University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE CORONATION.

The capture of the English lines at Orleans was not a solitary
or unsupported triumph of the French. On the succeeding
morning not a trace of the discomfited islanders could be
discovered from the walls of the long-beleagured city, save
the shattered and deserted bastions so lately occupied by their
green-frocked archery, and the heaps of their unburied dead,
which choked the trenches, and tainted the pure atmosphere
with their charnel exhalations. Nor was this all. The confidence
of France had been restored to a degree unwonted, if
not unknown, before. The virgin fought not but to conquer.
Gergeau was taken by assault; the daring girl mounting the
foremost, and carrying the walls, though wounded, with undaunted

spirit. Beaugency opened its gates at the first summons;
and the British garrison, which had retired to the
castle, yielded on fair condition. Roused from his long inaction
by this series of bright successes, the constable of
France levied his vassals to share the triumphs of the royal
army. Nor were the English idle. Bedford, who had by
dint of unexampled perseverance collected some six thousand
men to reinforce the relics of the host which, under the brave
but wary Talbot, still kept the field, effected his junction at
Patai-en-Beauce, but effected it not unmolested. “We must
give battle,” cried the heroic Joan; “we must give battle to
the English were they horsed upon the clouds — ay! and
equip ourselves with right good spurs for the pursuit.”

She fought again, and was again successful; and this day
more than all decided the fortunes of the land. The British
troops, struck down from their high pitch, heart-sick with super-stition,
and half-defeated before a blow was stricken, scarcely
awaited the first onslaught of the French, who charged with a
degree of confidence that insured the result by which it was so
fully justified.

And now the object of the maiden's mission was brought
forth in council. “To Rheims,” she cried, “to Rheims! it is
the will of God!” To every argument that was adduced
against her, she had no other answer. “To this end am I inspired
— to this end was I sent — that I should conduct this
son of France in triumph to the walls of Rheims, and crown
him with the diadem of Clovis. The way is clear before us
— the sword of the Most High hath fallen on the foes of
France — the victory lacks only its accomplishment!”

It was in vain that Richmont the gallant constable opposed
the scheme as visionary, the march as desperate. The
haughty spirit of Charles himself was now aroused, and his
best counsellors, Dunois, La Hire, and D'Alençon, approved

the project. The recent services of Richmont were all forgotten;
his disgrace ensued, and in solitude he learned that to
say unwelcome truths to princes is a counterpoise to the most
exalted merit, to the most splendid virtues.

The army marched through a waste tract of country, occupied
by the troops of England, hostile or disaffected; without
provisions, equipage, or baggage; with banners waving, and
music pealing, like some gay procession in the high-tide of
peace, the army marched for Rheims. No human forethought
could have calculated the effect — no human intelligence could
have divined the wonderful result. Defeat, destruction, and
despair, could only have been looked for — these the natural,
the almost certain consequences of such a step. They marched,
and every fortress sent its keys to Joan in peaceable submission;
every city threw its gates apart for her admission; the
country people flocked in thousands to behold the pomp, to
glut their eyes with gazing on the heavenly maiden, to tender
their allegiance to the king — to bless, and almost to adore the
savior of their country. Not a fort was guarded by the British
archery; not a bridge was broken to delay her progress; not
an enemy was seen throughout the march. The spirit, the
enthusiastic spirit of the prophet-maiden, had spread like a
contagious flame throughout the land; the confidence in her
had wrought the miracle; the valor of the determined was
augmented; the doubts of the wavering dispersed; the fears
of the timid put to flight. Beneath the walls of Troyes, for
the first time, was her career disputed. The drawbridges
were up; the frowning ramparts bristled with pikes and partisans;
the heavy ordnance levelled, and the lintstocks blazing
in the grasp of the Burgundian cannoniers.

The army was arrayed for the assault; ladders were hastily
collected; mantelets and pavesses were framed as best they
might be, on this emergency unlooked for and ill-omened.

The bold visage of Dunois was graver than its wont, and the
gay jest died on the lips of D'Alençon. Well did those politic
commanders know that to be checked was in itself destruction.
Founded upon the widely-credited report that their success
was certain, it was indeed secure. But let that superstitious
faith be shaken, and the spell was broken. Let but the
English learn that victory were not impossible, and they would
be again victorious. Let but the French discover that Joan
might be defeated, and they would faint again and fly before
their foemen. Now, then, was to be the touchstone of their
power, the proof of their success; and now — it would be
scarce too much to say — those undaunted leaders trembled,
not for themselves, nor with a base and coward fear; but with
a high and patriotic apprehension for the safety of their country
and their king, for the accomplishment of their designs,
for the well-being of the myriads intrusted to their charge.

Bows were already bent, and lances levelled, when the
maid herself rode forth. All armed, from spur to gorget, in
her azure panoply, but with her beaming features and dark
locks uncovered by the cerveilliere or vizor of her plumed helmet,
she rode forth a bow-shot in the front. The consecrated
banner was elevated in her right hand, while with her left
she turned and wound the fiery charger with an easy government,
that well might be considered the result of supernatural
powers. Her sheathed sword hung by its embroidered baldrick
from the shoulder to the spur; her mace-at-arms and
battle-axe were ready at the saddle-bow; her triangular shield
of Spanish steel was buckled round her neck; yet fully equipped
for war, her errand was of peace.

“Jesu Maria!” she cried, “good friends and dear,” in accents
so trumpet-like in their intense and thrilling clearness,
that every ear in either host caught the sounds, and every
bosom throbbed at their import. “Good friends and dear —

for so with you it rests to be — lords, burgesses, inhabitants
of this fair town of Troyes, the virgin, Joan, commands ye —
that ye may know it from the King of heaven, her liege and
sovereign lord, in whose most royal service she abideth every
day — that you shall make true homage to this gentle king of
France, who soon shall be at Rheims, and soon at Paris, who
standeth now to the fore! By the help of your King, Jesus,
true and loyal Frenchmen, come forth to succor your king,
Charles — so shall there be no blame!”[2]

For a moment there was a pause — but for a moment only.
The spears fell from the hands of the defenders; the banners
were lowered; the gates opened. The Burgundian garrison
retired; the citizens of Troyes rushed forth with joyful acclamations,
casting themselves prostrate before the charger of
the maiden, covering her stirrups with their kisses, and shedding
tears of unfeigned happiness.

The army reached the brow of the last hill that overlooks
the rich and lovely district in which the ancient town of
Rheims is situated, and never did a sight more glorious meet
the eyes of youthful monarch than that which lay outstretched
before him. It was early in the month of July, the earth gay
in its greenest pomp of foliage, its richest flush of bloom; the
heavens dazzlingly blue; the air mild and balmy; the wild
landscape diversified with its laughing wineyards, its white
hamlets, its shadowy forests; the silvery line of the river
Vele flashing and sparkling in sunshine; and the gray towers
of Rheims arising from a mass of tufted woodland in the centre
of the picture; and all this was his — his heritage — his
birthright — wrested from his hand by the mailed gripe of the

invader — redeemed, recaptured, but to be restored by the fair,
frail being, who sat beside him, her bright eyes flashing with
triumph, and her whole frame quivering with the well-nigh
unearthly rapture of the moment.

Before their feet the road fell rapidly into a deep ravine
with sandy banks, partially shadowed by stunted shrubs, and
patches of furze with its dark prickly masses beautifully contrasted
by its golden bloom; beyond this gorge lay a thick
woodland, through which the highway might be seen wandering
in irregular curves, with a license not often found in the
causeways of La belle France. On the summit of this hill, the
monarch and his immediate train had halted, while the advanced
guard, a brilliant corps of light-armed cavalry — prickers,
as they were termed, with long, light lances for their only
weapon, and mounted cross-bowmen, filed slowly forward,
company after company, veiling their gay banners, and saluting
with trailed weapons and bended heads, as they passed,
the presence. In the rear the long array came trooping on;
for miles and miles the champaign country was overrun with
scouring parties, and light detachments, hurrying in concentric
lines toward the place of their destination; while the cause-ways
were so thronged as to be almost impassable, with solid
columns of men-at-arms, trains of artillery, and all the paraphernalia
of an army on the march.

The light-armed horsemen, file after file, swept out of sight,
and still as they were lost in the recesses of the shadowy
woodland, fresh troops mounted the summit, and deployed
from column into line, until the whole ridge of the hill was
covered with a dense and threatening mass, in the dark outlines
of which it would have required no unnatural stretch of
fancy to discover the likeness of a thunder-cloud; while the
dazzling rays of the sun flashed back from casque or corslet
might have passed for the electric fluid.

Tidings had reached the army, at the halt of the preceding
night, that Rheims like Troyes was garrisoned with a Burgundian
force of full three thousand lances; a power, which,
amounting to five times that number of men-at-arms, it would
have been an arduous task for Charles to encounter in the
open field; and which, when fighting from the vantage ground
of wall and battlement, and under the guidance of warriors so
renowned as the counts of Saveuse and of Chatillon-sur-Harne,
he could not even hope to conquer.

It was for this, then, that the royal army halted, till their
prickers might return with tidings from the vicinage of Rheims,
lest, upon marching down from the strong eminences which it
now occupied, it should become entangled among the swamps
and thickets of the forest, and so be taken by the foe at disadvantage.
Not long, however, were they compelled to tarry; for
the troops had scarcely piled their arms, and the fires were
not yet kindled to prepare the mid-day meal, ere a sound of
music came faintly up the wind; so faintly, that it could not be
discovered whether it were a point of war, or a mere peaceful
flourish that was uttered by the distant trumpets. A moment
ensued of thrilling interest — of excitement almost fearful —
then was heard the clang of hoofs, and a pricker spurred
fiercely up the hill. “To arms,” he cried, “to arms, the enemy
are in the field — to arms!” Then came the quick, stern
orders of the leaders; horses were unpicqueted, and riders
mounted; the preparations for the feast made way for preparations
of a sterner nature. Another moment brought in another
rider — a column of cavalry was already entering the forest, at
the least five thousand strong, but yet their Burgundian cross.
Gradually the din of the music approached, and the notes
might be distinguished. Trumpet, and kettle-drum, and cymbal,
sent forth their mingled strains, but not in warlike harmony.
Anon the cavalcade drew nigh, and, like the music

which had preceded its arrival, it was peaceful. Heralds and
pursuivants rode in the front on snow-white horses, with trumpeters
on foot, and grooms beside their bridle-reins; then
came the burgesses of Rheims in their embroidered pourpoints
of dark taffeta, with golden chains about their necks, and velvet
caps above their honest features; minstrels and jongleurs
followed, with here a cowled priest, and there a flaunting damsel
of the lower class, crowding to see the show. Before the
steed of the chief echevin strode a burly-looking servitor in
the rich liveries of the city, carrying a gorgeous standard emblazoned
with the quarterings of Rheims, while on a velvet
cushion by his side, his fellow bore the massive keys, their
dark and rusty iron contrasting strangely with the crimson
velvet and the golden fringes of the cushion which supported
them.

“Tête Dieu, my Dunois,” cried Charles, with an exulting
smile. “These are no spears of Burgundy, nor shall we need
to break one lance to win our entrance? Lo! the good
citizens come forth to greet us. All thanks to thee, bright
maiden.”

“All thanks to Him who sent me — all praises and all
glory!” replied the virgin. “Not my arm — not the arm of
man, not all the might of warfare could else have forced a
passage hither! Be humble and be grateful, else shall thy
fall be sudden and disastrous, as thy rising hath been unexpected,
and superb withal, and joyous!”

Yet as she spoke the words of calm humility, her mien belied
her accents. Her eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved, her
bright complexion went and came again, and her lip paled, as
the blood coursed more fiercely than its wont through her
transparent veins. As the column of the citizens approached,
the pursuivants, the heralds, and the minstrels, opening their
ranks on either hand, and filing to the left and right of the

royal presence, she flung abroad the folds of her consecrated
banner, and gave her fiery steed the spur, till he caracoled in
fierce impatience against the curb which checked him.

“All hail!” she cried in a voice that all might hear, so clear
it was and thrilling, though pitched in the low tones of feeling —
“all hail, Charles, by the special providence of Heaven, that
shalt, ere the sun sinks, be king and lord of France!”

For an instant there was a pause, and then, “all hearts and
tougues uniting in that cry,” the woodlands echoed for miles
around to the shout, louder than the shock of charging squadrons:
“Life — life to Charles — our true, our gentle king!”

Gayly did the procession then advance; no more of doubt,
no more of hesitation as they threaded the leafy vistas of the
forest! All was calm, and sunshiny, and bright, to the hopes
of the young monarch, as were the limpid waters, and the
laughing landscape, and the summer skies, that looked so
cheeringly upon his hour of triumph.

A few short hours brought them to the gates of Rheims, and
with the clang of instruments, and the deep diapason of ten thousand
human voices, Charles and his youthful champion entered
that ancient city, the goal of so many labors, the reward of so
much perseverance. The streets were strewed with flowers;
the walls were hung with tapestries of Luxembourg and Arras;
the balconies were crowded with the bright and beautiful; the
doorways thronged with happy faces; and the whole atmosphere
alive with merriment and triumph. That very night the
marechals of Boussac and Rieu were sent to St. Remi bearing
the greetings of the virgin, Joan, to bring thence the holy
flask of oil — oil, which, if ancient legends may be credited,
had been brought from heaven by a dove to Clovis, when the
bold Frank laid the first foundation of the Gallic monarchy.

The morning, so earnestly desired, had at length arrived;
the court before the towers of the old cathedral was crowded

well-nigh to suffocation. The archers of the guard vainly
endeavored to repress the jovial tumult, backing their Spanish
chargers on the mob, or beating back the boldest with the
staves of their bows, unstrung for the hour and void of peril.
Peers of France in their proud ermined robes and caps of
maintenance; knights in their rich habiliments of peace, or
yet more nobly dight in panoply of steel, pressed through the
crowd unheeded, jostled by the brawny shoulders of clowns or
burghers, and over-impatient to join the sacred pomp to think
of precedence or ceremony.

Within the holy building, its long aisles thronged with noble
forms, and the rays of the early sunshine streaming in a thousand
gorgeous dyes upon the assembled multitudes through the
richly-traceried panes, stood Charles. Clad as an aspirant for
the honors of chivalry, in the pure and virgin white, he bent
the knee before the brave D'Alençon, received the acolade,
and rose a belted knight. On his right stood the proud bishop
of Senlis; the same who had braved the wrath of Charles on
his first interview, but afterward had redeemed his error
nobly, with the mortal sword before the walls of Orleans, and
on the field of Patai. On his left, sheathed, as was her wont,
from head to heel in armor, Joan, the preserver. Amidst the
thunder of the distant ordnance, and the nearer clamor of
the trumpets; amidst the shouts of pursuivant and herald —
“Largesse! largesse! notre trez noble, et trez puissant roi!”
— and the acclamations of the populace, the diadem of Clovis
was placed upon his sunny curls! Barons and vassals, high
and powerful, swore on the crosses of their heavy swords,
against all foes ever to succor and maintain his cause, so help
them Heaven and their fair ladies; and damsels waved their
kerchiefs, and their sendal veils, with beaming smiles of exultation
from the carved galleries aloft.

Tears — tears of gratitude and happiness — gushed torrent-like

from the eyes of the victorious maiden. She flung herself
before the knees of the young monarch, whom she alone
had seated on the throne of his high ancestors; she clasped
his ankles with her mail-clad arms, and watering his very feet
with streams of heartfelt joy — “My task,” she cried, “my
task is ended! — my race is run! — my victory accomplished!
For this, and for this only have I lived, and for this am I content
to die! For this do I thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast
suffered thy servant to perform her duties and thy bidding!
and now that thy behest is done, bending before thine imperial
throne the knees of her heart, thy servant doth implore thy
grace for this thy well-beloved son, and that in peace thou
wilt permit her to depart, an humble peasant-maiden to the valley
of her birth, and the home of her untroubled innocence!”

“Never,” cried the monarch, touched beyond the power of
expression by this revelation of deep feeling — “never, my
friend, my more than friend — my hope and my deliverance!
As thou hast won for me this throne, so teach me now to
grace it! As thou hast set upon my head this kingly crown,
so guard it for me now! Oh! never speak of quitting me,
thou — thou to whom I owe my kingdom and my crown, and,
more than all, my country and my country's freedom!”

“Maiden, it must not be,” the grave Dunois burst, as he
spoke, into the greatest animation; “it must not be! The
victory is but half achieved. If thou shouldst leave us now
all will be lost. Stay, virtuous and holy one, stay and accomplish
thou what thou alone canst furnish! Dunois approves,
yet deprecates thy resolution! In the shades of Vaucouleurs
lies humble happiness, but honor calls thee to the field of
strenuous exertion! Choose between happiness and honor,
thou!”

“Thou, too,” she answered, “noble Dunois; thou, too?
Then to my fate I yield me! If I shall buckle blade again,

France shall, indeed, be free; but Joan shall never see that
freedom. Said I not long ago that Joan of Are should, in a
few brief months, be Joan of Orleans, and thereafter Joan of
Rheims? Lo! she who said it then, saith now — hear it,
knights, paladins, and princes — hear the last prophecy of
Joan: — France shall be free, but never shall these eyes behold
its freedom! Dunois hath called her to the choice —
the choice 'twixt happiness and honor! Lo! it is made.
Honor through life — ay, and to death itself, still bright, untarnished,
everlasting honor!”