said:
“It is not true. I have never cursed. It is not my custom to swear.”
Chapter 11 The Court Reorganized for Assassination
A HALT was called. It was time. Cauchon was losing ground in
the fight, Joan was gaining it.
There were signs that here and there in the court a judge was being
softened toward Joan by her courage, her presence of mind, her
fortitude, her constancy, her piety, her simplicity and candor, her
manifest purity, the nobility of her character, her fine intelligence,
and the good brave fight she was making, all friendless and alone,
against unfair odds, and there was grave room for fear that this
softening process would spread further and presently bring
Cauchon’s plans in danger.
Something must be done, and it was done. Cauchon was not
distinguished for compassion, but he now gave proof that he had it
in his character. He thought it pity to subject so many judges to the
prostrating fatigues of this trial when it could be conducted plenty
well enough by a handful of them. Oh, gentle judge! But he did not
remember to modify the fatigues for the little captive.
He would let all the judges but a handful go, but he would select
the handful himself, and he did.
He chose tigers. If a lamb or two got in, it was by oversight, not
intention; and he knew what to do with lambs when discovered.
He called a small council now, and during five days they sifted the
huge bulk of answers thus far gathered from Joan. They winnowed
it of all chaff, all useless matter–that is, all matter favorable to
Joan; they saved up all matter which could be twisted to her hurt,
and out of this they constructed a basis for a new trial which
should have the semblance of a continuation of the old one.
Another change. It was plain that the public trial had wrought
damage: its proceedings had been discussed all over the town and
had moved many to pity the abused prisoner. There should be no
more of that. The sittings should be secret hereafter, and no
spectators admitted. So No‰l could come no more. I sent this news
to him. I had not the heart to carry it myself. I would give the pain
a chance to modify before I should see him in the evening.
On the 10th of March the secret trial began. A week had passed
since I had seen Joan. Her appearance gave me a great shock. She
looked tired and weak. She was listless and far away, and her
answers showed that she was dazed and not able to keep perfect
run of all that was done and said. Another court would not have
taken advantage of her state, seeing that her life was at stake here,
but would have adjourned and spared her. Did this one? No; it
worried her for hours, and with a glad and eager ferocity, making
all it could out of this great chance, the first one it had had.
She was tortured into confusing herself concerning the “sign”
which had been given the King, and the next day this was
continued hour after hour. As a result, she made partial
revealments of particulars forbidden by her Voice3s; and seemed
to me to state as facts things which were but allegories and visions
mixed with facts.
The third day she was brighter, and looked less worn. She was
almost her normal self again, and did her work well. Many
attempts were made to beguile her into saying indiscreet things,
but she saw the purpose in view and answered with tact and
wisdom.
“Do you know if St. Catherine and St. Marguerite hate the
English?”
“They love whom Our Lord loves, and hate whom He hates.”
“Does God hate the English?”
“Of the love or the hatred of God toward the English I know
nothing.” Then she spoke up with the old martial ring in her voice
and the old audacity in her words, and added, “But I know
this–that God will send victory to the French, and that all the
English will be flung out of France but the dead ones!”