Louis de Wohl - Saint Joan: The Girl Soldier

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Text originally published in 1957 under the same title.

Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

SAINT JOAN: THE GIRL SOLDIER

BY

LOUIS DE WOHL

Illustrated by Harry Barton

Contents

The lives of saints are history, for saints make history, and, what is more, they make it the way God likes it best. History without the saints is all warfare, battles, countries enslaved or freed, actions of rulers, change of power from one country to another. But from time to time God points toward the way he wants things done, and the pointer he uses is time and again a saint.

Saints are people, and they are not always peaceful people. They can fight, and indeed they must fight whenever they come across evil. This, then, is the story of a great fighter of God who was a saint. And this fighter, this saint, was a girl. She made history in leading her poor, oppressed country to victory. She made history also by showing by her wonderful example that the very first thing we need if we want to win through is faith.

In the course of my life I have read a great many books about her, and every one of them has taught me a little more about her. Today I no longer remember the names of all the authors, but I am grateful to every one of them.

You too will one day have forgotten the name of this author. But I dont think you will ever forget the saint about whom I have written: lovely, glorious, young Joan of Arc.

MAY I GO, FATHER?

Farmer dArc gave his daughter Joan a long, searching look. Why was she so different from his other childrenpoor little Catherine who was dead now, God rest her soul, and the two boys, fine boys, both of them? Not that Joan wasnt a good girl. She was obedient enough, she did her work well, and she was devout. Good Father Minet said so again and again. But one never knew what she was thinking.

Farmer dArc looked at his wife. Isabelle was sitting in her old armchair, stitching away at a linen shirt. She did not look up and she said nothing, but then she wouldnt. She knew it was up to him to make the decision.

There was nothing to it, really. Joan wanted to go to visit her cousin Durand Laxart, at nearby Petit Burey, for a week. Nothing to it at all, and yet there was something going on in that firm little head of hers.

Farmer dArc gave a sigh. He had dreamed about Joan recently, several times, and always it was the same dream: she was going to run away with soldiers.

Joan looked straight into his eyes. Im doing nothing bad, Father.

She must have guessed his thoughts, but her words were a relief. She never lied; he knew that.

Very well, then. You may go.

Thank you, Father. She gave him one of her quick, gentle kisses, walked over to her mother and embraced her.

Isabelle took her daughters face into her hands. Come back to us, she said softly. Come back safe and sound, my Joan. Reluctantly her hands went back to her work.

Joan smiled at her and walked away without a further word.

Farmer dArc went to the door. He could see her cross the garden. She was carrying a small bundle. Must have picked it up on the bench outside, he thought. She knew I was going to give her permission to go.

She was walking on briskly, her simple red dress billowing in the wind; topped by her long, black hair, it made her look like a little pillar of fire and smoke moving across the ground.

The bell of the village church began to clang.

Farmer dArc crossed himself and prayed. So did Isabelle inside and all the villagers of Domrmy. So did the villagers of all other places in Lorraine, and in Burgundy and in France and in all other Christian countries, the people in the cities and towns, bishops and noblemen and simple folks, all made one by their Faith.

The little pillar of fire and smoke stopped too for a minute and then moved on.

Farmer dArc stepped back into the room. Its only for a week or two, he said. And hes a reliable enough fellow, is Durand Laxart. He can do with a pair of hands, too, just now. And yet, I wish I hadnt given her permission....

You couldnt stop her, Isabelle said quietly.

He frowned. Shes only seventeen, and Im her father.

Oh, I dont mean that , Jacques.

Well, what do you mean, then? He was a little angry now, and he would have liked to raise his voice, but he did not. Isabelle was not an ordinary woman. She had been on pilgrimage to Rome in her time, all the way there and back on foot, of course. It was a journey almost as dangerous as a voyage to the Holy Land itself, with highway robbers and with half a hundred little wars being waged between some feudal lords or local knights, and having to beg for food and shelter many a time. She had made it and even seen the Pope himself and many of the cardinals, and she had come back safely. Isabelle Rome they called her now, Isabelle-who-has-been-to-Rome. It was like a badge of distinction granted for great courage and devotion, and he was proud of her. He would not raise his voice to her, not to Isabelle Rome.

She was staring into the flames of the log fire in the fireplace.

Theres something about her, she said in a low voice. Have you ever looked at her when shes praying? Strange she looks, as if there be no life in her. Like her sister lookedon her deathbed. I touched her arm once; she didnt feel it.

Giving herself airs. Many young girls do, he growled.

Isabelle shook her head. Not she. And you ought to know her better than that, too.

I dont know her, he said wearily Thats just it. I cant make her out. Sometimes, sometimes I wonder how it is that you and I can have a child like her.

Isabelle nodded. It hasnt always been like that, has it? Only these last few years. As if something had happened to her. I asked her about it, too, but she wouldnt talk, not even to me. She was bending her head over her work again. I wonder...she said.

What about? he asked in an uneasy voice.

I wonder whether she is going to come back to us.

What?

Isabelle looked up. There were tears in her eyes. I told you you couldnt stop her, she said. Neither could Ior anybody. Shes going because she must go.

Has she told you...?