The first part of the speech sent a glow of delight
to Joan’s face, but the end of it quenched it
and she looked sad, and the tears gathered in her
eyes. After a moment she spoke out with what seemed
a sort of terrified impulse, and said:
“Oh, use me; I beseech you, use me—there
is but little time!”
“But little time?”
“Only a year—I shall last only a
year.”
“Why, child, there are fifty good years in that
compact little body yet.”
“Oh, you err, indeed you do. In one little
year the end will come. Ah, the time is so short,
so short; the moments are flying, and so much to be
done. Oh, use me, and quickly—it is
life or death for France.”
Even those insects were sobered by her impassioned
words. The King looked very grave—grave,
and strongly impressed. His eyes lit suddenly
with an eloquent fire, and he rose and drew his sword
and raised it aloft; then he brought it slowly down
upon Joan’s shoulder and said:
“Ah, thou art so simple, so true, so great,
so noble—and by this accolade I join thee
to the nobility of France, thy fitting place!
And for thy sake I do hereby ennoble all thy family
and all thy kin; and all their descendants born in
wedlock, not only in the male but also in the female
line. And more!—more! To distinguish
thy house and honor it above all others, we add a
privilege never accorded to any before in the history
of these dominions: the females of thy line shall
have and hold the right to ennoble their husbands
when these shall be of inferior degree.” [Astonishment
and envy flared up in every countenance when the words
were uttered which conferred this extraordinary grace.
The King paused and looked around upon these signs
with quite evident satisfaction.] “Rise, Joan
of Arc, now and henceforth surnamed Du Lis, in grateful
acknowledgment of the good blow which you have struck
for the lilies of France; and they, and the royal
crown, and your own victorious sword, fit and fair
company for each other, shall be grouped in you escutcheon
and be and remain the symbol of your high nobility
forever.”
As my Lady Du Lis rose, the gilded children of privilege
pressed forward to welcome her to their sacred ranks
and call her by her new name; but she was troubled,
and said these honors were not meet for one of her
lowly birth and station, and by their kind grace she
would remain simple Joan of Arc, nothing more—and
so be called.
Nothing more! As if there could be anything more,
anything higher, anything greater. My Lady Du
Lis—why, it was tinsel, petty, perishable.
But, Joan of arc! The mere sound
of it sets one’s pulses leaping.
