Saint Joan

wouldn’t believe it. The Archbishop Just so. Well, the Church has to rule men for the good of their souls as you have to rule them for the good of their bodies. To do that, the Church must do as you do: nourish their faith by poetry. La Trémouille Poetry! I should call it humbug. The Archbishop You would be wrong, my friend. Parables are not lies because they describe events that have never happened. Miracles are not frauds because they are often⁠—I do not say always⁠—very simple and innocent contrivances by which the priest fortifies the faith of his flock. When this girl picks out the Dauphin among his courtiers, it will not be a miracle for me, because I shall know how it has been done, and my faith will not be increased. But as for the others, if they feel the thrill of the supernatural, and forget their sinful clay in a sudden sense of the glory of God, it will be a miracle and a blessed one. And you will find that the girl herself will be more affected than anyone else. She will forget how she really picked him out. So, perhaps, will you. La Trémouille Well, I wish I were clever enough to know how much of you is God’s archbishop and how much the most artful fox in Touraine. Come on, or we shall be late for the fun; and I want to see it, miracle or no miracle. The Archbishop Detaining him a moment. Do not think that I am a lover of crooked ways. There is a new spirit rising in men: we are at the dawning of a wider epoch. If I were a simple monk, and had not to rule men, I should seek peace for my spirit with Aristotle and Pythagoras rather than with the saints and their miracles. La Trémouille And who the deuce was Pythagoras? The Archbishop A sage who held that the earth is round, and that it moves round the sun. La Trémouille What an utter fool! Couldn’t he use his eyes? They go out together through the curtains, which are presently withdrawn, revealing the full depth of the throne-room with the Court assembled. On the right are two Chairs of State on a dais. Bluebeard is standing theatrically on the dais, playing the king, and, like the courtiers, enjoying the joke rather obviously. There is a curtained arch in the wall behind the dais; but the main door, guarded by men-at-arms, is at the other side of the room; and a clear path across is kept and lined by the courtiers. Charles is in this path in the middle of the room. La Hire is on his right. The Archbishop, on his left, has taken his place by the dais: La Trémouille at the other side of it. The Duchess de la Trémouille, pretending to be the Queen, sits in the Consort’s chair, with a group of ladies in waiting close by, behind the Archbishop. The chatter of the courtiers makes such a noise that nobody notices the appearance of the page at the door. The Page The Duke of⁠—Nobody listens. The Duke of⁠—The chatter continues. Indignant at his failure to command a hearing, he snatches the halberd of the nearest man-at-arms, and thumps the floor with it. The chatter ceases; and everybody looks at him in silence. Attention! He restores the halberd to the man-at-arms. The Duke of Vendôme presents Joan the Maid to his Majesty. Charles Putting his finger on his lip. Ssh! He hides behind the nearest courtier, peering out to see what happens. Bluebeard Majestically. Let her approach the throne. Joan, dressed as a soldier, with her hair bobbed and hanging thickly round her face, is led in by a bashful and speechless nobleman, from whom she detaches herself to stop and look round eagerly for the Dauphin. The Duchess To the nearest lady in waiting. My dear! Her hair! All the ladies explode in uncontrollable laughter. Bluebeard Trying not to laugh, and waving his hand in deprecation of their merriment. Ssh⁠—ssh! Ladies! Ladies!! Joan Not at all embarrassed. I wear it like this because I am a soldier. Where be Dauphin? A titter runs through the Court as she walks to the dais. Bluebeard Condescendingly. You are in the presence of the Dauphin. Joan looks at him sceptically for a moment, scanning him hard up and down to make sure. Dead silence, all watching her. Fun dawns in her face. Joan Coom, Bluebeard! Thou canst not fool me. Where be Dauphin? A roar of laughter breaks out as Gilles, with a gesture of surrender, joins in the laugh, and jumps down from the dais beside La Trémouille. Joan, also on the broad grin, turns back, searching along the row of courtiers, and presently makes a dive, and drags out Charles by the arm. Joan Releasing him and bobbing him a little curtsey. Gentle little Dauphin, I am sent to you to drive the English away from Orleans and from France, and to crown you king in the cathedral at Rheims, where all true kings of France are crowned. Charles Triumphant, to the Court. You see, all of you: she knew the blood royal. Who dare say now that I am not my father’s son? To Joan. But if you want me to be crowned at Rheims you must talk to the Archbishop, not to me. There he is! He is standing behind her. Joan Turning quickly, overwhelmed with emotion. Oh, my lord! She falls on both knees before him, with bowed head, not daring to look up. My lord: I am only a poor country girl; and you are filled with the blessedness and glory of God Himself; but you will touch me with your hands, and give me your blessing, won’t you? Bluebeard Whispering to La Trémouille. The old fox blushes.