ever suspected that that foolish tale was anything but dignified and
valuable history. There was not an atom of value in it; and whilst
they thought it distressing and pathetic, it was in fact not pathetic
at all, but actually ridiculous. At least it seemed so to me, and it
seems so yet. Indeed, I know it was, because it made Joan laugh;
and the more sorrowful it got the more it made her laugh; and the
Paladin said that he could have laughed himself if she had not
been there, and No‰l Rainguesson said the same. It was about old
Laxart going to a funeral there at Domremy two or three weeks
back. He had spots all over his face and hands, and he got Joan to
rub some healing ointment on them, and while she was doing it,
and comforting him, and trying to say pitying things to him, he told
her how it happened. And first he asked her if she remembered
that black bull calf that she left behind when she came away, and
she said indeed she did, and he was a dear, and she loved him so,
and was he well?–and just drowned him in questions about that
creature. And he said it was a young bull now, and very frisky; and
he was to bear a principal hand at a funeral; and she said, “The
bull?” and he said, “No, myself”; but said the bull did take a hand,
but not because of his being invited, for he wasn’t; but anyway he
was away over beyond the Fairy Tree, and fell asleep on the grass
with his Sunday funeral clothes on, and a long black rag on his hat
and hanging down his back; and when he woke he saw by the sun
how late it was, and not a moment to lose; and jumped up terribly
worried, and saw the young bull grazing there, and thought maybe
he could ride part way on him and gain time; so he tied a rope
around the bull’s body to hold on by, and put a halter on him to
steer with, and jumped on and started; but it was all new to the
bull, and he was discontented with it, and scurried around and
bellowed and reared and pranced, and Uncle Laxart was satisfied,
and wanted to get off and go by the next bull or some other way
that was quieter, but he didn’t dare try; and it was getting very
warm for him, too, and disturbing and wearisome, and not proper
for Sunday; but by and by the bull lost all his temper, and went
tearing down the slope with his tail in the air and blowing in the
most awful way; and just in the edge of the village he knocked
down some beehives, and the bees turned out and joined the
excursion, and soared along in a black cloud that nearly hid those
other two from sight, and prodded them both, and jabbed them and
speared them and spiked them, and made them bellow and shriek,
and shriek and bellow; and here they came roaring through the
village like a hurricane, and took the funeral procession right in
the center, and sent that section of it sprawling, and galloped over
it, and the rest scattered apart and fled screeching in every
direction, every person with a layer of bees on him, and not a rag
of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally the bull broke for the
river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle Laxart out he was
nearly drowned, and his face looked like a pudding with raisins in
it. And then he turned around, this old simpleton, and looked a
long time in a dazed way at Joan where she had her face in a
cushion, dying, apparently, and says:
“What do you reckon she is laughing at?”
And old D’Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently
scratching his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn’t
know–“must have been something that happened when we weren’t
noticing.”
Yes, both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic;