Yours respectfully,
——
So it came about that in each of the villages there was a spruce, with toys and candles and goodies, and carols and Christmas cheer. In Canizy, thanks to good fortune and to M. l’Aumônier, the fête was especially pretty. I had not yet met the chaplain or planned my Christmas, when, on a late December afternoon, I happened to pass the little chapel, on my way to Visit a group of families lodged within the grounds of the old Château. Several times before I had been inside, once for a mass on All Saints’ Day, and more than once to look at the faded painting behind the altar, and at the quaintly quilted banners of the saints along the wall. These, strange to say, had been left in place by the German invaders; save for a soiled altar cloth and two or three broken windows, the church, indeed, appeared as if it might still be in constant use.
—Il n’est pas venu?... Il est mobilisé!
— ... Et il a pas eu de permission.
[He has not come? He has been mobilised....
And he has not had any leave.]
To-day, in spite of the early gathering dusk, and the long walk home, an impulse beckoned me in,—a very definite impulse, however, for I had in mind to decipher a moulded coat of arms upon the walls, and to search the sacristy. In other village churches, alas! dismantled, were to be found carved chests of drawers, black letter Bibles, brasses, and glorious books of chants. Perhaps my little chapel might contain treasures also. Past Our Lady of Lourdes and St. Anthony of Padua, past the Sacred Heart, and that humble saint of gardens, St. Fiacre, to whom had nevertheless been given the place of honour on the Virgin’s right, and up through the chancel I went. The door of the sacristy creaked at my sacrilege.