The church is situated on an eminence above Humes. Once the threshold is crossed, profound silence. Silence in broad daylight! Well, well! It rather puts one out!
There are flags around the walls. All the seats are occupied by soldiers and officers, pêle-mêle. A few peasant women are present, their sombre garments clashing with the blue and red uniforms.
It is a musical mass, and the music is worthy of a cathedral: all the instrumentalists and singers of the depot have had their services requisitioned. How striking the contrast between this grave ritual and ceremonial, the successive chants and breaks of silence, and the rough, stirring military life we have been spending for several days past, made up of shouts and hay, of cattle and dung.
A young priest has passed a surplice over his soldier's coat. His words are mild and kind, his sermon straight to the point, as he pleads the claims of family and country. The listeners weave their own dreams around his simple words as they fall upon the attentive and thoughtful assembly.
The end of the mass brings with it a change; these men, who have suddenly been unexpectedly moved in spite of themselves, make up for an hour's silence and immobility by shouting aloud and hustling one another.
Back at the hotel, with the aid of pipe and beer, they laud to the skies the priest's eloquence.
Big Albert, for whom it has been impossible to find a pair of pants large enough in the stores, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after he has emptied his glass, and says—
"Believe me or not, as you please, but when that little priest spoke of our mothers and wives and children, well! I could no more keep back the tears than a woman!"
And there he stands, with legs outspread and hands in pockets, his vest unbuttoned over his protruding paunch. Evidently he is not subject to nervous attacks.