Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, vol 2 by Mark Twain (digital e reader txt) 📕

be smitten with remorse; and that he would privately plan a rescue with Joan’s old lieutenants, D’Alen�on and the Bastard and La Hire, and that this rescue woud take place at the end of the three months. So we made up our minds to be ready and take a hand in it.

In the present and also in later sittings Joan was urged to name the exact day of her deliverance; but she could not do that. She had not the permission of her Voices. Moreover, the Voices themselves did not name the precise day. Ever since the fulfilment of the prophecy, I have believed that Joan had the idea that her deliverance was going to dome in the form of death. But not that death! Divine as she was, dauntless as she was in battle, she was human also. She was not solely a saint, an angel, she was a clay-made girl also—as human a girl as any in the world, and full of a human girl’s sensitiveness and tenderness and elicacies. And so, that death! No, she could not have lived the three months with that one before her, I think. You remember that the first time she was wounded she was frightened, and cried, just as any other girl of seventeen would have done, although she had known for eighteen days that she was going to be wounded on that very day. No, she was not afraid of any ordinary death, and an ordinary death was what she believed the prophecy of deliverance meant, I think, for her face showed happiness, not horror, when she uttered it.

Now I will explain why I think as I do. Five weeks before she was captured in the battle of Compi�gne, her Voices told her what was coming. They did not tell her the day or the place, but said she would be taken prisoner and that it would be before the feast of St. John. She begged that death, certain and swift, should be her fate, and the captivity brief; for she was a free spirit, and dreaded the confinement. The Voices made no promise, but only told her to bear whatever came. Now as they did not refuse the swift death, a hopeful young thing like Joan would naturally cherish that fact and make the most of it, allowing it to grow and establish itself in her mind. And so now that she was told she was to be “delivered” in three onths, I think she believed it meant that she would die in her bed in the prison, and that that was why she looked happy and content—the gates of Paradise standing open for her, the time so short, you see, her troubles so soon to be over, her reward so close at hand. Yes, that would make her look happy, that would make her patient and bold, and able to fight her fight out like a soldier. Save herself if she could, of course, and try for the best, for that was the way she was made; but die with her face to the front if die she must.

Then later, when she charged Cauchon with trying to kill her with a poisoned fish, her notion that she was to be “delivered” by death in the prison—if she had it, and I believe she had—would naturally be greatly strengthened, you see.

But I am wandering from the trial. Joan was asked to definitelyk name the time that she would be delivered from prison.

“I have always said that I was not permitted to tell you everything. I am to be set free, and I desire to ask leave of my Voices to tell you the day. That is why I wish for delay.”

“Do your Voices forbid you to tell the truth?”

“Is it that you wish to know matters concerning the King of France? I tell you again that he will regain his kingdom, and that I know it as well as I know that you sit here before me in this tribunal.” She sighed and, after a little pause, added: “I should be dead but for this revelation, which comforts me always.”

Some trivial questions were asked her about St. Michael’s dress and appearance. She answered them with dignity, but one saw that they gave her pain. After a little she said:

“I have great joy in seeing him, for when I see him I have the feeling that I am not in mortal sin.”

She added, “Sometimes St. Marguerite and St. Catherine have allowed me to confess myself to them.”

Here was a possible chance to set a successful snare for her innocence.

“When you confessed were you in mortal sin, do you think?”

But her reply did her no hurt. So the inquiry was shifted once more to the revelations made to the King—secrets which the court had tried again and again to force out of Joan, but without success.

“Now as to the sign given to the King—”

“I have already told you that I will tell you nothing about it.”

“Do you know what the sign was?”

“As to that, you will not find out from me.”

All this refers to Joan’s secret interview with the King—held apart, though two or three others were present. It was known—through Loyseleur, of course—that this sign was a crown and was a pledge of the verity of Joan’s mission. But that is all a mystery until this day—the nature of the crown, I mean—and will remain a mystery to the end of time. We can never know whether a real crown descended upon the King’s head, or only a symbol, the mystic fabric of a vision.

“Did you see a crown upon the King’s head when he received the revelation?”

“I cannot tell you as to that, without perjury.”

“Did the King have that crown at Rheims?”

“I think the King put upon his head a crown which he found there; but a much richer one was brought him afterward.”

“Have you seen that one?”

“I cannot tell you, without perjury. But whether I have seen it or not, I have heard say that it was rich and magnificent.”

They went on and pestered her to weariness about that mysterious crown, but they got nothing more out of her. The sitting closed. A long, hard day for all of us.

Chapter 10 The Inquisitors at Their Wits’ End

THE COURT rested a day, then took up work again on Saturday, the third of March.

This was one of our stormiest sessions. The whole court was out of patience; and with good reason. These threescore distinguished churchmen, illustrious tacticians, veteran legal gladiators, had left important posts where their supervision was needed, to journey hither from various regions and accomplish a most simple and easy matter—condemn and send to death a country-lass of nineteen who could neither read nor write, knew nothing of the wiles and perplexities of legal procedure, could not call a single witness in her defense, was allowed no advocate or adviser, and must conduct her case by herself against a hostile judge and a packed jury. In two hours she would be hopelessly entangled, routed, defeated, convicted. Nothing could be more certain that this—so they thought. But it was a mistake. The two hours had strung out into days; what promised to be a skirmish had expanded into a siege; the thing which had looked so easy had proven to be surprisingly difficult; the light victim who was to have been puffed away like a feather remained planted like a rock; and on top of all this, if anybody had a right to laugh it was the country-lass and not the court.

She was not doing that, for that was not her spirit; but others were doing it. The whole town was laughing in its sleeve, and the court knew it, and its dignity was deeply hurt. The members could not hide their annoyance.

And so, as I have said, the session was stormy. It was easy to see that these men had made up their minds to force words from Joan to-day which should shorten up her case and bring it to a prompt conclusion. It shows that after all their experience with her they did not know her yet.

They went into the battle with energy. They did not leave the questioning to a particular member; no, everybody helped. They volleyed questions at Joan from all over the house, and sometimes so many were talking at once that she had to ask them to deliver their fire one at a time and not by platoons. The beginning was as usual:

“You are once more required to take the oath pure and simple.”

“I will answer to what is in the proc�s verbal. When I do more, I will choose the occasion for myself.”

That old ground was debated and fought over inch by inch with great bitterness and many threats. But Joan remained steadfast, and the questionings had to shift to other matters. Half an hour was spent over Joan’s apparitions—their dress, hair, general appearance, and so on—in the hope of fishing something of a damaging sort out of the replies; but with no result.

Next, the male attire was reverted to, of course. After many well-worn questions had been re-asked, one or two new ones were put forward.

“Did not the King or the Queen sometimes ask you to quit the male dress?”

“That is not in your proc�s.”

“Do you think you would have sinned if you had taken the dress of your sex?”

“I have done best to serve and obey my sovereign Lord and Master.”

After a while the matter of Joan’s Standard was taken up, in the hope of connecting magic and witchcraft with it.

“Did not your men copy your banner in their pennons?”

“The lancers of my guard did it. It was to distinguish them from the rest of the forces. It was their own idea.”

“Were they often renewed?”

“Yes. When the lances were broken they were renewed.”

The purpose of the question unveils itself in the next one.

“Did you not say to your men that pennons made like your banner would be lucky?”

The soldier-spirit in Joan was offended at this puerility. She drew herself up, and said with dignity and fire: “What I said to them was, ‘Ride those English down!’ and I did it myself.”

Whenever she flung out a scornful speech like that at these French menials in English livery it lashed them into a rage; and that is what happened this time. There were ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty of them on their feet at a time, storming at the prisoner minute after minute, but Joan was not disturbed.

By and by there was peace, and the inquiry was resumed.

It was now sought to turn against Joan the thousand loving honors which had been done her when she was raising France out of the dirt and shame of a century of slavery and castigation.

“Did you not cause paintings and images of yourself to be made?”

“No. At Arras I saw a painting of myself kneeling in armor before the King and delivering him a letter; but I caused no such things to be made.”

“Were not masses and prayers said in your honor?”

“If it was done it was not by my command. But if any prayed for me I think it was no harm.”

“Did the French people believe you were sent of God?”

“As to that, I know not; but whether they believed it or not, I was not the less sent of God.”

“If they thought you were sent of God, do you think it was well thought?”

“If they believed it, their trust was not abused.”

“What impulse was it, think you, that moved the people to kiss your hands, your feet, and your vestments?”

“They were glad to