promised to come, but didn’t. The Duke d’Alen‡on went to him and
got his promise again, which he broke again. Nine days were lost
thus; then he came, arriving at St. Denis September 7th.
Meantime the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless
conduct of the King could have no other result. Preparations had
now been made to defend the city. Joan’s chances had been
diminished, but she and her generals considered them plenty good
enough yet. Joan ordered the attack for eight o’clock next morning,
and at that hour it began.
Joan placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which
protected the gate St. Honor‚. When it was sufficiently crippled
the assault was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then
we moved forward to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves
against it again and again, Joan in the le3ad with her standard at
her side, the smoke enveloping us in choking clouds, and the
missiles flying over us and through us as thick as hail.
In the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate
sure and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down
by a crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a
panic–for what were they without her? She was the army, herself.
Although disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new
assault be made, say8ing it must win; and adding, with the
battle-light rising in her eyes, “I will take Paris now or die!” She
had to be carried away by force, and this was done by Gaucourt
and the Duke d’Alen‡on.
But her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming
with enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in
the morning, and in half an hour Paris would be ours without any
question. She could have kept her word. About this there was no
doubt. But she forgot one factor–the King, shadow of that
substance named La Tremouille. The King forbade the attempt!
You see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of
Burgundy, and another sham private trade of some sort was on
foot.
You would know, without my telling you, that Joan’s heart was
nearly broken. Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at
her heart she slept little that night. Several times the watchers
heard muffled sobs from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis,
and many times the grieving words, “It could have been taken!–it
could have been taken!” which were the only ones she said.
She dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope.
D’Alen‡on had thrown a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis.
Might she not cross by that and assault Paris at another point? But
the King got wind of it and broke the bridge down! And more–he
declared the campaign ended! And more still–he had made a new
truce and a long one, in which he had agreed to leave Paris
unthreatened and unmolested, and go back to the Loire whence he
had come!
Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was
defeated by her own King. She had said once that all she feared for
her cause was treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung
up her white armor in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and
asked the King to relieve her of her functions and let her go home.
As usual, she was wise. Grand combinations, far-reaching great
military moves were at an end, now; for the future, when the truce
should end, the war would be merely a war of random and idle
skirmishes, apparently; work suitable for subalterns, and not
requiring the supervision of a sublime military genius. But the
King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all France;
there were French strongholds to be watched and preserved; he
would need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her
where he could balk and hinder her.
Now came her Voices again. They said, “Remain at St. Denis.”
There was no explanation. They did not say why. That was the