“There, now, be tranquil, there is no other wound, as yet; I am
writing about one which I shall get when we storm that bastille
tomorrow.”
Catherine had the look of one who is trying to understand a
puzzling proposition but cannot quite do it. She said, in a
distraught fashion:
“A wound which you are going to get? But–but why grieve your
mother when it–when it may not happen?”
“May not? Why, it will.”
The puzzle was a puzzle still. Catherine said in that same
abstracted way as before:
“Will. It is a strong word. I cannot seem to–my mind is not able to
take hold of this. Oh, Joan, such a presentiment is a dreadful
thing–it takes one’s peace and courage all away. Cast it from
you!–drive it out! It will make your whole night miserable, and to
no good; for we will hope–”
“But it isn’t a presentiment–it is a fact. And it will not make me
miserable. It is uncertainties that do that, but this is not an
uncertainty.”
“Joan, do you know it is going to happen?”
“Yes, I know it. My Voices told me.”
“Ah,” said Catherine, resignedly, “if they told you– But are you
sure it was they?–quite sure?”
“Yes, quite. It will happen–there is no doubt.”
“It is dreadful! Since when have you know it?”
“Since–I think it is several weeks.” Joan turned to me. “Louis, you
will remember. How long is it?”
“Your Excellency spoke of it first to the King, in Chinon,” I
answered; “that was as much as seven weeks ago. You spoke of it
again the 20th of April, and also the 22d, two weeks ago, as I see
by my record here.”
These marvels disturbed Catherine profoundly, but I had long
ceased to be surprised at them. One can get used to anything in this
world. Catherine said:
“And it is to happen to-morrow?–always to-morrow? Is it the same
date always? There has been no mistake, and no confusion?”
“No,” Joan said, “the 7th of May is the date–there is no other.”
“Then you shall not go a step out of this house till that awful day is
gone by! You will not dream of it, Joan, will you?–promise that
you will stay with us.”
But Joan was not persuaded. She said:
“It would not help the matter, dear good friend. The wound is to
come, and come to-morrow. If I do not seek it, it will seek me. My
duty calls me to that place to-morrow; I should have to go if my
death were waiting for me there; shall I stay away for only a
wound? Oh, no, we must try to do better than that.”
“Then you are determined to go?”
“Of a certainty, yes. There is only one thing that I can do for
France–hearten her soldiers for battle and victory.” She thought a
moment, then added, “However, one should not be unreasonable,
and I would do much to please you, who are so good to me. Do
you love France?”
I wondered what she might be contriving now, but I saw no clue.
Catherine said, reproachfully:
“Ah, what have I done to deserve this question?”
“Then you do love France. I had not doubted it, dear. Do not be
hurt, but answer me–have you ever told a lie?”
“In my life I have not wilfully told a lie–fibs, but no lies.”
“That is sufficient. You love France and do not tell lies; therefore I
will trust you. I will go or I will stay, as you shall decide.”
“Oh, I thank you from my heart, Joan! How good and dear it is of
you to do this for me! Oh, you shall stay, and not go!”
In her delight she flung her arms about Joan’s neck and squandered
endearments upon her the least of which would have made me
rich, but, as it was, they only made me realize how poor I
was–how miserably poor in what I would most have prized in this
world. Joan said:
“Then you will send word to my headquarters that I am not going?”
“Oh, gladly. Leave that to me.”
“It is good of you. And how will you word it?–for it must have