fell wounded or was reported killed–as at CompiЉgne–they broke
in panic and fled like sheep. I argue from this that they had
undergone no real transformation as yet; that at bottom they were
still under the spell of a timorousness born of generations of
unsuccess, and a lack of confidence in each other and in their
leaders born of old and bitter experience in the way of treacheries
of all sorts–for their kings had been treacherous to their great
vassals and to their generals, and these in turn were treacherous to
the head of the state and to each other. The soldiery found that
they could depend utterly on Joan, and upon her alone. With her
gone, everything was gone. She was the sun that melted the frozen
torrents and set them boiling; with that sun removed, they froze
again, and the army and all France became what they had been
before, mere dead corpses–that and nothing more; incapable of
thought, hope, ambition, or motion.
Chapter 2 Joan Sold to the English
MY WOUND gave me a great deal of trouble clear into the first
part of October; then the fresher weather renewed my life and
strength. All this time there were reports drifting about that the
King was going to ransom Joan. I believed these, for I was young
and had not yet found out the littleness and meanness of our poor
human race, which brags about itself so much, and thinks it is
better and higher than the other animals.
In October I was well enough to go out with two sorties, and in the
second one, on the 23d, I was wounded again. My luck had turned,
you see. On the night of the 25th the besiegers decamped, and in
the disorder and confusion one of their prisoners escaped and got
safe into CompiЉgne, and hobble into my room as pallid and
pathetic an object as you would wish to see.
“What? Alive? No‰l Rainguesson!”
It was indeed he. It was a most joyful meeting, that you will easily
know; and also as sad as it was joyful. We could not speak Joan’s
name. One’s voice would have broken down. We knew who was
meant when she was mentioned; we could say “she” and “her,” but
we could not speak the name.
We talked of the personal staff. Old D’Aulon, wounded and a
prisoner, was still with Joan and serving her, by permission of the
Duke of Burgundy. Joan was being treated with respect due to her
rank and to her character as a prisoner of war taken in honorable
conflict. And this was continued–as we learned later–until she fell
into the hands of that bastard of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais.
No‰l was full of noble and affectionate praises and appreaciations
of our old boastful big Standard-Bearer, now gone silent forever,
his real and imaginary battles all fought, his work done, his life
honorably closed and completed.
“And think of his luck!” burst out No‰l, with his eyes full of tears.
“Always the pet child of luck!
See how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all
through, in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the
public eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a
chance to do fine things and always doing them; in the beginning
called the Paladin in joke, and called it afterward in earnest
because he magnificently made the title good; and at
last–supremest luck of all–died in the field! died with his harness
on; died faithful to his charg, the Standard in his hand; died–oh,
think of it–with the approving eye of Joan of Arc upon him!
He drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to
his peace, blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to
follow. What luck, what luck! And we? What was our sin that we
are still here, we who have also earned our place with the happy
dead?”
And presently he said:
“They tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it
away, their most precious prize after its captured owner. But they
haven’t it now. A month ago we put our lives upon the risk–our