Part 20 (1/2)

It had become reality--perhaps in that old day it even _seemed_ reality--but now, after five hundred years, it has become once more a dream--to-day _our_ dream--and in the filmy picture we see the shepherd girl on her knees, saying to the crowned king:

”My work which was given me to do is finished; give me your peace and let me go back to my mother, who is poor and old and has need of me.”

But the king raises her up and praises her and confers upon her n.o.bility and t.i.tles, and asks her to name a reward for her service, and in the old dream we hear her ask favor for her village--that Domremy, ”poor and hard pressed by reason of the war,” may have its taxes remitted.

Nothing for herself--no more than that, and in the presence of all the great a.s.semblage Charles VII p.r.o.nounces the decree that, by grace of Joan of Arc, Domremy shall be free from taxes forever.

Here within these walls it was all reality five hundred years ago. We do not study this interior to discover special art values or to distinguish in what manner it differs from others we have seen. For us the light from its great rose window and upper arches is glorified because once it fell upon Joan of Arc in that supreme moment when she saw her labor finished and asked only that she might return to Domremy and her flocks.

The statuary in the niches are holy because they looked upon that scene, the altar paving is sanctified because it felt the pressure of her feet.

We wandered about the great place, but we came back again and again to the altar, and, looking through the railing, dreamed once more of that great moment when a frail shepherd girl began anew the history of France.

Back of the altar was a statue of Joan unlike any we have seen elsewhere, and to us more beautiful. It was not Joan with her banner aloft, her eyes upward. It was Joan with her eyes lowered, looking at no outward thing, her face pa.s.sive--the saddest face and the saddest eyes in the world. It was Joan the sacrifice--of her people and her king.

Chapter x.x.xI

ALONG THE MARNE

It may have been two miles out of Rheims that we met the flood. There had been a heavy shower as we entered the city, but presently the sun broke out, bright and hot, too bright and too hot for permanence. Now suddenly all was black again, there was a roar of thunder, and then such an opening of the water gates of the sky as would have disturbed Noah.

There was no thought of driving through such a torrent. I pulled over to the side of the road, but the tall high-trimmed trees afforded no protection. Our top was a shelter, but not a complete one--the wind drove the water in, and in a moment our umbrellas were sticking out in every direction, and we had huddled together like chickens. The water seemed to fall solidly. The world was blotted out. I had the feeling at moments that we were being swept down some great submarine current.

I don't know how long the inundation lasted. It may have been five minutes--it may have been thirty. Then suddenly it stopped--it was over--the sun was out!

There was then no mud in France--not in the high-roads--and a moment or two later we had revived, our engine was going, and we were gliding between fair fields--fresh s.h.i.+ning fields where scarlet poppy patches were as pools of blood. There is no lovelier land than the Marne district, from Rheims to Chalons and to Vitry-le-Francois. It had often been a war district--a battle ground, fought over time and again since the ancient allies defeated Attila and his Huns there, checking the purpose of the ”Scourge of G.o.d,” as he styled himself, to found a new dynasty upon the wreck of Rome. It could never be a battle ground again, we thought--the great nations were too advanced for war. Ah me! Within two months from that day men were lying dead across that very road, sh.e.l.ls were tearing at the lovely fields, and another stain had mingled with the trampled poppies.

Chalons-sur-Marne, like Rheims and epernay, is a champagne center and prosperous. There were some churches there, but they did not seem of great importance. We stopped for water at Vitry-le-Francois, a hot, uninteresting-looking place, though it had played a part in much history, and would presently play a part in much more. It was always an outpost against vandal incursions from the north, and Francis I rebuilt and strengthened it.

At Vitry we left the Marne and kept the wide road eastward, for we were bound now for the Vosges, for Domremy on the Meuse, Joan's starting place. The sun burned again, the road got hot, and suddenly during the afternoon one of our tires went off like a gun.

One of our old shoes had blown out at the rim, and there was a doubtful look about the others. Narcissa and I labored in the hot sun--for there was no shade from those slim roadside poplars--and with inside patches and outside patches managed to get in traveling order again, though personally we were pretty limp by the time we were ready to move, and a good deal disheartened. The prospect of reaching Vevey, our base of supplies, without laying up somewhere to order new tires was not bright, and it became even less so that evening, when in front of the hotel at St. Dizier another tire pushed out at the rim, and in the gathering dusk, surrounded by an audience, I had to make further repairs before I could get into the garage.

Early next morning I gave those tires all a pretty general overhauling.

I put in blow-out patches wherever there seemed to be a weak place and doubled them at the broken spots. By the time I got done we were carrying in our tires all the extra rubber and leather and general aid-to-the-injured stuff that had formerly been under the back seat, and I was obliged to make a trip around to the supply garages for more.

Fortunately the weather had changed overnight, and it was cool. Old tires and even new ones hold better on cool roads.

It turned still cooler as we proceeded--it became chilly--for the Fourth of July it was winterish. At Chalons we had expended three whole francs for a bottle of champagne for celebration purposes, and when we made our luncheon camp in a sheltered cover of a pretty meadow where there was a clear, racing brook, we were too cold to sit down, and drank standing a toast to our national independence, and would have liked more of that delicious liquid warmth, regardless of cost. There could hardly have been a more beautiful spot than that, but I do not remember any place where we were less inclined to linger.

Yet how quickly weather can change. Within an hour it was warm again--not hot, but mildly pleasant, even delightful.

Chapter x.x.xII

DOMREMY

We were well down in the Vosges now and beginning to inquire for Domremy. How strange it seemed to be actually making inquiries for a place that always before had been just a part of an old legend--a half-mythical story of a little girl who, tending her sheep, had heard the voices of angels. One had the feeling that there could never really be such a place at all, that, even had it once existed, it must have vanished long ago; that to ask the way to it now would be like those who in some old fairy tale come back after ages of enchantment and inquire for places and people long forgotten. Domremy! No, it was not possible.