It was morning of March 6th, 1429, when Joan rode out between her two faithful squires to seek the Dauphin. Gladly she rode, her eyes fixed on those white towers of Chinon where her mission was to be accepted, where she was to consecrate herself anew to the redemption of France. She felt no shadow of doubt; she never felt any, till her true work was done; yet, the old chronicles say, danger threatened her here at the outset. A band of outlaws, hearing of her approach, prepared an ambuscade, thinking to take the Maid and hold her for ransom. There they crouched in the woods hard by Chinon town, waiting; there they saw the little cavalcade draw near; the dark slender girl in her man's dress, the men-at-arms on either side; there they remained motionless, never stirring hand or foot, till the riders passed out of sight. Is it a true tale? If so, was it a miracle, as people thought then, the robbers held with invisible bonds, unable to stir hand or foot? Or was it—still greater marvel, perhaps—just the power of that uplifted look, the white radiance of that face under the steel cap, which turned the men's hearts from evil thoughts to good?

Another tale is vouched for by eyewitnesses: how as the Maid rode over the bridge toward the city, a certain man-at-arms spoke to her in coarse and insulting language.

"Alas!" said Joan; "thou blasphemest thy God, and art so near thy death!"

He was drowned shortly after, whether by accident or by his own act, seems uncertain.

So the Maid came to Chinon, and after some further delay, was admitted, on the evening of March 29th, to the presence of the Dauphin.

Chinon Castle is in ruins to-day. Of the great hall on the first story nothing remains save part of the wall and the great fireplace of carved stone; yet even these are hardly needed to call up the scene that March evening. We can see the fire crackling under the fine chimney-piece, the dozens of torches flinging their fitful glare about the great hall where some three hundred knights were gathered. They were standing in knots here and there, whispering together, waiting, some hopefully, some scornfully, for this importunate visitor, the peasant girl of DomrÉmy. In one of these knots stood Charles of Valois, far less splendidly dressed than some of his followers. He made no sign when Joan entered the hall, led by the high steward, Louis of Bourbon, Count of VendÔme: but his eyes, all eyes in that hall, were fixed curiously on the slender figure clad in black and gray, which advanced modestly yet boldly.

Joan of Arc was now seventeen years old: tall and well made. Guy de Laval wrote of her to his mother: "She seems a thing all divine, de son faict, and to see her and hear her." Others call her "beautiful in face and figure," her countenance glad and smiling.

says the old mystery play of the siege of Orleans.

Andrew Lang, the most sympathetic of her English biographers,[31] writes thus of her appearance:

"Her hair was black, cut short like a soldier's; as to her eyes and features, having no information, we may conceive of them as we please. Probably she had grey eyes, and a clear pale colour under the tan of sun and wind. She was so tall that she could wear a man's clothes, those, for example, of Durand Lassois."

There is no authentic likeness of the Maid; she never sat for her portrait; yet who is there that cannot picture to himself that slender figure, in the black pourpoint, with the short gray cloak thrown back over her shoulder, coming forward to meet and greet the Prince to whom she was to give a kingdom, receiving in return a felon's grave?

Accounts vary as to the scene that followed. Some chroniclers say that Joan asked that "she should not be deceived, but be shown plainly him to whom she must speak"; others assert that Charles turned aside at her approach, effacing himself, as it were, behind some of his followers. However it was, Joan showed no hesitation, but went directly up to the Prince and made obeisance humbly.

"Gentle Dauphin," she said, "I am called Joan the Maid. The King of Heaven sendeth you word by me that you shall be anointed and crowned in the city of Rheims, and shall be lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is King of France. It is God's pleasure that our enemies, the English, should depart to their own country; if they depart not, evil will come to them, and the kingdom is sure to continue yours."

Charles listened, impressed but not yet convinced. He talked with her a little, and sent her back to her lodging (in a tower of the castle this time, in charge of "one William Bellier, an officer of the castle, and his wife, a matron of character and piety"[32]) without making any definite answer. This was hard for the Maid to bear; she knew there was no time to lose; yet she went patiently; she was used to waiting, used to rebuffs. There in her tower lodging, many visitors came to her: churchmen, with searching questions as to her orthodoxy; captains, no less keen in inquiry as to her knowledge of arms: finally, "certain noble dames," deputed by the Dauphin, to determine whether she were pure virgin or no. Doubtless these many persons came in many moods; they all left in one; the Maid was a good Maid, gentle and simple: there was no harm in her. Again and again she sought audience of the Dauphin. She could do nothing with a printed page, but the heart of a man, especially of this man, was easy reading for her.

"Gentle Dauphin," she said to him one day, "why do you not believe me? I say unto you that God hath compassion on you, your kingdom, and your people; St. Louis and Charlemagne are kneeling before Him, making prayer for you, and I will say unto you, so please you, a thing which will give you to understand that you ought to believe me."[33]

One day, after mass, Charles led her into a chamber apart, where were only La TrÉmoÏlle and one other. He was in one of his dark moods, his mind full of doubts and fears. Was he after all the rightful heir? In his closet that morning, he had prayed that if the kingdom were justly his, God might be pleased to defend it for him; if not, that he might find refuge in Scotland or in Spain. Joan, we may fancy, read all this in his face that day in the castle chamber. Taking him aside, she spoke long and earnestly.

"What she said to him there is none who knows," wrote Alain Chartier the poet soon after, "but it is quite certain that he was all radiant with joy thereat as at a revelation from the Holy Spirit."

Well he might be! on the authority of her Voices, "on behalf of her Lord," the Maid declared him "true heir of France, and son of the king." From that moment we may perhaps date the belief of Charles in her mission.

One other, I said, besides Charles and La TrÉmoÏlle, was present at the interview. This was the young Duke of AlenÇon, son-in-law of Charles of Orleans. He was then twenty years of age, as gallant and careless a lad as might be. At fifteen he had been taken prisoner in battle: was ransomed two years later, spite of his refusal to acknowledge Henry VI. King of France; had since then been living on his estate, amusing himself and taking little thought of the distracted country. He was shooting quails one day when word came of a mysterious Maid who had appeared before the King, claiming to be sent by God to drive out the English, and raise the siege of Orleans. Here, for once, was something interesting in these tiresome squabbles of Burgundian and Armagnac; something, it might be, more exciting than quail-shooting. He took horse and rode to Chinon; sought his cousin Charles, and found him deep in talk with the Maid herself.

"Who is this?" asked Joan.

"It is the Duke of AlenÇon," replied the Dauphin.

She turned to AlenÇon with her own simple grace.

"You are very welcome," she said. "The more princes of the blood that are here together, the better."

AlenÇon, warm and chivalrous by nature, felt none of the doubts which beset the Dauphin; he was charmed with the Maid, and she with him: it was friendship at first sight, and "the gentle duke," as she called him, became her sworn brother in arms.

Charles was now inclined to take Joan and her mission seriously, spite of the indifference (later to develop into bitter hostility) of La TrÉmoÏlle. She had fired the despondent captains with hope of saving Orleans; had won the hearts of the court ladies, had satisfied the confessors of her orthodoxy; last and most important, she had performed what seemed to him a miracle in reading his thoughts. But nothing must be done hastily. In so important a matter, every authority must be consulted; it must be established beyond peradventure that this Maid was of God and not of Satan. Paris was inaccessible, held by John of Bedford for his baby King: but at Poitiers was a University with many wise and holy men; was also a court or parliament of sorts, where law might be demonstrated if not enforced by learned lawyers and jurists. At Poitiers, if anywhere in Charles's pasteboard realm, the question might be decided: to Poitiers Joan should go.

Fifty miles: two days' ride, and Orleans in the death-struggle!

"To Poitiers?" cried the Maid. "In God's name I know I shall have trouble enough; but let us be going!"

She had had already trouble enough, more than enough, with lawyers and priests. She saw no sense in them. They droned on and on, splitting hairs, piling question on argument, when all she asked was a small company of men-at-arms; when her time was so short; when the Voices bade her go, go, go to save the city!

Small wonder if she lost patience now and then in the days that followed at Poitiers. They compassed her about on every side, Professors of Theology and of Law.

"What brought you to the King?" asked one. She answered proudly, "A Voice came to me while I was herding my flock, and told me that God had great pity on the people of France, and that I must go into France."

"If God wishes to deliver France," said another, "He does not need men-at-arms."

"In God's name," said the Maid, "the men-at-arms will fight, and God will give the victory."

"What language does the Voice speak?"

This questioner, a Carmelite friar, spoke the dialect of Limoges, his native province, and Joan answered briefly:

"A better one than yours!"

"Do you believe in God?" the friar persisted.

"More firmly than you do!"

Joan then foretold the future as she saw it. She would summon the English and, they refusing to submit, would force them to raise the siege of Orleans. After this the Dauphin would be crowned at Rheims; Paris would rally to his standard; finally, the Duke of Orleans would return from England. All these things happened, but only the first two were seen by Joan's mortal eyes. Her time was short, indeed.

For six weeks now she had been examined, by priest and clerk, jurist and soldier, noble ladies and village matrons: and like her great Exemplar, no harm had been found in her. She had, it was true, given no "sign," but this she promised to do before Orleans, for so God commanded her. In God's name, therefore, she was bidden to proceed on her mission; was sent to Tours, thence to proceed, when suitably armed and equipped, to Orleans.

It is pleasant to read of a little interlude during this time of waiting: a visit made by Joan at St. Florent, the castle of the duke of AlenÇon. The mother and wife of the duke received her with open arms, and "God knows," says the family chronicler, "the cheer they made her during the three or four days she spent in the place."

The young Duchess was Joan of Orleans, daughter of the captive poet-duke: it was her own city that this wondrous Maid was come to save. A girl herself, generous, ardent, small wonder that she opened her arms. She confided to Joan her fears for her soldier-husband. He had been taken once by the English, had been absent several years: it had been bitter hard to raise the money for his ransom.

"Have no fear, my lady!" said the Maid. "I will bring him safe back to you, as well as he now is, or even better."

One would fain linger a little over this visit. There were so few pleasures for Joan, so little of all that girlhood commonly takes as its bright, unquestionable right. I like to think of the two girls together: the duchess probably in huque and hennin (whereof more anon), the Maid in the page's dress which she wore when not in armor. She loved bright colors and pretty things, as well as the other girl. She was only seventeen, "fair and white as the white rose." God help thee, sweet Maid!

The days in Tours were brief and happy for Joan. She was accepted: she had started on her way; she could well wait, watching and praying, while her suit of white armor was made. Andrew Lang tells us that "the armour included a helmet, which covered the head to its junction with the neck, while a shallow cup of steel protected the chin, moving on the same hinge as the salade—a screen of steel which in battle was drawn down over the face to meet the chin-plate, and, when no danger was apprehended, was turned back, leaving the face visible. A neck-piece or gorget of five overlapping steel plates covered the chest as far as the breastbone, where it ended in a point, above the steel corslet, which itself apparently was clasped in front, down the centre, ending at the waist. The hip joints were guarded by a band, consisting of three overlapping plates of steel; below this, over each thigh, was a kind of skirt of steel, open in the centre for freedom in riding. There were strong thick shoulderplates; yet one of these was pierced through and through by an arrow or crossbow bolt, at close quarters, when Jeanne was mounting a scaling ladder in the attack on the English fort at the bridge-head of Orleans. The steel sleeves had plates with covered hinges to guard the elbows; there were steel gauntlets, thigh-pieces, knee-joints, greaves, and steel shoes. The horse, a heavy-weight-carrier, had his chamfron of steel, and the saddle rose high at the pommel and behind the back. A hucque, or cloak of cloth of gold, velvet, or other rich material, was worn over the armour. For six days continuously Jeanne bore this weight of steel, it is said, probably in the campaign of Jargeau and Pathay. Her exploits were wrought, and she received her wounds, while she was leading assaults on fortified places, standard in hand."

No sword was made for Joan at Tours; her sword was elsewhere. Hear her tell about it!

"While I was at Tours or Chinon, I sent to seek for a sword in the church of St. Catherine of Fierbois, behind the altar; and presently it was found, all rusty."

Asked how she knew that the sword was there, she said: "It was a rusty sword in the earth, with five crosses on it, and I knew of it through my Voices. I had never seen the men who went to look for it. I wrote to the churchmen of Fierbois, and asked them to let me have it, and they sent it. It was not deep in the earth; it was behind the altar, as I think, but I am not certain whether it was in front of the altar or behind it. I think I wrote that it was behind it. When it was found, the clergy rubbed it, and the rust readily fell off. The man who brought it was a merchant of Tours who sold armour. The clergy of Fierbois gave me a sheath; the people of Tours gave me two, one of red velvet, one of cloth of gold, but I had a strong leather sheath made for it."[34]

A household (État) was provided for Joan by the Dauphin's command. She was to have a confessor, an equerry, two pages: the faithful Jean de Metz was her treasurer. Poulangy, the second (chronologically) of her knights, was also of the company. She asked for a standard: St. Margaret and St. Catherine, she told the Dauphin, had commanded her to take a standard and bear it valiantly. The King of Heaven was to be painted on it, said the crowned and gracious ladies. Furthermore, "the world was painted on it" (which Andrew Lang takes to have been "the globe in the hand of our Lord"), an angel on either side. The stuff was white linen dotted with lilies: the motto Jesus Maria. In action, the Maid always carried this standard, that she might "strike no man with the sword; she never slew any man. The personal blazon of the Maid was a shield azure with a white dove, bearing in its beak a scroll whereon was written, De par le Roy du ciel."[35]

So, at long last, the word was "Forward!"

On March 6th, as we have seen, Joan of Arc left Vaucouleurs, a humble figure in black and gray, between two faithful but obscure men-at-arms; now, nine weeks later, she rides out in radiant armor, silver-white from head to foot, in her hand the snowy standard with its sacred emblems, on either side nobles and dignitaries of the Court of France. So she rides, and the hearts of men follow her.

[31] N. B.—He was a Scot!