by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER II.
IN THE DUNGEON.
IT IS STILL night. A lamp feebly lights a dark subterraneous cell in the old donjon of the Castle of Rouen. The cell is a semi-circular cave. Its greenish walls ooze with the moisture of winter. A narrow window, furnished with an enormous iron bar is cut in a stone wall six feet thick. Opposite the airhole and under a vaulted passage is a massive door studded with iron and pierced with a grated wicket always kept open. A wooden box filled with straw lies to the left of the door; a long chain that is soldered in the wall and the other end of which is fastened to a heavy iron belt, now open, lies on the straw. At one end of the box, that is to serve as a bed, rises a beam so contrived as to hold fast the feet of the girl prisoner that is soon to be conveyed thither. A trunk, a stool, a table, the sorrowful furniture of a prisoner’s cell, are barely distinguishable by the light of the lamp. Opposite this straw bed is another, furnished exactly like the first. On it lies Canon Loyseleur, in chains. He has just said a few words to the jailer John, an English soldier in burly middle age, who wears an old fur coat, and whose low and savage face is bloated by excessive indulgence in wine and strong liquors. His thick long beard, unkempt like his hair, falls down upon his chest. A cutlass hangs at his side. Presently another man of hang-dog looks pushes open the door and says to John:
“Come, quick. Here is the witch!”
The jailer goes out precipitately, makes a sign of intelligence to the canon and carries the lamp out. The canon stretches himself on the straw and pretends to sleep. The door is double locked on the outside. The weak light of approaching dawn, so pale in those winter days, filters through the airhole of the cell, yet leaves the interior in substantial darkness. The bed occupied by the canon lies completely in the shadow. The scene is about to begin.
Again the heavy door grates on its hinges. Joan Darc enters preceded by John. He casts a savage look upon her. Two other jailers, also armed, follow their chief. One of them has a hammer and shears in his hands, the other carries on his shoulder a small box containing some clothes that belong to the prisoner. Joan is hardly recognizable. Since her prolonged sojourn in a succession of prisons, the fresh color of the child of the fields or of the martial maid always living in the open has disappeared. Her beautiful face, now furrowed with suffering and worn with sorrow, is of a sickly hue. A bitter smile contracts her lips. Her appearance is sad yet proud. Her black eyes seem enlarged through the hollowness of her cheeks. She wears a woman’s felt hat, a brown tunic and tight hose fastened with hooks to her shirt. The laces of her leather shoes are hidden under two large iron rings held together by a chain that is hardly long enough to allow her to walk. Close manacles hold her hands together. Her clothes, worn out and tattered by her journey, are ripped at the elbows and allow glimpses of a coarse shirt. The English soldiers charged to guard the heroine have received orders not to lose sight of her night or day, and to sleep in her room during the few halts that were made. As her chastity would not allow her to undress in their presence, she has not removed her clothes for a whole month.
John orders his aides to unchain the prisoner and to fasten her firmly to the straw bed. They approach her with an insolence that is not unmixed with fear. In their eyes she is a witch. They are always in fear of some sorcery. Nevertheless they first place around her waist the heavy iron belt, lock it, and give the key to John. The length of the chain, that is fastened at the other end to the wall, barely allows her to sit down or stretch herself out upon the litter. Being thus secured to her new fastenings, one of the jailers begins to remove her traveling irons. With a hammer he strikes a chisel which he applied to the jointure of the manacles and these drop from Joan’s sore wrists. With a sigh of relief she stretches out her aching and swollen arms. Her feet are then unchained, to be immediately secured in the rings at the end of the chain that is fastened to the beam at the foot of the litter, on which, worn out with fatigue and broken with sadness, the martial maid drops in a sitting posture and covers her face with her hands.
John orders his men out and casts a knowing look at Canon Loyseleur. The latter has not yet been noticed by the prisoner, as he crouches in a corner that lies wholly in the dark. The jailer goes out and locks the door. Through the wicket the iron casques of the two sentinels, posted on the outside, are seen passing and repassing. Invisible in the thick darkness, which the feeble light that filters through the airhole is unable to dispel, the canon holds his breath and observes Joan. With her face in her hands, she remains profoundly absorbed in her own thoughts — painful, heartrending thoughts. She indulges in no false hopes. Charles VII has abandoned her to her executioners. For some time she had known the egotism, cowardice and ingratitude of the prince. Twice she had wished to leave him to his fate, indignant and shocked at his cowardice. But out of patriotism she had resigned herself to cover him with her glory, knowing that in the eyes of the people France was personified in the King. This notwithstanding, the heroine at first expected that the prince would endeavor to save her. He owed everything to her, only from him could she expect some degree of pity. Enlightened by so many evidences on the envy and hatred that the captains pursued her with, she in no way counted with help from that quarter; after so many attempts at infamous treason, they had finally succeeded in delivering her to the English before Compiegne. For a moment, in the innocence of her heart, she expected aid from the charity of the clergy, the bishops who at Poitiers declared that Charles VII could with a safe conscience accept the unexpected aid that she brought him in the name of God. She hoped for the intervention of the ecclesiastics who were so anxious to admit her, to communion and to confession, who sang her praises, and who, with all the pomp of the church, celebrated the feast of the 8th of May, a commemorative anniversary of the raising of the siege of Orleans, a religious solemnity ordered by the bishop of the diocese, which comprised an imposing procession of the clergy, who marched at the head of the councilmen, holding wax candles in their hands, and made its pious stations at the several spots that had been the theater of the glorious deeds of the Maid.
But Joan now no longer indulged in false hopes. The clergy, like the King, abandoned her to her executioners. Other priests of Christ would judge and condemn her. The English who brought her in chains often told her on the route: “You are going to be burned, witch! We have priests in Rouen who will send you to the pyre!”
Convinced by these words that she need expect neither mercy nor justice from the ecclesiastical tribunal before which she was about to be arraigned, and overpowered by the bitter disillusionment, the recollections of which stabbed her heart without souring her angelic spirit, Joan asked herself in a perplexity of doubt, why did the Lord forsake her, her the instrument of His divine will? Her who was ever obedient to the saintly voices that she heard so distinctly, and that since her captivity still repeated to her: “Go, daughter of God! Fear not — submit meekly to your martyrdom. You have fulfilled your duty — heaven is with you!”
And yet heaven delivered her to the English, her implacable enemies!
And yet the priests of the Lord were impatient, it was told her on all hands, to sentence her to the flames!
These contradictions profoundly troubled the prisoner. Often she was overcome with sadness, whenever she thought of her uncompleted mission — the soil of Gaul was not yet completely delivered from the foreign rule!
Such are the thoughts of Joan at this hour when, with her face hidden in her hands, she sits on the straw of her cell, and is yet ignorant of the presence of Canon Loyseleur. Suddenly the girl trembles with surprise, almost fright. From the midst of the darkness at the opposite side she hears a compassionate voice addressing her, and the following dialogue ensues:
Canon Loyseleur— “Raise your head, virgin! The Lord will not forsake you! He watches over you!”
Joan Darc— “Who is speaking to me?”
Canon Loyseleur (rising on the straw)— “Who speaks to you? A poor old priest — a good Christian and royalist — a victim t
o his loyalty, to his faith, and to his King — crimes that the English do not pardon. For more than a year have I lived chained in this dungeon, and have asked but one favor of my Creator — to be recalled to Him! Alack! I have suffered so much! But I forget my sufferings since I am permitted to behold the holy maid, the virgin inspired by heaven, vanquisher of the English, deliverer of Gaul! May her name be glorified!”
Joan Darc (tenderly)— “Not so loud, my Father! You might be heard. I fear not for myself, but I fear for your sake the anger of the jailers.”
Canon Loyseleur (with exaltation and a ringing voice)— “What can the English, whom I abhor, these enemies of our beloved country, do to me? I pray God to send me martyrdom, if He thinks me worthy of such a glorious aureola!”
John (appearing at the wicket and affecting rage)— “If you keep on screaming like that, I shall have you whipped till you bleed!”
Canon Loyseleur (with greater exaltation)— “Hack my limbs to pieces! Tear my scalp from my skull, ferocious beast! Unto death shall I cry: ‘Glory to God — Long live King Charles VII! Anathema upon the English!’”
John (still at the wicket)— “The captain of the tower will soon be here. I shall notify him of the danger there is in leaving you in the same cell with that witch, with whom you might enter into wicked machinations, you tonsured devil! But if you continue to scream, your flesh will be flayed!” (He withdraws from the wicket.)
Canon Loyseleur (shaking his chains)— “Heathen! Criminal! Idolater! You will burn in hell!”
Joan Darc (beseechingly)— “Good Father, calm yourself; do not irritate that man. He will remove you from me, if you do. Oh, in my distress, it would be a great consolation to me to hear the word of a priest of our Lord. Do not withdraw your support from me.”
Canon Loyseleur (contritely)— “May God pardon me for having yielded to an impulse of anger! I would regret the act doubly if it were to cause these wicked men to separate me from you. (In a low voice and feigning to look toward the wicket with fear of being overheard) I have hoped to be useful to you — perhaps to save you — by my advice—”
Joan Darc— “What say you, good Father?”
Canon Loyseleur (still in a low voice)— “I have hoped to be able to give you useful advice in the matter of the process that is to be instituted against you, and keep you from falling into the snares that those unworthy priests will surely spread before you. Those judges are simoniacal, they have been sold to the English. I hoped to be able to admit you to confession and to the ineffable happiness of communion, that you have probably been long deprived of.”
Joan Darc (sighing)— “Since my captivity I have not been able to approach the sacred table!”
Canon Loyseleur— “I have succeeded in concealing from the jailers some consecrated wafers. But so far from reserving the bread of the angels for myself alone, I wished to invite you to the celestial feast!”
Joan Darc (clasping her hands in pious delight)— “Oh, Father! Good Father! How thankful I shall be to you!”
Canon Loyseleur (hurriedly, but in a still lower voice, and casting furtive glances hither and thither)— “Our moments are precious. I may be taken away from here any time. I know not whether I shall ever again see you, holy maid. Give me your full attention. Remember my advice. It may save you. You must know that to-morrow, perhaps to-day, you will be arraigned before an ecclesiastical tribunal on the charges of heresy and witchcraft.”
Joan Darc— “The English who brought me hither a prisoner have announced the tribunal to me. I am to be condemned.”
Canon Loyseleur— “The threat is not idle. Yesterday my jailer said to me: ‘You will soon have Joan the witch as your cell-mate; she is to be tried, sentenced and burned as a magician who sold herself to Satan, and as a heretic’!”
Joan Darc (trembling)— “My God!”
Canon Loyseleur— “What is the matter, my dear daughter? You seem to tremble!”
Joan Darc (with a shiver)— “Oh, Father! May God stand by me! Thanks to Him, I never knew fear! (She covers her face with her hands in terror.) I, burned! Oh, Lord God! Burned! What a frightful death!”
Canon Loyseleur— “You are well justified in your fears. The purpose of the tribunal is to send you to the pyre.”
Joan Darc (in a smothered voice)— “And yet they are priests! What harm have I done them? Why do they persecute me?”
Canon Loyseleur— “Oh, my daughter, do not blaspheme that sacred name of priest by applying it to those tigers who thirst for blood.”
Joan Darc— “Pardon me, Father!”
Canon Loyseleur (in a voice of tender commiseration)— “Sweet and dear child, need you fear a word of blame from my mouth? No, no. It was but a generous impulse of indignation that carried me away against those new Pharisees who conspire to kill you, as their predecessors years ago conspired to kill Jesus our Redeemer! I am a clerk of theology. I know the manner in which such tribunals as you are about to face are wont to proceed. I know your life; the glorious voice of your fame has informed me of your noble deeds.”
Joan Darc (dejectedly)— “Oh, if I had only remained home sewing and spinning. I would not now be in imminent danger of death!”
Canon Loyseleur— “Come, daughter of God, no weakness! Did not the Lord tell you by the voice of two of His saints and of His archangel: ‘Go, daughter of God! Go to the aid of the King. You will deliver Gaul’?”
Joan Darc— “Yes, Father.”
Canon Loyseleur— “As to those voices, did you hear them?”
Joan Darc— “Yes, Father.”
Canon Loyseleur (pressingly)— “You heard them, the sacred voices? With your bodily ears?”
Joan Darc— “As clearly as I hear your voice at this moment.”
Canon Loyseleur— “And you saw your saints? You saw them with your own eyes?”
Joan Darc— “As I see you.”
Canon Loyseleur (delighted)— “Oh, dear daughter! Hold that language before the ecclesiastical tribunal, and you are saved! You will then escape the snare that they will spread before you.”
Joan Darc— “Please explain what you mean, dear Father and protector.”
Canon Loyseleur— “However perverse, however iniquitous these tribunals of blood may be, they are nevertheless composed of men who are clothed with a sacred character. These priests must save appearances towards one another and the public. Your judges will tell you with a confidential and benign air: ‘Joan, you claim to have seen St. Marguerite, St. Catherine and St. Michael, the archangel; you claim to have heard their voices. Can it not have been an illusion of your senses? If so, the senses, due to their grossness, are liable to error. The Church will be slow to impute to you as a crime what may be only a carnal error.’ Now, then, my poor child (the canon’s features are screwed into an expression of anxious concern) if, misled by such insidious language, and thinking to see in it a means of escape, you were to answer: ‘Indeed, I do not affirm that I saw the saints and the archangel, I do not affirm that I heard their voices, but I believe to have seen, I believe to have heard,’ if you should say that, dear and holy child, you will be lost! (Joan makes a motion of terror) This is why: To recoil before the affirmation that you have actually seen and heard, to present the fact in the form of a doubt, would be to draw upon your head the charge of falsehood, blasphemy, and heresy in the highest degree. You would be charged (in an increasingly threatening voice) with having made sport of the most sacred things! You would be charged with having, thanks to such diabolical jugglery, deceived the people by holding yourself out as inspired by God, whom you would be outraging in a most infamous, abominable, impious manner! (In a frightful hollow voice) They would then pronounce upon you a terrible excommunication cutting you off from the Church as a gangrened, rotten, infected limb! You would thereupon be delivered to the secular arm, you would be taken to the pyre and burned alive for a heretic, an apostate, an idolater! The ashes of your body will be cast to the winds!”
Joan Darc, pa
le with fear, utters a piercing cry. She is terrified.
Canon Loyseleur (aside)— “The pyre frightens her. She is ours! (He joins his hands imploringly and points to the wicket where the face of John reappears.) Silence! Joan, my dear daughter, you will ruin us both!”
John (roughly, through the wicket)— “You are still making a noise and screaming! Must I come in and make you behave?”
Canon Loyseleur (brusquely)— “The irons of my poor mate have wounded her. Pain drew from her an involuntary cry.”
John— “She has not yet reached the end! She will scream much louder on the pyre that awaits her, the miserable witch!”
Canon Loyseleur (seeming hardly able to contain his indignation)— “Jailer, have at least the charity of not insulting our distress. Have pity for the poor girl!”
John withdraws grumbling. Joan Darc, overwhelmed with terror, has fallen back upon the straw and represses her sobs. After the jailer’s withdrawal she slightly regains courage, rises partly and the dialogue proceeds:
Joan Darc— “Pardon my weakness, Father. Oh, the mere thought of such a horrible death — the thought of mounting a pyre!” (She does not finish the sentence, and sobs violently.)
Canon Loyseleur— “By placing before you the frightful fate reserved to you, in case you are snared, I wished to put you upon your guard against your enemies.”
Joan Darc (wiping her tears, and in an accent of profound gratitude)— “God will reward you, good Father, for the great pity you show me, a stranger to you.”
Canon Loyseleur— “You are no stranger to me, Joan. I know you are one of the glories of France! The elect of the Lord! Now listen to the rest of what I have to say to you. I am in a hurry to complete my advice before I am dragged away from here. If, deceived by their perfidious suggestions, you should answer your judges that you believe you saw your saints appear before you, that you believe you heard their voices, instead of resolutely affirming that you saw them with your eyes and heard them with your ears, St. Catherine, St. Marguerite and the archangel St. Michael, sent to you by the Lord—”