proper official form. Shall I word it for you?”
“Oh, do–for you know about these solemn procedures and stately
proprieties, and I have had no experience.”
“Then word it like this: ‘The chief of staff is commanded to make
known to the King’s forces in garrison and in the field, that the
General-in-Chief of the Armies of France will not face the English
on the morrow, she being afraid she may get hurt. Signed, JOAN
OF ARC, by the hand of CATHERINE BOUCHER, who loves
France.'”
There was a pause–a silence of the sort that tortures one into
stealing a glance to see how the situation looks, and I did that.
There was a loving smile on Joan’s face, but the color was
mounting in crimson waves into Catherine’s, and her lips were
quivering and the tears gathering; then she said:
“Oh, I am so ashamed of myself!–and you are so noble and brave
and wise, and I am so paltry–so paltry and such a fool!” and she
broke down and began to cry, and I did so want to take her in my
arms and comfort her, but Joan did it, and of course I said nothing.
Joan did it well, and most sweetly and tenderly, but I could have
done it as well, though I knew it would be foolish and out of place
to suggest such a thing, and might make an awkwardness, too, and
be embarrassing to us all, so I did not offer, and I hope I did right
and for the best, though I could not know, and was many times
tortured with doubts afterward as having perhaps let a chance pass
which might have changed all my life and made it happier and
more beautiful than, alas, it turned out to be. For this reason I
grieve yet, when I think of that scene, and do not like to call it up
out of the deeps of my memory because of the pangs it brings.
Well, well, a good and wholesome thing is a little harmless fun in
this world; it tones a body up and keeps him human and prevents
him from souring. To set that little trap for Catherine was as good
and effective a way as any to show her what a grotesque thing she
was asking of Joan. It was a funny idea now, wasn’t it, when you
look at it all around? Even Catherine dried up her tears and
laughed when she thought of the English getting hold of the French
Commander-in-Chief’s reason for staying out of a battle. She
granted that they could have a good time over a thing like that.
We got to work on the letter again, and of course did not have to
strike out the passage about the wound. Joan was in fine spirits;
but when she got to sending messages to this, that, and the other
playmate and friend, it brought our village and the Fairy Tree and
the flowery plain and the browsing sheep and all the peaceful
beauty of our old humble home-place back, and the familiar names
began to tremble on her lips; and when she got to Haumette and
Little Mengette it was no use, her voice broke and she couldn’t go
on. She waited a moment, then said:
“Give them my love–my warm love–my deep love–oh, out of my
heart of hearts! I shall never see our home any more.”
Now came Pasquerel, Joan’s confessor, and introduced a gallant
knight, the Sire de Rais, who had been sent with a message. He
said he was instructed to say that the council had decided that
enough had been done for the present; that it would be safest and
best to be content with what God had already done; that the city
was now well victualed and able to stand a long siege; that the
wise course must necessarily be to withdraw the troops from the
other side of the river and resume the defensive–therfore they had
decided accordingly.
“The incurable cowards!” exclaimed Joan. “So it was to get me
away from my men that they pretended so much solicitude about
my fatigue. Take this message back, not to the council–I have no