Having eaten, washed and rested, I walked the streets, drinking the
morning air and taking deep breaths of the _joie de vivre_, of the
strength and vitality mingled with the air. I looked on every side to
see whether I could not find some acquaintance in the crowd, some stray
trooper from my regiment.
So it was that the hazard of my walk brought me to a scene which moved
me to tears and which rests graven so deeply on my memory that I can
see its smallest detail with my eyes shut. The Gothic porch of the
church, with its fine sculptures of the best period, was open, making
in the brightness of the morning a pit of shade, at the foot of which
some candles shone like stars. On the threshold of the porch, gaily
lighted by the morning sun, a priest, whose fine virile face I can
still recall, held in his hand the enamel pyx, and his surplice of lace
of a dazzling whiteness contrasted with the muddy boots and spurs. One
could guess that after having traversed some field of battle, consoling
the wounded and the dying, he had dismounted to officiate in the open
air under the morning sun.
Before him, on a humble country cart and lying on a bed of straw, were
stretched the rigid bodies, fixed in death, of two chasseurs who had
fallen nobly while defending the bridge over the river. All around,
kneeling in the mud of the porch, a semicircle of bare-headed soldiers,
overcome by gratitude and humility, were assembled to accomplish a
last duty and pay their last respects to the two comrades who were
lying before them and who were sleeping their last sleep in their
bloodstained uniforms, and assisted at the supreme office. The priest
finished the _De profundis_, and in a clear voice pronounced the sacred
words "_Revertitur in terram suam unde erat et spiritus redit ad Deum
qui dedit illum_." The officiant gave the holy-water sprinkler to the
priest, who sprinkled the bodies and murmured "_Requiescat in pace_."
"Amen," responded the kneeling crowd, and a great wave of religious
feeling passed over the kneeling men, the greater part of whom gave way
to overmastering emotion.
I can still see a big devil of an artilleryman, with his head between
his hands, shaken by convulsive sobs. Having given the absolution, the
priest raised the host sparkling in the sunlight for the last time and
pronounced the sacramental words. I moved off, deeply affected by the
grandeur of the scene.