When she learned that the court was made up of ecclesiastics in
the interest of the English, she begged that in fairness an equal
number of priests of the French party should be added to these.
Cauchon scoffed at her message, and would not even deign to
answer it.
By the law of the Church–she being a minor under twenty-one–it
was her right to have counsel to conduct her case, advise her how
to answer when questioned, and protect her from falling into traps
set by cunning devices of the prosecution. She probably did not
know that this was her right, and that she could demand it and
require it, for there was none to tell her that; but she begged for
this help, at any rate. Cauchon refused it. She urged and implored,
pleading her youth and her ignorance of the complexities and
intricacies of the law and of legal procedure. Cauchon refused
again, and said she must get along with her case as best she might
by herself. Ah, his heart was a stone.
Cauchon prepared the procЉs verbal. I will simplify that by calling
it the Bill of Particulars. It was a detailed list of the charges against
her, and formed the basis of the trial. Charges? It was a list of
suspicions and public rumors–those were the words used. It was
merely charged that she was suspected of having been guilty of
heresies, witchcraft, and other such offenses against religion.
Now by the law of the Church, a trial of that sort could not be
begun until a searching inquiry had been made into the history and
character of the accused, and it was essential that the result of this
inquiry be added to the procЉs verbal and form a part of it. You
remember that that was the first thing they did before the trial at
Poitiers. They did it again now. An ecclesiastic was sent to
Domremy. There and all about the neighborhood he made an
exhaustive search into Joan’s history and character, and came back
with his verdict. It was very clear. The searcher reported that he
found Joan’s character to be in every way what he “would like his
own sister’s character to be.” Just about the same report that was
brought back to Poitiers, you see. Joan’s was a character which
could endure the minutest examination.
This verdict was a strong point for Joan, you will say. Yes, it
would have been if it could have seen the light; but Cauchon was
awake, and it disappeared from the procЉs verbal before the trial.
People were prudent enough not to inquire what became of it.
One would imagine that Cauchon was ready to begin the trial by
this time. But no, he devised one more scheme for poor Joan’s
destruction, and it promised to be a deadly one.
One of the great personages picked out and sent down by the
University of Paris was an ecclesiastic named Nicolas Loyseleur.
He was tall, handsome, grave, of smooth, soft speech and
courteous and winning manners. There was no seeming of
treachery or hypocrisy about him, yet he was full of both. He was
admitted to Joan’s prison by night, disguised as a cobbler; he
pretended to be from her own country; he professed to be secretly
a patriot; he revealed the fact that he was a priest. She was filled
with gladness to see one from the hills and plains that were so dear
to her; happier still to look upon a priest and disburden her heart in
confession, for the offices of the Church were the bread of life, the
breath of her nostrils to her, and she had been long forced to pine
for them in vain. She opened her whole innocent heart to this
creature, and in return he gave her advice concerning her trial
which could have destroyed her if her deep native wisdom had not
protected her against following it.
You will ask, what value could this scheme have, since the secrets
of the confessional are sacred and cannot be revealed? True–but
suppose another person should overhear them? That person is not
bound to keep the secret. Well, that is what happened. Cauchon