The Siege of Orléans

Orléans, France

April 17, 2000

The perks of my job are obvious, but nice nonetheless. In January, my wife decided to visit a friend in London. So she checked with her mole at Delta Air Lines, and had him check inventory.

“Are seats available on any London flights next weekend?”

“Yes”, I replied. “Plenty in coach, but the front looks dicey.”

“That’s OK. As long as I can get there I don’t care what seat I’m in.”

She made it there and back. Business Class both directions.

The next month, we decided to visit the South of France.

“How are the flights?”, she asked.

“They’re fine. We’ll definitely get there, but Business class is pretty full, so we may be in coach.”

“Really?”, she lamented. “Then I’m not sure I want to go.”

We did go. And in the style to which my wife had quickly become accustomed. I have become accustomed as well, and am now more particular about my seat, and my service, than she ever was.

This week we returned to France. The front of the plane was again dicey, but our roll came up Big Red. Steak dinner, Chateau Margaux, dozens of movies, and near full-recline seats carried us overnight to Charles De Gaulle.

As dawn broke, our Delta dopp kit provided spray and soap for a quick “French bath”, which is more than anyone provided the guy beside me in the airport rental car line. Once he moved away and cleared the air, we grabbed our Renault, hopped on Le Périphérique, and headed for Orléans. 

We parked on Rue Boisson, in front of a café–tabac across from Parc Pasteur. The park is expansive, resplendent with tulips, and languid with bodies lounging, lolling, or strolling across fresh spring grass. And it is about the only thing in this town not named for the Maid of Orléans. 

This city has more monuments to Joan of Arc than Atlanta has streets named Peachtree. From the park we walked under a stone triumphal arch, and toward the Cathédrale Sainte Croix de Orléans. 

In its gothic nave on May 2, 1429, Joan heard Mass while in the city to lift the English siege. Under its ribbed vaults and over its arched portals, stained glass brightens her church and tells her story. Few tire of it.

The Hundred Years’ War raged. Times were tough. Wolves roamed Paris as peasants fled a barren countryside to seek shelter within its girdle of walls. Begging by day, the pitiful paupers lost their sight and misplaced their mobility. By night, their eyes and limbs somehow recovered, and that daily transformation provided a lasting name to the Cour des Miracles. 

Enfeebled France was pressed between the invading English to the north, and its persistent enemy to the south. Those pesky Burgundians made common cause with Henry V, and squeezed the vise. 

Defeats at Crécy and Poitiers added to recurrent rivers of Medieval blood. The infamous debacle at Agincourt provided a plot to Shakespeare, and killed 100 French soldiers for every English death. 

During the occupation of les goddams from across La Manche, Charles VII ruled a rump kingdom from distant Bourges. France was in mortal peril.

Into this degenerating disarray came la pucelle. This seventeen year-old shepherd girl from Domrémy formed an army, and bore into battle a sense of mission and the voices of saints. Joan revived the military ardor and innate pride of her battered patrie. 

Her inspired forces liberated starving Orléans, turning the tide after the infamy at Agincourt. Her loyal army then freed Troyes, and Rheims. She was wounded during the assault on Paris. The Burgundians captured her, and handed her to their English allies.

The voices that had saved Orléans now condemned Joan. Sycophantic Sorbonne lawyers and unscrupulous English judges attributed those sacred sounds (and martial victories) to sinful sorcery. 

They condemned the Maid, and sent her to the pyre. The flames became a solemn beacon for feudal France. Their smoke carried its victim to Heaven, where she now sits as a saint.

Last night, she returned to Orléans, and saved us. 

After we left the cathedral, Rita and I wandered to the Renaissance-style Hôtel Groslot, beside which a flood of flowers surround a memorial to … Joan of Arc. 

Her equestrian sculpture anchors the Place du Martroi, where we went next. Along the Rue Royale – adjacent to this car-free, fountain-filled square – stands the Chancellerie Pavillion, built in 1759 by the Duke of Orléans to shelter his dusty, unread archives. 

Rita and I dissed the duke, opting instead for a few of the many shops and abundant cafés that adorn this pedestrian plaza. Then, it was time to go.

Having flown overnight to Paris, we had driven a couple hours to Orléans. Adrenaline, sites, curiosity, and coffee kept us awake thru the afternoon. As evening approached, we were tiring. So we returned eagerly to our waiting Renault. 

Which wouldn’t start.

We were ninety minutes from our hotel. Evening approached, and light receded. The road ahead lengthened. We prepared to hunker down, ready to suffer our own siege in Orléans. Then, the Maid (or France Télécom) brought a miracle: a phone booth, right beside us. 

I dug into our glove compartment and thru our documents. Among them, I retrieved the number to request a rescue. I pushed the buttons, and heard the buzzing of a stereotypical French phone. Then came the sound of the stereotypical French language.

“Allô?”

“Uh…bon…bonjour.”

“Bonsoir.”

“Ah, oui. Bonsoir. Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Non.”

“Oh.”

Rita was waiting on the sidewalk, outside the booth…arms and eyebrows raised, palms skyward, wondering what I was doing. With a dismissive index finger, confident nod, and wry smile, I offered the empty assurance every clueless husband must occasionally offer his forbearing wife. Like most such husbands, I pretended I had the situation in hand.

As such, I turned from my wife, faced the emptying park, channeled weeks of Berlitz commuter cassettes, and searched for something to say. 

“Le voiture…est morte!”

“Morte?”

“Oui. It doesn’t work.”

“Que?”

For some reason, he wasn’t understanding my pidgin French. And I was losing the Berlitz soundtrack. So I tried the universal language of the ugly American. I yelled slowly in condescending English.

“IT. DOESN’T. WORK!! THE. CAR. WON’T. START!!”

“Le car? Oh…le voiture! Avez-vous besoin d’assistance? Où êtes-vous?”

I gave the address of the café-tabac, and then went into it…straight to le bar. Over un tasse du café and un verre du vin rouge, we waited only half an hour for the Maid’s cavalry to lift our siege. Within minutes, it did.

Our Renault ostensibly repaired, we left Orléans and followed the winding Loire along Route A10, past Blois, and then another twenty minutes west to Château des Tertres. Pierre, our eager valet, parked our car and carried our luggage. 

After a brief meal in the elegant yet empty salle à manger, we retreated to our spacious chambre. We drew the curtains, and squinted to see the sights beyond the pane. But to no avail.

Darkness had settled over the valley of the Loire. 

JD