University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE TEMPTATION.

It was a night of revelry in Orleans. The contrast between
the wild and joyous mirth that now rang through every court
and alley of the Gothic city, and the dark sullen gloom, which
for weeks before had brooded over its beleagured walls and its
well-nigh famished inmates, was as perfect as it was delightful.
In place of the bent brow, and compressed lips of men,
nerving themselves to bear the torments of that most fell destroyer,
gaunt famine — in place of the pale cheek, dim eye,
and slight, attenuated form of the faint mothers, robbing themselves
of their scant sustenance, to minister to the wants of
their weak and wailing little ones — in place of tears and
lamentations, deep groans, and deeper curses — there might
now be seen on every lip a smile of heartfelt gratitude, in
every eye a bright expression, on every cheek, how delicate
and thin soever, the bright flush of new-springing hope —
there might now be heard the jocund laugh, the loud hurrah,
the pealing cadence of minstrelsey and song.

On that night, every window of the poorest and most lowly
habitations, was gleaming with lights of every degree of brilliancy
and price. From the coarse candle of unbleached tallow,
or the lantern of oiled paper, to the gigantic torch of virgin
wax, and the lamp of golden network, all was in blaze of

lustre; banners were waving from the casement, or hung from
lines traversing the narrow streets — flowers were strewed on
the pavements — trumpets were sending forth their wild notes
of rejoicing, far into the surrounding country, announcing to
the peasantry for miles around, that Orleans was relieved, and
telling to the warders of the English camp, that their reign of
victory was at an end, their bows broken, and their lion hampered,
when in the very act of bounding on its prostrate victim.

Wine flowed in profusion — bread was distributed to all,
with no stint, save that of appetite — muttons and beeves were
roasted whole in every court and square — and wretches who,
perhaps, had been deprived of wholesome food, nay, of a sufficiency
of any food, for weeks and months, now gorged themselves
beside the blazing bonfires, till wearied, if not satiated
with the feast, they sank down upon the rugged pavement, in
the deep slumbers of insensibility.

Nor did the very watchers, as it would seem, upon the outer
walls, who were placed there to guard the blessings they had
won, sit on their airy pinnacles without participating in the
general festivities. Lights might be seen glancing to and fro
on battlement and rampart, and here and there behind some
sheltering curtain, or in the angle of some salient bastion,
might be caught the redder glare of fires, around which the
heedless guards were carousing no less blithely than their
comrades in the streets below. It required, indeed, all the
attention of the provost of the watch, and captains of the guard,
who, through the livelong night might be distinguished by the
clashing of their armor, and by the exchange of watchwords,
as they made their hourly circuits of the ramparts, to keep
them to their duty; nor were they even without fears that the
ever alert and energetic Bedford might profit by the relaxation,
or to speak more justly, by the utter absence of all discipline,

to make an attack, which could hardly fail of success, on the
city, buried, like Troy of old, in sleep and wine.

Blithe, however, as was the merriment, and picturesque as
was the scene without, nothing might vie with the pomp, the
revelry, and the magnificence that were crowded into the wide
halls and echoing corridors of the Hotel de Ville. The king
and all his chivalry had feasted, in celebration of this their
first success, with the burghers and echevins of Orleans, and
in that feast had been concentrated all of civic luxury — all of
regal magnificence. But the feast was ended — of the peacock
that had so lately graced the board — decked with his
starry train, as when in life with gilded claws and coronetted
head — nothing was left save a despoiled and most unseemly
carcass! — boars'-heads from Montrichart, heronshaws and
egrets from the marshy woodlands of Hainault, had shared the
same reverse of fortunes, and having a short hour before, ministered
to the goodly appetites of lordly knights and their
queen-like damoiselles, by the aid of steward and seneschal,
were now rudely torn asunder among the strife and rioting of
pages, and yet meaner varlets; yet, even still, there was
enough in the canopied dais — in the long array of seats
cushioned with rich furs and velvet — in the display of massive
plate — ewers and flasks of gold, enriched with marquetry
and chasings — bowls rough with the designs of the earlier
schools of Italian art — mirrors of polished steel, wherein the
fabled centaurs might have viewed the gigantic bulk of their
double frames entire — torches of wax flaring and streaming in
the sockets of huge golden standishes — flowers and rushes
strewed on the marble floor — which had sent up their dewy
perfumes, mingling with the savor of rich meats, and with the
odorous fragrance of the wines, already celebrated, of Aix,
of Sillery, and of Auxerre — now trampled into an unseemly
mass of verdant confusion — and, above all, in the gay attire

and evident rank of the servitors, who yet bustled to and fro
in those banquet-halls deserted — to mark the consequence of
the guests, who had thus partaken of the hospitality of the
merchant-lords of Orleans.

But if the banquet-chamber was mute and voiceless, not so
were the yet loftier halls, which stretched their long lines of
illuminated windows from end to end of that huge Gothic building.
From those windows pealed the rejoicing music, mingled
with the light merriment of girls, and the hearty merriment of
paladins and peers. Nor was the scene within less brilliant,
than the promise given by the sounds which issued into the
bosom of the night. A thousand torches were gleaming along
the walls, doubled and trebled by the reflectors of polished
steel or silver, that were arranged behind them — banners of
all times and nations, covered the vaulted roof with a bright
canopy, that waved and rustled in every breath of air — in a
high gallery were seated the choicest musicians of the age,
with every instrument then invented, to soothe the ear or gladden
the heart of man, by their mingled harmonies. Trumpet,
and horn, and kettledrum, and cymbal, sounded in wild, yet
beautiful unison with the softer symphonies of harp and lute,
and the melodious warblings of the birdlike fife; and ever and
anon the richer and more perfect note, of that most exquisite
of vocal instruments, the human voice, gushed forth in choral
strains, now unaccompanied by aught of string or wind, now
blended, but still distinct, in the deep diapason of that noble
band. But who shall describe the crowd that swayed to and
fro over the tesselated pavement below, in obedience to the
minstrelsey and music, even as the light waves of a summer
sea heave at the bidding of the light air, that crisps, but may
not curl or whiten their sparkling crests. It was not merely
in the deep splendor, the harmonious coloring, the picturesque
forms of the antiquated costume, it was not merely in the

plumes of heron or ostrich — the snowy ermine, the three-piled
mantles of Genoa velvet — not in the hose of sandal twined
with threads of silver — not in the buskins of satin, or the spurs
of gold — not in the bright gems, the medals, and the fanfaronas
— not in the robes of vair and caps of maintenance, that
graced the stately warriors of the court. Nor yet was it in
the flowing trains, the graceful ruffs, the pearls wreathed in
the pleached and plaited hair, the diamond stomachers, and
chains of goldsmiths' work — it was not in these, that centred
the attraction of the glorious concourse — though with these,
not the costliest pageantry of modern times, could for a moment's
space compare. Nor was it even more striking than
these — the beauty, the mere personal beauty of the wearers
— the mingled strength and grace of the knights, whose places
were filled no less decorously in the bower of ladies, than in the
strife of men — the sylph-like forms, the wavy and voluptuous
motions, the eyes brilliant or laughing, tender or agacante, of
those highborn damoiselles. No, it was not in any, nor in all
of these. But in the aristocratic bearing, the high, full-blooded
look, that might be traced in the features and the forms, alike
of either sex; the small and well-set heads; the tall and
slight, though exquisitely rounded limbs; the delicate hands
— practised, however, they might be, in wielding the huge
espaldron, or yet more weighty battle-axe; the blue veins rising
in bold and pencilled relief, from brow and neck; the expanded
nostrils; and, above all, the perfect grace of every
movement, whether in voluptuous repose, or in the mazes of
the wheeling dance. It was in these rare attributes, that consisted
the real splendor of that assemblage — it was by these —
the distinctive marks of Norman blood — that the most casual
observer might have styled each individual there, even at a
moment's notice, as the descendant of some immemorial line.
All the magnificence might have been lavished upon a troop
of mendicants — but lavished to no purpose. No art, no splendor,
no disguise, could have metamorphosed those into the
most transitory likeness to nobility — more than the mean
weeds and tattered garments could have banished from these,
their inborn air of aristocracy.

Hundreds there were of the most brave, of the most beautiful
— Agnes de Sorel, the acknowledged mistress of the king,
with her broad laughing eyes of blue, and her profusion of
sunny ringlets shadowing a neck of alabaster. Isabel de Castelnau,
her noble form and majestic expression of features,
well-suited to the antique head-dress, and the purple robe,
with a delicate merlin, perched unhooded on her wrist, gazing
with his wild, bright eyes into the equally brilliant mirrors of
his lady's soul, without manifesting the slightest wish to flutter,
or to fly. Helence de Marigny, with her slender, girl-like
proportions, and that air of timid bashfulness, that so belied
her character; Helene de Marigny, who, in her brother's absence,
roused at the dead of night by the clash of armor and
the trumpet-note, had seen the English foemen scaling the
windows of her virgin-bower; had seen, and with no woman-terror,
grasped to the mortal sword, and wielded it triumphantly,
till succor completed that defence, which she — a fairy-looking
maid of seventeen — had protracted so manfully and
well. Diane de Bourcicaut, sister to the bravest and the best
of Charles's young warriors. Louise de Querouaille fairer
and far more chaste than her more famous namesake of after-ages
— and last, not least, Mademoiselle, the lovely sister of
the king. All these were there, and others, unnumbered and
beautiful as the stars in a summer heaven, toying, in mere dalliance,
or yielding, perchance, to deeper and more real feelings,
as they moved in the giddy dance, or reclined on the canopied
settees beside those gallant lovers, who might to-morrow lie,
all maimed and bleeding, on the red battle-field. But among

all these, the flower of France's female aristocracy — among
all these, there was one pre-eminent — pre-eminent not only
in her actual beauty, but in that woman grace, that free, yet
gentle demeanor, that airiness of motion, and exquisite propriety
of manner, which are so essentially the offspring of noble
birth, and of unconscious practice, if not of conventual rules.
That one — the fairest and the noblest — insomuch as the eye
might judge by any outward token — that one, was the peasant-maiden!
Admired almost to adoration by the chivalrous spirits
of the day, and tested with the severest and most bitter criticism
of those of her lovely rivals, who had seen, in too many
instances, the knights who had been sworn their servants,
desert from their allegiance, humbly and hopelessly to throw
their services, their homage, and their love, at the feet of the
inspired shepherdess. All this had she gone through, triumphantly;
in the ordeal of the banquet and the ball, she
had proved her noble qualities, no less completely than amid
the din of battle. The test of private and familiar intercourse
she had endured and conquered — the test of that society
wherein enthusiasm is ridiculous, and nothing is deemed becoming
of a lady, save the conventional bearing of the circle,
whether it be of hoyden mirth, or of the habitual posé, concealing
the deepest feelings, and perchance, the wildest profligacy,
beneath the semblance of unmoved composure, and self-restraint.

At the banquet, she had feasted beneath the canopy of state,
at the right of the victorious monarch — through her means
victorious — she had been served, on the knee, by knights and
nobles — she had sipped from jewelled goblets the richest vintages
of France — she had seen and heard a thousand things,
which must have been equally new and wondrous to the village-girl
of Domremy; and this, too, with the consciousness
that hundreds of bright female eyes were reading her every

look, with envious eagerness, to see some breach of etiquette,
some symptom of embarrassment, some gaucherie, which —
however pardonable in itself, and however naturally to be expected
in her, who had heretofore scarce heard of, much less
mingled on the footing of equality, with princesses and kings
— might at least have justified them in pronouncing her a
creature beneath the notice, much more the devotion of the free
and noble. All this had she done, yet by no sign, no motion
however trivial, no expression of eye or feature, had she betrayed
the slightest confusion, the least consciousness of being
otherwise waited on, or differently respected, than from her
earliest childhood.

The feast was ended, and, each lady leaning on the shoulder
of her chevalier, the gay assembly filed, to the chiming melody
of instruments, through the long corridors to the halls already
cleared for the high dance, and as they passed along, it was
the arm of Charles that led — in preference to wife or maiden
of ancestral dignity — the Maid of Arc.

Mantles and plumed-hats and jewelled estocs were thrown
by, spurs were drawn from satin buskins, trains were looped
up, or quite removed by page and servitor — the halls were
cleared — the minstrels breathed into their instruments the
fullest soul of their vocation. Wherefore that pause — it was
the king's to lead the festive measure — the king's, who was
even now engrossed to utter inconsciousness of all that was
around him, by the strange beauty, the rich enthusiasm, and
above all, the naive and natural simplicity of his companion.

“Pray God, that she may dance,” whispered Diane the
Bourcicaut, to the fair Agnes; “pray God that she may dance
— none of your canaille may attempt the pavon and fail to be
ridiculous. Is it not so, my Agnes?”

With a faint smile she who was addressed looked up, but it
was beyond the powers of a spirit, highly strung and noble —

even as was hers — to reply in the tones of polished raillery,
or to affect the air of unconcern, that would have best befitted
the occasion. She turned her beautiful blue eyes toward her
faithless lover, and though she spoke not to complain, or even
to regret, a large tear hung for a moment on the long dark
lashes, and slid slowly down that cheek, that lately might have
vied with all that is most sweet and warm in the created universe,
now cold and colorless as the sepulchral marble. Hers
was not a heart to wish for the failure of a rival in aught trivial,
or of mere court-fashion. “No, no!” she murmured to herself,
almost unconsciously. “If in all else she be superior to
poor Agnes — superior even to the winning from her of that
false heart she deemed assuredly her own, then may she conquer
in all else — and oh, may HE be happy!”

None heard the words — none heeded, or perchance understood
the sorrows of the heart-wronged maiden; but neither
were the light wishes expressed by Diane, nor the similar
hopes indulged if unexpressed by many a jealous fair one, to
be gratified. The maiden was too high-minded for so frivolous
a practice as the soulless dance, or, perchance, too circumspect
to attempt aught wherein she was so like to fail. It was in
vain that the king, the young and glorious monarch, pleaded
with an enthusiastic ardor, somewhat disproportioned to the
magnitude of the boon, for her fair hand, if it were but for a
single revel. The maiden was inflexible, yet Charles departed
not from her elbow. The music sounded clearly and high,
driving the blood in faster and more tumultuous currents
through many a bounding form — the dance went on — couple
after couple glancing or gliding, part in slow voluptuous movements,
part in the giddy whirl of the swift maze. A few short
moments passed, and the maiden and the monarch were alike
forgotten.

On a solitary couch, deep set in the embrazure of a huge

oriel window that overlooked the ramparts though at a long
distance, the maiden was reclining. Her head and exquisitely-moulded
bust supported on a pile of damask cushions, and
the symmetrical lines of her person and her limbs scarcely
perceptible by the wavy motions of her velvet robe; but her
countenance was buried in her hand, and the beautiful bust
was throbbing, and panting, as though it were about to burst
with the fierceness of its own emotions. With an insidious
whisper, a flushed cheek, and a quickened pulse, Charles
knelt beside her. One of her fairy hands he had mastered,
spite of some feminine resistance, and held it to his bosom —
his words were inaudible, but the purport might be easily conjectured,
from the effect they produced on her who listened in
such manifest abandonment of feeling.

She raised her speaking features — there was a softness, an
expression of deep feeling, almost of yielding in her eye, but
the firmness of the chiseled mouth denied the weakness.

“Oh, sire,” she said, in notes of the most harmonious softness,
in which there might be traced a shadow of reproach —
“Oh, sire, and is it thus you would reward your savior? I am
a woman — a frail woman — though for a special end, and by
a mighty God inspired — but save my own weak judgment, my
own erring — yet thanks be to the Eternal — not, oh, not
abandoned impulses, I have no inspiration to guide me in the
narrow path of duty. And is it generous, or great, or kingly?
is it worthy the last heir of a long line of mighty ones, to pit
his strength against a woman's weakness? — his eloquence,
fervid and impassioned as it is, against her fond credulity? —
his rank and beauty against the ignorance, the admiring ignorance
of her peasant-heart. For thee I have left home, and
friends, and country — for to me my native valley was my
country — for thee I have violated the strict laws of womanhood,
incurring the reproach of over-boldness and unmaidenly

demeanor in donning male attire and backing the fierce war-horse.
All this have I done for thee; oh, strive not, thou, to
rob me of my sole remaining heritage, my maiden virtue —
my unblemished honor!”

“Oh, say not so! most beautiful and sweetest,” returned the
king; “knowest thou not that kings who may not wive them,
save for policy, may give their fondest love, may give their
hand and homage par amours, and do naught of dishonor to the
proudest.”

“Nay! then,” she cried, springing to her feet, with the air
of some young Pythoness full of the oracular presence —
“Nay, then, I will be heard — selfish and base! — ay, base
and selfish art thou! Dost think that I, I, the inspired of
Heaven, could bend to infamy? Dost dare to think that I, if
I could love a thing so exquisitely false as thou art, that I
would not tear out the guilty passion from my heart, though it
should rend the heart-strings? But so it is not — so shall it
never be! In that lone valley I deserted one, who would have
died for me — ay, died! not in your poor court-phrase, not to
dishonor, not to damn with the blight of his own infamy the
creature he pretended to adore! but to have called me his, his
in the face of Heaven. Him did I leave, not that I felt not the
blow which severed us — not that I was senseless to his honest
love — not that I was ingrate or cold; but that I had a duty,
a duty paramount, summoning me, trumpet-tongued, to rescue
thee! — thou who wouldst now destroy me, and for ever! Now,
know me! Know me, and tremble! First know, that not for
ten — for ten — not for ten thousand crowned THINGS like thee,
would Joan of Orleans barter the true peasant-love of that forsaken
one! Know further, that even now while thou art striving
to dishonor thy defender — even now the English Lion is
ramping at your gates — even now fierce Bedford is beneath
your ramparts. Pray to your God, if you believe in his existence

— pray to your God that he give you not up for ever, to
your own most guilty wishes — give not your country up to the
unrelenting islander!”

As she spoke, the long, shrill blast of a trumpet swept wailingly
over the festive city, and a remote din of arms succeeded
it, with the mingled cries of France's and of England's warfare.
In mute astonishment Charles gazed to the distant ramparts,
on which a deadly strife was even then in progress,
while the bright banners and glancing casques of the besieger
flashed to the moonbeams in still increasing numbers, as ladder
after ladder sent up its load to overpower the slumbering wardens,
and win the city thus relieved in vain. Thence, slowly
and with a faltering mien, he turned to the dilating form and
speaking eye of the prophetic maid — he clasped his hands,
overpowered with superstitious awe —

“Save me,” he cried, “thou holy one; oh, save my country!”

“Swear, then,” she answered; “swear, then, by the Eternal
Lord who sent me to thy succor; swear that never again
thou wilt form in thy heart of hearts the base and blackening
thought thou didst express but now! — Swear this and I will
save thee!”

“I swear — I swear by the” —

“St. Denis, ho!” cried Joan, in notes that pierced the ears
of the revellers like a naked sword — “Montjoye! St. Denis!
— and to arms! — The English ho! the English! Joan!
Joan for France, and vengeance!”

The well-known warcry was repeated from a hundred lips.
The maiden snatched the banner, and the brand — helmless
and in her woman robes she rushed into the conflict, followed
by thousands in their festive garb, with torch, and spear, and
banner! Short was the strife, and desperate. Bedford had
hoped to win a sleeping woman — he found a waking lion.
After a furious, but a hopeless encounter, he drew off his
foiled and thwarted bands, and Orleans was again preserved!