Still the soul of France did not fail her. It heard the second approach
of that monstrous Prussian horde, which, like a broad, irresistible
tide, sweeping across one half of Europe, came down, down, down
from Mons until the thunder of its guns could again be heard on the
boulevards. And then came the great miracle! Just as the sea itself can
rise no higher when it has reached the top of the flood, so the mighty
army of Germany had to stop its advance thirty kilomètres north of
Paris, and when it stirred again it had to go back. And back and back it
went before the armies of France, Britain, and Belgium, until it reached
a point at which it could dig itself into the earth and hide in a long
serpentine trench stretching from the Alps to the sea. Only then did
the spirit of France draw breath for a moment, and the next flash as of
lightning showed her offering thanks and making supplications before the
white statue of Jeanne d’Arc in the apse of the great cathedral of Notre
Dame, sacred to innumerable memories. On the Feast of St Michael 10,000
of the women of Paris were kneeling under the dark vault, and on the
broad space in front of the majestic façade, to call on the Maid of
Orleans to % intercede with the Virgin for victory. It was a great and
grandiose scene, recalling the days when faith was strong and purer.
Old and young, rich and poor, every woman with some soul that was dear
to her in that inferno at the front--the Motherhood of France was there
to pray to the Mother of all living to ask God for the triumph of the
right.
“Jesus, hear our cry for our country! Justice for France, O God!”
And in the spirit of that prayer the soul of France still lives.