Such things make a life of bitterness, and I do not
wish to dwell upon them. The effect of the poem
was spoiled.
This episode disagreed with me and I was
not able to leave my bed the next day. The others
were in the same condition. But for this, one
or another of us might have had the good luck that
fell to the Paladin’s share that day; but it
is observable that God in His compassion sends the
good luck to such as are ill equipped with gifts, as
compensation for their defect, but requires such as
are more fortunately endowed to get by labor and talent
what those others get by chance. It was Noel who
said this, and it seemed to me to be well and justly
thought.
The Paladin, going about the town all the day in order
to be followed and admired and overhear the people
say in an awed voice, “’Ssh! —look,
it is the Standard-Bearer of Joan of Arc!” had
speech with all sorts and conditions of folk, and
he learned from some boatmen that there was a stir
of some kind going on in the bastilles on the other
side of the river; and in the evening, seeking further,
he found a deserter from the fortress called the “Augustins,”
who said that the English were going to send me over
to strengthen the garrisons on our side during the
darkness of the night, and were exulting greatly,
for they meant to spring upon Dunois and the army
when it was passing the bastilles and destroy it; a
thing quite easy to do, since the “Witch”
would not be there, and without her presence the army
would do like the French armies of these many years
past—drop their weapons and run when they
saw an English face.
It was ten at night when the Paladin brought this
news and asked leave to speak to Joan, and I was up
and on duty then. It was a bitter stroke to me
to see what a chance I had lost. Joan made searching
inquiries, and satisfied herself that the word was
true, then she made this annoying remark:
“You have done well, and you have my thanks.
It may be that you have prevented a disaster.
Your name and service shall receive official mention.”
Then he bowed low, and when he rose he was eleven
feet high. As he swelled out past me he covertly
pulled down the corner of his eye with his finger
and muttered part of that defiled refrain, “Oh,
tears, ah, tears, oh, sad sweet tears!—name
in General Orders—personal mention to the
King, you see!”
I wished Joan could have seen his conduct, but she
was busy thinking what she would do. Then she
had me fetch the knight Jean de Metz, and in a minute
he was off for La Hire’s quarters with orders
for him and the Lord de Villars and Florent d’Illiers
to report to her at five o’clock next morning
with five hundred picked men well mounted. The
histories say half past four, but it is not true,
I heard the order given.
