“Was God on the side of the English when they were prosperous in
France?”
“I do not know if God hates the French, but I think that He allowed
them to be chastised for their sins.”
It was a sufficiently na‹ve way to account for a chastisement which
had now strung out for ninety-six years. But nobody found fault
with it. There was nobody there who would not punish a sinner
ninety-six years if he could, nor anybody there who would ever
dream of such a thing as the Lord’s being any shade less stringent
than men.
“Have you ever embraced St. Marguerite and St. Catherine?”
“Yes, both of them.”
The evil face of Cauchon betrayed satisfaction when she said that.
“When you hung garlands upon L’Arbre F‚e de Bourlemont, did
you do it in honor of your apparitions?”
“No.”
Satisfaction again. No doubt Cauchon would take it for granted
that she hung them there out of sinful love for the fairies.
“When the saints appeared to you did you bow, did you make
reverence, did you kneel?”
“Yes; I did them the most honor and reverence that I could.”
A good point for Cauchon if he could eventually make it appear
that these were no saints to whom she had done reverence, but
devils in disguise.
Now there was the matter of Joan’s keeping her supernatural
commerce a secret from her parents. Much might be made of that.
In fact, particular emphasis had been given to it in a private remark
written in the margin of the procЉs: “She concealed her visions
from her parents and from every one.” Possibly this disloyalty to
her parents might itself be the sign of the satanic source of her
mission.
“Do you think it was right to go away to the wars without getting
your parents’ leave? It is written one must honor his father and his
mother.”
“I have obeyed them in all things but that. And for that I have
begged their forgiveness in a letter and gotten it.”
“Ah, you asked their pardon? So you knew you were guilty of sin
in going without their leave!”
Joan was stirred. Her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed:
“I was commanded of God, and it was right to go! If I had had a
hundred fathers and mothers and been a king’s daughter to boot I
would have gone.”
“Did you never ask your Voices if you might tell your parents?”
“They were willing that I should tell them, but I would not for
anything have given my parents that pain.”
Tgo the minds of the questioners this headstrong conduct savored
of pride. That sort of pride would move one to see sacrilegious
adorations.
“Did not your Voices call you Daughter of God?”
Joan answered with simplicity, and unsuspiciously:
“Yes; before the siege of Orleans and since, they have several
times called me Daughter of God.”
Further indications of pride and vanity were sought.
“What horse were you riding when you were captured? Who gave
it you?”
“The King.”
“You had other things–riches–of the King?”
“For myself I had horses and arms, and money to pay the service in
my household.”
“Had you not a treasury?”
“Yes. Ten or twelve thousand crowns.” Then she said with na‹vet‚,
“It was not a great sum to carry on a war with.”
“You have it yet?”
“No. It is the King’s money. My brothers hold it for him.”
“What were the arms which you left as an offering in the church of
St. Denis?”
“My suit of silver mail and a sword.”
“Did you put them there in order that they might be adored?”
“No. It was but an act of devotion. And it is the custom of men of
war who have been wounded to make such offering there. I had
been wounded before Paris.”
Nothing appealed to these stony hearts, those dull
imaginations–not even this pretty picture, so simply drawn, of the
wounded girl-soldier hanging her toy harness there in curious
companionship with the grim and dusty iron mail of the historic
defenders of France. No, there was nothing in it for them; nothing,
unless evil and injury for that innocent creature could be gotten out