When the singing had ceased the Chaplain went up to the holy table. In
a voice full of feeling he tried to express his gratitude and happiness
to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him to be a brilliant
speaker at the best of times, but on that occasion the worthy man was
completely unintelligible. His happiness was choking him. He tried
in vain to find the words he wanted, used the wrong ones, and only
confused himself by trying to get them right. But nobody had the least
desire to laugh when, to conclude his address, he said with a sigh of
relief:
"And now we will tell twenty beads of the rosary; ten for the success
of our arms, and the other ten in memory of soldiers who have died on
the field of honour.... _Hail! Mary, full of grace...._"
I looked round the church once more, and every one's lips were moving
silently accompanying the priest's words. Opposite us I saw the
artillery captain take a rosary out of his pocket and tell the beads
with dreamy eyes; and when the Chaplain came to the sentence "Holy
Mary, Mother of God, ..." hundreds of voices burst forth, deep and
manly voices, full of fervour which seemed to proclaim their faith
in Him Who was present before them on the altar, and also to promise
self-sacrifice and devotion to that other sacred thing, their Country.
Then, after the _Tantum ergo_ had been sung with vigour, the priest
held up the monstrance, and I saw all those soldiers with one accord
kneel down on the stone floor and bow their heads. The silence was
impressive; not a word, not a cough, and not a chair moved. I had never
seen such devotion in any church. Some spiritual power was brooding
over the assemblage and bowing all those heads in token of submission
and hope. Good, brave soldiers of France, how we love and honour you at
such moments, and what confidence your chiefs must feel when they lead
such men to battle!
* * * * *
We sat at table around the lamp, and good Maman Cheveret had just
brought in the steaming soup. Right away towards the east we heard
the dull roll of the cannon. Good Monsieur Cheveret had just brought
up from his cellar a venerable bottle of his best Burgundy, and, at
the invitation of the Captain, he sat down to drink a glass with us,
smoking his cherry-wood pipe and listening with delight to our merry
chat.
Gosset was in his kitchen next door preparing a delicious piece of
beef _à la mode_ and at the same time telling Maman Cheveret about his
exploits of the past month.
We heard the men of the first troop cracking their jokes in the yard
as they ate their rations and emptied their pannikin of wine under a
brilliant moon.
Down in the valley on the banks of the murmuring Vesle, songs and
laughter floated up to us from the artillery park.
And the village itself, shining under the starlit sky, seemed bathed in
an atmosphere of cheerfulness, courage and confidence.