with a better knowledge of the ground than that of yesterday, the mode of attack.  Jeanne would not confess that she felt her wound, in her eagerness to begin the assault a second time.  And all were in good spirits, the disappointment of the night having blown away, and the determination to do or die being stronger than ever.  Were the men-at-arms perhaps less amenable?  Were they whispering to each other that Jeanne had promised them Paris yesterday, and for the first time had not kept her word?  It would almost require such a fact as this to explain what follows.  For as they began to set out, the whole field in movement, there was suddenly seen approaching another party of cavaliers—­perhaps another reinforcement like that of Montmorency?  This new band, however, consisted but of two gentlemen and their immediate attendants, the Duc de Bar and the Comte de Clermont,(1) always a bird of evil omen, riding hot from St. Denis with orders from the King.  These orders were abrupt and peremptory—­to turn back.  Jeanne and her companions were struck dumb for the moment.  To turn back, and Paris at their feet!  There must have burst forth a storm of remonstrance and appeal.  We cannot tell how long the indignant parley lasted; the historians do not enlarge upon the disastrous incident.  But at last the generals yielded to the orders of the King—­Jeanne humiliated, miserable, and almost in despair.  We cannot but feel that on no former occasion would she have given way so completely; she would have rushed to the King’s presence, overwhelmed him with impetuous prayers, extorted somehow the permission to go on.  But Charles was safe at seven miles’ distance, and his envoys were imperious and peremptory, like men able to enforce obedience if it were not given.  She obeyed at last, recovering courage a little in the hope of being able to persuade Charles to change his mind, and sanction another assault on Paris from the other side, by means of a bridge over the Seine towards St. Denis, which Alencon had constructed.  Next morning it appears that without even asking that permission a portion of the army set out very early for this bridge:  but the King had divined their project, and when they reached the river side the first thing they saw was their bridge in ruins.  It had been treacherously destroyed in the night, not by their enemies, but by their King.

It is natural that the French historians should exhaust themselves in explanation of this fatal change of policy.  Quicherat, who was the first to bring to light all the most important records of this period of history, lays the entire blame upon La Tremoille, the chief adviser of Charles.  But that Charles himself was at heart equally guilty no one can doubt.  He was a man who proved himself in the end of his career to possess both sense and energy, though tardily developed.  It was to him that Jeanne had given that private sign of the truth of her mission, by which he was overawed and convinced in the first moment of their intercourse.