Isabelle – she had a dream

Preface: Isabelle Romée was Joan of Arc's mother. Here, she tells her story – it's time she had her say. Very little is known about Joan of Arc's childhood. This story may be true, or it may be completely different.

This child will be the death of me! This reckless, wild child whom I love so much! Jacques always says: 'She's your daughter. It's a woman's job to raise a daughter. Do you want her to bring shame on us?'

'She's not bringing shame on us, she's a sweet girl', I reply. But he's right, my old man. I remember how she beat up the shepherd boys for saying something stupid about the Virgin Mary. Mon Dieu, how she took them on! I had to listen to a lot of things.

I told her: 'Child, they're just stupid boys who don't know what they're saying. You know such fights are not proper for a girl.' She looked at me with her grey eyes, and I was frightened by the seriousness in them. She didn't say anything, my wild little daughter. She reluctantly allowed me to clean her scratches, but didn't even flinch. She was only eight years old, my little girl.

Back then, Jacques laughed about it. He didn't get angry like he does today. Now he reproaches me. He thinks I failed in her upbringing. But that's not true. What am I supposed to do with a girl who runs away at every opportunity and talks to invisible ghosts? I have followed her so often into the woods and to the stream, where I would find her sitting with her eyes closed, murmuring to herself. The first time I found her like that, I shook her. God help me, I was so afraid.

When she opened her eyes, she just asked me: 'Didn't you hear them, Maman?' A tremendous fear came over me – God help me. 'The child has a fever', I thought. But her forehead was cold, and when I asked her who she had heard, she just said: 'The good ladies.' She was ten years old at the time. I didn't tell my old husband about it. I didn't want to worry him. I never took my eyes off her, my beloved child, who is so different from all the other children.

But nothing happened for some time. She followed my every instruction, and Virgin Mary knows how clever my girl can be when she wants to be. She quickly learned whatever I showed her. Then one day, I found the spinning wheel empty. I searched for her again and found her. I asked her what the good ladies had said when I found her lying in the grass, with a smiling face. 'They said they need me and that I will go to them', she replied ecstatically. I never asked her again, but since that day, I have been out of my mind with worry.

The thought of what would happen if someone found out that our daughter talks to ghosts is unthinkable. That she can hear voices. It would be a disaster for all of us. But I know there's nothing wrong with my child, perhaps her temperament is just not quite right for a young girl. She probably inherited that from Jacques, who can get angry like a bull. He's a good soul, my old man. When he tried to drown the extra puppies and the little girl clung to his arms, screaming and crying, he slapped her. But he threw the puppies into her apron and went outside.

When he saw how the old dog whined with joy when the child brought her puppies back, Jacques cried. He's not one for words, but when she proudly placed the first loaf of bread she had baked in front of him, he broke off a piece and chewed it slowly. Then he nodded and continued eating. When she left, his eyes followed her and he smiled. On days like that, I thought that everything would be fine, that her peculiarities would pass like a summer fever and all the worry would end.

But then things happened again that I didn't understand – things that infuriated her father. When she was about fifteen, she would suddenly stop in the middle of her work in broad daylight and tilt her head more and more often. Sometimes she would smile. Other times, she would shake her head. Most of the time, no one noticed, but my heart skipped a beat every time I saw it. My child is as devout and God-fearing as could be wished for, but these voices frighten me.

I don't dare tell the priest in case he thinks something terrible. He doesn't know my daughter as well as I do, and might frighten her by pressuring her. People always start talking about bad things immediately when things are not as they are used to, trembling as if God were after them.

She has decorated her room as if it were a feast day, and she has asked me for wax candles. Using her skilled fingers, she has embroidered a fine cloth and used it to set up a small altar before which she prays for hours. The servants have noticed this, but no one thinks anything of it.

People talk about her devotion, which makes Jacques very proud. He talks about husbands. Now that she is sixteen, he tells her about various young men who are fine lads and come from good families, but she just listens, smiles and shakes her head. I know she will never marry, Lord Jesus.

She forgets her father's words as soon as he leaves the room. She has also started running into the woods again. I don't look for her anymore. I'm much too slow. But I pray incessantly to the Virgin Mary to protect my child.

I had a dream. A dream in which I was chasing her through the forest. I called her name, but she couldn't hear me. She walked towards a light glowing between the trees. The light was beautiful, but I felt a deep sense of pain. I knew that if she reached it, I would never see her again. Then she turned around, telling me not to be afraid because she wasn't alone – the saints were with her. When I woke up, my face was wet with tears. I quickly got dressed and went to look for her. She was kneeling in front of the small shrine she had made in her room, and an early ray of light was falling on her hair through the window, just as it had been in my dream.

I pulled her into my arms and we clung to each other. We both knew she was about to leave. Wherever her path would lead her – the path that had always been destined for her. My little daughter, my pride and joy. My strange and wonderful child.

She will leave and never come back – I know that. But for now, I hold you, and you are still mine, Joan.

© 'Isabelle: she had a dream. A story from French history': A short story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 10/2025. Image credit: Joan of Arc, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).