yet she showed no wear, no weariness, and but seldom let fly her
temper. As a rule she put her day through calm, alert, patient,
fencing with those veteran masters of scholarly sword-play and
coming out always without a scratch.
One day a Dominican sprung upon her a question which made
everybody cock up his ears with interest; as for me, I trembled, and
said to myself she is done this time, poor Joan, for there is no way
of answering this. The sly Dominican began in this way–in a sort
of indolent fashion, as if the thing he was about was a matter of no
moment:
“You assert that God has willed to deliver France from this English
bondage?”
“Yes, He has willed it.”
“You wish for men-at-arms, so that you may go to the relief of
Orleans, I believe?”
“Yes–and the sooner the better.”
“God is all-powerful, and able to do whatsoever thing He wills to
do, is it not so?”
“Most surely. None doubts it.”
The Dominican lifted his head suddenly, and sprung that question I
have spoken of, with exultation:
“Then answer me this. If He has willed to deliver France, and is
able to do whatsoever He wills, where is the need for
men-at-arms?”
There was a fine stir and commotion when he said that, and a
sudden thrusting forward of heads and putting up of hands to ears
to catch the answer; and the Dominican wagged his head with
satisfaction, and looked about him collecting his applause, for it
shone in every face. But Joan was not disturbed. There was no note
of disquiet in her voice when she answered:
“He helps who help themselves. The sons of France will fight the
battles, but He will give the victory!”
You could see a light of admiration sweep the house from face to
face like a ray from the sun. Even the Dominican himself looked
pleased, to see his master-stroke so neatly parried, and I heard a
venerable bishop mutter, in the phrasing common to priest and
people in that robust time, “By God, the child has said true. He
willed that Goliath should be slain, and He sent a child like this to
do it!”
Another day, when the inquisition had dragged along until
everybody looked drowsy and tired but Joan, Brother S‚guin,
professor of theology at the University of Poitiers, who was a sour
and sarcastic man, fell to plying Joan with all sorts of nagging
questions in his bastard Limousin French–for he was from
Limoges. Finally he said:
“How is it that you understand those angels? What language did
they speak?”
“French.”
“In-deed! How pleasant to know that our language is so honored!
Good French?”
“Yes–perfect.”
“Perfect, eh? Well, certainly you ought to know. It was even better
than your own, eh?”
“As to that, I–I believe I cannot say,” said she, and was going on,
but stopped. Then she added, almost as if she were saying it to
herself, “Still, it was an improvement on yours!”
I knew there was a chuckle back of her eyes, for all their
innocence. Everybody shouted. Brother S‚guin was nettled, and
asked brusquely:
“Do you believe in God?”
Joan answered with an irritating nonchalance:
“Oh, well, yes–better than you, it is likely.”
Brother S‚guin lost his patience, and heaped sarcasm after sarcasm
upon her, and finally burst out in angry earnest, exclaiming:
“Very well, I can tell you this, you whose believe in God is so
great: God has not willed that any shall believe in you without a
sign. Where is your sign?–show it!”
This roused Joan, and she was on her feet in a moment, and flung
out her retort with spirit:
“I have not come to Poitiers to show signs and do miracles. Send
me to Orleans and you shall have signs enough. Give me
men-at-arms–few or many–and let me go!”
The fire was leaping from her eyes–ah, the heroic little figure!
can’t you see her? There was a great burst of acclamations, and she
sat down blushing, for it was not in her delicate nature to like
being conspicuous.
This speech and that episode about the French language scored
two points against Brother S‚guin, while he scored nothing against