and suffocations:
“There–now it is done. Oh, please get up, father.”
The old man, both touched and amused, gathered her to his breast
and said:
“Oh, you incomparable child! It’s a humble martyrdom, and not of
a sort presentable in a picture, but the right and true spirit is in it;
that I testify.”
Then he brushed the ashes out of her hair, and helped her scour her
face and neck and properly tidy herself up. He was in fine spirits
now, and ready for further argument, so he took his seat and drew
Joan to his side again, and said:
“Joan, you were used to make wreaths there at the Fairy Tree with
the other children; is it not so?”
That was the way he always started out when he was going to
corner me up and catch me in something–just that gentle,
indifferent way that fools a person so, and leads him into the trap,
he never noticing which way he is traveling until he is in and the
door shut on him. He enjoyed that. I knew he was going to drop
corn along in front of Joan now. Joan answered:
“Yes, father.”
“Did you hang them on the tree?”
“No, father.”
“Didn’t hang them there?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I–well, I didn’t wish to.”
“Didn’t wish to?”
“No, father.”
“What did you do with them?”
“I hung them in the church.”
“Why didn’t you want to hang them in the tree?”
“Because it was said that the fairies were of kin to the Fiend, and
that it was sinful to show them honor.”
“Did you believe it was wrong to honor them so?”
“Yes. I thought it must be wrong.”
“Then if it was wrong to honor them in that way, and if they were
of kin to the Fiend, they could be dangerous company for you and
the other children, couldn’t they?”
“I suppose so–yes, I think so.”
He studied a minute, and I judged he was going to spring his trap,
and he did. He said:
“Then the matter stands like this. They were banned creatures, of
fearful origin; they could be dangerous company for the children.
Now give me a rational reason, dear, if you can think of any, why
you call it a wrong to drive them into banishment, and why you
would have saved them from it. In a word, what loss have you
suffered by it?”
How stupid of him to go and throw his case away like that! I could
have boxed his ears for vexation if he had been a boy. He was
going along all right until he ruined everything by winding up in
that foolish and fatal way. What had she lost by it! Was he never
going to find out what kind of a child Joan of Arc was? Was he
never going to learn that things which merely concerned her own
gain or loss she cared nothing about? Could he never get the
simple fact into his head that the sure way and the only way to
rouse her up and set her on fire was to show her where some other
person was going to suffer wrong or hurt or loss? Why, he had
gone and set a trap for himself–that was all he had accomplished.
The minute those words were out of his mouth her temper was up,
the indignant tears rose in her eyes, and she burst out on him with
an energy and passion which astonished him, but didn’t astonish
me, for I knew he had fired a mine when he touched off his
ill-chosen climax.
“Oh, father, how can you talk like that? Who owns France?”
“God and the King.”
“Not Satan?”
“Satan, my child? This is the footstool of the Most High–Satan
owns no handful of its soil.”
“Then who gave those poor creatures their home? God. Who
protected them in it all those centuries? God. Who allowed them to
dance and play there all those centuries and found no fault with it?
God. Who disapproved of God’s approval and put a threat upon
them? A man. Who caught them again in harmless sports that God
allowed and a man forbade, and carried out that threat, and drove