RIEN–LA FUCELLE | |__________________________________|
“NOTHING–THE MAID OF ORLEANS.” How brief it is; yet how
much it says! It is the nation speaking. You have the spectacle of
that unsentimental thing, a Government, making reverence to that
name and saying to its agent, “Uncover, and pass on; it is France
that commands.” Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be kept
always; “forever” was the King’s word. [1] At two o’clock in the
afternoon the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end;
then the procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at
its head, and took up its solemn march through the midst of the
church, all instruments and all people making such clamor of
rejoicing noises as was, indeed, a marvel to hear. An so ended the
third of the great days of Joan’s life. And how close together they
stand–May 8th, June 18th, July 17th!
[1] IT was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and
more; then the over-confident octogenarian’s prophecy failed.
During the tumult of the French Revolution the promise was
forgotten and the grace withdrawn. It has remained in disuse ever
since. Joan never asked to be remembered, but France has
remembered her with an inextinguishable love and reverence; Joan
never asked for a statue, but France has lavished them upon her;
Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France is building
one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is impending.
Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given her,
and with a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which
she did ask for and get has been taken away from her. There is
something infinitely pathetic about this. France owes Domremy a
hundred years of taxes, and could hardly find a citizen within her
borders who would vote against the payment of the debt. — NOTE
BY THE TRANSLATOR.
Chapter 36 Joan Hears News from Home
WE MOUNTED and rode, a spectacle to remember, a most noble
display of rich vestments and nodding plumes, and as we moved
between the banked multitudes they sank down all along abreast of
us as we advanced, like grain before the reaper, and kneeling
hailed with a rousing welcome the consecrated King and his
companion the Deliverer of France. But by and by when we had
paraded about the chief parts of the city and were come near to the
end of our course, we being now approaching the Archbishop’s
palace, one saw on the right, hard by the inn that is called the
Zebra, a strange t–two men not kneeling but standing! Standing in
the front rank of the kneelers; unconscious, transfixed, staring.
Yes, and clothed in the coarse garb of the peasantry, these two.
Two halberdiers sprang at them in a fury to teach them better
manners; but just as they seized them Joan cried out “Forbear!”
and slid from her saddle and flung her arms about one of those
peasants, calling him by all manner of endearing names, and
sobbing. For it was her father; and the other was her uncle, Laxart.
The news flew everywhere, and shouts of welcome were raised,
and in just one little moment those two despised and unknown
plebeians were become famous and popular and envied, and
everybody was in a fever to get sight of them and be able to say, all
their lives long, that they had seen the father of Joan of Arc and the
brother of her mother. How easy it was for her to do miracles like
to this! She was like the sun; on whatsoever dim and humble
object her rays fell, that thing was straightway drowned in glory.
All graciously the King said:
“Bring them to me.”
And she brought them; she radiant with happiness and affection,
they trembling and scared, with their caps in their shaking hands;
and there before all the world the King gave them his hand to kiss,
while the people gazed in envy and admiration; and he said to old
D’Arc:
“Give God thanks for that you are father to this child, this
dispenser of immortalities. You who bear a name that will still live