Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc

I, the Sieur Louis de Conte, was born in Neufchâteau, on the 6th of January, 1410; that is to say, exactly two years before Joan of Arc was born in Domremy. My family had fled to those distant regions from the neighborhood of Paris in the first years of the century. In politics they were Armagnacs⁠—patriots; they were for our own French King, crazy and impotent as he was. The Burgundian party, who were for the English, had stripped them, and done it well. They took everything but my father’s small nobility, and when he reached Neufchâteau he reached it in poverty and with a broken spirit. But the political atmosphere there was the sort he liked, and that was something. He came to a region of comparative quiet; he left behind him a region peopled with furies, madmen, devils, where slaughter was a daily pastime and no man’s life safe for a moment. In Paris, mobs roared through the streets nightly, sacking, burning, killing, unmolested, uninterrupted. The sun rose upon wrecked and smoking buildings, and upon mutilated corpses lying here, there, and yonder about the streets, just as they fell, and stripped naked by thieves, the unholy gleaners after the mob. None had the courage to gather these dead for burial; they were left there to rot and create plagues.

I was coming from over the ridge, one day⁠—it was the 15th of May, ’28⁠—and when I got to the edge of the oak forest and was about to step out of it upon the turfy open space in which the haunted beech tree stood, I happened to cast a glance from cover, first⁠—then I took a step backward, and stood in the shelter and concealment of the foliage. For I had caught sight of Joan, and thought I would devise some sort of playful surprise for her. Think of it⁠—that trivial conceit was neighbor, with but a scarcely measurable interval of time between, to an event destined to endure forever in histories and songs.

The day was overcast, and all that grassy space wherein the Tree stood lay in a soft rich shadow. Joan sat on a natural seat formed by gnarled great roots of the Tree. Her hands lay loosely, one reposing in the other, in her lap. Her head was bent a little toward the ground, and her air was that of one who is lost to thought, steeped in dreams, and not conscious of herself or of the world. And now I saw a most strange thing, for I saw a white shadow come slowly gliding along the grass toward the Tree. It was of grand proportions⁠—a robed form, with wings⁠—and the whiteness of this shadow was not like any other whiteness that we know of, except it be the whiteness of lightnings, but even the

He inspected her critically a moment or two, then said:

“Well, what is your errand, my child?”

“My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs, and it is this: that you will send and tell the Dauphin to wait and not give battle to his enemies, for God will presently send him help.”

This strange speech amazed the company, and many murmured, “The poor young thing is demented.” The governor scowled, and said:

“What nonsense is this? The King⁠—or the Dauphin, as you call him⁠—needs no message of that sort. He will wait, give yourself no uneasiness as to that. What further do you desire to say to me?”

“This. To beg that you will give me an escort of men-at-arms and send me to the Dauphin.”

“What for?”

“That he may make me his general, for it is appointed that I shall drive the English out of France, and set the crown upon his head.”

“What⁠—you? Why, you are but a child!”

“Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless.”

“Indeed! And when will all this happen?”

“Next year he will be crowned, and after that will remain master of France.”

There was a great and general burst of laughter, and when it had subsided the governor said:

“Who has sent you with these extravagant messages?”

“My Lord.”

“What Lord?”

“The King of Heaven.”

This is what they saw:

She made no obeisance, nor even any slight inclination of her head, but stood looking toward the throne in silence. That was all there was to see at present.

I glanced up at de Metz, and was shocked at the paleness of his face. I whispered and said:

“What is it, man, what is it?”

His answering whisper was so weak I could hardly catch it:

“They have taken advantage of the hint in her letter to play a trick upon her! She will err, and they will laugh at her. That is not the King that sits there.”

Then I glanced at Joan. She was still gazing steadfastly toward the throne, and I had the curious fancy that even her shoulders and the back of her head expressed bewilderment. Now she turned her head slowly, and her eye wandered along the lines of standing courtiers till it fell upon a young man who was very quietly dressed; then her face lighted joyously, and she ran and threw herself at his feet, and clasped his knees, exclaiming in that soft melodious voice which was her birthright and was now charged with deep and tender feeling:

“God of his grace give you long life, O dear and gentle Dauphin!”

In his astonishment and exultation de Metz cried out:

He willed that Goliath should be slain, and He sent a child like this to do it!”

Another day, when the inquisition had dragged along until everybody looked drowsy and tired but Joan, Brother Séguin, professor of theology at the University of Poitiers, who was a sour and sarcastic man, fell to plying Joan with all sorts of nagging questions in his bastard Limousin French⁠—for he was from Limoges. Finally he said:

“How is it that you understand those angels? What language did they speak?”

“French.”

“In‑deed! How pleasant to know that our language is so honored! Good French?”

“Yes⁠—perfect.”

“Perfect, eh? Well, certainly you ought to know. It was even better than your own, eh?”

“As to that, I⁠—I believe I cannot say,” said she, and was going on, but stopped. Then she added, almost as if she were saying it to herself, “Still, it was an improvement on yours!”

I knew there was a chuckle back of her eyes, for all their innocence. Everybody shouted. Brother Séguin was nettled, and asked brusquely:

“Do you believe in God?”

Joan answered with an irritating nonchalance:

“Oh, well, yes⁠—better than you, it is likely.”

Brother Séguin lost his patience, and heaped sarcasm after sarcasm upon her, and finally burst out in angry earnest, exclaiming: