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 himself between the Archbishop and La Trémouille. This is nothing to joke about. It is worse than we thought. It was not a soldier, but an angel dressed as a soldier.
The Archbishop
The Constable
Bluebeard		 Exclaiming all together. An angel!
La Hire Yes, an angel. She has made her way from Champagne with half a dozen men through the thick of everything: Burgundians, Goddams, deserters, robbers, and Lord knows who; and they never met a soul except the country folk. I know one of them: de Poulengey. He says she’s an angel. If ever I utter an oath again may my soul be blasted to eternal damnation.
The Archbishop A very pious beginning, Captain.
Bluebeard and La Trémouille laugh at him. The page returns.
The Page His Majesty.
They stand perfunctorily at court attention. The Dauphin, aged 26, really King Charles the Seventh since the death of his father, but as yet uncrowned, comes in through the curtains with a paper in his hands. He is a poor creature physically; and the current fashion of shaving closely, and hiding every scrap of hair under the head-covering or headdress, both by women and men, makes the worst of his appearance. He has little narrow eyes, near together, a long pendulous nose that droops over his thick short upper lip, and the expression of a young dog accustomed to be kicked, yet incorrigible and irrepressible. But he is neither vulgar nor stupid; and he has a cheeky humor which enables him to hold his own in conversation. Just at present he is excited, like a child with a new toy. He comes to the Archbishop’s left hand. Bluebeard and La Hire retire towards the curtains.
Charles Oh, Archbishop, do you know what Robert de Baudricourt is sending me from Vaucouleurs?
The Archbishop Contemptuously. I am not interested in the newest toys.
Charles Indignantly. It isn’t a toy. Sulkily. However, I can get on very well without your interest.
The Archbishop Your Highness is taking offence very unnecessarily.
Charles Thank you. You are always ready with a lecture, aren’t you?
La Trémouille Roughly. Enough grumbling. What have you got there?
Charles What is that to you?
La Trémouille It is my business to know what is passing between you and the garrison at Vaucouleurs. He snatches the paper from the Dauphin’s hand, and begins reading it with some difficulty, following the words with his finger and spelling them out syllable by syllable.
Charles Mortified. You all think you can treat me as you please because I owe you money, and because I am no good at fighting. But I have the blood royal in my veins.
The Archbishop Even that has been questioned, your Highness. One hardly recognizes in you the grandson of Charles the Wise.
Charles I want to hear no more of my grandfather. He was so wise that he used up the whole family stock of wisdom for five generations, and left me the poor fool I am, bullied and insulted by all of you.
The Archbishop Control yourself, sir. These outbursts of petulance are not seemly.
Charles Another lecture! Thank you. What a pity it is that though you are an archbishop saints and angels don’t come to see you!
The Archbishop What do you mean?
Charles Aha! Ask that bully there Pointing to La Trémouille.
La Trémouille Furious. Hold your tongue. Do you hear?
Charles Oh, I hear. You needn’t shout. The whole castle can hear. Why don’t you go and shout at the English, and beat them for me?
La Trémouille Raising his fist. You young⁠—
Charles Running behind the Archbishop. Don’t you raise your hand to me. It’s high treason.
La Hire Steady, Duke! Steady!
The Archbishop Resolutely. Come, come! this will not do. My lord Chamberlain; please! please! we must keep some sort of order. To the Dauphin. And you, sir: if you cannot rule your kingdom, at least try to rule yourself.
Charles Another lecture! Thank you.
La Trémouille Handing the paper to the Archbishop. Here: read the accursed thing for me. He has sent the blood boiling into my head: I can’t distinguish the letters.
Charles Coming back and peering round La Trémouille’s left shoulder. I will read it for you if you like. I can read, you know.
La Trémouille With intense contempt, not at all stung by the taunt. Yes: reading is about all you are fit for. Can you make it out, Archbishop?
The Archbishop I should have expected more common sense from De Baudricourt. He is sending some cracked country lass here⁠—
Charles Interrupting. No: he is sending a saint: an angel. And she is coming to me: to me, the king, and not to you, Archbishop, holy as you are. She knows the blood royal if you don’t. He struts up to the curtains between Bluebeard and La Hire.
The Archbishop You cannot be allowed to see this crazy wench.
Charles Turning. But I am the king; and I will.
La Trémouille Brutally. Then she cannot be allowed to see you. Now!
Charles I tell you I will. I am going to put my foot down⁠—
Bluebeard Laughing at him. Naughty! What would your wise grandfather say?
Charles That just shows your ignorance, Bluebeard. My grandfather had a saint who used to float in the air when she was praying, and told him everything he wanted to know. My poor father had two saints, Marie de Maillé and the Gasque of Avignon. It is in our family; and I don’t care what you say: I will have my saint too.
The Archbishop This creature is not a saint. She is not even a respectable woman. She does not wear women’s clothes. She is dressed like a soldier, and rides round the country with soldiers. Do you suppose such a person can be admitted to your Highness’s court?
La Hire Stop. Going to the Archbishop. Did you say a girl in armor, like a soldier?
The Archbishop So De Baudricourt describes her.
La Hire But by all the devils in hell⁠—Oh, God forgive me, what am I saying?⁠—by Our Lady and all the saints, this must be the angel that struck Foul Mouthed Frank dead for swearing.
Charles Triumphantly. You see! A miracle.
La Hire She may strike the lot of us dead if we cross her. For Heaven’s sake, Archbishop, be careful what you are doing.
The Archbishop Severely. Rubbish! Nobody has been struck dead. A drunken blackguard who has been rebuked a hundred times for swearing has fallen into a well, and been drowned. A mere coincidence.
La Hire I do not know what a coincidence is. I do know that the man is dead, and that she told him he was going to die.
The Archbishop We are all going to die, Captain.
La Hire Crossing himself. I hope not. He backs out of the conversation.
Bluebeard We can easily find out whether she is an angel or not. Let us arrange when she comes that I shall be the Dauphin, and see whether she will find me out.
Charles Yes: I agree to that. If she cannot find the blood royal I will have nothing to do with her.
The Archbishop It is for the Church to make saints: let De Baudricourt mind his own business, and not dare usurp the function of his priest. I say the girl shall not be admitted.
Bluebeard But, Archbishop⁠—
The Archbishop Sternly. I speak in the Church’s name. To the Dauphin. Do you dare say she shall?
Charles Intimidated but sulky. Oh, if you make it an excommunication matter, I have nothing more to say, of course. But you haven’t read the end of the letter. De Baudricourt says she will raise the siege of Orleans, and beat the English for us.
La Trémouille Rot!
Charles Well, will you save Orleans for us, with all your bullying?
La Trémouille Savagely. Do not throw that in my face again: do you hear? I have done more fighting than you ever did or ever will. But I cannot be everywhere.
The Dauphin Well, that’s something.
Bluebeard Coming between the Archbishop and Charles. You have Jack Dunois at the head of your troops in Orleans: the brave Dunois, the handsome Dunois, the wonderful invincible Dunois, the darling of all the ladies, the beautiful bastard. Is it likely that the country lass can do what he cannot do?
Charles Why doesn’t he raise the siege, then?
La Hire The wind is against him.
Bluebeard How can the wind hurt him at Orleans? It is not on the Channel.
La Hire It is on the river Loire; and the English hold the bridgehead. He must ship his men across the river and upstream, if he is to take them in the rear. Well, he cannot, because there is a devil of a wind blowing the other way. He is tired of paying the priests to pray for a west wind. What he needs is a miracle. You tell me that what the girl did to Foul Mouthed Frank was no miracle. No matter: it finished Frank. If she changes the wind for Dunois, that may not be a miracle either; but it may finish the English. What harm is there in trying?
The Archbishop Who has read the end of the letter and become more thoughtful. It is true that De Baudricourt seems extraordinarily impressed.
La Hire De Baudricourt is a blazing ass; but he is a soldier; and if he thinks she can beat the English, all the rest of the army will think so too.
La Trémouille To the Archbishop, who is hesitating. Oh, let them have their way. Dunois’ men will give up the town in spite of him if somebody does not put some fresh spunk into them.
The Archbishop The Church must examine the girl before anything decisive is done about her. However, since his Highness desires it, let her attend the Court.
La Hire I will find her and tell her. He goes out.
Charles Come with me, Bluebeard; and let us arrange so that she will not know who I am. You will pretend to be me. He goes out through the curtains.
Bluebeard Pretend to be that thing! Holy Michael! He follows the Dauphin.
La Trémouille I wonder will she pick him out!
The Archbishop Of course she will.
La Trémouille Why? How is she to know?
The Archbishop She will know what everybody in Chinon knows: that the Dauphin is the meanest-looking and worst-dressed figure in the Court, and that the man with the blue beard is Gilles de Rais.
La Trémouille I never thought of that.
The Archbishop You are not so accustomed to miracles as I am. It is part of my profession.
La Trémouille Puzzled and a little scandalized. But that would not be a miracle at all.
The Archbishop Calmly. Why not?
La Trémouille Well, come; what is a miracle?
The Archbishop A miracle, my friend, is an event which creates faith. That is the purpose and nature of miracles. They may seem very wonderful to the people who witness them, and very simple to those who perform them. That does not matter: if they confirm or create faith they are true miracles.
La Trémouille Even when they are frauds, do you mean?
The Archbishop Frauds deceive. An event which creates faith does not deceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle.
La Trémouille Scratching his neck in his perplexity. Well, I suppose as you are an archbishop you must be right. It seems a bit fishy to me. But I am no churchman, and don’t understand these matters.
The Archbishop You are not a churchman; but you are a diplomatist and a soldier. Could you make our citizens pay war taxes, or our soldiers sacrifice their lives, if they knew what is really happening instead of what seems to them to be happening?
La Trémouille No, by Saint Dennis: the fat would be in the fire before sundown.
The Archbishop Would it not be quite easy to tell them the truth?
La Trémouille Man alive, they 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.
La Trémouille Another miracle!
The Archbishop Touched, putting his hand on her head. Child: you are in love with religion.
Joan Startled: looking up at him. Am I? I never thought of that. Is there any harm in it?
The Archbishop There is no harm in it, my child. But there is danger.
Joan Rising, with a sunflush of reckless happiness irradiating her face. There is always danger, except in heaven. Oh, my lord, you have given me such strength, such courage. It must be a most wonderful thing to be Archbishop.
The Court smiles broadly: even titters a little.
The Archbishop Drawing himself up sensitively. Gentlemen: your levity is rebuked by this maid’s faith. I am, God help me, all unworthy; but your mirth is a deadly sin.
Their faces fall. Dead silence.
Bluebeard My lord: we were laughing at her, not at you.
The Archbishop What? Not at my unworthiness but at her faith! Gilles de Rais: this maid prophesied that the blasphemer should be drowned in his sin⁠—
Joan Distressed. No!
The Archbishop Silencing her by a gesture. I prophesy now that you will be hanged in yours if you do not learn when to laugh and when to pray.
Bluebeard My lord: I stand rebuked. I am sorry: I can say no more. But if you prophesy that I shall be hanged, I shall never be able to resist temptation, because I shall always be telling myself that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
The courtiers take heart at this. There is more tittering.
Joan Scandalized. You are an idle fellow, Bluebeard; and you have great impudence to answer the Archbishop.
La Hire With a huge chuckle. Well said, lass! Well said!
Joan Impatiently to the Archbishop. Oh, my lord, will you send all these silly folks away so that I may speak to the Dauphin alone?
La Hire Goodhumoredly. I can take a hint. He salutes; turns on his heel; and goes out.
The Archbishop Come, gentlemen. The Maid comes with God’s blessing, and must be obeyed.
The courtiers withdraw, some through the arch, others at the opposite side. The Archbishop marches across to the door, followed by the Duchess and La Trémouille. As the Archbishop passes Joan, she falls on her knees, and kisses the hem of his robe fervently. He shakes his head in instinctive remonstrance; gathers the robe from her; and goes out. She is left kneeling directly in the Duchess’s way.
The Duchess Coldly. Will you allow me to pass, please?
Joan Hastily rising, and standing back. Beg pardon, ma’am, I am sure.
The Duchess passes on. Joan stares after her; then whispers to the Dauphin.
Joan Be that Queen?
Charles No. She thinks she is.
Joan Again staring after the Duchess. Oo‑oo‑ooh! Her awestruck amazement at the figure cut by the magnificently dressed lady is not wholly complimentary.
La Trémouille Very surly. I’ll trouble your Highness not to gibe at my wife. He goes out. The others have already gone.
Joan To the Dauphin. Who be old Gruff-and-Grum?
Charles He is the Duke de la Trémouille.
Joan What be his job?
Charles He pretends to command the army. And whenever I find a friend I can care for, he kills him.
Joan Why dost let him?
Charles Petulantly moving to the throne side of the room to escape from her magnetic field. How can I prevent him? He bullies me. They all bully me.
Joan Art afraid?
Charles Yes: I am afraid. It’s no use preaching to me about it. It’s all very well for these big men with their armor that is too heavy for me, and their swords that I can hardly lift, and their muscle and their shouting and their bad tempers. They like fighting: most of them are making fools of themselves all the time they are not fighting; but I am quiet and sensible; and I dont want to kill people: I only want to be left alone to enjoy myself in my own way. I never asked to be a king: it was pushed on me. So if you are going to say “Son of St. Louis: gird on the sword of your ancestors, and lead us to victory,” you may spare your breath to cool your porridge; for I cannot do it. I am not built that way; and there is an end of it.
Joan Trenchant and masterful. Blethers! We are all like that to begin with. I shall put courage into thee.
Charles But I don’t want to have courage put into me. I want to sleep in a comfortable bed, and not live in continual terror of being killed or wounded. Put courage into the others, and let them have their bellyful of fighting; but let me alone.
Joan It’s no use, Charlie: thou must face what God puts on thee. If thou fail to make thyself king, thou’lt be a beggar: what else art fit for? Come! Let me see thee sitting on the throne. I have looked forward to that.
Charles What is the good of sitting on the throne when the other fellows give all the orders? However! He sits enthroned, a piteous figure. here is the king for you! Look your fill at the poor devil.
Joan Thou’rt not king yet, lad: thou’rt but Dauphin. Be not led away by them around thee. Dressing up don’t fill empty noddle. I know the people: the real people that make thy bread for thee; and I tell thee they count no man king of France until the holy oil has been poured on his hair, and himself consecrated and crowned in Rheims Cathedral. And thou needs new clothes, Charlie. Why does not Queen look after thee properly?
Charles We’re too poor. She wants all the money we can spare to put on her own back. Besides, I like to see her beautifully dressed; and I don’t care what I wear myself; I should look ugly anyhow.
Joan There is some good in thee, Charlie; but it is not yet a king’s good.
Charles We shall see. I am not such a fool as I look. I have my eyes open; and I can tell you that one good treaty is worth ten good fights. These fighting fellows lose all on the treaties that they gain on the fights. If we can only have a treaty, the English are sure to have the worst of it, because they are better at fighting than at thinking.
Joan If the English win, it is they that will make the treaty; and then God help poor France! Thou must fight, Charlie, whether thou will or no. I will go first to hearten thee. We must take our courage in both hands: aye, and pray for it with both hands too.
Charles Descending from his throne and again crossing the room to escape from her dominating urgency. Oh do stop talking about God and praying. I can’t bear people who are always praying. Isn’t it bad enough to have to do it at the proper times?
Joan Pitying him. Thou poor child, thou hast never prayed in thy life. I must teach thee from the beginning.
Charles I am not a child: I am a grown man and a father; and I will not be taught any more.
Joan Aye, you have a little son. He that will be Louis the Eleventh when you die. Would you not fight for him?
Charles No: a horrid boy. He hates me. He hates everybody, selfish little beast! I don’t want to be bothered with children. I don’t want to be a father; and I don’t want to be a son: especially a son of St. Louis. I don’t want to be any of these fine things you all have your heads full of: I want to be just what I am. Why can’t you mind your own business, and let me mind mine?
Joan Again contemptuous. Minding your own business is like minding your own body: it’s the shortest way to make yourself sick. What is my business? Helping mother at home. What is thine? Petting lapdogs and sucking sugarsticks. I call that muck. I tell thee it is God’s business we are here to do: not our own. I have a message to thee from God; and thou must listen to it, though thy heart break with the terror of it.
Charles I don’t want a message; but can you tell me any secrets? Can you do any cures? Can you turn lead into gold, or anything of that sort?
Joan I can turn thee into a king, in Rheims Cathedral; and that is a miracle that will take some doing, it seems.
Charles If we go to Rheims, and have a coronation, Anne will want new dresses. We can’t afford them. I am all right as I am.
Joan As you are! And what is that? Less than my father’s poorest shepherd. Thou’rt not lawful owner of thy own land of France till thou be consecrated.
Charles But I shall not be lawful owner of my own land anyhow. Will the consecration pay off my mortgages? I have pledged my last acre to the Archbishop and that fat bully. I owe money even to Bluebeard.
Joan Earnestly. Charlie: I come from the land, and have gotten my strength working on the land; and I tell thee that the land is thine to rule righteously and keep God’s peace in, and not to pledge at the pawnshop as a drunken woman pledges her children’s clothes. And I come from God to tell thee to kneel in the cathedral and solemnly give thy kingdom to Him forever and ever, and become the greatest king in the world as His steward and His bailiff, His soldier and His servant. The very clay of France will become holy: her soldiers will be the soldiers of God: the rebel dukes will be rebels against God: the English will fall on their knees and beg thee let them return to their lawful homes in peace. Wilt be a poor little Judas, and betray me and Him that sent me?
Charles Tempted at last. Oh, if I only dare!
Joan I shall dare, dare, and dare again, in God’s name! Art for or against me?
Charles Excited. I’ll risk it. I warn you I shan’t be able to keep it up; but I’ll risk it. You shall see. Running to the main door and shouting. Hallo! Come back, everybody. To Joan, as he runs back to the arch opposite. Mind you stand by and don’t let me be bullied. Through the arch. Come along, will you: the whole Court. He sits down in the royal chair as they all hurry in to their former places, chattering and wondering. Now I’m in for it; but no matter: here goes! To the page. Call for silence, you little beast, will you?
The Page Snatching a halberd as before and thumping with it repeatedly. Silence for His Majesty the King. The King speaks. Peremptorily. Will you be silent there? Silence.
Charles Rising. I have given the command of the army to The Maid. The Maid is to do as she likes with it. He descends from the dais.
General amazement. La Hire, delighted, slaps his steel thigh-piece with his gauntlet.
La Trémouille Turning threateningly towards Charles. What is this? I command the army.
Joan Quickly puts her hand on Charles’s shoulder as he instinctively recoils. !
Charles With a grotesque effort, culminating in an extravagant gesture, snaps his fingers in the Chamberlain’s face. !
Joan Thou’rt answered, old Gruff-and-Grum. Suddenly flashing out her sword as she divines that her moment has come. Who is for God and His Maid? Who is for Orleans with me?
La Hire Carried away, drawing also. For God and His Maid! To Orleans!
All the Knights Following his lead with enthusiasm. To Orleans!
Joan, radiant, falls on her knees in thanksgiving to God. They all kneel, except the Archbishop, who gives his benediction with a sign, and La Trémouille, who collapses, cursing.