But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft
and monotonous murmur, coming from the altar. The choir was almost
in darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars of the lighted
candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing a large white shadowy
form, almost motionless and like a phantom. At the bottom of the
steps another form was kneeling, bowed down towards the floor; it did
not stir as I approached. I went towards the choir on tip-toe, very
cautiously. I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a sacrilege
by coming to disturb those two men praying there all alone in the gloom
of that sad morning. A deep feeling of emotion passed through me,
and I felt so insignificant in their presence and in the mysterious
atmosphere of the place that I knelt down humbly, almost timidly, in
the shadow of one of the great pillars near the altar.
Then I could distinguish my fellow-worshippers better. A priest was
saying mass. He was young and tall, and his gestures as he officiated
were low and dignified. He did not know that some one was present
watching him closely; so it could not be supposed that he was speaking
and acting to impress a congregation, and yet he had a way of kneeling,
of stretching out his arms and of looking up to the humble gilded cross
in front of him, that revealed all the ardour of fervent prayers.
Occasionally he turned towards the back of the church to pronounce the
ritual words. His face was serious and kindly, framed in a youthful
beard--the face of an apostle, with the glow of faith in his eyes. And
I was surprised to see underneath his priest's vestments the hems of a
pair of red trousers, and feet shod in large muddy military boots.
The kneeling figure at the bottom of the steps now stood out more
distinctly. The man was wearing on his shabby infantry coat the white
armlet with the red cross. He must have been a priest, for I could
distinguish some traces of a neglected tonsure among his brown hair.
The two repeated, in a low tone by turns, words of prayer, comfort,
repentance, or supplication, harmonious Latin phrases, which sounded to
me like exquisite music. And as an accompaniment in the distance, in
the direction of Saint Thierry and Berry-au-Bac, the deep voice of the
guns muttered ceaselessly.
For the first time in the campaign I felt a kind of poignant
melancholy. For the first time I felt small and miserable, almost a
useless thing, compared with those two fine priestly figures who were
praying in the solitude of this country church for those who had fallen
and were falling yonder under shot and shell.
How I despised and upbraided myself at such moments! What a profound
disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life, its gross pleasures
and silly excesses! I was ashamed of myself when I reflected that
death brushed by me every day, and that I might disappear to-day or
to-morrow, after so many ill-spent and unprofitable days.
Without any effort, and almost in spite of myself, pious words came
back to my lips--those words that my dear mother used to teach me on
her knee years and years ago. And I felt a quiet delight in the almost
forgotten words that came back to me:
"Forgive us our trespasses.... Pray for us, poor sinners...."
It seemed to me that I should presently go away a better man and a more
valiant soldier. And, as though to encourage and bless me, a faint ray
of sunshine came through the window.
"_Ite, missa est...._" The priest turned round; and this time I thought
his eyes rested upon me, and that the look was a benediction and an
absolution.
But suddenly I heard in the alley close by a great noise of people
running and horses stamping, and a voice crying:
"Mount horses!... Mount horses!"
I was sorry to leave the little church of Pévy; I should so much have
liked to wait until those two priests came out, to speak to them, and
talk about other things than war, massacres and pillage. But duty
called me to my men, my horses, and to battle.
Shortly afterwards, as I passed at the head of my troop in front of
the large farm where the ambulance of the division was quartered, I
saw my abbé coming out of a barn, with his sleeves tucked up and his
_képi_ on the side of his head. He was carrying a large pail of milk. I
recognised his clear look, and had no doubt that he recognised me too,
for as our eyes met he gave me a kindly smile.
My heart was lighter as I went forward, and my soul was calmer.