sight which sent a shiver of joy through me. The horsemen had
dismounted and put their horses behind the stack. Three of the men
then separated themselves from the rest and formed a little group. I
could not distinguish their uniforms, but saw very clearly that they
were looking through their glasses at us. Now and again they put their
heads together, and consulted the map, as it seemed. A man then came
out from behind the stack on foot, and could be distinctly seen,
against the sky, sticking into the ground by his side a square pennon
which flapped gently in the breeze. As far as I could see it was half
black and half white. There could be no doubt that we were confronting
a Staff. So the division was not far off; it had halted, and perhaps
intended this time to fight at close quarters. I told my men what I
thought, and they were overjoyed at the idea that, after all, there
was a hope of realising our dream. There was not one of them who
doubted that the Division of the Guards had been kind enough to stop
its flight, and that our brave light brigade would attack it without
any hesitation and cut it to pieces. I dismounted quickly, and lost
not a moment in drawing up my report. I wrote down what I had seen and
what I had learnt from the inhabitants and then called one of my
Chasseurs:
"To the Colonel, full gallop!"
At the touch of the spur the little chestnut turned sharp round and
flew down the dusty road like a whirlwind. Meanwhile I carefully
posted my men, threw out scouts over the plateau and up to the forest
of Fère, and formed patrols under my non-commissioned officers. I then
took up my observation post under a large tree which, to judge by its
venerable look, must have seen many generations pass and many other
wars. The village folk collected around me in such numbers that I was
obliged to have them thrust back by my men to Le Charmel. To console
them I said: "You must go away. The enemy will take you for armed
troops and fire guns at you."
I kept my eye upon my "Staff," and wished my glasses could help me to
distinguish more clearly what men I had to deal with. I longed to see
what they were like--to examine the faces of these haughty _Reiters_
who for the last four days had been fleeing before us and always
refusing a real encounter. I fancied that among them might be found
that _Rittmeister_ with the bulging neck and pink cheeks, who, after
the orgy of that night at the Château de Condé, had left behind him
the cap that I had found hanging from the chandelier in the
dining-room. How I longed to see the brigade debouch, and to receive
instructions from the Colonel!
I had not long to wait. My messenger soon came back, trotting up the
road from Jaulgonne. But the instructions were not what I had
expected. I was to stay where I was until further orders, to continue
to observe the enemy, and keep a look-out in his direction.
I learnt some details from the man. The greater part of the infantry
had already crossed the bridge, and there was also some artillery on
this side of the river. As he said this a clatter of wheels and chains
caused me to turn my head, and I saw behind us, in the stubble-fields
of the plateau, two batteries of 75's taking up positions. Ah! ah! we
were going to send them our greetings then, a salute to the pompous
General over there, and to his aide-de-camp, the stiff and obsequious
_Rittmeister_, whom I imagined to be at his side. I looked on gaily
with my Chasseurs at the laying of the guns. How we all loved that
good little gun, which had so often come up to lend us the support of
its terrible projectiles at critical moments! And those good fellows
the gunners loved it too; the men we saw jumping nimbly down from
their limber, quickly unhitching their piece, and pointing it with
tender care towards the enemy.
Standing on a bank, with his glasses to his eyes, the officer in
command gave his orders which were passed from man to man by the
markers. And then suddenly we heard four loud, sharp reports behind
us. The whistling of the shells, which almost grazed our heads, was
impressive, and, though we knew there was no danger, we instinctively
ducked. But we recovered ourselves at once to see what effect they had
produced.
What a pity! They had fallen a bit short. We distinctly saw four small
white puffs on the side of the hill just below the group of German
officers. Ah! They didn't wait for another! I saw them make off in hot
haste whilst the troopers, stationed behind the stack, galloped off
the horses. The man with the flag was the last to go, closing the
procession with rather more dignity. But in ten seconds the whole lot
had decamped, and the only men we could see were the dragoons of the
patrol, who rode back to the ridge at full speed.
But just as they reached it the second battery opened fire, and this
time the sighting was just right. The four white puffs appeared
exactly over the spot where the Staff had stood a minute before--two
to the right and two to the left of the stack. And all we now saw of
the patrol was two riderless horses galloping madly towards the woods.
Then the two batteries pounded away with a will.
When I had received orders to resume the forward movement and my good
Chasseurs had taken up the pursuit again, the gunners had lengthened
their range with mathematical precision, and the shells burst on the
farther side of the ridge. I took a grim pleasure in imagining what
must have been happening there, where, no doubt, the division was
drawn up, and whilst I continued to direct my vigilant and expert
scouts I amused myself by picturing the brilliant troopers of the
Prussian Guard in headlong flight.
V. LOW MASS AND BENEDICTION
One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads
at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my
friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness
the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the
pent-house roof on to the road.
Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had
found refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good
old soul of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved
with tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of
trusses of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have
awaked in good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact
noticed by my friend.
"It is raining," said F.
I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and
especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound
of those few words: "It is raining."
"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will
be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from
your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high
boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet
paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the
eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a
hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with
you--that precious treasure--in your saddlebags, will be changed into
a wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made
by the soaked leather.
But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be
saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be
carried out.
It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my
campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than
I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and
there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would
take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of
the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their shadows
passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making
coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which
they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot
be a good soldier.
I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to
avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell
rose from the sodden ground.
"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from
the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him;
he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small
and lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our
trials he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned
officer. I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did
with a candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking
with a watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a
kick or entangled in its tether.
In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm, where the men
had been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and
take their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of
insipid lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly; then I went to get
my orders from the Captain, who was lodged in the market-square. No
word had yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at the
farm of Vadiville, two kilometres off. Patience! We had been used to
these long waits since the army had been pulled up before the
formidable line of trenches which the Germans had dug north of Reims.
They were certainly most disheartening; but it could not be helped,
and it was of no use to complain. I turned and went slowly up the
steep footpath that led to my billet.
Pévy is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line
of heights that runs parallel to the road from Reims to Paris. Its
houses are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the
ridges for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which
intersect the village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We were
obliged to tramp about in the sticky mud of the main road waiting for
our orders.
Passing the church, it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since the
war had begun we had hardly had any opportunity of going into the
village churches we had passed. Some of them were closed because the
parish priests had left for the army, or because the village had been
abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for the artillery,
and now stood in the middle of the villages, ruins loftier and more
pitiable than the rest.
The church of Pévy seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and
was approached by a narrow stairway of greyish stone, climbing up
between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little
churchyard, with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read
some of the simple inscriptions:
"Here lies ... Here lies ... Pray for him...."
The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf,
and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The
damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling--a
fine persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was in mist; the roofs
and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.
Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy door studded
with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a
feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little
sanctuary of Pévy seemed to me in its humble simplicity!
Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault supported by two
rows of thick pillars. The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the
grey light to enter. There were no horrible cheap modern stained
windows, but a multitude of small white rectangular leaded panes. All
this was simple and worn; but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and
touching poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light
did not reveal walls covered with the horrible colour-wash we are
accustomed to see in most of our village churches.
This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very
well defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed,
rebuilt and repaired by many different generations. But those who
preserved it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering
which disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine large
stones, on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no
grotesque painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim
light that filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague soft
glow.
No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The "Stations of the
Cross" were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish
in their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic
artist. And even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole.
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 slow 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.
* * * * *
For the last six days we had been quartered at Montigny-sur-Vesle, a
pretty little village half-way up a hillside on the heights, 20
kilometres to the west of Reims. There we enjoyed a little rest for
the first time in the campaign. On our front the struggle was going on
between the French and German trenches, and the employment of cavalry
was impossible. All the regiment had to do was to supply daily two
troops required to ensure the connection between the two divisions of
the army corps.
What a happiness it was to be able at last to enjoy almost perfect
rest! What a delight to lie down every evening in a good bed; not to
get up before seven o'clock; to find our poor horses stabled at last
on good litter in the barns, and to see them filling out daily and
getting sleeker!
For our mess we had the good luck to find a most charming and simple
welcome at the house of good Monsieur Cheveret. That kind old
gentleman did everything in his power to supply us with all the
comforts he could dispose of. And he did it all with such good grace
and such a pleasant smile that we felt at ease and at home at once.
Madame Cheveret, whom we at once called "Maman Cheveret," was an
alert little old lady who trotted about all day long in quest of
things to do for us. She put us up in the dining-room, and helped our
cook to clean the vegetables and to superintend the joints and sweets.
For Gosset, the bold Chasseur appointed to preside over our mess
arrangements, was a professional in the culinary art, and excelled in
making everything out of nothing; so, with the help of Maman Cheveret,
he accomplished wonders, and the result of it all was that we began to
be enervated by the delights of this new Capua. And how thoroughly we
enjoyed it!
We shared our Eden with two other squadrons of our regiment, a section
of an artillery park, and a divisional ambulance. We prayed Heaven to
grant us a long stay in such a haven of repose.
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.
Suddenly a white figure came towards me through the crowded ranks of
soldiers. He extended his arms in token of welcome, and I at once
recognised the Chaplain in his surplice. His face was beaming with
pleasure, and his eyes shone behind his spectacles. He appeared to be
supremely happy.
"This way, _Monsieur l'Officier_, this way. I have thought of
everything. You must have the seat of honour. Follow me."
I followed the holy man, who elbowed a way for me up the crowded
aisle. He had reserved all the choir-stalls for the officers. Before
the war they had been occupied, at high mass, by the clergy, the
choir, and the principal members of the congregation. He proudly
showed me into one of them, and I felt rather embarrassed at finding
myself suddenly in a blaze of light between an artillery lieutenant
and a surgeon-major.
The low vestry door now opened and a very unexpected procession
appeared. In front of a bearded priest walked four artillerymen in
uniform. One of them carried a censer, and another the incense-box.
The other two walked in front of them, arms crossed and eyes front.
The whole procession knelt before the altar with perfect precision,
and I saw beneath the priest's vestments muddy gaiters of the same
kind as those worn by the gunners.
At the same time we heard, quite close to us, strains of music which
seemed to us celestial. In the dim light I had not noticed the
harmonium, but now I could distinguish the artist who was enchanting
us by his skill in drawing sweet sounds from a poor worn instrument.
He was an artillery captain. At once all eyes were turned towards him;
we were all enraptured. None of us dared to hope that we should lift
our voices in the hymns.
The organist seemed unconscious of his surroundings. The candle placed
near the keyboard cast a strange light upon the most expressive of
heads. Against the dark background of the church the striking features
of a noble face were thrown into strong relief: a forehead broad and
refined, an aristocratic nose, a fair moustache turned up at the ends,
and, notably, two fine blue eyes, which, without a glance at the
fingers on the keys, were fixed on the vaulted roof as though seeking
inspiration there.
The Chaplain, turning to the congregation, then said:
"My friends, we will all join in singing the _O Salutaris_."
The harmonium gave the first notes, and I braced myself to endure the
dreadful discords I expected from this crowd of soldiers--mostly
reservists--who, I supposed, had come together that evening mainly out
of curiosity.