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Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
Chapter 21
THERE IS no certainty that any one in all Rouen was in the secret of the
deep game which Cauchon was playing except the Cardinal of Winchester.
Then you can imagine the astonishment and stupefaction of that vast mob
gathered there and those crowds of churchmen assembled on the two
platforms, when they saw Joan of Arc moving away, alive and
whole--slipping out of their grip at last, after all this tedious
waiting, all this tantalizing expectancy.
Nobody was able to stir or speak for a while, so paralyzing was the
universal astonishment, so unbelievable the fact that the stake was
actually standing there unoccupied and its prey gone.
Then suddenly everybody broke into a fury of rage; maledictions and
charges of treachery began to fly freely; yes, and even stones: a stone
came near killing the Cardinal of Winchester--it just missed his head.
But the man who threw it was not to blame, for he was excited, and a
person who is excited never can throw straight.
The tumult was very great, indeed, for a while. In the midst of it a
chaplain of the Cardinal even forgot the proprieties so far as to
oppobriously assail the August Bishop of Beauvais himself, shaking his
fist in his face and shouting:
"By God, you are a traitor!"
"You lie!" responded the Bishop.
He a traitor! Oh, far from it; he certainly was the last Frenchman that
any Briton had a right to bring that charge against.
The Early of Warwick lost his temper, too. He was a doughty soldier, but
when it came to the intellectuals--when it came to delicate chicane, and
scheming, and trickery--he couldn't see any further through a millstone
than another. So he burst out in his frank warrior fashion, and swore
that the King of England was being treacherously used, and that Joan of
Arc was going to be allowed to cheat the stake. But they whispered
comfort into his ear:
"Give yourself no uneasiness, my lord; we shall soon have her again."
Perhaps the like tidings found their way all around, for good news
travels fast as well as bad. At any rate, the ragings presently quieted
down, and the huge concourse crumbled apart and disappeared. And thus we
reached the noon of that fearful Thursday.
We two youths were happy; happier than any words can tell--for we were
not in the secret any more than the rest. Joan's life was saved. We knew
that, and that was enough. France would hear of this day's infamous
work--and then! Why, then her gallant sons would flock to her standard by
thousands and thousands, multitudes upon multitudes, and their wrath
would be like the wrath of the ocean when the storm-winds sweep it; and
they would hurl themselves against this doomed city and overwhelm it like
the resistless tides of that ocean, and Joan of Arc would march again!
In six days--seven days--one short week--noble France, grateful France,
indignant France, would be thundering at these gates--let us count the
hours, let us count the minutes, let us count the seconds! O happy day, O
day of ecstasy, how our hearts sang in our bosoms!
For we were young then, yes, we were very young.
Do you think the exhausted prisoner was allowed to rest and sleep after
she had spent the small remnant of her strength in dragging her tired
body back to the dungeon?
No, there was no rest for her, with those sleuth-hounds on her track.
Cauchon and some of his people followed her to her lair straightway; they
found her dazed and dull, her mental and physical forces in a state of
prostration. They told her she had abjured; that she had made certain
promises--among them, to resume the apparel of her sex; and that if she
relapsed, the Church would cast her out for good and all. She heard the
words, but they had no meaning to her. She was like a person who has
taken a narcotic and is dying for sleep, dying for rest from nagging,
dying to be let alone, and who mechanically does everything the
persecutor asks, taking but dull note of the things done, and but dully
recording them in the memory. And so Joan put on the gown which Cauchon
and his people had brought; and would come to herself by and by, and have
at first but a dim idea as to when and how the change had come about.
Cauchon went away happy and content. Joan had resumed woman's dress
without protest; also she had been formally warned against relapsing. He
had witnesses to these facts. How could matters be better?
But suppose she should not relapse?
Why, then she must be forced to do it.
Did Cauchon hint to the English guards that thenceforth if they chose to
make their prisoner's captivity crueler and bitterer than ever, no
official notice would be taken of it? Perhaps so; since the guards did
begin that policy at once, and no official notice was taken of it. Yes,
from that moment Joan's life in that dungeon was made almost unendurable.
Do not ask me to enlarge upon it. I will not do it.
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