Their destination was the little village of Mamezan, which they now revisited after an absence of ten years, and in which they found little change, except that there were many more crosses in the cemetery beside the shabby old church.
Good Father Blandinière was still in charge, but the venerable priest was very frail, being over eighty years of age, the oldest curé and the most beloved in the whole country.
Night had come, and with it the snow. From the windows of the Mamezan houses the light streamed out upon the ill-kept sidewalks, which as it drew towards midnight began to be crowded with the villagers clattering noisily in their wooden sabots.
They were all going in the one direction, that is, churchward, for the Christmas midnight Mass was about to be celebrated.
The little edifice was crowded by reverent worshipers, but who were the strange ladies in such rich attire, and the strapping young fellow in the rich uniform?
Nobody knew, although every one tried hard to get a good look at them, and to see if they could not recognize them.
Presently the little bell tinkled, and the aged priest slowly descended the altar steps. He seemed very feeble, and his long hair, white as the snow outside, lay upon his shoulders. With trembling hands he elevated the Host while the congregation kneeled, and the bell once more tinkled.
At that moment the clear, sweet notes of a mandolin floated down from the little gallery over the entrance, and then a superb tenor voice, of wonderful power and expression, began the beautiful Cantique de Noel:
"Tout bruit s'éteint, le soir s'achève
Dans un silence triomphant;