was not merely because of the extraordinary beauty of her face and
form, but because of the loveliness of her character. These names
she kept, and one other–the Brave.
We grew along up, in that plodding and peaceful region, and got to
be good-sized boys and girls–big enough, in fact, to begin to know
as much about the wars raging perpetually to the west and north of
us as our elders, and also to feel as stirred up over the occasional
news from these red fields as they did. I remember certain of these
days very clearly. One Tuesday a crowd of us were romping and
singing around the Fairy Tree, and hanging garlands on it in
memory of our lost little fairy friends, when Little Mengette cried
out:
“Look! What is that?”
When one exclaims like that in a way that shows astonishment and
apprehension, he gets attention. All the panting breasts and flushed
faces flocked together, and all the eager eyes were turned in one
direction–down the slope, toward the village.
“It’s a black flag.”
“A black flag! No–is it?”
“You can see for yourself that it is nothing else.”
“It is a black flag, sure! Now, has any ever seen the like of that
before?”
“What can it mean?”
“Mean? It means something dreadful–what else?”
“That is nothing to the point; anybody knows that without the
telling. But what?–that is the question.”
“It is a chance that he that bears it can answer as well as any that
are here, if you contain yourself till he comes.”
“He runs well. Who is it?”
Some named one, some another; but presently all saw that it was
ђtienne Roze, called the Sunflower, because he had yellow hair
and a round pock-marked face. His ancestors had been Germans
some centuries ago. He came straining up the slope, now and then
projecting his flag-stick aloft and giving his black symbol of woe a
wave in the air, whilst all eyes watched him, all tongues discussed
him, and every heart beat faster and faster with impatience to
know his news. At last he sprang among us, and struck his
flag-stick into the ground, saying:
“There! Stand there and represent France while I get my breath.
She needs no other flag now.”
All the giddy chatter stopped. It was as if one had announced a
death. In that chilly hush there was no sound audible but the
panting of the breath-blown boy. When he was presently able to
speak, he said:
“Black news is come. A treaty has been made at Troyes between
France and the English and Burgundians. By it France is betrayed
and delivered over, tied hand and foot, to the enemy. It is the work
of the Duke of Burgundy and that she-devil, the Queen of France.
It marries Henry of England to Catharine of France–”
“Is not this a lie? Marries the daughter of France to the Butcher of
Agincourt? It is not to be believed. You have not heard aright.”
“If you cannot believe that, Jacques d’Arc, then you have a difficult
task indeed before you, for worse is to come. Any child that is born
of that marriage–if even a girl–is to inherit the thrones of both
England and France, and this double ownership is to remain with
its posterity forever!”
“Now that is certainly a lie, for it runs counter to our Salic law, and
so is not legal and cannot have effect,” said Edmond Aubrey,
called the Paladin, because of the armies he was always going to
eat up some day. He would have said more, but he was drowned
out by the clamors of the others, who all burst into a fury over this
feature of the treaty, all talking at once and nobody hearing
anybody, until presently Haumette persuaded them to be still,
saying:
“It is not fair to break him up so in his tale; pray let him go on.
You find fault with his history because it seems to be lies. That
were reason for satisfaction–that kind of lies–not discontent. Tell
the rest, ђtienne.”
“There is but this to tell: Our King, Charles VI., is to reign until he
dies, then Henry V. of England is to be Regent of France until a