Saint Joan

God may be done in France; and then they will drive the poor goddams before them like sheep. You and Polly will live to see the day when there will not be an English soldier on the soil of France; and there will be but one king there: not the feudal English king, but God’s French one. Robert To Poulengey. This may be all rot, Polly; but the troops might swallow it, though nothing that we can say seems able to put any fight into them. Even the Dauphin might swallow it. And if she can put fight into him, she can put it into anybody. Poulengey I can see no harm in trying. Can you? And there is something about the girl⁠— Robert Turning to Joan. Now listen you to me; and desperately don’t cut in before I have time to think. Joan Plumping down on the stool again, like an obedient schoolgirl. Yes, squire. Robert Your orders are, that you are to go to Chinon under the escort of this gentleman and three of his friends. Joan Radiant, clasping her hands. Oh, squire! Your head is all circled with light, like a saint’s. Poulengey How is she to get into the royal presence? Robert Who has looked up for his halo rather apprehensively. I don’t know: how did she get into my presence? If the Dauphin can keep her out he is a better man than I take him for. Rising. I will send her to Chinon; and she can say I sent her. Then let come what may: I can do no more. Joan And the dress? I may have a soldier’s dress, mayn’t I, squire? Robert Have what you please. I wash my hands of it. Joan Wildly excited by her success. Come, Polly. She dashes out. Robert Shaking Poulengey’s hand. Goodbye, old man, I am taking a big chance. Few other men would have done it. But as you say, there is something about her. Poulengey Yes: there is something about her. Goodbye. He goes out. Robert, still very doubtful whether he has not been made a fool of by a crazy female, and a social inferior to boot, scratches his head and slowly comes back from the door. The steward runs in with a basket. Steward Sir, sir⁠— Robert What now? Steward The hens are laying like mad, sir. Five dozen eggs! Robert Stiffens convulsively; crosses himself; and forms with his pale lips the words. Christ in heaven! Aloud but breathless. She did come from God.

Scene II

Chinon, in Touraine. An end of the throne-room in the castle, curtained off to make an antechamber. The Archbishop of Rheims, close on 50, a full-fed political prelate with nothing of the ecclesiastic about him except his imposing bearing, and the Lord Chamberlain, Monseigneur de la Trémouille, a monstrous arrogant wineskin of a man, are waiting for the Dauphin. There is a door in the wall to the right of the two men. It is late in the afternoon on the 8th of March, 1429. The Archbishop stands with dignity whilst the Chamberlain, on his left, fumes about in the worst of tempers.

La Trémouille	What the devil does the Dauphin mean by keeping us waiting like this? I don’t know how you have the patience to stand there like a stone idol.
The Archbishop	You see, I am an archbishop; and an archbishop is a sort of idol. At any rate he has to learn to keep still and suffer fools patiently. Besides, my dear Lord Chamberlain, it is the Dauphin’s royal privilege to keep you waiting, is it not?
La Trémouille	Dauphin be damned! saving your reverence. Do you know how much money he owes me.
The Archbishop	Much more than he owes me, I have no doubt, because you are a much richer man. But I take it he owes you all you could afford to lend him. That is what he owes me.
La Trémouille	Twenty-seven thousand: that was his last haul. A cool twenty-seven thousand!
The Archbishop	What becomes of it all? He never has a suit of clothes that I would throw to a curate.
La Trémouille	He dines on a chicken or a scrap of mutton. He borrows my last penny; and there is nothing to show for it. A page appears in the doorway. At last!
The Page	No, my lord: it is not His Majesty. Monsieur de Rais is approaching.
La Trémouille	Young Bluebeard! Why announce him?
The Page	Captain La Hire is with him. Something has happened, I think.
	Gilles de Rais, a young man of 25, very smart and self-possessed, and sporting the extravagance of a little curled beard dyed blue at a clean-shaven court, comes in. He is determined to make himself agreeable, but lacks natural joyousness, and is not really pleasant. In fact when he defies the Church some eleven years later he is accused of trying to extract pleasure from horrible cruelties, and hanged. So far, however, there is no shadow of the gallows on him. He advances gaily to the Archbishop. The page withdraws.
Bluebeard	Your faithful lamb, Archbishop. Good day, my lord. Do you know what has happened to La Hire?
La Trémouille	He has sworn himself into a fit, perhaps.
Bluebeard	No: just the opposite. Foul Mouthed Frank, the only man in Touraine who could beat him at swearing, was told by a soldier that he shouldn’t use such language when he was at the point of death.
The Archbishop	Nor at any other point. But was Foul Mouthed Frank on the point of death?
Bluebeard	Yes: he has just fallen into a well and been drowned. La Hire is frightened out of his wits.
	Captain La Hire comes in: a war dog with no court manners and pronounced camp ones.
Bluebeard	I have just been telling the Chamberlain and the Archbishop. The Archbishop says you are a lost man.
La Hire	Striding past Bluebeard, and planting