In fact, his methods were sheerly cyclonic. Never had we visited in such a whirl. Carried along in his wake, we were tossed like small boats upon a wind-tormented sea; we had no time to make notes, we had no time to ask questions, and when we had finished we had scarcely one clear idea in our minds as to the state, social position, profession, income, or need of those we had visited. Not a personal note (we who made copious personal notes), not a detail (we who had a passion for detail), only a blurred memory of general misery, or rooms behind cow-houses and stables, through the filthy, manure-soddened straw of which we had to pick our way, or rooms without glass in the window-frames, of dark, noisome holes where human beings herded, of sacks of straw laid on the floor, of rags for bedding, of human misery in its acutest, most wretched form. The Curé talked of evil landlords who exploited these unfortunate people, "Mais Dieu les punira," he added unctuously. We wondered if the prophecy brought consolation to the refugees. And above all the welter of swiftly-changing impressions, I can see even now, in a dark room lighted only by or through the chimney-shaft, a room filled with smoke that choked and blinded us, a small child, perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty-four months old, who doubled her fists into her eyes and laid her head on her grandmother's shoulder, refusing to look up.
"She has been like that since the bombardment," her mother explained.
When the priest raised the little head the child wailed, a long, thin, almost inhuman wail; when her grandmother put her down she lay on the floor, her eyes crushed against her fists.
"She will not look at the light, nor open her eyes."
"How long has she been like this, Madame?"
"Since we left home. The village was shelled; it frightened her."
"We will ask our infirmière to look after her," we promised, knowing that the nurse in question had successfully treated a boy in Sermaize who had been unable to open his eyes since the bombardment of the town. And some weeks later we heard that the baby was better.
Into every house the Curé made his way, much as Justice Shallow might have done. In every house he reeled off a set piece about the good English who had come to succour France in her distress, about our devotion, our courage, our wealth, our generosity. He asked every woman what she needed. "Trois couvertures? Bon. Mettons trois. Un seau? Bon, mettons un seau. Sheets? Put down two pairs."
We put down everything except what we most desired to know, the names and ages of the half-clothed children—that he gave us no opportunity of doing, was there not always the list?—we saw the Society being steered rapidly towards bankruptcy, but, mesmerised by his twinkling eyes, we promised all he required. Then he, who had been sitting on the only chair, would rise up, and having told the pleased but bewildered lady of the house that we were emissaries of Le bon Dieu, would stalk out, leaving us to wonder, as we followed him, whether Madame ever asked why the good God chose such strange-looking messengers. The oilskins were possessed of no celestial grace—I subsequently gave mine to a refugee.