"Adieu," and they were off.
I returned to my blanket and again was just closing my eyes when the unexpected sound of Gregorian chant made me sit up. Nearer and nearer it drew, louder and louder rose the priests' voices, and then a much-befringed and flower-laden hearse, preceded by the clergy and followed by the mourners (the men in evening dress and the women in their Sunday clothes), rounded the corner, passed in front of us, and halted before the main door of the church.
I couldn't help smiling. The incongruity of this pompous enterrement de premiere classe, en musique, when the city was imminently menaced by a German bombardment, bordered on the pathetic and the ridiculous. However, the family of the defunct did not think so, and their deceased parent was chanted to eternity with all the rites and ceremonies that his will had provided for.
Personally I was delighted at the idea of going to sleep to the sound of the organ, which pierced the thick granite walls and almost drowned the rumble of the cannon, to which we had now become so accustomed that we had ceased to be alarmed.
"Des soldats!" cried someone.
In a second I was on my feet.
"Where?"
"Two-on bicycles, going into the hotel opposite."
I reached there as soon as they did. Their story was brief.
"We're the forerunners of a cavalry depot, being transferred to Rozoy from Montmirail. It's getting too hot down there! How far is it to Rozoy?"