From the “History of France.”

THE GREAT English people, with so many good and solid qualities, is infected by one vice, which corrupts these very qualities themselves. This rooted, all-poisoning vice is pride; a cruel disease, but which is, nevertheless, the principle of English life, the explanation of its contradictions, the secret of its acts. With them, virtue or crime is almost ever the result of pride; even their follies have no other source. This pride is sensitive, and easily pained in the extreme; they are great sufferers from it, and again make it a point of pride to conceal these sufferings. Nevertheless, they will have vent. The two expressive words, Disappointment and Mortification, are peculiar to the English language.

  This self-adoration, this internal worship of the creature for its own sake, is the sin by which Satan fell; the height of impiety. This is the reason that with so many of the virtues of humanity, with their seriousness and sobriety of demeanor, and with their biblical turn of mind, no nation is further off from grace. They are the only people who have been unable to claim the authorship of the “Imitation of Jesus”: a Frenchman might write it, a German, an Italian, never an Englishman. From Shakespeare to Milton, from Milton to Byron, their beautiful and sombre literature is skeptical, Judaical, satanic,—in a word, antichristian. “As regards law,” as a jurist well says, “the English are Jews, the French Christians.” A theologian might express himself in the same manner as regards faith. The American Indians, with that penetration and originality they so often exhibit, expressed this distinction in their fashion. “Christ,” said one of them, “was a Frenchman whom the English crucified in London; Pontius Pilate was an officer in the service of Great Britain.”

  The Jews never exhibited the rage against Jesus which the English did against the Pucelle. It must be owned that she had wounded them cruelly in the most sensible part—in the simple but deep esteem they have for themselves. At Orléans, the invincible men-at-arms, the famous archers, Talbot at their head, had shown their backs; at Jargeau, sheltered by the good walls of a fortified town, they had suffered themselves to be taken; at Patay, they had fled as fast as their legs would carry them,—fled before a girl…. This was hard to be borne, and these taciturn English were forever pondering over the disgrace…. They had been afraid of a girl, and it was not very certain but that, chained as she was, they felt fear of her still,… though, seemingly, not of her, but of the Devil, whose agent she was. At least, they endeavored both to believe and to have it believed so….

  It was nine o’clock, she was dressed in female attire, and placed on a cart. On one side of her was brother Martin l’Advenu; the constable, Massieu, was on the other. The Augustine monk, brother Isambart, who had already displayed such charity and courage, would not quit her. It is stated that the wretched Loyseleur also ascended the cart to ask her pardon; but for the Earl of Warwick, the English would have killed him.

  Up to this moment the Pucelle had never despaired, with the exception, perhaps, of her temptation in the Passion week. While saying, as she at times would say, “These English will kill me,” she in reality did not think so. She did not imagine that she could ever be deserted. She had faith in her king, in the good people of France. She had said expressly, “There will be some disturbance either in prison or at the trial, by which I shall be delivered,—greatly, victoriously delivered.” But though king and people deserted her, she had another source of aid, and a far more powerful and certain one, from her friends above, her kind and dear saints. When she was assaulting Saint-Pierre, and deserted by her followers, her saints sent an invisible army to her aid. How could they abandon their obedient girl, they who had so often promised her safety and deliverance?

  What then must her thoughts have been when she saw that she must die; when, carried in a cart, she passed through a trembling crowd, under the guard of eight hundred Englishmen armed with sword and lance? She wept and bemoaned herself, yet reproached neither her king nor her saints. She was only heard to utter, “O Rouen, Rouen! must I then die here?”

  The term of her sad journey was the old market place, the fish market. Three scaffolds had been raised: on one was the Episcopal and royal chair, the throne of the Cardinal of England, surrounded by the stalls of his prelates; on another were to figure the principal personages of the mournful drama, the preacher, the judges, and the bailli, and, lastly, the condemned one; apart was a large scaffolding of plaster, groaning under a weight of wood—nothing had been grudged the stake, which struck terror by its height alone. This was not only to add to the solemnity of the execution, but was done with the intent that from the height to which it was reared, the executioner might not get at it save at the base, and that to light it only, so that he would be unable to cut short the torments and relieve the sufferer as he did with others, sparing them the flames. On this occasion, the important point was that justice should not be defrauded of her due, or a dead body be committed to the flames; they desired that she should be really burned alive, and that placed on the summit of this mountain of wood, and commanding the circle of lances and of swords, she might be seen from every part of the market place. There was reason to suppose that being slowly, tediously burned before the eyes of a curious crowd, she might at last be surprised into some weakness, that something might escape her which could be set down as a disavowal, at the least some confused words which might be interpreted at pleasure,—perhaps low prayers, humiliating cries for mercy, such as proceed from a woman in despair….

  The frightful ceremony began with a sermon. Master Nicolas Midy, one of the lights of the University of Paris, preached upon the edifying text: “When one limb of the Church is sick, the whole Church is sick.” This poor Church could only be cured by cutting off a limb. He wound up with the formula: “Jeanne, go in peace, the Church can no longer defend thee.”

  The ecclesiastical judge, the Bishop of Beauvais, then benignly exhorted her to take care of her soul and to recall all her misdeeds, in order that she might awaken to true repentance. The assessors had ruled that it was the law to read over her abjuration to her; the bishop did nothing of the sort. He feared her denials, her disclaimers. But the poor girl had no thoughts of so chicaning away life: her mind was fixed on far other subjects. Even before she was exhorted to repentance, she had knelt down and invoked God, the Virgin, St. Michael, and St. Catherine, pardoning all and asking pardon, saying to the bystanders, “Pray for me!” In particular, she besought the priests to say each a mass for her soul. And all this so devoutly, humbly, and touchingly, that sympathy becoming contagious, no one could any longer contain himself; the Bishop of Beauvais melted into tears, the Bishop of Boulogne sobbed, and the very English cried and wept as well, Winchester with the rest.

  Might it be in this moment of universal tenderness, of tears, of contagious weakness, that the unhappy girl softened, and, relapsing into the mere woman, confessed that she saw clearly she had erred, and that apparently she had been deceived when promised deliverance. This is a point on which we cannot implicitly rely on the interested testimony of the English. Nevertheless, it would betray scant knowledge of human nature to doubt, with her hopes so frustrated, her having wavered in her faith. Whether she confessed to this effect in words is uncertain; but I will confidently affirm that she owned it in thought.

  Meanwhile the judges, for a moment put out of countenance, had recovered their usual bearing, and the Bishop of Beauvais, drying his eyes, began to read the act of condemnation. He reminded the guilty one of all her crimes, of her schism, idolatry, invocation of demons, how she had been admitted to repentance, and how, “seduced by the prince of lies, she had fallen, O grief! like the dog which returns to his vomit. Therefore, we pronounce you to be a rotten limb, and as such to be lopped off from the Church. We deliver you over to the secular power, praying it at the same time to relax its sentence, and to spare you death and the mutilation of your members.”

  Deserted thus by the Church, she put her whole trust in God. She asked for the cross. An Englishman handed her a cross which he made out of a stick; she took it, rudely fashioned as it was, with not less devotion, kissed it, and placed it under her garments next to her skin. But what she desired was the crucifix belonging to the Church, to have it before her eyes till she breathed her last. The good huissier Massieu and brother Isambart, interfered with such effect that it was brought her from St. Sauveur’s. While she was embracing this crucifix, and brother Isambart was encouraging her, the English began to think all this exceedingly tedious; it was now noon at least; the soldiers grumbled and the captains called out, “What’s this, priest; do you mean us to dine here?” Then, losing patience, and without waiting for the order from the bailli, who alone had authority to dismiss her to death, they sent two constables to take her out of the hands of the priests. She was seized at the foot of the tribunal by the men-at-arms, who dragged her to the executioner with the words, “Do thy office.” The fury of the soldiery filled all present with horror; and many there, even of the judges, fled the spot that they might see no more.

  When she found herself brought down to the market place, surrounded by English, laying rude hands on her, nature asserted her rights, and the flesh was troubled. Again she cried out, “O Rouen, thou art then to be my last abode?” She said no more, and, in this hour of fear and trouble, did not sin with her lips.

  She accused neither her king nor her holy ones. But when she set foot on the top of the pile, on viewing this great city, this motionless and silent crowd, she could not refrain from exclaiming, “Ah! Rouen, Rouen, much do I fear you will suffer from my death!” She who had saved the people, and whom that people deserted, gave voice to no other sentiment when dying (admirable sweetness of soul!) than that of compassion for it.

  She was made fast under the infamous placard, mitred with a mitre on which was read: “Heretic, relapser, apostate, idolater.” And then the executioner set fire to the pile. She saw this from above and uttered a cry. Then as the brother who was exhorting her paid no attention to the fire, forgetting herself in her fear for him, she insisted on his descending….

  Meanwhile the flames rose. When they first seized her, the unhappy girl shrieked for holy water—this must have been the cry of fear. But soon recovering, she called only on God, on her angels and her saints. She bore witness to them: “Yes, my voices were from God, my voices have not deceived me.” The fact that all her doubts vanished at this trying moment must be taken as a proof that she accepted death as the promised deliverance; that she no longer understood her salvation in the Judaic and material sense, as until now she had done; that at length she saw clearly; and that rising above all shadows, her gifts of illumination and of sanctity were at the final hour made perfect unto her….

  “Ten thousand men wept.” A few of the English alone laughed, or endeavored to laugh. One of the most furious among them had sworn that he would throw a fagot on the pile. Just as he brought it, she breathed her last. He was taken ill. His comrades led him to a tavern to recruit his spirits by drink, but he was beyond recovery. “I saw,” he exclaimed, in his frantic despair, “I saw a dove fly out of her mouth with her last sigh.” Others had read in the flames the word “Jesus,” which she so often repeated. The executioner repaired in the evening to brother Isambart, full of consternation, and confessed himself; but felt persuaded that God would never pardon him…. One of the English king’s secretaries said aloud, on returning from the dismal scene, “We are lost; we have burned a saint.”

  Though these words fell from an enemy’s mouth, they are not the less important, and will live, uncontradicted by the future. Yes, whether considered religiously or patriotically, Jeanne d’Arc was a saint….

  There have been many martyrs; history shows us numberless ones, more or less pure, more or less glorious. Pride has had its martyrs; so have hate and the spirit of controversy. No age has been without martyrs militant, who no doubt died with a good grace when they could no longer kill. Such fanatics are irrelevant to our subject. The sainted girl is not of them; she had a sign of her own—goodness, charity, sweetness of soul.

  She had the sweetness of the ancient martyrs, but with a difference. The first Christians remained gentle and pure only by shunning action, by sparing themselves the struggles and the trials of the world. Jeanne was gentle in the roughest struggle, good amongst the bad, pacific in war itself; she bore into war (that triumph of the devil) the spirit of God.

  She took up arms, when she knew “the pity for the kingdom of France.” She could not bear to see “French blood flow.” This tenderness of heart she showed towards all men. After a victory she would weep and would attend to the wounded English.

  Purity, sweetness, heroic goodness—that this supreme beauty of the soul should have centred in a daughter of France may surprise foreigners who choose to judge of our nation by the levity of its manners alone. We may tell them (and without partiality, as we speak of circumstances so long since past) that under this levity, and in the midst of its follies and its very vices, old France was not styled without reason, the most Christian people. They were certainly the people of love and of grace; and whether we understand this humanly or Christianly, in either sense it will ever hold good.

  The savior of France could be no other than a woman. France herself was woman; having her nobility, but her amiable sweetness likewise, her prompt and charming pity; at the least, possessing the virtue of quickly-excited sympathies. And though she might take pleasure in vain elegances and external refinements, she remained at bottom closer to nature. The Frenchman, even when vicious, preserved, beyond the man of every other nation, good sense and goodness of heart.

  May new France never forget the saying of old France: “Great hearts alone understand how much glory there is in being good!” To be and to keep so, amidst the injuries of man and the severity of Providence, is not the gift of a happy nature alone, but it is strength and heroism. To preserve sweetness and benevolence in the midst of so many bitter disputes, to pass through a life’s experiences without suffering them to touch this internal treasure—is divine. They who persevere, and so go on to the end, are the true elect. And though they may even at times have stumbled in the difficult path of the world, amidst their falls, their weaknesses and their infancies, they will not the less remain children of God!