Cauchon which was full of fervid praise. The University
complimented him on his zeal in hunting down this woman
“whose venom had infected the faithful of the whole West,” and as
recompense it as good as promised him “a crown of imperishable
glory in heaven.” Only that!–a crown in heaven; a promissory note
and no indorser; always something away off yonder; not a word
about the Archbishopric of Rouen, which was the thing Cauchon
was destroying his soul for. A crown in heaven; it must have
sounded like a sarcasm to him, after all his hard work. What
should he do in heaven? he did not know anybody there.
On the nineteenth of May a court of fifty judges sat in the
archiepiscopal palace to discuss Joan’s fate. A few wanted her
delivered over to the secular arm at once for punishment, but the
rest insisted that she be once more “charitably admonished” first.
So the same court met in the castle on the twenty-third, and Joan
was brought to the bar. Pierre Maurice, a canon of Rouen, made a
speech to Joan in which he admonished her to save her life and her
soul by renouncing her errors and surrendering to the Church. He
finished with a stern threat: if she remained obstinate the
damnation of her soul was certain, the destruction of her body
probable. But Joan was immovable. She said:
“If I were under sentence, and saw the fire before me, and the
executioner ready to light it–more, if I were in the fire itself, I
would say none but the things which I have said in these trials; and
I would abide by them till I died.”
A deep silence followed now, which endured some moments. It lay
upon me like a weight. I knew it for an omen. Then Cauchon,
grave and solemn, turned to Pierre Maurice:
“Have you anything further to say?”
The priest bowed low, and said:
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Prisoner at the bar, have you anything further to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Then the debate is closed. To-morrow, sentence will be
pronounced. Remove the prisoner.”
She seemed to go from the place erect and noble. But I do not
know; my sight was dim with tears.
To-morrow–twenty-fourth of May! Exactly a year since I saw her
go speeding across the plain at the head of her troops, her silver
helmet shining, her silvery cape fluttering in the wind, her white
plumes flowing, her sword held aloft; saw her charge the
Burgundian camp three times, and carry it; saw her wheel to the
right and spur for the duke’s reserves; saws her fling herself against
it in the last assault she was ever to make. And now that fatal day
was come again–and see what it was bringing!
Chapter 19 Our Last Hopes of Rescue Fail
JOAN HAD been adjudged guilty of heresy, sorcery, and all the
other terrible crimes set forth in the Twelve Articles, and her life
was in Cauchon’s hands at last. He could send her to the stake at
once. His work was finished now, you think? He was satisfied?
Not at all. What would his Archbishopric be worth if the people
should get the idea into their heads that this faction of interested
priests, slaving under the English lash, had wrongly condemned
and burned Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France? That would be to
make of her a holy martyr. Then her spirit would rise from her
body’s ashes, a thousandfold reinforced, and sweep the English
domination into the sea, and Cauchon along with it. No, the
victory was not complete yet. Joan’s guilt must be established by
evidence which would satisfy the people. Where was that evidence
to be found? There was only one person in the world who could
furnish it–Joan of Arc herself. She must condemn herself, and in
public–at least she must seem to do it.
But how was this to be managed? Weeks had been spent already in
trying to get her to surrender–time wholly wasted; what was to
persuade her now? Torture had been threatened, the fire had been
threatened; what was left? Illness, deadly fatigue, and the sight of
the fire, the presence of the fire! That was left.