Yet it was in effect an unconscious pilgrimage to the one health-resort that his soul needed.  For Domremy and the region round about are saturated with the most beautiful story of France.  The life of Jeanne d’Arc, simple and mysterious, humble and glorious, most human and most heavenly, flows under that place like a hidden stream, rising at every turn in springs and fountains.  The poor little village lives in and for her memory.  Her presence haunts the ridges and the woods, treads the green pastures, follows the white road beside the river, and breathes in the never-resting valley-wind that marries the flowers in June and spreads their seed in August.

At the small basilica built to her memory on the place where her old beech-tree, “Fair May,” used to stand there was an ancient caretaker who explained to Pierre the pictures from the life of the Maid with which the walls are decorated.  They are stiff and conventional, but the old man found them wonderful and told with zest the story of La Pucelle—­how she saw her first vision; how she recognized the Dauphin in his palace at Chinon; how she broke the siege of Orleans; how she saw Charles crowned in the cathedral at Rheims; how she was burned at the stake in Rouen.  But they could not kill her soul.  She saved France.

In the village church there was a priest from the border of Alsace, also a pilgrim like Pierre, but one who knew the shrine better.  He showed the difference between the new and the old parts of the building.  Certain things the Maid herself had seen and touched.  “Here is the old holy-water basin, an antique, broken column hollowed out on top.  Here her fingers must have rested often.  Before this ancient statue of Saint Michel she must have often knelt to say her prayers.  The cure of the parish was a friend of hers and loved to talk with her.  She was a good girl, devout and obedient, not learned, but a holy and great soul.  She saved France.”

In the house where she was born, and passed her childhood, a crippled old woman was custodian.  It was a humble dwelling of plastered stone, standing between two tall fir-trees, with ivy growing over the walls, lilies and hollyhocks blooming in the garden.  Pierre found it not half so good a house as “L’Alouette.”  But to the custodian it was more precious than a palace.  In this upper room with its low mullioned window the Maid began her life.  Here, in the larger room below, is the kneeling statue which the Princess Marie d’Orleans made of her.  Here, to the right, under the sloping roof, with its worm-eaten beams, she slept and prayed and worked.

“See, here is the bread-board between two timbers where she cut the bread for the croute-au-pot.  From this small window she looked at night and saw the sanctuary light burning in the church.  Here, also, as well as in the garden and in the woods, her heavenly voices spoke to her and told her what she must do for the king and her country.  She was not afraid or ashamed, though she lived in so small a house.  Here in this very room she braided her hair and put on her red dress, and set forth on foot for her visit to Robert de Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs.  He was a rough man and at first he received her roughly.  But at last she convinced him.  He gave her a horse and arms and sent her to the king.  She saved France.”