Sick at heart, the wounded Maid, with faithful Alençon beside her, rode back, to find Charles busy with plans for retreat. Even Joan must now, one would think, have realized that all was over; yet the two comrades made one last gallant effort. The south wall of Paris might be less strong than that near the gate of St. Honoré. Alençon had already built a bridge across the Seine near St. Denis; how if they crossed this bridge with a chosen few and surprised the town? Early next morning they rode forth on their perilous venture--to find the bridge destroyed by order of the king. Now indeed Joan tasted the bitterness of defeat. She spoke no word, but her action spoke for her. She hung up her armor before the statue of the Virgin Mother in the cathedral. Her Voices bade her stay in St. Denis, but for once she must disobey them, obedience not being in her power. Three days later Charles left the place, dragging his followers with him. A hasty march back to the Loire, and on September 21st the king dined at Gien, well out of the way of English and Burgundians. "And thus," says the chronicle, "were broken the will of the Maid and the army of the king." FOOTNOTES: [60] Lowell, pp. 161 and 162. [61] Translated by Andrew Lang. [62] Lowell, pp. 168 and 169. CHAPTER XV COMPIÈGNE At Gien, the little old town where Charlemagne's castle frowned down upon the peaceful Loire, was bitter wrangling in the days that followed. La Trémoïlle had got his truce, and meant to enjoy it; Alençon's lance was still in rest; he demanded another campaign, in Normandy this time, and the Maid to lead it with him. Joan, with unerring glance, saw the thing that should be done. Let her go to the Isle of France, and from that spot of vantage cut off the supplies of Paris as they came down the river, and so reduce the city! Both these requests were put by. La Trémoïlle did not mean that Alençon and the Maid should ever fight side by side again. He had his way; the fiery duke, deprived of his command, left the court in anger, and retired to his estate. No sooner was he gone, than Charles disbanded the army, and fell to his dawdling again. Once more the Brazen Head had spoken: "_Time was!_" Hither and yon he drifted, a dead leaf skipping before the wind; with him, would she or no, went the Maid. Her bright arms were dimmed now by defeat, but still she was valuable--and dangerous! Charles was not yet ready to give her up; La Trémoïlle did not dare to let her go; she drifted with the rest. At Selles the queen met her precious spouse, and together they drifted to Bourges. Here Joan was lodged in the house of Marguerite La Touroulde, a gentlewoman of the queen's train, and stayed there some weeks, praying often in the churches, giving to the poor, bearing herself, as ever, simply and modestly. Girls brought her their rosaries, begging her to touch them. "Touch them yourselves!" she said laughing. "They will get as much good from your touch as from mine."