Jeanne’s simplicity and sincerity, her earnestness and good behaviour, however, gradually silenced unfriendly critics; and although most folk regarded her as mad, many believed her story and watched developments. The strange revelation of the maid of Domremy travelled far and wide, and brought many a neighbour and many a stranger to question her. Among the rest came Sieur Durand Laxaert, her mother’s uncle by marriage--a man of means, too, and well known the country round. He questioned Jeanne, he questioned her parents, he questioned the village curé, and then he went off and told the amazing story to his friend, Chevalier Robert de Baudricourt, the Captain of Vaucouleurs, a market-town in Champagne, not far from Domremy. The gallant Captain listened attentively, but when the story was completed he burst out laughing. “Why, man,” said he, “you and all of them are crazy! Just go back and box the child’s ears soundly; that’s the way to treat this sort of nonsense.” The matter dropped so far as the Chevalier was concerned, but again, in the following January, Sieur Laxaert approached Baudricourt, and asked him to see his young niece. He consented, and Jeanne, wearing her coarse red homespun kirtle and heavy wooden shoes and her village girl’s coif, was introduced to the unbelieving Captain. He was dumbfounded by her appearance, for the lass was no village hoyden. Her figure was slender, her features refined; her great brown eyes,--staring into his face,--told only of simple faith and untarnished honour. Her voice was low and sweet, and there was a something eerie and incomprehensible about her which struck the good man, and made him feel uncomfortable. When he asked her what she wanted, she promptly replied: “I want to be led to the King of France.” “My child,” de Baudricourt replied, “that I cannot do; but, if you wish, I will willingly take you to Nancy, and lead you to the Duke, your sovereign lord and mine. Prepare yourself at once for the journey.” Amid the tears and protests of her parents and her friends Jeanne started, as she was, upon her eventful pilgrimage. At St. Nicholas de Pont,--a little town two leagues from Nancy,--she asked to be allowed to spend three hours in devotions in the church. When she reappeared, her face was wet with tears, and her long brown hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders. She did not seem to care. Her gaze was heavenward, and the only words she uttered were: “_En avant!_” With Sieur Laxaert was a comrade, a young man, Jehan de Novelonpont, better known as Jehan de Metz, of good birth and knightly carriage. He offered Jeanne his sword. She touched the hilt, and, smiling sadly, said: “Alas! young sir, that blade will be required erelong to slay thy country’s foes and God’s.” Thus they entered the capital of Lorraine.