was not what they had been expecting.
“Oh, dear and gracious Dauphin, I have but one desire–only one.
If–”
“Do not be afraid, my child–name it.”
“That you will not delay a day. My army is strong and valiant, and
eager to finish its work–march with me to Rheims and receive
your crown.” You could see the indolent King shrink, in his
butterfly clothes.
“To Rheims–oh, impossible, my General! We march through the
heart of England’s power?”
Could those be French faces there? Not one of them lighted in
response to the girl’s brave proposition, but all promptly showed
satisfaction in the King’s objection. Leave this silken idleness for
the rude contact of war? None of these butterflies desired that.
They passed their jeweled comfit-boxes one to another and
whispered their content in the head butterfly’s practical prudence.
Joan pleaded with the King, saying:
“Ah, I pray you do not throw away this perfect opportunity.
Everything is favorable–everything. It is as if the circumstances
were specially made for it. The spirits of our army are exalted with
victory, those of the English forces depressed by defeat. Delay will
change this. Seeing us hesitate to follow up our advantage, our
men will wonder, doubt, lose confidence, and the English will
wonder, gather courage, and be bold again. Now is the
time–pritheee let us march!”
The King shook his head, and La Tremouille, being asked for an
opinion, eagerly furnished it:
“Sire, all prudence is against it. Think of the English strongholds
along the Loire; think of those that lie between us and Rheims!”
He was going on, but Joan cut him short, and said, turning to him:
“If we wait, they will all be strengthened, reinforced. Will that
advantage us?”
“Why–no.”
“Then what is your suggestion?–what is it that you would propose
to do?”
“My judgment is to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
The minister was obliged to hesitate, for he knew of no
explanation that would sound well. Moreover, he was not used to
being catechized in this fashion, with the eyes of a crowd of people
on him, so he was irritated, and said:
“Matters of state are not proper matters for public discussion.”
Joan said placidly:
“I have to beg your pardon. My trespass came of ignorance. I did
not know that matters connected with your department of the
government were matters of state.”
The minister lifted his brows in amused surprise, and said, with a
touch of sarcasm:
“I am the King’s chief minister, and yet you had the impression that
matters connected with my department are not matters of state?
Pray, how is that?”
Joan replied, indifferently:
“Because there is no state.”
“No state!”
“No, sir, there is no state, and no use for a minister. France is
shrunk to a couple of acres of ground; a sheriff’s constable could
take care of it; its affairs are not matters of state. The term is too
large.”
The King did not blush, but burst into a hearty, careless laugh, and
the court laughed too, but prudently turned its head and did it
silently. La Tremouille was angry, and opened his mouth to speak,
but the King put up his hand, and said:
“There–I take her under the royal protection. She has spoken the
truth, the ungilded truth–how seldom I hear it! With all this tinsel
on me and all this tinsel about me, I am but a sheriff after all–a
poor shabby two-acre sheriff–and you are but a constable,” and he
laughed his cordial laugh again. “Joan, my frank, honest General,
will you name your reward? I would ennoble you. You shall
quarter the crown and the lilies of France for blazon, and with
them your victorious sword to defend them–speak the word.”
It made an eager buzz of surprise and envy in the assemblage, but
Joan shook her head and said:
“Ah, I cannot, dear and noble Dauphin. To be allowed to work for
France, to spend one’s self for France, is itself so supreme a reward
that nothing can add to it–nothing. Give me the one reward I ask,
the dearest of all rewards, the highest in your gift–march with me
to Rheims and receive your crown. I will beg it on my knees.”