--thus completing with an illegality what had
begun illegally and had so continued to the end. He only said--to the
guards:

"Take her"; and to the executioner, "Do your duty."

Joan asked for a cross. None was able to furnish one. But an English
soldier broke a stick in two and crossed the pieces and tied them
together, and this cross he gave her, moved to it by the good heart that
was in him; and she kissed it and put it in her bosom. Then Isambard de
la Pierre went to the church near by and brought her a consecrated one;
and this one also she kissed, and pressed it to her bosom with rapture,
and then kissed it again and again, covering it with tears and pouring
out her gratitude to God and the saints.

And so, weeping, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed up the cruel
steps to the face of the stake, with the friar Isambard at her side. Then
she was helped up to the top of the pile of wood that was built around
the lower third of the stake and stood upon it with her back against the
stake, and the world gazing up at her breathless. The executioner
ascended to her side and wound chains around her slender body, and so
fastened her to the stake. Then he descended to finish his dreadful
office; and there she remained alone--she that had had so many friends in
the days when she was free, and had been so loved and so dear.

All these things I saw, albeit dimly and blurred with tears; but I could
bear no more. I continued in my place, but what I shall deliver to you
now I got by others' eyes and others' mouths. Tragic sounds there were
that pierced my ears and wounded my heart as I sat there, but it is as I
tell you: the latest image recorded by my eyes in that desolating hour
was Joan of Arc with the grace of her comely youth still unmarred; and
that image, untouched by time or decay, has remained with me all my days.
Now I will go on.

If any thought that now, in that solemn hour when all transgressors
repent and confess, she would revoke her revocation and say her great
deeds had been evil deeds and Satan and his fiends their source, they
erred. No such thought was in her blameless mind. She was not thinking of
herself and her troubles, but of others, and of woes that might befall
them. And so, turning her grieving eyes about her, where rose the towers
and spires of that fair city, she said:

"Oh, Rouen, Rouen, must I die here, and must you be my tomb? Ah, Rouen,
Rouen, I have great fear that you will suffer for my death."

A whiff of smoke swept upward past her face, and for one moment terror
seized her and she cried out, "Water! Give me holy water!" but the next
moment her fears were gone, and they came no more to torture her.

She heard the flames crackling below her, and immediately distress for a
fellow-creature who was in danger took possession of her. It was the
friar Isambard. She had given him her cross and begged him to raise it
toward her face and let her eyes rest in hope and consolation upon it
till she was entered into the peace of God. She made him go out from the
danger of the fire. Then she was satisfied, and said:

"Now keep it always in my sight until the end."

Not even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, endure to let her die
in peace, but went toward her, all black with crimes and sins as he was,
and cried out:

"I am come, Joan, to exhort you for the last time to repent and seek the
pardon of God."

"I die through you," she said, and these were the last words she spoke to
any upon earth.

Then the pitchy smoke, shot through with red flashes of flame, rolled up
in a thick volume and hid her from sight; and from the heart of this
darkness her voice rose strong and eloquent in prayer, and when by
moments the wind shredded somewhat of the smoke aside, there were veiled
glimpses of an upturned face and moving lips. At last a mercifully swift
tide of flame burst upward, and none saw that face any more nor that
form, and the voice was still.

Yes, she was gone from us: JOAN OF ARC! What little words they are, to
tell of a rich world made empty and poor!

CONCLUSION

JOAN'S BROTHER Jacques died in Domremy during the Great Trial at Rouen.
This was according to the prophecy which Joan made that day in the
pastures the time that she said the rest of us would go to the great
wars.

When her poor old father heard of the martyrdom it broke his heart, and
he died.

The mother was granted a pension by the city of Orleans, and upon this
she lived out her days, which were many. Twenty-four years after her
illustrious child's death she traveled all the way to Paris in the
winter-time and was present at the opening of the discussion in the
Cathedral of Notre Dame which was the first step in the Rehabilitation.
Paris was crowded with people, from all about France, who came to get
sight of the venerable dame, and it was a touching spectacle when she
moved through these reverent wet-eyed multitudes on her way to the grand
honors awaiting her at the cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no
longer the light-hearted youths who marched with us from Vaucouleurs, but
war-torn veterans with hair beginning to show frost.

After the martyrdom Noel and I went back to Domremy, but presently when
the Constable Richemont superseded La Tremouille as the King's chief
adviser and began the completion of Joan's great work, we put on our
harness and returned to the field and fought for the King all through the
wars and skirmishes until France was freed of the English. It was what
Joan would have desired of us; and, dead or alive, her desire was law for
us. All the survivors of the personal staff were faithful to her memory
and fought for the King to the end. Mainly we were well scattered, but
when Paris fell we happened to be together. It was a great day and a
joyous; but it was a sad one at the same time, because Joan was not there
to march into the captured capital with us.

Noel and I remained always together, and I was by his side when death
claimed him. It was in the last great battle of the war. In that battle
fell also Joan's sturdy old enemy Talbot. He was eighty-five years old,
and had spent his whole life in battle. A fine old lion he was, with his
flowing white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and his indestructible
energy as well; for he fought as knightly and vigorous a fight that day
as the best man there.

La Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always fighting, of
course, for that was all he enjoyed in life. I did not see him in all
that time, for we were far apart, but one was always hearing of him.

The Bastard of Orleans and D'Alencon and D'Aulon lived to see France
free, and to testify with Jean and Pierre d'Arc and Pasquerel and me at
the Rehabilitation. But they are all at rest now, these many years. I
alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan of Arc in the great
wars.

She said I would live until those wars were forgotten--a prophecy which
failed. If I should live a thousand years it would still fail. For
whatsoever had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.

Members of Joan's family married, and they have left descendants. Their
descendants are of the nobility, but their family name and blood bring
them honors which no other nobles receive or may hope for. You have seen
how everybody along the way uncovered when those children came yesterday
to pay their duty to me. It was not because they are noble, it is because
they are grandchildren of the brothers of Joan of Arc.

Now as to the Rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims. For reward
he allowed her to be hunted to her death without making one effort to
save her. During the next twenty-three years he remained indifferent to
her memory; indifferent to the fact that her good name was under a
damning blot put there by the priest because of the deeds which she had
done in saving him and his scepter; indifferent to the fact that France
was ashamed, and longed to have the Deliverer's fair fame restored.
Indifferent all that time. Then he suddenly changed and was anxious to
have justice for poor Joan himself. Why? Had he become grateful at last?
Had remorse attacked his hard heart? No, he had a better reason--a better
one for his sort of man. This better reason was that, now that the
English had been finally expelled from the country, they were beginning
to call attention to the fact that this King had gotten his crown by the
hands of a person proven by the priests to have been in league with Satan
and burned for it by them as a sorceress--therefore, of what value or
authority was such a Kingship as that? Of no value at all; no nation
could afford to allow such a king to remain on the throne.

It was high time to stir now, and the King did it. That is how Charles
VII. came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done the memory of
his benefactress.

He appealed to the Pope, and the Pope appointed a great commission of
churchmen to examine into the facts of Joan's life and award judgment.
The Commission sat at Paris, at Domremy, at Rouen, at Orleans, and at
several other places, and continued its work during several months. It
examined the records of Joan's trials, it examined the Bastard of
Orleans, and the Duke d'Alencon, and D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and
Courcelles, and Isambard de la Pierre, and Manchon, and me, and many
others whose names I have made familiar to you; also they examined more
than a hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you--the
friends of Joan in Domremy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and other places, and a
number of judges and other people who had assisted at the Rouen trials,
the abjuration, and the martyrdom. And out of this exhaustive examination
Joan's character and history came spotless and perfect, and this verdict
was placed upon record, to remain forever.

I was present upon most of these occasions, and saw again many faces
which I have not seen for a quarter of a century; among them some
well-beloved faces--those of our generals and that of Catherine Boucher
(married, alas!), and also among them certain other faces that filled me
with bitterness--those of Beaupere and Courcelles and a number of their
fellow-fiends. I saw Haumette and Little Mengette--edging along toward
fifty now, and mothers of many children. I saw Noel's father, and the
parents of the Paladin and the Sunflower.

It was beautiful to hear the Duke d'Alencon praise Joan's splendid
capacities as a general, and to hear the Bastard indorse these praises
with his eloquent tongue and then go on and tell how sweet and good Joan
was, and how full of pluck and fire and impetuosity, and mischief, and
mirthfulness, and tenderness, and compassion, and everything that was
pure and fine and noble and lovely. He made her live again before me, and
wrung my heart.

I have finished my story of Joan of Arc, that wonderful child, that
sublime personality, that spirit which in one regard has had no peer and
will have none--this: its purity from all alloy of self-seeking,
self-interest, personal ambition. In it no trace of these motives can be
found, search as you may, and this cannot be said of any other person
whose name appears in profane history.

With Joan of Arc love of country was more than a sentiment--it was a
passion. She was the Genius of Patriotism--she was Patriotism embodied,
concreted, made flesh, and palpable to the touch and visible to the eye.

Love, Mercy, Charity, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music--these may be
symbolized as any shall prefer: by figures of either sex and of any age;
but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr's crown upon
her head, and in her hand the sword that severed her country's
bonds--shall not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all the

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