February 1431
Passez-outre!
(Jeanne’s exclamation at the Trial)
AT Bonsecours there stands a statue of the Maid by Barrias, named “Jeanne d’Arc, prisonnière.” It shows her wearing armour, which is incorrect enough, but one scarcely notes the fact, so is the attention centred on the pitiful manacled hands, the boyish attitude, and the fine young head thrown back from the shoulders as though in amazed protest at the way the world is treating her. The soft lips droop pathetically, the wide-open eyes are full of simple indignation. “What have I done unto you that you should do this to me?” she seems to be asking, and reminds us yet once again of that far-off cry down the ages of the Christian world:
“Oh my people, what have I done unto thee? And wherein have I wearied thee? Answer Me.”
Three months had elapsed since Jeanne had passed beyond the dark portals of Rouen Castle, months of terror, of hideous companionship far worse than loneliness, of deprivation of the sacraments, of dread for the future.
At the end of February began that extraordinary trial, in which we find the chief ecclesiastics of the realm, the University of Paris, as represented by the Bishop of Beauvais, the English Council, with the child-King, Henry, as its nominal head, all arrayed against a young peasant girl, who “conducted her own case,” as we say, whose only defence was her own free, simple speech.
Her actual judge was the Bishop of Beauvais, to whom she was passed over, after long deliberation, by the English, who, however, claimed her as their prisoner of war even if she were acquitted by him. The document by which this was effected gives the offences with which Jeanne was charged, and on account of which she was claimed by the Ecclesiastical Court.
“Henry, by the grace of God, King of France and England, to all who shall see these present letters, greeting: It is sufficiently well known how, some time ago, a woman who caused herself to be called Jeanne the Maid, forsaking the garments of the feminine sex, did, against the Divine Law, clothe and arm herself in the fashion of a man; did do and commit cruel acts of homicide, and gave the simple people to understand that she was sent from God, and had a knowledge of His divine secrets; together with many other perilous doctrines, very scandalous to the Catholic faith.
“In pursuing these deceits and exercising hostility towards us she was taken armed before Compiègne, and has since been brought prisoner to us. And because she is by many reputed as guilty of divers superstitions, false teachings and other treasons against the Divine Majesty, we have been earnestly required by the reverend father in God, our friend and faithful counsellor, the Bishop of Beauvais, and also exhorted by our very dear and well-beloved daughter, the University of Paris, to surrender her to the said reverend father that he may proceed against her according to the rule and ordinance of the divine and canon laws. Therefore is it that we, in reverence and honour for the name of God, and for the defence and exaltation of the holy Church and Catholic faith, do devoutly comply with the requisition of the reverend father in God, and the exhortation of the doctors of the University of Paris.”
For insincerity and humbug this precious document would be hard to beat. Not a man, woman, or child in Rouen but knew that the sole reason for all this bitter enmity against Jeanne was that she, a mere girl, had revived a dying cause, relieved besieged towns, beaten the English off the battlefield, and put to shame the might of English arms. But this must not be said aloud; it would be far more dignified to put the matter on high religious grounds, and in the name of faith and religion pass her over to Holy Church to be tried as a heretic. Yet, lest she should escape the net thus cunningly woven for her, the document contained a further clause that speaks for itself:
“Nevertheless, it is our intention, if the said Jeanne be not convicted nor attainted of the crimes above named, nor of any of them, nor of others concerning our holy faith, to have her and take her again to ourselves.”
It is remarkable that the special court for the judgment of heresy, the Holy Office, usually known as the Inquisition, was exceedingly reluctant to be drawn into the matter, and the Grand Inquisitor openly pleaded business elsewhere when called upon to assist the Bishop of Beauvais. But the latter was fully equal to carrying out what he gleefully called a “beautiful trial”; and it would be a hard matter for this most innocent of criminals to evade his toils.
For months his emissaries had been following the footsteps of the Maid from her very birth, prying here, questioning there, gathering all kinds of gossip and idle chatter, not at all averse from bringing forward as witnesses miserable creatures who from envy and malice were willing to defame the name of this most upright of soldier maids.
A crowd of canons, doctors and masters of the University, priests and notaries, were the assistants of the Bishop—even a representative of the Holy Office was brought forward at the last minute; and when all was ready, the priest, Jean Massieu, was sent to read to the prisoner in her cell the mandate requiring her to appear “on the morrow, at eight o’clock in the morning, before the court appointed to try her for the heresies and other crimes of which she was accused and defamed.”
Her reply shows something of the old spirit, undimmed by three long months of fetters and close confinement.
“Let there be present as many reverend men who are on the side of the French king as there are on the side of the English; and let me have a learned clerk to speak for me; then will I obey it,” said she. And when they refused this, she begged with more humility that at least she might be allowed to hear Mass before the trial. This was also denied her, on the score that she still adhered to “an unbecoming dress.”
On a cold February morning (Feb. 21st, 1431) the Maid was brought into the chapel of Rouen Castle, where the trial was to be held. Very slim and boyish she looked as she walked up the crowded aisle, dressed in a page’s black suit, with her hair cut short to her neck.
Knowing nothing of legal procedure, and probably quite unaware that the trial was to be for her a question of life and death, Jeanne’s first glance round the court must, nevertheless, have filled her with vague foreboding and put her on her guard. For when Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, warned her, in gentle tones but with an undercurrent of malevolence that was not hid from her clear young gaze, to “speak the full truth concerning those things of which you are accused respecting the faith,” she replied with unwonted caution, “I do not know on what subjects you will question me. Perhaps you will ask me such things as I shall not be able to answer.”
“You must swear,” repeated the Bishop, “to speak the truth on all that shall be asked you concerning the faith.”
“I will swear to tell you the truth of my father and mother and of what I have done since I came into France; but of the revelations made to me on the part of God, I will not tell them, nor of the secret I told to my King. I will not speak about them if you cut my head off; for I have been warned by my ‘Counsel.’ ”
It was thus she always spoke of her Voices, and at the mention of them such a stir was made in the court that some of her words were lost. Possibly her attitude of defiance went against her, but in face of such obviously hostile judgment, it was inevitable that she should try to guard herself by whatever reserve was possible. Finally, however, she knelt down and took the oath upon a copy of the Gospels that she would tell the truth on all matters concerning her faith. But again and again the spirit of girlish defiance broke out.
Asked to say her Paternoster to the Bishop, she flatly refused, “unless he would hear her confession, then she would say it gladly.” She evidently was very sore at heart that she, a loyal daughter of the Church, should be refused the Sacrament of Penance, and took this way of showing her resentment.
Again, before the session ended for that day, the Bishop gave a solemn charge that she should not try to escape from her prison, on pain of being declared convicted of the crime of heresy.
“I do not accept that. I will give no parole,” she flashed back at him. “So that if I do escape no one can blame me for having broken faith, for I never gave it to anyone.”
Then came a very natural and piteous little complaint of her heavy fetters, to which she received the severe reply that she had several times tried to escape, and for that reason she was chained, that she might be kept more securely.
“It is true that I wished and always shall wish to escape,” she said. “It is lawful for all prisoners to do that.”
At that she was conducted back to prison, under strict directions that she was neither to see nor speak to anyone.
The proceedings of the next day were held in the Castle hall, for the chapel was found to be far too small for all those who wished to be present. But Jeanne, as she passed the door, had asked, “Is not the Body of Our Lord in that chapel?” and had knelt in prayer, while Massieu, her guardian, looked the other way. Even that was made a cause of offence, and Massieu was sternly rebuked for allowing this pious young daughter of the Church to gain a moment of consolation from the worship of her Master.
This day began with a close and detailed examination as to the facts of her life at Domrémy. The questions were purposely confused and intricate in order to entrap the Maid; and her answers were interrupted, misinterpreted, and disputed, till the brain of a well-trained lawyer might well have reeled under such an ordeal. It was, moreover, the Lenten season, and Jeanne had not tasted food since the one meal of the previous day.
Yet she never seems to have wavered or become confused. With perfect straightforwardness she told her simple story, only showing impatience when obviously silly questions were put to her, such as:
“How could she see the light in which her visions appeared if it was at the side, and not in front?”
Or unnecessary and impertinent queries as to whether she had made her Holy Communion at other feasts besides Easter, or whether she thought it right to fight on a Holy Day.
“Passez-outre!” (pass on to something else) she replies to all such questions, with pardonable asperity.
Her self-possession is as amazing as her clear-headedness. As one of her biographers well says, she might have been “a princess, answering frankly, or holding her peace as seems good to her, afraid of nothing . . . without panic and without presumption. The trial of Jeanne is indeed almost more miraculous than her fighting; a girl of nineteen, forsaken of all, without a friend.”8
On the third day a fresh altercation about her oath to answer truly every question she was asked, began.
The record says, “We required of her that she should swear simply and absolutely without adding any restriction to her oath. To which she answered, ‘By my faith, you may well ask me such things as I will not tell you: and on some things perhaps I shall not answer truly, especially on those that touch my revelations; for you may constrain me to say things I have sworn not to say.’ Then to the Bishop she said fearlessly, ‘I tell you, take great heed of what you say, you that are my judge. You take a great responsibility in thus charging me. I should say that it is enough to have sworn twice.’ ”
They pressed her again on this point, and she replied that she was ready to speak truth on “what she knew”; and when again they urged her, she exclaims with her usual boyish impatience, “Pass on to something else!” (Passez-outre!)
They asked her about her Voices, questions minutely detailed, unnecessarily confusing; to which she replied clearly enough. But when they pressed her as to the revelations given, she would not answer, save that she had revelations touching the King, which she would not tell, and that she was forbidden to speak of these. They asked if she had heard her Voices recently, and she replied that they had been with her on the previous night and had spoken much to her for the good of the King, which she would be glad to let him know.
They tried to discredit her visions by asking if it was by their advice she tried to escape from prison; which she took up shortly and sharply with the rejoinder:
“I have nothing to say to you on that point.”
“Did you see anything besides the Voice?” asked the Bishop. To which she answered:
“I will not tell you all; I have not leave; my oath does not touch on that. My Voice is good and to be honoured. I am not bound to answer you about it.”
She may well have felt by instinct that the strangely intimate nature of her vision would be profaned by discussion in the midst of that sneering, prejudiced court.
They next pressed her about her early associations with the “Fairies’ Tree,” and the Oak Wood of Domrémy, in the hope of showing that she had from childhood been associated with magic and sorcery. The frank and simple information given in reply suggests that Jeanne did not even suspect the purport of these questions. She certainly made no effort to hide or disguise the truth.
“What have you to say about a certain tree that is near to your village?”
“Not far from Domrémy is a tree that they call the ‘Ladies’ Tree,’ others call it the ‘Fairies’ Tree.’ Near by is a spring to which people sick of the fever come to drink. I have seen them come thus myself; but I do not know if they were cured. It is a beautiful tree, a beech. I have sometimes been there to play with the young girls, and to make garlands for Our Lady of Domrémy. Often have I heard the old folk—not of my family—say that the fairies haunt this tree. Whether it is true, I do not know; as for me I never saw them.
“I have seen the young girls putting garlands on the branches of this tree, and I myself have sometimes put them there with my companions; but ever since I knew I had to come into France, I have given myself up as little as possible to these games and distractions. Since I was grown up I do not remember to have danced there. I may have done so formerly with the other children; I have sung there more than danced.”
Surely the frank admission must have proved even to those prejudiced minds that here they had to deal with no witch maiden, but with a simple village girl, recalling her childish amusements with evident effort, for they had receded, oh! so far, since she had taken up the banner at her Lord’s command.
Suddenly, at the end of this long wearisome day, they asked her if she wished to have a woman’s dress.
For a moment her heart leaped up. Did this mean release? “Bring me one to go home in, and I will gladly use it,” she said; then realizing the hopelessness of that idea she quickly added, “No, I prefer this, since it pleases God that I should wear it.”
The question of her boy’s dress was brought up again later. They tried to force from her an admission that she wore it at the suggestion of Robert de Baudricourt; and when she gave a flat denial, they asked if she herself thought it was well to dress in male attire. She replied firmly that she had done nothing in the world but by the order of God.
So the long days followed on another, full of weary, pointless interrogations, repetitions, absurd and trifling details. The marvel is that the Maid bore them so well, and showed such spirit, such power of repartee, when she must have been physically and mentally wearied in the extreme.
Thus, when they asked her if her Saints wore rings, she replies with contempt, “I know nothing about it,” and then, turning sharply on the Bishop, she adds, “But you have one of my rings; give it back to me.”
It was the old-fashioned circlet ring given by her father or mother and engraved with the words, Jesus, Maria. Even this innocent symbol was turned against her by her judges.
It was no wonder that in that great assembly some hearts less hardened, less jaundiced than the rest, were moved to pity for the gallant Maid in her helpless position. One of her judges, Nicolas de Houppeville, even protested that it was not lawful for Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, to sit as chief judge, since he was a Burgundian, and therefore incapable of taking an unprejudiced view. For this protest he was thrown into prison.
A lawyer of Rouen, Jean de Lohier, declared that the trial was not valid on certain technical grounds, and especially because she, a simple girl, was not allowed counsel, “for see how they are going on!” he said. “They will catch her in her words, as when she says ‘I know for certain that I touched the Apparition.’ If she had said ‘so it seemed to me,’ I think no man could condemn her.”
For this upright declaration, Lohier was presently forced to flee from France for his life.
The reporter, Manchon, also makes a statement that shows his indignant pity for the Maid under an unjust judge.
“Monseigneur of Beauvais would have everything written as pleased him, and when there was anything that displeased him, he forbad the secretaries to report it as being of no importance to the trial.”
Even the evidence of the priest, Massieu, the Sheriff’s officer and practically her gaoler, is to the same effect. He met an English clerk who was one of the followers of the Bishop of Winchester, and who asked him, “What do you think of her answers? Will she be burnt? What will happen?”
“Up to this time,” says the cautious Massieu, “I have heard nothing from her that was not honourable and good. She seems to me a good woman, but how it will all end God only knows.”
Once, indeed, the whole court, in its startled silence, seemed to show sympathy with the Maid.
She had said again and again that, had it not been for the grace of God, she would not have known how to act, when one of her judges asked, probably with a sneer, “How do you know you are in the grace of God?”
An Augustinian monk, who formed one of the court, interposed pityingly, “That is a great matter to answer. Perhaps the accused is not bound to answer upon it.”
At once the bullying voice of the Bishop silenced him. “You would have done better to be quiet!”
A heated discussion followed as to the propriety of the question, which was at length again put to Jeanne.
“Speak, Jeanne; do you know yourself to be in the grace of God?”
Most pathetically rang out the piteous voice of the Maid:
“If I am not, God bring me to it! If I am, God keep me in it! I should be of all women most miserable if I knew myself to be out of the love and favour of God.”
The silence that followed was broken by the words of an archdeacon, more courageous than the rest:
“Jeanne, thou hast answered well!”
When the trial was resumed after this long and embarrassed pause, the questioner dealt with quite other matters.