There was Mme. Gouge, beautiful and tragic, who came and cooked for us, in order to send her son to school in Amiens; and even more pathetic, her brother-in-law, formerly the owner of the prettiest house in the village, who often accompanied her and served our meals. He was the village barber as well, and on a Saturday was busy all day in his shed, heating water, shaving M. le Maire and other of his neighbours, and presenting each, on the completion of the task, with a view of shaven cheeks, or clipped hair, in the broken bit of mirror which hung beside the door. Orderliness seemed to be M. Gouge’s ruling passion; the arbours in the two corners of his garden, the round flower-bed in the centre, the grassy square, the gravel walks,—all were as well kept as if the shattered house were still tenanted, and Madame, his wife, were looking out as she used to do upon the garden she loved.

Among the Picard soldiers, there was Caporal Levet, the boy-friend of M. l’Aumônier, who made so light of his wounds. “It is nothing,” he repeated again and again after sharp fits of coughing brought on by exposure to the biting wind as he accompanied us during our week of fêtes. “This is nothing; I am resting now. Soon I shall go back. My Colonel, he told me only to-day that I must go down to the Midi to train Moroccans. That is to the bayonet. Me, I do not like the bayonet,—the charges. One goes with the blacks, you know. I have been wounded twice. But,” a shrug of the shoulders, “my Colonel says that I am the youngest,—and I should go.” Some one asked at one of the parties that he lead the Marseillaise. He protested for the first time. “We French,” he said, “we are droll; we do not like to sing always of dying for the glory of la Patrie.” But they die, nevertheless; and one is left only to wonder when his time will come, on what dark night, in the lull of the bombardment, when the blacks leap out of the trenches and lead the desperate charge.

In Hombleux, in the church, beside the altar, hangs the Village roll of honour, bearing the names of six sons of Picardy fallen in its defence.

Oui, mais, il est fort papa, plus fort que dix boches.

[O yes, papa is strong, stronger than ten Boches.]

Unknown heroes these, peasant names, roughly printed. Yet Hombleux, in the midst of its desolation, of its sorrow for those other sons and daughters forced into ignoble slavery, remembers its soldier dead. It remembers in prayer that France for which all have suffered. Near the illuminated scroll, upon its black background, stands a statue of Joan of Arc, and beneath it is placed this prayer: