written out, in his pocket and all ready for Joan to sign. I do not
know that that was true, but it probably was, for her mark signed at
the bottom of a confession would be the kind of evidence (for
effect with the public) which Cauchon and his people were
particularly value, you know.
No, there was no crushing that spirit, and no beclouding that clear
mind. Consider the depth, the wisdom of that answer, coming from
an ignorant girl. Why, there were not six men in the world who
had ever reflected that words forced out of a person by horrible
tortures were not necessarily words of verity and truth, yet this
unlettered peasant-girl put her finger upon that flaw with an
unerring instinct. I had always supposed that torture brought out
the truth–everybody supposed it; and when Joan came out with
those simple common-sense words they seemed to flood the place
with light. It was like a lightning-flash at midnight which suddenly
reveals a fair valley sprinkled over with silver streams and
gleaming villages and farmsteads where was only an impenetrable
world of darkness before. Manchon stole a sidewise look at me,
and his face was full of surprise; and there was the like to be seen
in other faces there. Consider–they were old, and deeply cultured,
yet here was a village maid able to teach them something which
they had not known before. I heard one of them mutter:
“Verily it is a wonderful creature. She has laid her hand upon an
accepted truth that is as old as the world, and it has crumbled to
dust and rubbish under her touch. Now whence got she that
marvelous insight?”
The judges laid their heads together and began to talk now. It was
plain, from chance words which one caught now and then, that
Cauchon and Loyseleur were insisting upon the application of the
torture, and that most of the others were urgently objecting.
Finally Cauchon broke out with a good deal of asperity in his voice
and ordered Joan back to her dungeon. That was a happy surprise
for me. I was not expecting that the Bishop would yield.
When Manchon came home that night he said he had found out
why the torture was not applied.
There were two reasons. One was, a fear that Joan might die under
the torture, which would not suit the English at all; the other was,
that the torture would effect nothing if Joan was going to take back
everything she said under its pains; and as to putting her mark to a
confession, it was believed that not even the rack would ever make
her do that.
So all Rouen laughed again, and kept it up for three days, saying:
“The sow has littered six times, and made six messes of it.”
And the palace walls got a new decoration–a mitered hog
carryinga discarded rack home on its shoulder, and Loyseleur
weeping in its wake. Many rewards were offered for the capture of
these painters, but nobody applied. Even the English guard feigned
blindness and would not see the artists at work.
The Bishop’s anger was very high now. He could not reconcile
himself to the idea of giving up the torture. It was the pleasantest
idea he had invented yet, and he would not cast it by. So he called
in some of his satellites on the twelfth, and urged the torture again.
But it was a failure.
With some, Joan’s speech had wrought an effect; others feared she
might die under torture; others did not believe that any amount of
suffering could make her put her mark to a lying confession. There
were fourteen men present, including the Bishop. Eleven of them
voted dead against the torture, and stood their ground in spite of
Cauchon’s abuse. Two voted with the Bishop and insisted upon the
torture. These two were Loyseleur and the orator–the man whom
Joan had bidden to “read his book”–Thomas de Courcelles, the
renowned pleader and master of eloquence.
Age has taught me charity of speech; but it fails me when I think
of those three names–Cauchon, Courcelles, Loyseleur.
[1] Hog, pig.
[2] Cochonner, to litter, to farrow; also, “to make a mess of”!