Joan, on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the
personal staff grouped about her, took post for a final review and a
good-by; for she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or
ever serve with these or any other soldiers any more after this day.
The army knew this, and believed it was looking for the last time
upon the girlish face of its invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride,
its darling, whom it had ennobled in its private heart with
nobilities of its own creation, call her “Daughter of God,” “Savior
of France,” “Victory’s Sweetheart,” “The Page of Christ,” together
with still softer titles which were simply na‹f and frank
endearments such as men are used to confer upon children whom
they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of the
emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the
march-past, the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of
cheers, heads up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands
braying p‘ans of victory; but now there was nothing of that. But
for one impressive sound, one could have closed his eyes and
imagined himself in a world of the dead. That one sound was all
that visited the ear in the summer stillness–just that one sound–the
muffled tread of the marching host. As the serried masses drifted
by, the men put their right hands up to their temples, palms to the
front, in military salute, turning their eyes upon Joan’s face in mute
God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping them there while they
could. They still kept their hands up in reverent salute many steps
after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her handkerchief to
her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion crinkle along the
faces of the files.
The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad
with jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.
We rode now to the King’s lodgins, which was the Archbishop’s
country palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off
and took position at the head of the army. By this time the
country-people were arriving in multitudes from every direction
and massing themselves on both sides of the road to get sight of
Joan–just as had been done every day since our first day’s march
began. Our march now lay through the grassy plain, and those
peasants made a dividing double border for that plain. They
stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright colors on
each side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it had a
white jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her.
Endless borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front
of us–that is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we
had been marching through all these days. Not a lane between
multitudinous flowers standing upright on their stems–no, these
flowers were always kneeling; kneeling, these human flowers, with
their hands and faces lifted toward Joan of Arc, and the grateful
tears streaming down. And all along, those closest to the road
hugged her feet and kissed them and laid their wet cheeks fondly
against them. I never, during all those days, saw any of either sex
stand while she passed, nor any man keep his head covered.
Afterward in the Great Trial these touching scenes were used as a
weapon against her. She had been made an object of adoration by
the people, and this was proof that she was a heretic–so claimed
that unjust court.
As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and
towers was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of
people; and all the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and
gloomed with drifting clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in
state and moved in procession through the city, with all the guilds
and industries in holiday costume marching in our rear with their
banners; and all the route was hedged with a huzzaing crush of
people, and all the windows were full and all the roofs; and from