Saint Joan

soldiers in the yard. Show her the way, you. And shove her along quick. He leaves the window and returns to his place at the table, where he sits magisterially. Steward Whispering. She wants to go and be a soldier herself. She wants you to give her soldier’s clothes. Armor, sir! And a sword! Actually! He steals behind Robert. Joan appears in the turret doorway. She is an ablebodied country girl of 17 or 18, respectably dressed in red, with an uncommon face: eyes very wide apart and bulging as they often do in very imaginative people, a long well-shaped nose with wide nostrils, a short upper lip, resolute but full-lipped mouth, and handsome fighting chin. She comes eagerly to the table, delighted at having penetrated to Baudricourt’s presence at last, and full of hope as to the result. His scowl does not check or frighten her in the least. Her voice is normally a hearty coaxing voice, very confident, very appealing, very hard to resist. Joan Bobbing a curtsey. Good morning, captain squire. Captain: you are to give me a horse and armor and some soldiers, and send me to the Dauphin. Those are your orders from my Lord. Robert Outraged. Orders from your lord! And who the devil may your lord be? Go back to him, and tell him that I am neither duke nor peer at his orders: I am squire of Baudricourt; and I take no orders except from the king. Joan Reassuringly. Yes, squire: that is all right. My Lord is the King of Heaven. Robert Why, the girl’s mad. To the steward. Why didn’t you tell me so, you blockhead? Steward Sir: do not anger her: give her what she wants. Joan Impatient, but friendly. They all say I am mad until I talk to them, squire. But you see that it is the will of God that you are to do what He has put into my mind. Robert It is the will of God that I shall send you back to your father with orders to put you under lock and key and thrash the madness out of you. What have you to say to that? Joan You think you will, squire; but you will find it all coming quite different. You said you would not see me; but here I am. Steward Appealing. Yes, sir. You see, sir. Robert Hold your tongue, you. Steward Abjectly. Yes, sir. Robert To Joan, with a sour loss of confidence. So you are presuming on my seeing you, are you? Joan Sweetly. Yes, squire. Robert Feeling that he has lost ground, brings down his two fists squarely on the table, and inflates his chest imposingly to cure the unwelcome and only too familiar sensation. Now listen to me. I am going to assert myself. Joan Busily. Please do, squire. The horse will cost sixteen francs. It is a good deal of money; but I can save it on the armor. I can find a soldier’s armor that will fit me well enough: I am very hardy; and I do not need beautiful armor made to my measure like you wear. I shall not want many soldiers: the Dauphin will give me all I need to raise the siege of Orleans. Robert Flabbergasted. To raise the siege of Orleans! Joan Simply. Yes, squire: that is what God is sending me to do. Three men will be enough for you to send with me if they are good men and gentle to me. They have promised to come with me. Polly and Jack and⁠— Robert Polly!! You impudent baggage, do you dare call squire Bertrand de Poulengey Polly to my face? Joan His friends call him so, squire: I did not know he had any other name. Jack⁠— Robert That is Monsieur John of Metz, I suppose? Joan Yes, squire. Jack will come willingly: he is a very kind gentleman, and gives me money to give to the poor. I think John Godsave will come, and Dick the Archer, and their servants John of Honecourt and Julian. There will be no trouble for you, squire: I have arranged it all: you have only to give the order. Robert Contemplating her in a stupor of amazement. Well, I am damned! Joan With muffled sweetness. No, squire: God is very merciful; and the blessed saints Catherine and Margaret, who speak to me every day he gapes, will intercede for you. You will go to paradise; and your name will be remembered forever as my first helper. Robert To the steward, still much bothered, but changing his tone as he pursues a new clue. Is this true about Monsieur de Poulengey? Steward Eagerly. Yes, sir, and about Monsieur de Metz too. They both want to go with her. Robert Thoughtful. Mf! He goes to the window, and shouts into the courtyard. Hallo! You there: send Monsieur de Poulengey to me, will you? He turns to Joan. Get out; and wait in the yard. Joan Smiling brightly at him. Right, squire. She goes out. Robert To the steward. Go with her, you, you dithering imbecile. Stay within call; and keep your eye on her. I shall have her up here again. Steward Do so in God’s name, sir. Think of those hens, the best layers in Champagne; and⁠— Robert Think of my boot; and take your backside out of reach of it. The steward retreats hastily and finds himself confronted in the doorway by Bertrand de Poulengey, a lymphatic French gentleman-at-arms, aged 36 or thereabout, employed in the department of the provost-marshal, dreamily absentminded, seldom speaking unless spoken to, and then slow and obstinate in reply: altogether in contrast to the self-assertive, loud-mouthed, superficially energetic, fundamentally will-less Robert. The steward makes way for him, and vanishes. Poulengey salutes, and stands awaiting orders. Robert Genially. It isn’t service, Polly. A friendly talk. Sit down. He hooks the stool from under the table with