"Good; you can count on me."
All night long the sight of distant Bruges and the death of the poor Territorial haunt me. I am seated before the piano in our "Villa" where we have installed our entire ménage.
I begin to improvise a melody, sweet and infinitely sad and the theme recurs again and again, developing into a funeral chant—yes, very soon I will play that for him——
Toward dawn a man comes to find me. It is very calm outside and the sector has a sleepy air.
I enter the church where can be seen large breaches in the walls and roof. A coffin hastily constructed, and covered with the Tricolor, red, white and blue, is in the choir, resting on two wooden supports. The organ is at its side, so close, so close, that I see the man's blood, which flows drop by drop, through the boards of the rudely built coffin—a brilliant red spot glistens on the white flagstone.
A few men of the 16th and some stretcher-bearers are kneeling in the nave; others arrive one by one, helmet in hand, without noise——
Scarcely had the service commenced and the priest begun his chant for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing.