They will be the worse for remembering me: they will see in me evil triumphing over good, falsehood over truth, cruelty over mercy, hell over heaven. Their courage will rise as they think of you, only to faint as they think of me. Yet God is my witness I was just: I was merciful: I was faithful to my light: I could do no other than I did.
Charles
Scrambling out of the sheets and enthroning himself on the side of the bed. Yes: it is always you good men that do the big mischiefs. Look at me! I am not Charles the Good, nor Charles the Wise, nor Charles the Bold. Joan’s worshippers may even call me Charles the Coward because I did not pull her out of the fire. But I have done less harm than any of you. You people with your heads in the sky spend all your time trying to turn the world upside down; but I take the world as it is, and say that top-side-up is right-side-up; and I keep my nose pretty close to the ground. And I ask you, what king of France has done better, or been a better fellow in his little way?
Joan
Art really king of France, Charlie? Be the English gone?
Dunois
Coming through the tapestry on Joan’s left, the candles relighting themselves at the same moment, and illuminating his armor and surcoat cheerfully. I have kept my word: the English are gone.
Joan
Praised be God! now is fair France a province in heaven. Tell me all about the fighting, Jack. Was it thou that led them? Wert thou God’s captain to thy death?
Dunois
I am not dead. My body is very comfortably asleep in my bed at Châteaudun; but my spirit is called here by yours.
Joan
And you fought them my way, Jack: eh? Not the old way, chaffering for ransoms; but The Maid’s way: staking life against death, with the heart high and humble and void of malice, and nothing counting under God but France free and French. Was it my way, Jack?
Dunois
Faith, it was any way that would win. But the way that won was always your way. I give you best, lassie. I wrote a fine letter to set you right at the new trial. Perhaps I should never have let the priests burn you; but I was busy fighting; and it was the Church’s business, not mine. There was no use in both of us being burnt, was there?
Cauchon
Ay! put the blame on the priests. But I, who am beyond praise and blame, tell you that the world is saved neither by its priests nor its soldiers, but by God and His Saints. The Church Militant sent this woman to the fire; but even as she burnt, the flames whitened into the radiance of the Church Triumphant.
The clock strikes the third quarter. A rough male voice is heard trolling an improvised tune.
Rum tum trumpledum, Bacon fat and rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum, O my Ma‑ry Ann!
A ruffianly English soldier comes through the curtains and marches between Dunois and Joan.
Dunois
What villainous troubadour taught you that doggerel?
The Soldier
No troubadour. We made it up ourselves as we marched. We were not gentlefolks and troubadours. Music straight out of the heart of the people, as you might say. Rum tum trumpledum, Bacon fat and rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum: that don’t mean anything, you know; but it keeps you marching. Your servant, ladies and gentleman. Who asked for a saint?
Joan
Be you a saint?
The Soldier
Yes, lady, straight from hell.
Dunois
A saint, and from hell!
The Soldier
Yes, noble captain: I have a day off. Every year, you know. That’s my allowance for my one good action.
Cauchon
Wretch! In all the years of your life did you do only one good action?
The Soldier
I never thought about it: it came natural like. But they scored it up for me.
Charles
What was it?
The Soldier
Why, the silliest thing you ever heard of. I—
Joan
Interrupting him by strolling across to the bed, where she sits beside Charles. He tied two sticks together, and gave them to a poor lass that was going to be burnt.
The Soldier
Right. Who told you that?
Joan
Never mind. Would you know her if you saw her again?
The Soldier
Not I. There are so many girls! And they all expect you to remember them as if there was only one in the world. This one must have been a prime sort; for I have a day off every year for her; and so, until twelve o’clock punctually, I am a saint, at your service, noble lords and lovely ladies.
Charles
And after twelve?
The Soldier
After twelve, back to the only place fit for the likes of me.
Joan
Rising. Back there; You! that gave the lass the cross!
The Soldier
Excusing his unsoldierly conduct. Well, she asked for it; and they were going to burn her. She had as good a right to a cross as they had; and they had dozens of them. It was her funeral, not theirs. Where was the harm in it?
Joan
Man: I am not reproaching you. But I cannot bear to think of you in torment.
The Soldier
Cheerfully. No great torment, lady. You see I was used to worse.
Charles
What! worse than hell?
The Soldier
Fifteen years’ service in the French wars. Hell was a treat after that.
Joan throws up her arms, and takes refuge from despair of humanity before the picture of the Virgin.
The Soldier
Continuing. Suits me somehow. The day off was dull at first, like a wet Sunday. I don’t mind it so much now. They tell me I can have as many as I like as soon as I want them.
