In the year 1424，the year in which，after the battle of Agincourt，France was delivered over to Henry V.an extraordinary event occurred in the life of this little French peasant.We have not the same horror of that treaty，naturally，as have the French.Henry V.is a favourite of our history，probably not so much for his own merit as because of that master-magician，Shakespeare，who of his supreme good pleasure，in the exercise of that voluntary preference，which even God himself seems to show to some men，has made of that monarch one of the best beloved of our hearts.Dear to us as he is，in Eastcheap as at Agincourt，and more in the former than the latter，even our sense of the disgraceful character of that bargain，/le traitéinfame/of Troyes，by which Queen Isabeau betrayed her son，and gave her daughter and her country to the invader，is softened a little by our high estimation of the hero.But this is simple national prejudice；regarded from the French side，or even by the impartial judgment of general humanity，it was an infamous treaty，and one which might well make the blood boil in French veins.
We look at it at present，however，through the atmosphere of the nineteenth century，when France is all French，and when the royal house of England has no longer any French connection.If George III.much more George II.on the basis of his kingdom of Hanover，had attempted to make himself master of a large portion of Germany，the situation would have been more like that of Henry V.in France than anything we can think of now.It is true the kings of England were no longer dukes of Normandy--but they had been so within the memory of man：and that noble duchy was a hereditary appanage of the family of the Conqueror；while to other portions of France they had the link of temporary possession and inheritance through French wives and mothers；added to which is the fact that Jean sans Peur of Burgundy，thirsting to avenge his father's blood upon the Dauphin，would have been probably a more dangerous usurper than Henry，and that the actual sovereign，the unfortunate，mad Charles VI.was in no condition to maintain his own rights.
There is little evidence，however，that this treaty，or anything so distinct in detail，had made much impression on the outlying borders of France.What was known there，was only that the English were victorious，that the rightful King of France was still uncrowned and unacknowledged，and that the country was oppressed and humiliated under the foot of the invader.The fact that the new King was not yet the Lord's anointed，and had never received the seal of God，as it were，to his commission，was a fact which struck the imagination of the village as of much more importance than many greater things--being at once more visible and matter-of-fact，and of more mystical and spiritual efficacy than any other circumstance in the dreadful tale.
Jeanne was in the garden as usual，seated，as we should say in Scotland，at "her seam，"not quite thirteen，a child in all the innocence of infancy，yet full of dreams，confused no doubt and vague，with those impulses and wonderings--impatient of trouble，yearning to give help--which tremble on the chaos of a young soul like the first lightening of dawn upon the earth.It was summer，and afternoon，the time of dreams.It would be easy in the employment of legitimate fancy to heighten the picturesqueness of that quiet scene--the little girl with her favourite bells，the birds picking up the crumbs of brown bread at her feet.She was thinking of nothing，most likely，in a vague suspense of musing，the wonder of youth，the awakening of thought，as yet come to little definite in her child's heart--looking up from her work to note some passing change of the sky，a something in the air which was new to her.All at once between her and the church there shone a light on the right hand，unlike anything she had ever seen before；and out of it came a voice equally unknown and wonderful.What did the voice say？Only the simplest words，words fit for a child，no maxim or mandate above her faculties--"/Jeanne，sois bonne et sage enfant；va souvent àl'église./"Jeanne，be good！What more could an archangel，what less could the peasant mother within doors，say？The little girl was frightened，but soon composed herself.
The voice could be nothing but sacred and blessed which spoke thus.It would not appear that she mentioned it to anyone.It is such a secret as a child，in that wavering between the real and unreal，the world not realised of childhood，would keep，in mingled shyness and awe，uncertain，rapt in the atmosphere of vision，within her own heart.
It is curious how often this wonderful scene has been repeated in France，never connected with so high a mission，but yet embracing the same circumstances，the same situation，the same semi-angelic nature of the woman-child.The little Bernadette of Lourdes is almost of our own day；she，too is one who puts the scorner to silence.What her visions and her voices were，who can say？The last historian of them is not a man credulous of good or moved towards the ideal；yet he is silent，except in a wondering impression of the sacred and the true，before the little Bearnaise in her sabots；and，notwithstanding the many sordid results that have followed and all that sad machinery of expected miracle through which even，repulsive as it must always be，a something breaks forth from time to time which no man can define and account for except in ways more incredible than miracle--so is the rest of the world.Why has this logical，sceptical，doubting country，so able to quench with an epigram，or blow away with a breath of ridicule the finest vision--become the special sphere and birthplace of these spotless infant-saints？This is one of the wonders which nobody attempts to account for.Yet Bernadette is as Jeanne，though there are more than four hundred years between.
