Jeanne listened anxiously for her father’s answer. She did not believe that he would give consent. Indeed Jacques was silent a long time before he made reply, but at length he said slowly:
“I see no harm in her going, Lassois. It hath been dreary here this winter, and the work heavy. She may go and stay with you three weeks, since Aveline is ailing.
That is, if her mother is willing.”
“Why, yes,” spoke Isabeau quickly. “With a young baby Aveline needs some one
with her to look after things. And it will give Jeanne a chance to hear the news. I doubt not but that Aveline will have much to tell her that will be of interest.”
Jeanne was amazed at the readiness with which the consent was given. She had not thought they would let her go, and it caused her wonder. But certainly they could not suppose that she would seek Robert de Baudricourt a second time, or
perhaps Jacques relied upon Sire Robert’s good sense to send her home if she should seek him. So it was arranged that the maiden should return with Lassois
to Bury le Petit the next day.
There was little sleep for the young girl that night. She knew that it was the last time that she would ever be in her own home, for she was resolved to go to Vaucouleurs as soon as Aveline was better. In this she would deliberately disobey her parents, but there was no other way.
“I would rather be torn apart by wild horses than go against their wishes,” she said to herself with tears. “But God commands it, and I must go.”
Her destiny called, and she followed the summons. All earthly ties must be subservient to her great purpose. Suffering France must be relieved, and it was her mission to give the aid.
Her time had come.
Therefore her good-byes to her parents, brothers, and little sister were very tender. She dared not speak of her mission, and if her loved ones noticed the tenderness of farewells that so short an absence did not seem to warrant they knew not the reason for them. So Jeanne passed from her father’s house, and climbed into the cart.
Mengette, whose home was near by, was at the window as Lassois’ cart passed.
Jeanne waved to her, crying:
“Good-by, Mengette. God bless thee.”
All through the village she saw faces of friends and neighbors at the windows, or on their doorsteps, and bade them farewell. But as she drew near the home of Hauviette, and Lassois stopped for her to call to her friend, Jeanne shook her head.
“I can not speak to her, uncle,” she said chokingly. “I dare not. My heart would fail me, for I love her too dearly to say good-by.”
At Greux as they passed through she saw Colin in one of the narrow streets.
Jeanne leaned out of the cart to call to him.
“Good-by, Colin,” she said. “God give you good fortune.”
“Where are you going?” spoke the youth shamefacedly. He had avoided Jeanne since the meeting at Toul.
“I go to Vaucouleurs,” she dared to say. “Good-by.”
“To Vaucouleurs?” repeated Lassois, turning to look at her as they left Colin behind. “But Aveline, Jeanne?”
“Did you think that I would leave her while she has need of me, Uncle Durand?”
asked the maiden reproachfully.
“No, Jeanne; I knew that you would not. ’Twas a second only that I doubted.”
Durand swung his goad over the oxen’s backs as he spoke, and the beasts swung
into a trot.
But Jeanne turned for a last look at the valley she was leaving forever. Long she gazed at the red roofs of the village; at the ice bound river with its rushes rimed with frost; at the forest, bare and leafless; at the snow covered hills, and white shrouded meadows; at all the familiar objects hallowed by association. Gazed until her tear-blinded eyes would permit her to look no more.
And so down the Valley of Colors for the last time passed Jeanne D’Arc.
CHAPTER XIV
VICTORY OVER DOUBTING HEARTS
“Yet the true Poetry––herself, like thee,
Childlike; herself, like thee, a shepherd maid––
Gives thee her birthright of Divinity,
And lifts unto the stars thy starry shade.
