When one remembers how many beautiful lives have been sacrificed in the last twelve months, how much of talent, art, intellect and science has been ruthlessly destroyed when these promising men died, does it seem strange that the whole nation has gone forth to honor their dead? How many young fellows, just leaving the Lycée thoroughly prepared by years of hard study to accomplish great things in their chosen profession, have been wounded, or killed, or maimed? What humanity has lost will never be known, but that the loss is stupendous is acknowledged by everyone.
Each man and woman has someone to grieve for tonight. Countless young widows are facing the future, deprived forever of the companionship of their helpmates, some so young as to have had only a few months happiness. To how many childish eyes is shown (in tears and sorrow) the photograph of le pere mort pour la patrie (the father who died for his country). Poor little ones, they will never know his loving care, his solicitude for their welfare, his devoted protection. To them he will always be a wonderful heroic being, remote and impersonal, who cannot share their little pleasures and troubles, can never play with them or be their friend!
The poor old fathers and mothers, how bent and tragic they are! All they cherished on earth has gone! Slowly and painfully they move amongst the be-flowered graves, and life holds no further happiness for them. Let me describe the procession as it passed on the way to the burying ground. First came the school children in two long files on either side of the boulevard, leaving the center free, the little boys walking two by two, clutching their sprays of chrysanthemums, gay and laughing as if on a frolic, but sobering suddenly when the teacher's eye veered in their direction; following them a hundred little girls, much more demure, stepping daintily, well clad, even the poorest putting on their best for this great national fete.
The Mayor is escorted on either side by the French and Belgian "Commandants de Place," one in Belgian khaki and the other in horizon-blue, (the latter limping badly, a hero from Verdun where he won the Croix de Guerre and the Medalle Militaire), the doctors in uniform and the Red Cross nurses whose white dresses, blue caps and veils add a note of color, and present a cheering appearance in contrast to the convalescing Belgians who follow, very sombre, in their black uniforms and black caps.
[Original]
Two hundred-odd Frenchmen, striding after them, are very different in appearance and behavior. The Belgians are gloomy and taciturn, moving along in silent ranks; the Frenchmen, on the contrary, are full of life and nerve (their wounds notwithstanding), attired in delicious shades of blues and reds and creamy-white—the light blue of the Hussars, the darker shades of the Chasseurs Alpins, the brilliant Zouaves, the red trousers of the Fantassians; even the black-faced scarlet-clad Senegalais give a lively note, for these men are convalescing, and old clothes are good enough, their new horizon-blue uniforms being kept for their return to the front.
A very pleasant crowd they form, with an eye towards the pretty Bretonne in her peasant coiffe and costume, with a laugh for a comrade, and a merry word for the bystander. Behind these plucky fellows (perhaps on the battlefield tomorrow) come the townspeople and peasants from the neighboring country. The procession moves on to the cemetery, where prayers and speeches, patriotic and religious, are made, wreaths placed on the little wooden crosses. White-coiffed heads are bowed in silent communion, and over all tolls the solemn notes of the church bell.