Along the old Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the
upper waters of the Marne to the Meuse a soldier of France was
passing in the night.
In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and
husky fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and
a handsome, downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a
trace of the horizon blue was left, only a gray shadow. He had no
knapsack on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly
he plodded his way, without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping
country. The quick, firm military step was gone. He trudged like
a tramp, choosing always the darker side of the road.
He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.
Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches,
and so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with
wooded heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some
temple or shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses
near it. Farther down he could see a cluster of white houses with
the tower of a church in the centre. Other villages were dimly
visible up and down the valley on either slope. The cattle were
lowing from the barnyards. The cocks crowed for the dawn. Already
the moon had sunk behind the western trees. But the valley was
still bathed in its misty, vanishing light. Over the eastern ridge
the gray glimmer of the little day was rising, faintly tinged with
rose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek his covert and
rest till night returned.
So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick
with underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns
and mosses. Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden
broom and a few tall spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his
dusty boots and socks and bathed his feet in a small pool, drying
them with fern leaves. Then he took a slice of bread and a piece of
cheese from his pocket and made his breakfast. Going to the edge
of the thicket, he parted the branches and peered out over the
vale.
Its eaves sloped gently to the level floor where the river loitered
in loops and curves. The sun was just topping the eastern hills;
the heads of the trees were dark against a primrose sky.
In the fields the hay had been cut and gathered. The aftermath
was already greening the moist places. Cattle and sheep sauntered
out to pasture. A thin silvery mist floated here and there,
spreading in broad sheets over the wet ground and shredding into
filmy scarves and ribbons as the breeze caught it among the pollard
willows and poplars on the border of the stream. Far away the water
glittered where the river made a sudden bend or a long smooth reach.
It was like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead a few white
clouds climbed up from the north. The rolling ridges, one after
another, enfolded the valley as far as eye could see; dark green
set in pale green, with here and there an arm of forest running
down on a sharp promontory to meet and turn the meandering stream.
“It must be the valley of the Meuse,” said the soldier. “My faith,
but France is beautiful and tranquil here!”
The northerly wind was rising. The clouds climbed more swiftly.
The poplars shimmered, the willows glistened, the veils of mist
vanished. From very far away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy,
insistent, continuous, punctuated with louder crashes.
“It is the guns,” muttered the soldier, shivering. “It is the guns
around Verdun! Those damned Boches!”
He turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside
the spring. Stretching himself with a gesture of abandon, he
pillowed his face on his crossed arms to sleep.
A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly.
It was a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard
streaked with gray. He came slowly treading up beside the trickling
rivulet, carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.
“Good morning, my son,” he said. “You have chosen a pleasant spot
to rest.”
The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners learned from
boyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was
already lying on the ground. “Good morning, Father,” he answered,
“I did not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is
pleasant enough, for I am very tired and have need of sleep.”
“No doubt,” said the priest. “I can see that you look weary, and
I beg you to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose. But why
do you say you came here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian
you know that nothing is by chance. All is ordered and designed
by Providence.”
“So they told me in church long ago,” said the soldier coldly; “but
now it does not seem so true--at least not with me.”
The first feeling of friendliness and respect into which he had
been surprised was passing. He had fallen back into the mood of
his journey--mistrust, secrecy, resentment.
The priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under their bushy brows
looked kindly but searchingly at the soldier and smiled a little.
He set down his bag and leaned on his stick. “Well,” he said, “I
can tell you one thing, my son. At all events it was not chance
that brought me here. I came with a purpose.”
The soldier started a little, stung by suspicion. “What then,” he
cried, roughly, “were you looking for me? What do you know of me?
What is this talk of chance and purpose?”
“Come, come,” said the priest, his smile spreading from his eyes
to his lips, “do not be angry. I assure you that I know nothing of
you whatever, not even your name nor why you are here. When I said
that I came with a purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a
wish, led me to this spot. Let us sit together awhile beside the
spring and make better acquaintance.”
“I do not desire it,” said the soldier, with a frown.
“But you will not refuse it?” queried the priest gently. “It is
not good to refuse the request of one old enough to be your father.
Look, I have here some excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers. Let
us sit down and smoke together. I will tell you who I am and the
purpose that brought me here.”
The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They
sat down on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue
smoke of their cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the
priest began:
“My name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cure of Darney, a village
among the Reaping Hook Hills, a few leagues south from here.
For twenty-five years I have reaped the harvest of heaven in that
blessed little field. I am sorry to leave it. But now this war,
this great battle for freedom and the life of France, calls me.
It is a divine vocation. France has need of all her sons to-day,
even the old ones. I cannot keep the love of God in my heart unless
I follow the love of country in my life. My younger brother, who
used to be the priest of the next parish to mine, was in the army.
He has fallen. I am going to replace him. I am on my way to join
the troops--as a chaplain, if they will; if not, then as a private.
I must get into the army of France or be left out of the host of
heaven.”
The soldier had turned his face away and was plucking the lobes
from a frond of fern. “A brave resolve, Father,” he said, with an
ironic note. “But you have not yet told me what brings you off your
road, to this place.”
“I will tell you,” replied the priest eagerly; “it is the love of
Jeanne d'Arc, the Maid who saved France long ago. You know about
her?”
“A little,” nodded the soldier. “I have learned in the school. She
was a famous saint.”
“Not yet a saint,” said the priest earnestly; “the Pope has not yet
pronounced her a saint. But it will be done soon. Already he has
declared her among the Blessed Ones. To me she is the most blessed
of all. She never thought of herself or of a saint's crown. She
gave her life entire for France. And this is the place that she
came from! Think of that--right here!”
“I did not know that,” said the soldier.
“But yes,” the priest went on, kindling. “I tell you it was here
that the Maid of France received her visions and set out to her work.
You see that village below us--look out through the branches--that
is Domremy, where she was born. That spire just at the edge of
the wood--you saw that? It is the basilica they have built to her
memory. It is full of pictures of her. It stands where the old
beech-tree, 'Fair May,' used to grow. There she heard the voices
and saw the saints who sent her on her mission. And this is the
Gooseberry Spring, the Well of the Good Fairies. Here she came
with the other children, at the festival of the well-dressing, to
spread their garlands around it, and sing, and cat their supper
on the green. Heavenly voices spoke to her, but the others did not
hear them. Often did she drink of this water. It became a fountain
of life springing up in her heart. I have come to drink at the
same source. It will strengthen me as a sacrament. Come, son, let
us take it together as we go to our duty in battle!”
Father Courcy stood up and opened his old black bag. He took out
a small metal cup. He filled it carefully at the spring. He made
the sign of the cross over it.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmured,
“blessed and holy is this water.” Then he held the cup toward the
soldier. “Come, let us share it and make our vows together.”
The bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom of the cup. The
soldier sat still, his head in his hands.
“No,” he answered heavily, “I cannot take it. I am not worthy.
Can a man take a sacrament without confessing his sins?”
Father Courcy looked at him with pitying eyes. “I see,” he said
slowly; “I see, my son. You have a burden on your heart. Well, I
will stay with you and try to lift it. But first I shall make my
own vow.”
He raised the cup toward the sky. A tiny brown wren sang canticles
of rapture in the thicket. A great light came into the priest's
face--a sun-ray from the east, far beyond the treetops.
“Blessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in thy name. I vow
my life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this my son, to fight valiantly
for freedom and for France. In the name of God, Amen.”
The soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration, and shame were
struggling in the look. Father Courcy wiped the empty cup carefully
and put it back in his bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier,
laying a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
“Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your heart.”