the battle she would not consent, but rallied them to the charge. Then slowly, painfully, she crept behind a heap of stones, and soon the dauntless voice rang out:
“Friends! Friends! be of good cheer. On! On!”
And so, wounded, weak, unable to stand she lay, urging the soldiers on, and on.
There never was anything like it. Whence came that indomitable spirit and courage? “A Daughter of God” her voices called her, and truly was she so named. For who that had not kinship with the Divine could transcend the weakness of the flesh as did this girl of seventeen?
Fiercer grew the din, and fiercer. The heat became stifling. Hours passed, and the day waxed old. The sun set; twilight fell, and the dusk came. The shots were fewer and more scattering, and then they stopped. The two French captains had
had enough for one day, for the attack had been confined to the forces under Jeanne, Rais and de Gaucourt, and the trumpet sounded the recall. But Jeanne did not heed, but kept crying her men on to the charge. She herself could not move to lead them, the supporting army was out of range, and the men would not go further without her. Gaucourt ordered his men to bring her out of the fire.
Jeanne protested, but weeping she was carried back, set in the saddle and conveyed back to La Chapelle. Over and over she cried:
“It could have been taken! It could have been taken!”
Early the next morning in spite of her wound she went to Alençon, begging him
to sound the trumpets and mount for the return to Paris.
“Never will I leave,” she declared, “until the city is taken.”
Alençon was of like mind, but some of the captains thought otherwise. Some of
the troops were reluctant to assault again; for there were whispers that the Maid had failed. That she had promised them to enter the city, and Paris had not been taken. They recalled the omen of the mystic sword, and shook their heads. They
had forgotten that it took nearly a week to free Orléans from the siege, and Paris was a larger city. Jeanne had had but part of one day for the attack. While the captains were debating the advisability of renewing the assault a cavalcade of fifty or sixty gentlemen under the Baron de Montmorency, who had been a
Burgundian for many years, rode up, and offered his services to the Maid. It was a joyful augury, and it was so encouraging that an immediate assault was planned. Just as they were setting forth two gentlemen arrived from St. Denys.
They were René Duc de Bar, and Charles de Bourbon, and they bore the King’s
orders that no further attack upon Paris should be made, and that the Maid with the other leaders must return at once to St. Denys.
There was a storm of remonstrance and appeal, but the gentlemen were peremptory in their insistence. Such a command could not be disregarded, so with heavy hearts the entire force obeyed the summons. As they had expected that the attack would be renewed the following day the siege material had been
left on the field, and there was not time to return for it. The King made no explanation when they reached St. Denys, and disconsolately the captains discussed the matter.
Now Alençon had built a bridge across the Seine above Paris, expecting to make
an onset upon the south as well as the north of the city, and Jeanne and he decided secretly to make a new effort in that direction. Accordingly they slipped away very early the next morning, which was September tenth, with a few chosen troops, and rode hastily to the place. The bridge was in ruins. It had been destroyed in the night; not by their enemies, but by the King. Sadly the two with their men rode back to the “City of the Tomb,” which had become the grave of
their hopes.
Jeanne’s heart was hot with disappointment and the thwarting of all her plans, and leaving Alençon she crept painfully to the chapel of the Abbey, and knelt for a long time before the image of the Virgin. After a time she rose, and slowly, awkwardly, for she was without her squire, unbuckled her armour, and laid it piece by piece upon the altar, until at length the complete suit lay there. With a gesture of infinite yearning she stretched her hands over it.
“To Saint Denys,” she said with quivering lips. Turning she went slowly from the Abbey.
Jeanne, the invincible Maid, had met her first defeat at the hands of her King.
[19]
Scrofula. It was believed it could be cured by the touch of a King.
[20]
Percéval De Cagny.
[21]
De Cagny.
[22]
Jean Chartier.
CHAPTER XXIV
JEANNE’S LAST FIELD
“I fear naught but treachery. ”
JEANNE’S own words.
“Saith each to other, ‘Be near me still;
We will die together, if God so will.’”
