Read Online Imaginary LIves by Marcel Schwob - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcel Schwob
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
Nicolas caught her in his arms and with a quick glance at the judges, cried out: “She will confess.” When she passed him again at the low door of the prison he kissed her fingers.
“Please God, Jeannette,” he said, “this day has been well for you. Your soul has been saved, Jeanne. Only trust me and you shall be free. Resume the modest garments of your proper sex. Do as you are told else you are still in danger. Obey me, Jeanne, and you shall be saved. You are a good girl; there is no evil in you. But you are in the power of the Church. You must remember that.”
After dinner he visited her in her new prison, an apartment in the Château, reached by eight stairs. Nicolas sat down on the bed to which a heavy block was fastened by an iron chain.
“My Jeannette,” he began, “God and Our Lady have been merciful to you this day, for they have shown you the grace and mercy of our Holy Mother the Church. When the judges and holy men command you must obey humbly. You must give up your old ideas or the Church will abandon you forever. See, Jeanne here are honest garments of a modest girl. Be quick to shear those boyish locks.” Four days later Nicolas returned while Jeanne was asleep and stole the skirt and smock he had given her. When they told him she was again in man’s clothing he exclaimed: “Alas, I fear she’s sunk too deep in evil.” And to the Archbishop in his chapel he repeated the words of Doctor Gilles of Duremort: “We, her judges, have but to declare Jeanne d’Arc a heretic, abandoning her to secular justice; praying they shall deal with her leniently.” Before they led Jeanne to the stake Nicolas reached her side with Jean Toutmouille.
“Oh, Jeannette,” he pled, “hide the truth no longer, for now you must think only of your soul’s salvation. Trust me, my child! Here, before all eyes, you must go down on your knees in public confession. Public, Jeanne! Humble and public... for the good of your soul.”
Jeanne begged his help, fearing her courage there before the mob. He stayed to see her burn. It was then he manifested his devotion to the Virgin so visibly.
When Jeanne began to scream out in the name of Mary, Nicolas wept hot tears, strongly moved as he was at the very sound of Our Lady’s name. The English soldiers thought he cried out of pity for Jeanne, so they struck him and threatened him with their swords. If the Count of Warwick had not protected him they would have cut his throat then and there. As it was he mounted one of the Count’s horses and rode away.
For many long days he wandered over the roads of France, avoiding Normandy and the king’s men. Finally he reached Bale. Standing on a wooden bridge between tall pointed houses with blue and yellow turrets, roofed with arched, striated tiles, he was suddenly dazzled by the glare of the Rhine. He saw himself drowning like the lewd friar, Nicole Coppequesne, in the green water whirling before his eyes, and Mary’s name choked in his throat as he died with a sob.
KATHERINE THE LACEMAKER
A Girl of the Streets
She was born about the middle of the fifteenth century, in the rue de la Parcheminerie near the rue Saint Jacques, during a winter so cold that wolves ran over Paris on the snow. An old woman with a red nose under her hood took Katherine in and brought her up. At first she played in the doorways with Perrenette, Guillemette. Ysabeau and Jehanneton, who wore little petticoats and gathered icicles, chilling their small red fists in the icy gutters. They would watch the neighbourhood boys whistle at passers-by from the tables of the Saint-Merry tavern. Under open sheds they saw buckets of tripe, long fat sausages and big iron hooks from which the butchers hung quarters of meat near Saint Benoit le Betourne, where the scriveners lived. They heard the scratching of quills in little shops, and in the evening saw clerks snuff out their flickering candles. At Petit-Pont they mocked the sidewalk orators,
“Please God, Jeannette,” he said, “this day has been well for you. Your soul has been saved, Jeanne. Only trust me and you shall be free. Resume the modest garments of your proper sex. Do as you are told else you are still in danger. Obey me, Jeanne, and you shall be saved. You are a good girl; there is no evil in you. But you are in the power of the Church. You must remember that.”
After dinner he visited her in her new prison, an apartment in the Château, reached by eight stairs. Nicolas sat down on the bed to which a heavy block was fastened by an iron chain.
“My Jeannette,” he began, “God and Our Lady have been merciful to you this day, for they have shown you the grace and mercy of our Holy Mother the Church. When the judges and holy men command you must obey humbly. You must give up your old ideas or the Church will abandon you forever. See, Jeanne here are honest garments of a modest girl. Be quick to shear those boyish locks.” Four days later Nicolas returned while Jeanne was asleep and stole the skirt and smock he had given her. When they told him she was again in man’s clothing he exclaimed: “Alas, I fear she’s sunk too deep in evil.” And to the Archbishop in his chapel he repeated the words of Doctor Gilles of Duremort: “We, her judges, have but to declare Jeanne d’Arc a heretic, abandoning her to secular justice; praying they shall deal with her leniently.” Before they led Jeanne to the stake Nicolas reached her side with Jean Toutmouille.
“Oh, Jeannette,” he pled, “hide the truth no longer, for now you must think only of your soul’s salvation. Trust me, my child! Here, before all eyes, you must go down on your knees in public confession. Public, Jeanne! Humble and public... for the good of your soul.”
Jeanne begged his help, fearing her courage there before the mob. He stayed to see her burn. It was then he manifested his devotion to the Virgin so visibly.
When Jeanne began to scream out in the name of Mary, Nicolas wept hot tears, strongly moved as he was at the very sound of Our Lady’s name. The English soldiers thought he cried out of pity for Jeanne, so they struck him and threatened him with their swords. If the Count of Warwick had not protected him they would have cut his throat then and there. As it was he mounted one of the Count’s horses and rode away.
For many long days he wandered over the roads of France, avoiding Normandy and the king’s men. Finally he reached Bale. Standing on a wooden bridge between tall pointed houses with blue and yellow turrets, roofed with arched, striated tiles, he was suddenly dazzled by the glare of the Rhine. He saw himself drowning like the lewd friar, Nicole Coppequesne, in the green water whirling before his eyes, and Mary’s name choked in his throat as he died with a sob.
KATHERINE THE LACEMAKER
A Girl of the Streets
She was born about the middle of the fifteenth century, in the rue de la Parcheminerie near the rue Saint Jacques, during a winter so cold that wolves ran over Paris on the snow. An old woman with a red nose under her hood took Katherine in and brought her up. At first she played in the doorways with Perrenette, Guillemette. Ysabeau and Jehanneton, who wore little petticoats and gathered icicles, chilling their small red fists in the icy gutters. They would watch the neighbourhood boys whistle at passers-by from the tables of the Saint-Merry tavern. Under open sheds they saw buckets of tripe, long fat sausages and big iron hooks from which the butchers hung quarters of meat near Saint Benoit le Betourne, where the scriveners lived. They heard the scratching of quills in little shops, and in the evening saw clerks snuff out their flickering candles. At Petit-Pont they mocked the sidewalk orators,
Similar Books
