Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc (Vols. I-II) Chapter 2 Joan Sold to the English
by Mark Twain
My wound gave me a great deal of trouble clear into the first
part of October; then the fresher weather renewed my life and
strength. All this time there were reports drifting about that the
King was going to ransom Joan. I believed these, for I was young
and had not yet found out the littleness and meanness of our poor
human race, which brags about itself so much, and thinks it is
better and higher than the other animals.
In October I was well enough to go out with two sorties, and in the
second one, on the 23d, I was wounded again. My luck had turned,
you see. On the night of the 25th the besiegers decamped, and in
the disorder and confusion one of their prisoners escaped and got
safe into Compiègne, and hobble into my room as pallid and
pathetic an object as you would wish to see.
"What? Alive? Noël Rainguesson!"
It was indeed he. It was a most joyful meeting, that you will easily
know; and also as sad as it was joyful. We could not speak Joan's
name. One's voice would have broken down. We knew who was
meant when she was mentioned; we could say "she" and "her," but
we could not speak the name.
We talked of the personal staff. Old D'Aulon, wounded and a
prisoner, was still with Joan and serving her, by permission of the
Duke of Burgundy. Joan was being treated with respect due to her
rank and to her character as a prisoner of war taken in honorable
conflict. And this was continued--as we learned later--until she fell
into the hands of that bastard of Satan, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais.
Noël was full of noble and affectionate praises and appreaciations
of our old boastful big Standard-Bearer, now gone silent forever,
his real and imaginary battles all fought, his work done, his life
honorably closed and completed.
"And think of his luck!" burst out Noël, with his eyes full of tears.
"Always the pet child of luck!
See how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all
through, in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the
public eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a
chance to do fine things and always doing them; in the beginning
called the Paladin in joke, and called it afterward in earnest
because he magnificently made the title good; and at
last--supremest luck of all--died in the field! died with his harness
on; died faithful to his charg, the Standard in his hand; died--oh,
think of it--with the approving eye of Joan of Arc upon him!
He drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to
his peace, blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to
follow. What luck, what luck! And we? What was our sin that we
are still here, we who have also earned our place with the happy
dead?"
And presently he said:
"They tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it
away, their most precious prize after its captured owner. But they
haven't it now. A month ago we put our lives upon the risk--our
two good knights, my fellow-prisoners, and I--and stole it, and got
it smuggled by trusty hands to Orleans, and there it is now, safe for
all time in the Treasury."
I was glad and grateful to learn that. I have seen it often since,
when I have gone to Orleans on the 8th of May to be the petted old
guest of the city and hold the first place of honor at the banquets
and in the processions--I mean since Joan's brothers passed from
this life. It will still be there, sacredly guarded by French love, a
thousand years from now--yes, as long as any shred of it hangs
together. [1] Two or three weeks after this talk came tehe
tremendous news like a thunder-clap, and we were aghast--Joan of
Arc sold to the English!
Not for a moment had we ever dreamed of such a thing. We were
young, you see, and did not know the human race, as I have said
before. We had been so proud of our country, so sure of her
nobleness, her magnanimity, her gratitude. We had expected little
of the King, but of France we had expected everything. Everybody
knew that in various towns patriot priests had been marching in
procession urging the people to sacrifice money, property,
everything, and buy the freedom of their heaven-sent deliverer.
That the money would be raised we had not thought of doubting.
But it was all over now, all over. It was a bitter time for us. The
heavens seemed hung with black; all cheer went out from our
hearts. Was this comrade here at my bedside really Noël
Rainguesson, that light-hearted creature whose whole life was but
one long joke, and who used up more breath in laughter than in
keeping his body alive? No, no; that Noël I was to see no more.
This one's heart was broken. He moved grieving about, and
absently, like one in a dream; the stream of his laughter was dried
at its source.
Well, that was best. It was my own mood. We were company for
each other. He nursed me patiently through the dull long weeks,
and at last, in January, I was strong enough to go about again.
Then he said:
"Shall we go now?"
"Yes."
There was no need to explain. Our hearts were in Rouen; we
would carry our bodies there. All that we cared for in this life was
shut up in that fortress. We could not help her, but it would be
some solace to us to be near her, to breathe the air that she
breathed, and look daily upon the stone walls that hid her. What if
we should be made prisoners there? Well, we could but do our
best, and let luck and fate decide what should happen.
And so we started. We could not realize the change which had
come upon the country. We seemed able to choose our own route
and go whenever we pleased, unchallenged and unmolested. When
Joan of Arc was in the field there was a sort of panic of fear
everywhere; but now that she was out of the way, fear had
vanished. Nobody was troubled about you or afraid of you, nobody
was curious about you or your business, everybody was indifferent.
We presently saw that we could take to the Seine, and not weary
ourselves out with land travel.
So we did it, and were carried in a boat to within a league of
Rouen. Then we got ashore; not on the hilly side, but on the other,
where it is as level as a floor. Nobody could enter or leave the city
without explaining himself. It was because they feared attempts at
a rescue of Joan.
We had no trouble. We stopped in the plain with a family of
peasants and stayed a wekk, helping them with their work for
board and lodging, and making friends of them. We got clothes
like theirs, and wore them. When we had worked our way through
their reserves and gotten their confidence, we found that they
secretly harbored French hearts in their bodies. Then we came out
frankly and told them everythng, and found them ready to do
anything they could to help us.
Our plan was soon made, and was quite simple. It was to help
them drive a flock of sheep to the market of the city. One morning
early we made the venture in a melancholy drizzle of rain, and
passed through the frowning gates unmolested. Our friends had
friends living over a humble wine shop in a quaint tall building
situated in one of the narrow lanes that run down from the
cathedral to the river, and with these they bestowed us; and the
next day they smuggled our own proper clothing and other
belongings to us. The family that lodged us--the Pieroons--were
French in sympathy, and we needed to have no secrets from them.
[1] It remained there three hundred and sixty years, and then was
destroyed in a public bonfire, together with two swords, a plumed
cap, several suits of state apparel, and other relics of the Maid, by
a mob in the time of the Revolution. Nothing which the hand of
Joan of Arc is known to have touched now remains in existence
except a few preciously guarded military and state papers which
she signed, her pen being guided by a clek or her secretary, Louis
de Conte. A boulder exists from which she is known to have
mounted her horse when she was once setting out upon a
campaign. Up to a quarter of a century ago there was a single hair
from her head still in existence. It was drawn through the wax of a
seal attached to the parchment of a state document. It was
surreptitiously snipped out, seal and all, by some vandal
relic-hunter, and carried off. Doubtless it still exists, but only the
thief knows where. -- TRANSLATOR.
