She was of a good height
and finely proportioned, and her carriage as full of dignity as
of grace. Her skin was of such white loveliness that a contemporary
compares it with the lily. Like Athene, she was gray-eyed, and,
like Athene, noble-featured, the oval of her face squaring a little
at the chin, in which there was a cleft. Calm was her habit, calm
her slow-moving eyes, calm and deliberate her movements, and calm
the mind reflected in all this.
And as the heavy diligence trundles out of Caen and takes the
open country and the Paris road, not even the thought of the
errand upon which she goes, of her death-dealing and death-
receiving mission, can shake that normal calm. Here is no wild
exaltation, no hysterical obedience to hotly-conceived impulse.
Here is purpose, as cold as it is lofty, to liberate France and
pay with her life for the privilege of doing so.
That lover of hers, whom we are presently to see, has compared
her ineptly with Joan of Arc, that other maid of France. But Joan
moved with pomp in a gorgeous pageantry, amid acclamations,
sustained by the heady wine of combat and of enthusiasm openly
indulged, towards a goal of triumph. Charlotte travelled quietly
in the stuffy diligence with the quiet conviction that her days
were numbered.
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