After a time the English and Burgundian soldiers came marching through the gates with their horses and armour, and their property,––property which proved
to be French prisoners. There they walked, a band of men previously taken, each one representing so much money in ransom. The poor fellows cast appealing, piteous glances at their victorious fellow countrymen as they passed. Jeanne uttered an exclamation, and stopped the march.
“In God’s name,” she cried, “they shall not have them.”
But some of the captains explained to her that under the terms of the capitulation the prisoners were property, and the soldiers were justified in taking them away, though it had not occurred to the King or his Councillors that any such thing would happen when the terms were given. But the Maid would not hear of letting the Frenchmen be carried away.
“They shall not have them,” she said again. “The thing would be monstrous. I will see the Dauphin.”
Which she did at once, and to such good purpose that the monarch was obliged
to ransom the men from their captors, paying for each one a reasonable sum.
French prisoners had been too plentiful in the wars to be worth much.
Troyes was full of doubt, terror and ill-will toward the Maid, and Jeanne felt it plainly when she entered the town to prepare for the reception of the King. At Orléans, at Blois, at Tours, at Gien, at all other places where she had been the people thronged about her with enthusiasm. Here they regarded her as a sorceress, and sent a certain Friar Richard to confront her. Friar Richard was a Franciscan who had created a great stir in Paris and Champagne by preaching fervid, emotional sermons, warning people of the coming of Anti-Christ, and urging them to forsake their sins, and to prepare for eternity. As he drew near to the Maid, he crossed himself devoutly, making the sign of the cross in the air, and sprinkling holy water before him to exorcise the evil spirit in the girl.
Brother Richard was devout, but he wasn’t going to run any risk. Jeanne laughed gayly. She had become accustomed to being thought possessed.
“Come on boldly,” she cried. “I shall not fly away.”
Upon this the good man fell upon his knees before her, and the Maid, to show that she was no holier than he, knelt also. They had some conversation together, and thereafter the friar was one of her most devoted adherents.
The day after the surrender Charles entered the city in splendor, and went at once to the cathedral, where he received the oaths of loyalty of the burghers. The day following the troops marched on to Châlons, but met with no resistance. All opposition to the King’s advance had collapsed, and eagerly the towns opened their gates to him. After all, he was French, and it was natural for Frenchmen to turn to their rightful King and believe in him in spite of the English. And so with ever increasing army Charles marched in triumph towards Reims.
Châlons, Troyes, and other places that had made submission wrote to Reims immediately advising that town to do likewise as Charles was a “sweet, gracious, pitiful and compassionate prince, of noble demeanor and high understanding, and had shown clearly and prudently the reasons for which he had come to them.”
Reims laughed the messages to scorn, and vowed to resist to the death. They had recalled the captain of their garrison, who was at Château-Thierry, but they limited his escort to fifty horsemen, for which reason the captain very properly declined to come, saying that he could not attempt to hold the city with fewer than three hundred men. So when Charles reached Sept-Saulx, a fortress within
four leagues of Reims, it sent out representatives to him to offer its full and entire obedience, in token of which the envoys presented the King with the keys of the city.
It was finished. The march to Reims, which has been called “The Bloodless March,” was ended. The wonderful and victorious campaign with all its lists of
towns taken had lasted but six weeks, almost every day of which was distinguished by some victory. The King and his Councillors had been fearful of the result, but the Maid had carried them through in triumph. Every promise which she had made had been fulfilled. There was nothing now between Charles,
the discredited Dauphin of three months agone, and the sacred ceremonial which
drew with it every “tradition and assurance of an ancient and lawful throne.”
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.
