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Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
Chapter 40
COURIER AFTER courier was despatched to the King, and he promised to
come, but didn't. The Duke d'Alencon went to him and got his promise
again, which he broke again. Nine days were lost thus; then he came,
arriving at St. Denis September 7th.
Meantime the enemy had begun to take heart: the spiritless conduct of the
King could have no other result. Preparations had now been made to defend
the city. Joan's chances had been diminished, but she and her generals
considered them plenty good enough yet. Joan ordered the attack for eight
o'clock next morning, and at that hour it began.
Joan placed her artillery and began to pound a strong work which
protected the gate St. Honor,. When it was sufficiently crippled the
assault was sounded at noon, and it was carried by storm. Then we moved
forward to storm the gate itself, and hurled ourselves against it again
and again, Joan in the lead with her standard at her side, the smoke
enveloping us in choking clouds, and the missiles flying over us and
through us as thick as hail.
In the midst of our last assault, which would have carried the gate sure
and given us Paris and in effect France, Joan was struck down by a
crossbow bolt, and our men fell back instantly and almost in a panic--for
what were they without her? She was the army, herself.
Although disabled, she refused to retire, and begged that a new assault
be made, saying it must win; and adding, with the battle-light rising in
her eyes, "I will take Paris now or die!" She had to be carried away by
force, and this was done by Gaucourt and the Duke d'Alencon.
But her spirits were at the very top notch, now. She was brimming with
enthusiasm. She said she would be carried before the gate in the morning,
and in half an hour Paris would be ours without any question. She could
have kept her word. About this there was no doubt. But she forgot one
factor--the King, shadow of that substance named La Tremouille. The King
forbade the attempt!
You see, a new Embassy had just come from the Duke of Burgundy, and
another sham private trade of some sort was on foot.
You would know, without my telling you, that Joan's heart was nearly
broken. Because of the pain of her wound and the pain at her heart she
slept little that night. Several times the watchers heard muffled sobs
from the dark room where she lay at St. Denis, and many times the
grieving words, "It could have been taken!--it could have been taken!"
which were the only ones she said.
She dragged herself out of bed a day later with a new hope. D'Alencon had
thrown a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis. Might she not cross by
that and assault Paris at another point? But the King got wind of it and
broke the bridge down! And more--he declared the campaign ended! And more
still--he had made a new truce and a long one, in which he had agreed to
leave Paris unthreatened and unmolested, and go back to the Loire whence
he had come!
Joan of Arc, who had never been defeated by the enemy, was defeated by
her own King. She had said once that all she feared for her cause was
treachery. It had struck its first blow now. She hung up her white armor
in the royal basilica of St. Denis, and went and asked the King to
relieve her of her functions and let her go home. As usual, she was wise.
Grand combinations, far-reaching great military moves were at an end,
now; for the future, when the truce should end, the war would be merely a
war of random and idle skirmishes, apparently; work suitable for
subalterns, and not requiring the supervision of a sublime military
genius. But the King would not let her go. The truce did not embrace all
France; there were French strongholds to be watched and preserved; he
would need her. Really, you see, Tremouille wanted to keep her where he
could balk and hinder her.
Now came her Voices again. They said, "Remain at St. Denis." There was no
explanation. They did not say why. That was the voice of God; it took
precedence of the command of the King; Joan resolved to stay. But that
filled La Tremouille with dread. She was too tremendous a force to be
left to herself; she would surely defeat all his plans. He beguiled the
King to use compulsion. Joan had to submit--because she was wounded and
helpless. In the Great Trial she said she was carried away against her
will; and that if she had not been wounded it could not have been
accomplished. Ah, she had a spirit, that slender girl! a spirit to brave
all earthly powers and defy them. We shall never know why the Voices
ordered her to stay. We only know this; that if she could have obeyed,
the history of France would not be as it now stands written in the books.
Yes, well we know that.
On the 13th of September the army, sad and spiritless, turned its face
toward the Loire, and marched--without music! Yes, one noted that detail.
It was a funeral march; that is what it was. A long, dreary funeral
march, with never a shout or a cheer; friends looking on in tears, all
the way, enemies laughing. We reached Gien at last--that place whence we
had set out on our splendid march toward Rheims less than three months
before, with flags flying, bands playing, the victory-flush of Patay
glowing in our faces, and the massed multitudes shouting and praising and
giving us godspeed. There was a dull rain falling now, the day was dark,
the heavens mourned, the spectators were few, we had no welcome but the
welcome of silence, and pity, and tears.
Then the King disbanded that noble army of heroes; it furled its flags,
it stored its arms: the disgrace of France was complete. La Tremouille
wore the victor's crown; Joan of Arc, the unconquerable, was conquered.
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