Without a word Jeanne turned from him, and flitted swiftly into the church. It was her sanctuary, for Isabeau would not allow her devotions to be interrupted.
Sulkily Colin re-entered the cottage.
Urged on by the girl’s parents, he was thereafter a frequent visitor, but his wooing did not speed. Somehow all his pretty speeches, all his self-assurance shriveled into nothingness when he was face to face with Jeanne. And serenely
the maiden went her way, ignoring alike her father’s mandates, and her mother’s entreaties to marry the lad.
So sped the days.
CHAPTER XII
A WORSTED SUITOR
“Whatsoever thing confronted her, whatsoever problem
encountered her, whatsoever manners became her in
novel situations, she understood in a moment. She solved
the problem, she assumed the manners, she spoke and
acted as the need of the moment required. ”
ANDREW LANG, “The Maid of France. ”
So the days sped. Presently rumours of another and more startling nature ran through the valley. Interest in Jeanne D’Arc, her mission, and Colin’s wooing paled before the news. It was noised that Antoine de Vergy, Governor of Champagne, had received a commission from the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France for Henry VI, to furnish forth men-at-arms for the purpose of bringing the castellany of Vaucouleurs into subjection to the English. The greatest alarm prevailed when the report was confirmed, that the Governor had in truth set forth. On the march, as was his custom, Antoine de Vergy laid waste all the villages of the loyal little wedge of territory with fire and sword. Domremy with its adjoining village of Greux lay in the southern part of the castellany, betw1e 2 e
0 n
Bar and Champagne, and was therefore directly in the line of attack. Threatened again with a disaster with which they were only too well acquainted the folk of the two villages met in solemn conclave to determine what was to be done.
Men, women and children were in the assembly that had gathered before the little church to discuss the situation; their pale faces showing plainly that they realized to the full the calamity that menaced them. Life, liberty and property were all at stake, for everything would be swept away by the ravaging Antoine.
The very imminence of the danger rendered them calm, but it was the calmness
of despair. Resistance to the force that was with Antoine was out of the question, so what could they do?
“And why not retire to the Castle of the Island, my children?” queried Messire Guillaume Frontey, Curé of Domremy. “Surely, it hath proved a good refuge in
other times of need. Is it not a secure stronghold?”
“We fear not, father,” responded a peasant. “Sire Antoine boasts that we can not hold it against him, as he knows of a secret passage whereby he can obtain entrance when he so chooses. We have made search for the passageway, but we
cannot find it; though it is known to exist, for there be some in the village who have heard of it. Against others we can hold the castle; against him we fear to try.”
“Then may Our Lady preserve ye, my children,” exclaimed the priest solemnly.
“What can be done?”
“This,” cried Jacques D’Arc, suddenly elbowing his way through the people until he stood by the Curé’s side in full view of every one. “This, father, and friends: let us, as we fear to try the castle, gather our furniture in carts; then, driving our cattle and sheep before us, go to Neufchâteau which, being a town of Lorraine, will not be attacked. As you know, though it be a Burgundian belonging, its sympathies are with the Armagnacs.”
“That’s it, Jacques!” “Well said!” came from the villagers in a chorus of approval. “When shall we go?”
“Better to-day than to-morrow, friends,” shouted Jacques. “Better now than later.
We know not when they will be upon us.”
There were cries of, “Right, Jacques!” followed by a hasty dispersal of the people to gather up their goods and cattle. A scene of disorder and confusion ensued as men and boys ran to the fields for the flocks and herds, which were quickly driven into the highroad, and women and girls stripped their linen chests and cupboards, and hurriedly piled their furnishings into ox carts.
Isabeau was weeping as she worked, for she might find the cottage burned and
the village devastated upon her return. She had always known war. Her mother
and her mother’s mother had known it. For ninety-one years it had raged, and the end was not yet. France was a wreck, a ruin, a desolation. Throughout the land
there was nothing but pillage, robbery, murder, cruel tyranny, the burning of churches and abbeys, and the perpetration of horrible crimes. Seeing her grief Jeanne went to her mother, and put her arms about her.
“Be not so sorrowful, mother,” she said. “Before many years are sped the war will have come to an end. And this is the last time that you will have to flee from
the cottage.”
Isabeau brushed away her tears and looked at her daughter steadily. “Why do you speak so, Jeanne?” she asked. “It is as though you knew.”
“Yes, mother; I know. It will be as I say. And now let’s get the rest of the furniture in the cart. Father grows impatient.”
Curiously enough, Isabeau was comforted. She dried her eyes and gave way to
grief no more. Jacques came in and seeing Jeanne so helpful, bringing order out of the chaos about her, spoke gently to her in quite his old tender manner. So that Jeanne’s heart was lighter than it had been since her return from Bury le Petit.
