Noel and I remained always together, and I was by his side when death claimed him.  It was in the last great battle of the war.  In that battle fell also Joan’s sturdy old enemy Talbot.  He was eighty-five years old, and had spent his whole life in battle.  A fine old lion he was, with his flowing white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and his indestructible energy as well; for he fought as knightly and vigorous a fight that day as the best man there.

La Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always fighting, of course, for that was all he enjoyed in life.  I did not see him in all that time, for we were far apart, but one was always hearing of him.

The Bastard of Orleans and D’Alencon and D’Aulon lived to see France free, and to testify with Jean and Pierre d’Arc and Pasquerel and me at the Rehabilitation.  But they are all at rest now, these many years.  I alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan of Arc in the great wars.

She said I would live until those wars were forgotten—­a prophecy which failed.  If I should live a thousand years it would still fail.  For whatsoever had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.

Members of Joan’s family married, and they have left descendants.  Their descendants are of the nobility, but their family name and blood bring them honors which no other nobles receive or may hope for.  You have seen how everybody along the way uncovered when those children came yesterday to pay their duty to me.  It was not because they are noble, it is because they are grandchildren of the brothers of Joan of Arc.

Now as to the Rehabilitation.  Joan crowned the King at Rheims.  For reward he allowed her to be hunted to her death without making one effort to save her.  During the next twenty-three years he remained indifferent to her memory; indifferent to the fact that her good name was under a damning blot put there by the priest because of the deeds which she had done in saving him and his scepter; indifferent to the fact that France was ashamed, and longed to have the Deliverer’s fair fame restored.  Indifferent all that time.  Then he suddenly changed and was anxious to have justice for poor Joan himself.  Why?  Had he become grateful at last?  Had remorse attacked his hard heart?  No, he had a better reason—­a better one for his sort of man.  This better reason was that, now that the English had been finally expelled from the country, they were beginning to call attention to the fact that this King had gotten his crown by the hands of a person proven by the priests to have been in league with Satan and burned for it by them as a sorceress—­therefore, of what value or authority was such a Kingship as that?  Of no value at all; no nation could afford to allow such a king to remain on the throne.

It was high time to stir now, and the King did it.  That is how Charles VII. came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done the memory of his benefactress.