that; and whatever Jeanne thinks is the will of God that she will do.”
“She deludes herself,” spoke the father shortly, detecting the hint of faith underlying Lassois’ tone. “Think you that the Governor would listen to her if she were to go to him again?”
Lassois reflected.
“No,” he said presently. “I think he will not pay any attention to her.”
Jacques brightened. “That is well,” he nodded. “She shall not go if I can prevent it. She shall be guarded well. I shall see to it.”
Thereafter a strict watch was kept upon Jeanne’s every movement. One of her brothers, or Jacques D’Arc himself, was always with her. Instead of the tenderness that her father had always shown toward her there was now harshness
and severity. Her mother too, though far from being cruel, was querulous and often spoke sharply to her. Isabeau knew her child’s pure heart too well to believe that the girl was actuated by any but the highest motives. She did think, however, that the child’s wits wandered, though the maiden performed her customary duties with care and exactness, and was worried and distressed in consequence.
In the village Jeanne found herself avoided. With the exception of Mengette and Hauviette her friends shunned her. The little hamlet was in a ferment of tattle.
Whenever she appeared in any of the narrow streets heads were bent together and fingers pointed mockingly. Often the whispers reached her.
“There goes she who is to save France.”
“Jeanne D’Arc says she is to lead the Dauphin to his anointing.”
It was a trying time. Jeanne often shed tears over the jeers and taunts, but she wept in secret. Outwardly serene she submitted meekly to the espionage of her
own people, and to the gibes of her neighbors. Had it not been for the consolation received from “Her Voices,” life would have been unendurable.
“Be patient, Daughter of God,” they said. “It will not be long. All will be well.
Thy time will come soon.”
“Your father grieves over you, Jeanne,” spoke Isabeau one day after Jacques, stung beyond endurance by some remark he had heard against his daughter, was
taking her severely to task. “He is cut to the heart that you should have gone to Vaucouleurs, and by your talk of the Dauphin. You must not be angry with him.”
“I am not, mother,” said the maiden sadly. “I know that he does not understand.
Nor do you; but you will––in time.” She loved her parents dearly, and excused
their rigorousness because she knew that they did not believe in her inspiration.
Often had she tried to explain matters, but they would not listen.
“We understand only too well, little one,” responded Isabeau. “Jacques fears that you are bent upon seeking Sire Robert again. I have told him that you will not.”
She gave Jeanne a questioning glance as she finished speaking.
“I must, mother. It is commanded.”
“Jeanne, give o’er such talk,” exclaimed her mother sharply. “Where did you get
such notions? The neighbors say that you got your affliction at l’Arbre-des-Fées.
That you have been seen there alone, bewreathing the tree with garlands, and that while so doing you met a wicked fairy who was your fate. Is it true?”
“If there be fairies, mother, I have never seen them, and not in years have I carried wreaths to l’Arbre-des-Fées. I used to go there on Laetare Sunday with the boys and girls, but I go no longer. As to flowers, mother; I carry them only to the altar of Our Lady of Belmont, or offer them here to the Saints.”
“There is naught but good in that, so what makes the people talk so?” ejaculated the mother fretfully. “If you would but give up your talk of helping the Dauphin this tittle-tattle might be stopped. As it is, Jacques is distressed that you are so obdurate. He spoke to the Curé about exorcising you for the evil spirit.”
“Mother, did my father do that?” exclaimed the girl, the tears springing to her eyes.
“Oh, it is not to be.” The good dame herself had not approved this measure. She was in truth almost as much exercised over her husband as she was over her daughter. “Messire Guillaume Frontey would not hear of it, saying, that whatever might be the state of your wits your soul was as pure as a lily, because he confessed you almost daily. I advised Jacques––” Isabeau paused and subjected her daughter to a keen scrutiny, scarcely knowing how to proceed. She was in truth puzzled and a little awed by Jeanne’s new attitude and demeanor.
Presently she continued abruptly:
“I was married when I was your age, Jeanne.”
“Were you, mother?” A slight smile stirred the corners of the girl’s mouth. She saw what was coming.
“Yes; and Mengette hath been betrothed since Eastertide. She is to be married after the harvest.”
“She told me, mother.”
“And of all of the girls of your age you and Hauviette alone remain unplighted.
Hauviette hath the excuse of being a little young, but you––you are sixteen, and quite old enough for a home and a husband, Jeanne.”
“Mother!” There was such appeal in the maiden’s voice that Isabeau, deeming it
caused by the suddenness of the announcement, turned quickly with outstretched
