I wondered what she might be contriving now, but I saw no clue.  Catherine said, reproachfully: 

“Ah, what have I done to deserve this question?”

“Then you do love France.  I had not doubted it, dear.  Do not be hurt, but answer me—­have you ever told a lie?”

“In my life I have not wilfully told a lie—­fibs, but no lies.”

“That is sufficient.  You love France and do not tell lies; therefore I will trust you.  I will go or I will stay, as you shall decide.”

“Oh, I thank you from my heart, Joan!  How good and dear it is of you to do this for me!  Oh, you shall stay, and not go!”

In her delight she flung her arms about Joan’s neck and squandered endearments upon her the least of which would have made me rich, but, as it was, they only made me realize how poor I was—­how miserably poor in what I would most have prized in this world.  Joan said: 

“Then you will send word to my headquarters that I am not going?”

“Oh, gladly.  Leave that to me.”

“It is good of you.  And how will you word it?—­for it must have proper official form.  Shall I word it for you?”

“Oh, do—­for you know about these solemn procedures and stately proprieties, and I have had no experience.”

“Then word it like this:  ’The chief of staff is commanded to make known to the King’s forces in garrison and in the field, that the General-in-Chief of the Armies of France will not face the English on the morrow, she being afraid she may get hurt.  Signed, Joan of arc, by the hand of Catherine Boucher, who loves France.’”

There was a pause—­a silence of the sort that tortures one into stealing a glance to see how the situation looks, and I did that.  There was a loving smile on Joan’s face, but the color was mounting in crimson waves into Catherine’s, and her lips were quivering and the tears gathering; then she said: 

“Oh, I am so ashamed of myself!—­and you are so noble and brave and wise, and I am so paltry—­so paltry and such a fool!” and she broke down and began to cry, and I did so want to take her in my arms and comfort her, but Joan did it, and of course I said nothing.  Joan did it well, and most sweetly and tenderly, but I could have done it as well, though I knew it would be foolish and out of place to suggest such a thing, and might make an awkwardness, too, and be embarrassing to us all, so I did not offer, and I hope I did right and for the best, though I could not know, and was many times tortured with doubts afterward as having perhaps let a chance pass which might have changed all my life and made it happier and more beautiful than, alas, it turned out to be.  For this reason I grieve yet, when I think of that scene, and do not like to call it up out of the deeps of my memory because of the pangs it brings.