to have it here than it would be to have it in the bottom of the
sea?”
Dunois made some wandering attempts to explain the inexplicable
and excuse the inexcusable, but Joan cut him short and said:
“Answer me this, good sir–has the army any value on this side of
the river?”
The Bastard confessed that it hadn’t–that is, in view of the plan of
campaign which she had devised and decreed.
“And yet, knowing this, you had the hardihood to disobey my
orders. Since the army’s place is on the other side, will you explain
to me how it is to get there?”
The whole size of the needless muddle was apparent. Evasions
were of no use; therefore Dunois admitted that there was no way to
correct the blunder but to send the army all the way back to Blois,
and let it begin over again and come up on the other side this time,
according to Joan’s original plan.
Any other girl, after winning such a triumph as this over a veteran
soldier of old renown, might have exulted a little and been
excusable for it, but Joan showed no disposition of this sort. She
dropped a word or two of grief over the precious time that must be
lost, then began at once to issue commands for the march back.
She sorrowed to see her army go; for she said its heart was great
and its enthusiasm high, and that with it at her back she did not
fear to face all the might of England.
All arrangements having been completed for the return of the main
body of the army, she took the Bastard and La Hire and a thousand
men and went down to Orleans, where all the town was in a fever
of impatience to have sight of her face. It was eight in the evening
when she and the troops rode in at the Burgundy gate, with the
Paladin preceding her with her standard. She was riding a white
horse, and she carried in her hand the sacred sword of Fierbois.
You should have seen Orleans then. What a picture it was! Such
black seas of people, such a starry firmament of torches, such
roaring whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells and
thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was come to an end.
Everywhere in the glare of the torches one saw rank upon rank of
upturned white faces, the mouths wide open, shouting, and the
unchecked tears running down; Joan forged her slow way through
the solid masses, her mailed form projecting above the pavement
of heads like a silver statue. The people about her struggled along,
gazing up at her through their tears with the rapt look of men and
women who believe they are seeing one who is divine; and always
her feet were being kissed by grateful folk, and such as failed of
that privilege touched her horse and then kissed their fingers.
Nothing that Joan did escaped notice; everything she did was
commented upon and applauded. You could hear the remarks
going all the time.
“There–she’s smiling–see!”
“Now she’s taking her little plumed cap off to somebody–ah, it’s
fine and graceful!”
“She’s patting that woman on the head with her gauntlet.”
“Oh, she was born on a horse–see her turn in her saddle, and kiss
the hilt of her sword to the ladies in the window that threw the
flowers down.”
“Now there’s a poor woman lifting up a child–she’s kissed it–oh,
she’s divine!”
“What a dainty little figure it is, and what a lovely face–and such
color and animation!”
Joan’s slender long banner streaming backward had an
accident–the fringe caught fire from a torch. She leaned forward
and crushed the flame in her hand.
“She’s not afraid of fire nor anything!” they shouted, and delivered
a storm of admiring applause that made everything quake.
She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to God, and the people
crammed the place and added their devotions to hers; then she
took up her march again and picked her slow way through the
crowds and the wilderness of torches to the house of Jacques
Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, where she was to be the