Now one morning, after countless ablutions with hot water and a clean
shave, I was going, with brilliantly shining boots, down the steep
footpath which led to the little house of our good Monsieur Cheveret,
when my attention was drawn to a small white notice posted on the door
of the church. It ran:
"THIS EVENING AT SIX O'CLOCK,
BENEDICTION OF THE MOST HOLY SACRAMENT."
It occurred to me at once that this happy idea had been conceived by
the Chaplain of the Ambulance, for until then the church had been
kept locked, as the young parish priest had been called up by the
mobilisation. I made haste to tell our Captain and my comrades the
good news, and we all determined to be present at the Benediction that
evening.
At half-past five our ears were delighted by music such as we had not
been accustomed to hear for a very long time. In the deepening twilight
some invisible hand was chiming the bells of the little church. How
deliciously restful they were after the loud roar of the cannon and the
rattle of the machine-guns! Who would have thought that such deep, and
also such solemn, notes could come from so small a steeple? It stirred
the heart and brought tears to the eyes, like some of Chopin's music.
Those bells seemed to speak to us, they seemed to call us to prayer and
preach courage and virtue to us.
At the end of the shady walk I was passing down--whose trees formed
a rustling wall on either side--appeared the little church, with its
slender steeple. It stood out in clear relief, a dark blue, almost
violet silhouette against the purple background made by the setting
sun. Some dark human forms were moving about and collecting around
the low arched doorway. Perhaps these were the good old women of the
district who had come to pray in this little church which had remained
closed to them for nearly two months. I fancied I could distinguish
them from where I was, dignified and erect in their old-fashioned
mantles.
But as soon as I got closer to them I found I was mistaken. It was not
aged and pious women who were hurrying to the church door, but a group
of silent artillerymen wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The
bells shook out their solemn notes, and seemed to be calling others to
come too; and I should have been glad if their voices had been heard,
for I was afraid the Chaplain's appeal would hardly be heeded and that
the benches of the little church would be three-parts empty.
But on gently pushing the door open I found at once that my fears were
baseless. The church was in fact too small to hold all the soldiers,
who had come long before the appointed hour as soon as they heard the
bells begin. And now that I had no fears about the church being empty
I wondered how I was going to find a place myself. I stood on the
doorstep, undecided, on tip-toe, looking over the heads of all those
standing men to see whether there was any corner unoccupied where I
could enjoy the beauty of the unexpected sight in peace.
The nave was almost dark. The expense of lighting had no doubt to be
considered, for for several days past no candle or taper was to be had
for money. And no doubt the kindness of a motorist of the Red Cross had
been appealed to for the supply of all the candles which lit up the
altar. This was indeed resplendent. The vestry had been ransacked for
candlesticks, and the tabernacle was surrounded by a splendid aureole
of light. All this increased the touching impression I felt on entering.
Against the brilliant background of the choir stood out the black forms
of several hundreds of men standing and looking towards the altar.
Absolute silence reigned over the whole congregation of soldiers. And
yet no discipline was enforced; there was no superior present to impose
a show of devotion. Left to themselves, they all understood what they
had to do. They crowded together, waiting in silence and without any
impatience for the ceremony to begin.