came soft and low and broken:
“Now, O gentle King, is the pleasure of God accomplished
according to His command that you should come to Rheims and
receive the crown that belongeth of right to you, and unto none
other. My work which was given me to do is finished; give me
your peace, and let me go back to my mother, who is poor and old,
and has need of me.”
The King raised her up, and there before all that host he praised
her great deeds in most noble terms; and there he confirmed her
nobility and titles, making her the equal of a count in rank, and
also appointed a household and officers for her according to her
dignity; and then he said:
“You have saved the crown. Speak–require–demand; and
whatsoever grace you ask it shall be granted, though it make the
kingdom poor to meet it.”
Now that was fine, that was royal. Joan was on her knees again
straightway, and said:
“Then, O gentle King, if out of your compassion you will speak the
word, I pray you give commandment that my village, poor and
hard pressed by reason of war, may have its taxes remitted.”
“It is so commanded. Say on.”
“That is all.”
“All? Nothing but that?”
“It is all. I have no other desire.”
“But that is nothing–less than nothing. Ask–do not be afraid.”
“Indeed, I cannot, gentle King. Do not press me. I will not have
aught else, but only this alone.”
The King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if
trying to comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange
unselfishness. Then he raised his head and said:
“Whe has one a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks
and all she will take is this poor grace–and even this is for others,
not for herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the
dignity of one who carries in her head and heart riches which
outvalue any that any King could add, though he gave his all. She
shall have her way. Now, therefore, it is decreed that from this day
forth Domremy, natal village of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France,
called the Maid of Orleans, is freed from all taxation forever.”
Whereat the silver horns blew a jubilant blast.
There, you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she
was in a trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to
name to boon she would demand of the King if he should ever
chance to tell her she might claim one. But whether she had the
vision or not, this act showed that after all the dizzy grandeurs that
had come upon her, she was still the same simple, unselfish
creature that she was that day.
Yes, Charles VII. remitted those taxes “forever.” Often the
gratitude of kings and nations fades and their promises are
forgotten or deliberately violated; but you, who are children of
France, should remember with pride that France has kept this one
faithfully. Sixty-three years have gone by since that day. The taxes
of the region wherein Domremy lies have been collected
sixty-three times since then, and all the villages of that region have
paid except that one–Domremy. The tax-gatherer never visits
Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread
sorrow-sowing apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been
filed meantime, and they lie yonder with the other public records,
and any may see them that desire it. At the top of every page in the
sixty-three books stands the name of a village, and below that5
name its weary burden of taxation is figured out and displayed; in
the case of all save one. It is true, just as I tell you. In each of the
sixty-three books there is a page headed “Domremi,” but under that
name not a figure appears. Where the figures should be, there are
three words written; and the same words have been written every
year for all these years; yes, it is a blank page, with always those
grateful words lettered across the face of it–a touching memorial.
Thus:
__________________________________ | | | DOMREMI | | | |