The animals were in the highroad, the ox carts were drawn up behind them laden
with the belongings of the villagers, the women and children stood ready, waiting for the word of departure to be given, to take up the line of march to Neufchâteau, when they were thrown into the greatest confusion by the advent of a man-at-arms who rode among them at speed, crying:
“March! March while there is time. Vaucouleurs is attacked, and Sire Antoine hath started a body of men this way.”
He was gone before the startled villagers had time to question him. For a time the greatest excitement prevailed, but something like order was restored at length, and with lingering, despairing looks at the homes they were abandoning
the village folk started toward Neufchâteau, their market town, lying five miles to the southward of Domremy. The day was excessively warm, and wearily the
village folk followed the road through fields of wheat and rye, up the vine clad hills to the town. There were many of them, and their chattels were numerous, but the citizens received them cordially and lodged them as best they could.
Jacques conducted his family at once to the inn kept by a worthy woman, La Rousse by name, whom he knew. The move from Domremy had been made
none too soon, for Antoine de Vergy’s men swept into the village but a few hours after the departure of its inhabitants, and both Domremy and Greux were laid waste.
To Jeanne the days that followed were tranquil and the happiest that she had known for a long time. As in Domremy she drove her father’s beasts to the fields, and kept his flocks. She also helped La Rousse about the household duties, greatly to the good dame’s satisfaction, and when she was not helping her hostess, or tending the cattle she passed all her time in church.
During the first few days of the stay in the market town Jeanne saw Colin
frequently, but greatly to her relief he forbore to press his attentions upon her.
Then she saw him no longer, and rejoiced thereat. Her thanksgiving was of short duration.
Dinner was over in the common room of the inn one day, and the guests––not numerous as it chanced––had broken up into groups; some lingering at the board
where they had eaten, others clustering at small tables scattered about the rush strewn room. The great chamber, with its dusky walls and blackened beams would have looked gloomy enough on a dark day, but the heat and bright sunshine of midsummer made it seem cool and restful.
In the nook formed by the outer angle of the huge projecting chimney, and so somewhat in the shadow, sat Jeanne waiting for the guests to leave the board that she might clear away the dinner. Her father and a man with whom he was conversing were the last ones to rise, and at once the girl came forward to begin her task. As she did so there came the sound of a dagger hilt beating upon the outside door at the further end of the room. Before Jeanne could reach it to open it the heavy door swung open quickly as though thrust inward by a strong hasty
hand, and there entered a man garbed in priest’s raiment. Reverent always in her attitude toward priests the maiden bowed low before him.
“Is it your pleasure to have dinner, messire?” she asked when she had risen from her obeisance.
“In due time, my child,” he replied. “But first, I would speak with a pucelle who is here. One Jeanne, daughter of Jacques D’Arc.”
“I am she,” spoke the maiden in astonishment. “What would you of me, messire?”
At this juncture Isabeau, accompanied by La Rousse, entered the room. The latter hastened forward to welcome the newcomer when she paused, arrested by
his words:
“I come from the Bishop of Toul, Judge of the Ecclesiastical Court having jurisdiction over Domremy and Greux. He cites thee, Jeanne, daughter of Jacques D’Arc, to appear before him to show cause why thou dost not fulfill thy plighted troth to Colin de Greux.”
Throughout the long chamber there was a stir and murmur at the words, for Jeanne had become liked and esteemed by the guests, who had heard something
of Colin’s wooing. La Rousse went to her in quick sympathy, for the girl stood
dumbfounded.
So this was what Colin had been about in his absence? And her parents? Were they too concerned in the matter? She turned and looked at them searchingly.
Isabeau could not meet her daughter’s eyes, but Jacques met her glance steadily.
Long father and daughter gazed into each other’s eyes; Jeanne, with sorrowful reproach; Jacques with grim determination. Then slowly the girl turned again to the priest.
“When does messire, the bishop, wish to see me?” she asked.
“The second day from now, pucelle. If upon that day cause is not shown why thy
pledge to Colin should not be kept the judge will deem that the troth stands, and that thy faith will be redeemed at once.”
Jeanne inclined her head deeply in acknowledgment, and started to leave the room. Isabeau ran to her.
“It is for thy good, little one. Now will you be ever near us. And Colin will make a kind husband.”
So spake Isabeau, but Jeanne made no reply. As she passed through the door she
heard her mother say:
“She is as good as married, Jacques. She is too shy, too gentle to protest against it. She will do whatever the bishop decides without question.”
“Be not too sure of that,” spoke La Rousse before Jacques could reply. “These gentle maids have a way of turning at times, and Jeanne doth not lack spirit.”
“She hath ever been obedient, and will be now,” said Jacques confidently. “Save for this wild fancy of going to the Dauphin she hath ever been most dutiful.”
“Sometimes the gentlest maid will turn if pressed too hard,” repeated La Rousse.
And this was exactly what was happening. Jeanne was filled with sorrow that her parents should uphold Colin in trying to force her into an unwelcome marriage.
