“Why, even the men did not try to fight, so many were the enemy. And if they
could do naught neither could you.”
“The men could not fight without weapons, Pierre,” spoke Jeanne quickly. “They
had none in the fields.”
“Myself, I shall be a man-at-arms,” went on Colin boastingly. “I shall wear armour, and ride a horse; and I shall go into France to help drive the Godons[4]
out of it.”
Jeanne looked at him with sparkling eyes.
“Yes,” she cried eagerly. “’Tis what should be done. Oh! I would like to go too.
Why do they not stay in their own country?”
“You?” Colin began to laugh. “You are a girl, Jeanne D’Arc, and girls go not to war. They can not fight.”
“I could.” A resolute light came into the little maid’s eyes, and her lips set in a firm line. “I know I could.” At this the others joined Colin in his laughter, and the boy cried gaily:
“I should like to see you. Oh, wouldn’t the Godons run when they saw you?”
Jeanne opened her lips to reply, but just then she heard the voice of her mother calling to her. So, shaking her finger at Colin, she rose obediently and went toward the cottage. Near the door stood her father gazing intently at a long rod that he held in his hand. So absorbed was he that he did not heed her approach.
The little girl touched him lightly on the arm.
“What is it, father?” she asked gently. “Are you grieving over the cattle and the goods?”
Her father looked up with a start.
“I grieve, yes, my little one. But ’tis not so much about present ills as a future burden which we must bear. I know not how it is to be met. This rod, as you know, is the taille stick, and in July comes the tax which I must collect from Domremy and Greux. I like not to think about it, so heavy will it seem after the misfortune that has come upon these two villages.”
There were many duties that fell to the village elder (doyen), especially in troubled times. It was for him to summon the mayor and the aldermen to the council meetings, to cry the decrees, to command the watch day and night, to guard the prisoners. It was for him also to collect taxes, rents, and feudal dues.
An ungrateful office at any time, but one that would be doubly so in a ruined country. Jeanne knew that it was her father’s duty to collect the taxes, but she had not known that it might be a distasteful task. Now she looked curiously at the stick.
“Why does it have the notches upon it, father?” she asked.
“’Tis to show the amount due, my little one. There are two tailles:[5] la taille seigneuriale, which is paid serfs to their lord; and la taille royale, which is paid to the King. We, being directly subject to the King, pay la taille royale. The gentle Dauphin has much need of money, Sire Robert de Baudricourt of
Vaucouleurs has told me. But the impost will be hard to meet after what has befallen us.” He sighed.
At this moment Jacques D’Arc was not a prepossessing sight. His clothes were
dusty and begrimed with soot; his face and hands were black; but through the soot and grime shone the light of compassion for the burden which the people would have to bear. Jeanne saw naught of the soiled clothing or the blackened face and hands; she saw only that her father was troubled beyond the loss of his goods and cattle. Quickly she threw her arms about his neck, and drew his face
down to hers.
“I would there were no tax, father,” she said wistfully.
“I would so too, my little one,” sighed he. “But there! wishing will not make it so. You have comforted me, Jeanne. But your mother is calling. Let us go to her.”
With her hand in his they went into the house, where Jacques deposited the stick in a corner. Isabeau met them, a pleased expression illuminating her
countenance.
“See,” she cried, holding up a great loaf of black bread. “’Twas in the back part of the oven where it was not seen. Take it to your playmates, Jeanne, and give to each of them a piece of it. Children bear fasting but ill, and it will be long ere we have bread from Neufchâteau!”
Jeanne took the loaf gladly and hastened to her playmates. She knew that they were hungry, for none of them had eaten since early morning. Her appearance with the bread was greeted with cries of joy. Bread was a commonplace the day
before; now it had become something precious. So little are blessings prized until they are gone.
The loaf was large, but even a large loaf divided into many pieces makes small
portions. These were eaten eagerly by the children, and the youngest began to cry for more. Jeanne had foreseen that this would be the case, so had not eaten her share.
Quietly now she divided it among the smallest tots, giving each a morsel.
Shamefacedly Pierre plucked her by the sleeve.
“You have had none,” he remonstrated. “And I––I have eaten all that you gave to me.”
“That is well, Pierrelot.” His sister smiled at him reassuringly. “I shall eat when
the bread comes from the market town. We must go to the castle now. Mother said that we were to go there after we had eaten. Every one is to sleep there to-night.”
“But there are no beds,” broke in Colin in an aggrieved tone.
