Some time later when the Regent wished to make the same march with young Henry of England to crown him at Reims the Duke of Burgundy advised against

the attempt, stating that it was too difficult and perilous to imitate.

On the morning of Saturday, July sixteenth, the Archbishop, Regnault de Chartres, who had been kept out of his city by the Burgundians, entered it to

make preparations to receive his royal master. In the afternoon the King, with Jeanne riding by his side, his Councillors, the princes and nobles, the captains, and a great train of soldiers, and citizens of neighboring places entered in state.

The streets were thronged with people who cheered lustily at sight of the monarch, crying “Noël! Noël! ”[14] but who struggled and shouldered each other in the natural curiosity to catch glimpses of the wonderful Maid with her shining armour and fair sweet face.

The King, the Maid, and the heads of the expedition were to be lodged in the palace of the Archbishop, which was near the great cathedral, but as the procession made its way thither Jeanne uttered a cry of joy; for, gazing at her half fearfully from the crowd were her father, Jacques D’Arc, and her uncle, Durand Lassois. The King turned to her.

“What is it, ma mie?” he asked.

“My father, my dear father, is standing there among the people,” she cried, waving her hand at the two rustics. “And with him stands my uncle, Durand Lassois: he who took me to Vaucouleurs, you remember?”

“I remember, Jeanne. We must see and speak with them both,” said the monarch

graciously. “Bring them to us later.”

With another wave of her hand at the two the maiden passed on. In the evening

Charles was led to a platform which had been erected before the cathedral, and

there, amid the red glare of bonfires, flaming torches, the ringing of bells and the acclaiming shouts of the assembled people he was shown to the multitude by the

peers of France, with the traditional proclamation:[15]

“Here is your King whom we, peers of France, crown as King and Sovereign Lord. And if there is a soul here who has any objection to make, let him speak

and we will answer him. And to-morrow he shall be consecrated by the grace of

the Holy Spirit if you have nothing to say against it.”

But the people shouted, “Noël! Noël! Noël!” in a frenzy of delight, and so this preliminary ceremony was concluded. There was feasting in the palace of the Archbishop that night. But Jeanne slipped away from it all and made her way quickly to the little inn called The Zebra, in front of the cathedral, which was kept by Alice Moreau, a widow, where she would find her father and uncle. To

her delight her brothers had come hither also, and when Jeanne entered Jacques

was standing with an arm around each, his usually undemonstrative face beaming with gladness, for they had been telling him of Jeanne and her exploits.

He started toward her as she came through the door, then stopped suddenly and

stood gazing at her with doubt and hesitation, but Jeanne flung herself upon him with the abandonment of a child.

“Father!” she cried. “Dear, dear father! I did not hope for this. Oh! how glad I am to see you.”

Jacques could not utter a word for a moment, but held her close, close as though he would never let her go. When at last he spoke it was with choked and trembling accents.

“And do you forgive me, my little one? All the harshness and severity that I showed you? My child, I did not know, I did not understand––”

Jeanne smiled at him through her tears.

“How could you understand, father? I did not either for a long time. But it is over now. My mission will be ended to-morrow when the Dauphin is crowned.

And then I am going back home with you to mother. Dear mother! how is she?”

“Well, Jeanne; but longs for you always.”

“And I for her,” said Jeanne, tearfully. “I shall never leave you again, father. I shall be glad to get back.”

At this Durand interposed:

“You won’t be contented there, Jeanne. Just think how set you were to get away.

And now you have done everything you wanted to do. And it was I that helped

you to do it.”

“Yes, Uncle Durand; and the King wishes to see you to thank you for it.”

“The King?” exclaimed Lassois, almost dumbfounded by this news. “Why,

Jeanne, you don’t mean that he wants to see me?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jeanne, laughing. “He says that by helping me to go to Messire Robert you have done more for the country than any other man in France.”

Durand could scarcely contain himself at this, and beamed delightedly. Presently he said, wistfully:

“Don’t you ever get afraid in battle, Jeanne? I heard that you were wounded once. I should think that you would be so afraid that you’d run away as soon as the guns began to shoot and the arrows to fly.”

“I do not fear wounds or battle,” she told him. “I fear only––treachery;” and a shadow crossed her face.

It was a happy family party there at the little inn. There was wonder and admiration in the regard which the simple peasants bestowed upon the maiden,

but there was love also, and the weary girl, longing for home and rest since her mission was so nearly completed, gave herself up to its blessed consolation. Far into the night she talked, and then she left them; for the morrow would bring the coronation, and there was much to be done.

It was the tradition that coronations should take place on Sunday, so that there was little sleep in Reims that night. Everything had to be prepared; decorations for the cathedral and town, and provisions for the ceremonial. Many of the necessary articles were at Saint Denis, in the hands of the English, and the treasury of the cathedral had to be ransacked to find fitting vessels. All night the work of preparation went on. And all night long rejoicing crowds filled the streets and the great square before the cathedral, where the Dauphin kept vigil, as was the custom of the Sovereign the night before his coronation.

At dawn of day the town began to fill with visitors, great personages and small ones, to attend the rites, and to render homage. All France seemed to pour into the place; for the people were to have their rightful king, and French hearts were joyful. It mattered not after this who should be crowned––Henry of England, or

another––there would be but one King of France, Charles the Seventh, he who was anointed with the sacred oil in the city of Reims, where all kings of France had been crowned since the time of Clovis. Charles had been crowned after a fashion at Bourges, but in the eyes of the nation he was not King until the oil from the mystic ampoule brought down from Heaven by a dove to Saint Remi was poured upon his brow. Jeanne, a daughter of the people, understood this better than the politicians who tried to thwart her design of leading Charles to his sacring, deeming it a piece of childish folly. After the crowning, when the increased prestige and loyalty which it brought to Charles was seen, its significance was understood not only by the politicians but by the Regent Bedford. It was a decided advantage which this girl of the people gained over the English claimant by her quickness in taking the Dauphin to be crowned.

The ceremonies were to begin at nine o’clock, Sunday morning, July the seventeenth, and long before that hour the ancient cathedral was filled to overflowing with nobles and men-at-arms, and dignitaries both civic and ecclesiastic, richly and gayly attired in gorgeous stuffs: cloth of gold, cloth of silver, brocades of crimson and azure, and silks dyed in all the colors of the rainbow, mingled with sheen of glittering spears and shining armour: a brilliant gathering. Charles the Dauphin waited at the foot of the high altar, garbed in a

robe of cerulean blue over which was scattered the golden fleur-de-lis. Outside the cathedral the streets were thronged with people in holiday attire, wearing leaden medals which bore an effigy of Jeanne. After the coronation the King too had thirteen gold medals struck in honour of the Maid, which bore her device, a hand holding a sword, and the inscription, Consilio firmata Dei. (Strong in the Counsel of God.) These and a vase of silver were among the gifts which he bestowed on the Chapter of Reims.

Suddenly there was a blare of trumpets, and from the palace of the Archbishop

there issued a wonderful procession. Four peers of France,––the Maréchal de Boussac, Gravile, de Rais, Admiral de Culent,––armed and accoutred, and a great company with banners floating rode through the streets to the old Abbey of St. Remi––which had been consecrated in the eleventh century––to bring from its shrine, where it was strictly guarded by the monks, the Sainte Ampoule, the holy and sacred vial which held the oil sent from Heaven for the sacring of Clovis. The noble messengers were the hostages of this sacred charge, and kneeling they bound themselves by an oath never to lose sight of it by day or night, till it was restored to its appointed guardians.