But the voice that called her to
death, _that_ she heard for ever.
Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was He
that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that
sat upon it, was for _her_; but, on the contrary, that she was for
_them_; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the
dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the
privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another
century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well
Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the
lilies of France would decorate no garland for _her_. Flower nor
bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for _her_!
* * * * *
But stay. What reason is there for taking up this subject of Joanna
precisely in the spring of 1847? Might it not have been left till the
spring of 1947, or, perhaps, left till called for? Yes, but it _is_
called for, and clamorously. You are aware, reader, that amongst the
many original thinkers whom modern France has produced, one of the
reputed leaders is M. Michelet. All these writers are of a
revolutionary cast; not in a political sense merely, but in all senses;
mad, oftentimes, as March hares; crazy with the laughing gas of
recovered liberty; drunk with the wine cup of their mighty Revolution,
snorting, whinnying, throwing up their heels, like wild horses in the
boundless pampas, and running races of defiance with snipes, or with
the winds, or with their own shadows, if they can find nothing else to
challenge.
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