Joan had to pause a moment to let it subside. “Yes, English
strongholds bristled before us; now French ones bristle behind us.
What is the argument? A child can read it. The strongholds
between us and Paris are garrisoned by no new breed of English,
but by the same breed as those others–with the same fears, the
same questionings, the same weaknesses, the same disposition to
see the heavy hand of God descending upon them. We have but to
march!–on the instant–and they are ours, Paris is ours, France is
ours! Give the word, O my King, command your servant to–”
“Stay!” cried the Chancellor. “It would be madness to put our
affront upon his Highness the Duke of Burgundy. By the treaty
which we have every hope to make with him–”
“Oh, the treaty which we hope to make with him! He has scorned
you for years, and defied you. Is it your subtle persuasions that
have softened his manners and beguiled him to listen to proposals?
No; it was blows!–the blows which we gave him! That is the only
teaching that that sturdy rebel can understand. What does he care
for wind? The treaty which we hope to make with him–alack! He
deliver Paris! There is no pauper in the land that is less able to do
it. He deliver Paris! Ah, but that would make great Bedford smile!
Oh, the pitiful pretext! the blind can see that this thin pour-parler
with its fifteen-day truce has no purpose but to give Bedford time
to hurry forward his forces against us. More treachery–always
treachery! We call a council of war–with nothing to council about;
but Bedford calls no council to teach him what our course is. He
knows what he would do in our place. He would hang his traitors
and march upon Paris! O gentle King, rouse! The way is open,
Paris beckons, France implores, Speak and we–”
“Sire, it is madness, sheer madness! Your Excellency, we cannot,
we must not go back from what we have done; we have proposed
to treat, we must treat with the Duke of Burgundy.”
“And we will!” said Joan.
“Ah? How?”
“At the point of the lance!”
The house rose, to a man–all that had French hearts–and let go a
crach of applause–and kept it up; and in the midst of it one heard
La Hire growl out: “At the point of the lance! By God, that is
music!” The King was up, too, and drew his sword, and took it by
the blade and strode to Joan and delivered the hilt of it into her
hand, saying:
“There, the King surrenders. Carry it to Paris.”
And so the applause burst out again, and the historical co9uncil of
war that has bred so many legends was over.
Chapte 39 We Win, but the King Balks
IT WAS away past midnight, and had been a tremendous day in
the matter of excitement and fatigue, but that was no matter to
Joan when there was business on hand. She did not think of bed.
The generals followed her to her official quarters, and she
delivered her orders to them as fast as she could talk, and they sent
them off to their different commands as fast as delivered;
wherefore the messengers galloping hither and thither raised a
world of clatter and racket in the still streets; and soon were added
to this the music of distant bugles and the roll of drums–notes of
preparation; for the vanguard would break camp at dawn.
The generals were soon dismissed, but I wasn’t; nor Joan; for it
was my turn to work, now. Joan walked the floor and dictated a
summons to the Duke of Burgundy to lay down his arms and make
peace and exchange pardons with the King; or, if he must fight, go
fight the Saracens. “Pardonnez-vous l’un … l’autre de bon
cœur, entiЉrement, ainsi que doivent faire loyaux chr‚tiens,
et, s’il vous plait de guerroyer, allez contre les Sarrasins.” It was
long, but it was good, and had the sterling ring to it. It is my
opinion that it was as fine and simple and straightforward and
eloquent a state paper as she ever uttered.