“I do not know the name. There are many young women in Lille. It is a great city.”
“That is true,” said Pierre Nesle. “There are many.” He bowed over the priest’s hand, and then saluted.
“Bon jour, mon père, et merci mille fois.”
So we left, and the Abbé Bourdin spoke his last words to me:
“We owe our liberation to the English. We thank you. But why did you not come sooner? Two years sooner, three years. With your great army?”
“Many of our men died to get here,” I said. “Thousands.”
“That is true. That is true. You failed many times, I know. But you were so close. One big push—eh? One mighty effort? No?”
The priest spoke a thought which I had heard expressed in the crowds. They were grateful for our coming, immensely glad, but could not understand why we had tried their patience so many years. That had been their greatest misery, waiting, waiting.
I spoke to Pierre Nesle on the doorstep of the priest’s house.