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diff --git a/15978-h/15978-h.htm b/15978-h/15978-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30d7e90 --- /dev/null +++ b/15978-h/15978-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1787 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France, by Henry Van Dyke</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background: #ffffff; + color: #000000; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size:14pt; + margin-top:100px; + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align:justify} + table {font-size:14pt; + font-weight: bold; } + hr { width: 100%; + height: 5px; } + hr.narrow { width: 50%; + height: 1px; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size:8pt;} +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 align="center">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France, by +Henry Van Dyke, Illustrated by Frank E. Schoonover</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France</p> +<p>Author: Henry Van Dyke</p> +<p>Release Date: June 3, 2005 [eBook #15978]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE***</p> +<br><br><center><h3>E-text prepared by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)</h3></center><br><br> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<center> +<h3>THE BROKEN SOLDIER<br> +AND<br> +THE MAID OF FRANCE</h3> +<br> +<img src="images/transi.jpg" alt=""> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h3>Books by Henry Van Dyke</h3> +<br> + +<h4><i> +The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France<br> +The Americanism of Washington<br> +The Christ Child in Art<br> +The Lost Boy<br> +The Mansion<br> +The Story Of The Other Wise Man +</i></h4> +<br> + +<h4>Harper & Brothers,<br> +New York<br> +<small>Established 1817</small></h4> +<br> +<br> + +<img src="images/forfrance.jpg" +alt=""God commands you," she cried. "It is for France."" > + + +<h1>THE BROKEN SOLDIER<br> +AND THE MAID<br> +OF FRANCE</h1> + +<h4><i>By</i></h4> +<h3>HENRY VAN DYKE</h3> +<br><br> +<h5><i>With Illustrations by</i></h5> +<h4>Frank E. Schoonover</h4> +<br><br><br> +<img src="images/logo2.jpg" alt="Harper & Brothers logo"> + +<br><br> +<h5>New York and London<br> +Harper & Brothers Publishers</h5> +<h4>MCMXIX</h4> +<br><br><br> + +<img src="images/divider.GIF" height="8" width="150" alt=""> +<br><br><br> + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<br> +<table> + <tr><td><a href="#1">The Meeting at the Spring</a></td></tr> + <tr><td><a href="#2">The Green Confessional</a></td></tr> + <tr><td><a href="#3">The Absolving Dream</a></td></tr> + <tr><td><a href="#4">The Victorious Penance</a></td></tr> +</table> +<br> +<img src="images/divider.GIF" height="8" width="150" alt=""> +<br> +<br> + +<img src="images/soldier.jpg" alt=""> + +<h2>THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND<br> +THE MAID OF FRANCE</h2> + +<br> +<a name="1"></a> +<br> +<img src="images/transi.jpg" alt=""> +<br> +<br> +<h3><i>The Meeting at the Spring</i></h3> +</center> +<br> + +<p><img src="images/A.jpg" align="left" width=100 alt=""> +LONG the old +Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the +upper waters of the Marne to the Meuse, a soldier of +France was passing in the night.</p> + +<p>In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed +as a hale and husky fellow of about thirty years, with +dark hair and eyes and a handsome, downcast face. His +uniform was faded and dusty; not a trace of the +horizon-blue was left; only a gray shadow. He had no +knapsack on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily +and doggedly he plodded his way, without eyes for the +veiled beauty of the sleeping country. The quick, firm +military step was gone. He trudged like a tramp, +choosing always the darker side of the road.</p> + +<p>He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.</p> + +<p>Presently the road led him into a thick forest of +oaks and beeches, and so to the crest of a hill +overlooking a long open valley with wooded heights +beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some temple +or shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no +houses near it. Farther down he could see a cluster of +white houses with the tower of a church in the center. +Other villages were dimly visible up and down the +valley on either slope. The cattle were lowing from +the barnyards. The cocks crowed for the dawn. Already +the moon had sunk behind the western trees. But the +valley was still bathed in its misty, vanishing light. +Over the eastern ridge the gray glimmer of the little +day was rising, faintly tinged with rose. It was time +for the broken soldier to seek his covert and rest +till night returned.</p> + +<p>So he stepped aside from the road and found a +little dell thick with underwoods, and in it a clear +spring gurgling among the ferns and mosses. Around the +opening grew wild gooseberries and golden broom and a +few tall spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his +dusty boots and socks and bathed his feet in a small +pool, drying them with fern leaves. Then he took a +slice of bread and a piece of cheese from his pocket +and made his breakfast. Going to the edge of the +thicket, he parted the branches and peered out over +the vale.</p> + +<p>Its eaves sloped gently to the level floor where +the river loitered in loops and curves. The sun was +just topping the eastern hills; the heads of the trees +were dark against a primrose sky.</p> + +<p>In the fields the hay had been cut and gathered. +The aftermath was already greening the moist places. +Cattle and sheep sauntered out to pasture. A thin +silvery mist floated here and there, spreading in +broad sheets over the wet ground and shredding into +filmy scarves and ribbons as the breeze caught it +among the pollard willows and poplars on the border of +the stream. Far away the water glittered where the +river made a sudden bend or a long smooth reach. It +was like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead a +few white clouds climbed up from the north. The +rolling ridges, one after another, infolded the valley +as far as eye could see; pale green set in dark green, +with here and there an arm of forest running down on a +sharp promontory to meet and turn the meandering +stream.</p> + +<p>"It must be the valley of the Meuse," said the +soldier. "My faith, but France is beautiful and +tranquil here!"</p> + +<p>The northerly wind was rising. The clouds climbed +more swiftly. The poplars shimmered, the willows +glistened, the veils of mist vanished. From very far +away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy, insistent, +continuous, punctuated with louder crashes.</p> + +<p>"It is the guns," muttered the soldier, shivering. +"It is the guns around Verdun! Those damned +Boches!"</p> + +<p>He turned back into the thicket and dropped among +the ferns beside the spring. Stretching himself with a +gesture of abandon, he pillowed his face on his +crossed arms to sleep.</p> + +<p>A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to +his feet quickly. It was a priest, clad in a dusty +cassock, his long black beard streaked with gray. He +came slowly treading up beside the trickling rivulet, +carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, my son," he said. "You have chosen a +pleasant spot to rest."</p> + +<p>The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his +manners learned from boyhood, stood up and lifted his +hand to take off his cap. It was already lying on the +ground. "Good morning, Father," he answered. "I did +not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It +is pleasant enough, for I am very tired and have need +of sleep."</p> + +<p>"No doubt," said the priest. "I can see that you +look weary, and I beg you to pardon me if I have +interrupted your repose. But why do you say you came +here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian you know +that nothing is by chance. All is ordered and designed +by Providence."</p> + +<p>"So they told me in church long ago," said the +soldier, coldly; "but now it does not seem so true—at +least not with me."</p> + +<p>The first feeling of friendliness and respect into +which he had been surprised was passing. He had fallen +back into the mood of his journey—mistrust, secrecy, +resentment.</p> + +<p>The priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under +their bushy brows looked kindly but searchingly at the +soldier and smiled a little. He set down his bag and +leaned on his stick. "Well," he said, "I can tell you +one thing, my son. At all events it was not chance +that brought me here. I came with a purpose."</p> + +<p>The soldier started a little, stung by suspicion. +"What then," he cried, roughly, "were you looking for +me? What do you know of me? What is this talk of +chance and purpose?"</p> + +<p>"Come, come," said the priest, his smile spreading +from his eyes to his lips, "do not be angry. I assure +you that I know nothing of you whatever, not even your +name nor why you are here. When I said that I came +with a purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a +wish, led me to this spot. Let us sit together awhile +beside, the spring and make better acquaintance."</p> + +<p>"I do not desire it," said the soldier, with a +frown.</p> + +<p>"But you will not refuse it?" queried the priest, +gently. "It is not good to refuse the request of one +old enough to be your father. Look, I have here some +excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers. Let us sit +down and smoke together. I will tell you who I am and +the purpose that brought me here."</p> + +<p>The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what +else to do. They sat down on a mossy bank beside the +spring, and while the blue smoke of their cigarettes +went drifting under the little trees the priest +began:</p> + +<p>"My name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cur of +Darney, a village among the Reaping Hook Hills, a few +leagues south from here. For twenty-five years I have +reaped the harvest of heaven in that blessed little +field. I am sorry to leave it. But now this war, this +great battle for freedom and the life of France, calls +me. It is a divine vocation. France has need of all +her sons to-day, even the old ones. I cannot keep the +love of God in my heart unless I follow the love of +country in my life. My younger brother, who used to be +the priest of the next parish to mine, was in the +army. He has fallen. I am going to replace him. I am +on my way to join the troops—as a chaplain, if they +will; if not, then as a private. I must get into the +army of France or be left out of the host of +heaven."</p> + +<p>The soldier had turned his face away and was +plucking the lobes from a frond of fern. "A brave +resolve, Father," he said, with an ironic note. "But +you have not yet told me what brings you off your +road, to this place."</p> + +<p>"I will tell you," replied the priest, eagerly; "it +is the love of Jeanne d'Arc, the Maid who saved France +long ago. You know about her?"</p> + +<p>"A little," nodded the soldier. "I have learned in +the school. She was a famous saint."</p> + +<p>"Not yet a saint," said the priest, earnestly; "the +Pope has not yet pronounced her a saint. But it will +be done soon. Already he has declared her among the +Blessed Ones. To me she is the most blessed of all. +She never thought of herself or of a saint's crown. +She gave her life entire for France. And this is the +place that she came from! Think of that—right +here!"</p> + +<p>"I did not know that," said the soldier.</p> + +<p>"But yes," the priest went on, kindling. "I tell +you it was here that the Maid of France received her +visions and set out to work. You see that village +below us—look out through the branches—that is +Dom-remy, where she was born. That spire just at the +edge of the wood—you saw that? It is the basilica +they have built to her memory. It is full of pictures +of her. It stands where the old beech-tree, 'Fair +May,' used to grow. There she heard the voices and saw +the saints who sent her on her mission. And this is +the Gooseberry Spring, the Well of the Good Fairies. +Here she came with the other children, at the festival +of the well-dressing, to spread their garlands around +it, and sing, and eat their supper on the green. +Heavenly voices spoke to her, but the others did not +hear them. Often did she drink of this water. It +became a fountain of life springing up in her heart. I +have come to drink at the same source. It will +strengthen me as a sacrament. Come, son, let us take +it together as we go to our duty in battle."</p> + +<p>Father Courcy stood up and opened his old black +bag. He took out a small metal cup. He filled it +carefully at the spring. He made the sign of the cross +over it.</p> + +<p>"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy +Spirit," he murmured, "blessed and holy is this +water." Then he held the cup toward the soldier. +"Come, let us share it and make our vows +together."</p> + +<p>The bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom +of the cup. The soldier sat still, his head in his +hands.</p> + +<p>"No," he answered, heavily, "I cannot take it. I am +not worthy. Can a man take a sacrament without +confessing his sins?"</p> + +<p>Father Courcy looked at him with pitying eyes. "I +see," he said, slowly; "I see, my son. You have a +burden on your heart. Well, I will stay with you and +try to lift it. But first I shall make my own +vow."</p> + +<p>He raised the cup toward the sky. A tiny brown wren +sang canticles of rapture in the thicket. A great +light came into the priest's face—a sun-ray from the +east, far beyond the tree-tops.</p> + +<p>"Blessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in +thy name. I vow my life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this +my son, to fight valiantly for freedom and for France. +In the name of God, amen."</p> + +<p>The soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration, +and shame were struggling in the look. Father Courcy +wiped the empty cup carefully and put it back in his +bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier, laying a +fatherly hand on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your +heart."</p> + +<center> +<img src="images/divider.GIF" height="8" width="125" alt=""> +<br> +<a name="2"></a> +<br> +<img src="images/transi.jpg" alt=""> +<br> +<br> +<h3><i>The Green Confessional</i></h3> +</center> +<br> + +<p><img src="images/F.jpg" align="left" width=100 alt=""> +OR a long time +the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed. His +shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his +knees. He was wrestling with himself.</p> + +<p>"No," he cried, at last, "I cannot, I dare not tell +you. Unless, perhaps"—his voice faltered—"you could +receive it under the seal of confession? But no. How +could you do that? Here in the green woods? In the +open air, beside a spring? Here is no +confessional."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked Father Courcy. "It is a good +place, a holy place. Heaven is over our heads and very +near. I will receive your confession here."</p> + +<p>The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest +pronounced the sacred words. The soldier began his +confession:</p> + +<p>"I, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, +my most grievous fault, and pray for pardon." He +stopped for a moment and then continued, "But first I +must tell you, Father, just who I am and where I come +from and what brings me here."</p> + +<p>"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am +waiting to hear. Be simple and very frank."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in +the pleasant country of the Barrois not far from +Bar-sur-Aube. My faith, but that is a pretty land, +full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there +is one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it +is small. It was hard to leave it when the call to the +colors came, two years ago. But I was glad to go. My +heart was high and strong for France. I was in the Nth +Infantry. We were in the center division under General +Foch at the battle of the Marne. <i>Fichtre</i>! but +that was fierce fighting! And what a general! He did +not know how to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it' victory.' +Four times we went across that cursed Marsh of +Saint-Gond. The dried mud was trampled full of dead +bodies. The trickling streams of water ran red. Four +times we were thrown back by the Boches. You would +have thought that was enough. But the general did not +think so. We went over again on the fifth day, and +that time we stayed. The Germans could not stand +against us. They broke and ran. The roads where we +chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one +village we caught three officers and a dozen men dead +drunk. <i>Bigre!</i> what a fine joke!"</p> + +<p>Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing +himself in his recital. His face lighted up, his hands +were waving. Father Courcy bent forward with shining +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful +confession—no sin yet. Continue, Pierre."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, after that we were fighting here and +there, on the Aisne, on the Ailette, everywhere. +Always the same story—Germans rolling down on us in +flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on them was fire +and steel. The shells of the barrage swept us like +hailstones. We waited, waited in our trenches, till +the green-gray mob was near enough. Then the word +came. <i>Sapristi!</i> We let loose with mitrailleuse, +rifle, field-gun, everything that would throw death. +It did not seem like fighting with men. It was like +trying to stop a monstrous thing, a huge, terrible +mass that was rushing on to overwhelm us. The waves +tumbled and broke before they reached us. Sometimes +they fell flat. Sometimes they turned and rushed the +other way. It was wild, wild, like a change of the +wind and tide in a storm, everything torn and +confused. Then perhaps the word came to go over the +top and at them. That was furious. That was fighting +with men, for sure—bayonet, revolver, rifle-butt, +knife, anything that would kill. Often I sickened at +the blood and the horror of it. But something inside +of me shouted: 'Fight on! It is for France. It is for +"<i>L'Alouette</i>," thy farm; for thy wife, thy +little ones. Wilt thou let them be ruined by those +beasts of Boches? What are they doing here on French +soil? Brigands, butchers, Apaches! Drive them out; and +if they will not go, kill them so they can do no more +shameful deeds. Fight on!' So I killed all I +could."</p> + +<p>The priest nodded his head grimly. "You were right, +Pierre; your voice spoke true. It was a dreadful duty +that you were doing. The Gospel tells us, if we are +smitten on one cheek we must turn the other. But it +does not tell us to turn the cheek of a little child, +of the woman we love, of the country we belong to. No! +that would be disgraceful, wicked, un-Christian. It +would be to betray the innocent! Continue, my +son."</p> + +<p>"Well, then," Pierre went on, his voice deepening +and his face growing more tense, "then we were sent to +Verdun. That was the hottest place of all. It was at +the top of the big German drive. The whole sea rushed +and fell on us—big guns, little guns, poison-gas, +hand-grenades, liquid fire, bayonets, knives, and +trench-clubs. Fort after fort went down. The whole +pack of hell was loose and raging. I thought of that +crazy, chinless Crown Prince sitting in his safe +little cottage hidden in the woods somewhere—they say +he had flowers and vines planted around it—drinking +stolen champagne and sicking on his dogs of death. He +was in no danger. I cursed him in my heart, that +blood-lord! The shells rained on Verdun. The houses +were riddled; the cathedral was pierced in a dozen +places; a hundred fires broke out. The old citadel +held good. The outer forts to the north and east were +taken. Only the last ring was left. We common soldiers +did not know much about what was happening. The big +battle was beyond our horizon. But that General +P tain, he knew it all. Ah, that is a wise man, I can +tell you! He sent us to this place or that place where +the defense was most needed. We went gladly, without +fear or holding back. We were resolute that those mad +dogs should not get through. '<i>They shall not pass! +</i>' And they did not pass!"</p> + +<p>"Glorious!" cried the priest, drinking the story +in. "And you, Pierre? Where were you, what were you +doing?"</p> + +<p>"I was at Douaumont, that fort on the highest hill +of all. The Germans took it. It cost them ten thousand +men. The ground around it was like a wood-yard piled +with logs. The big shell-holes were full of corpses. +There were a few of us that got away. Then our company +was sent to hold the third redoubt on the slope in +front of Fort de Vaux. Perhaps you have heard of that +redoubt. That was a bitter job. But we held it many +days and nights. The Bodies pounded us from Douaumont +and from the village of Vaux. They sent wave after +wave up the slope to drive us out. But we stuck to it. +That ravine of La Cail-lette was a boiling caldron of +men. It bubbled over with smoke and 'fire. Once, when +their second wave had broken just in front of us, we +went out to hurry the fragments down the hill. Then +the guns from Douaumont and the village of Vaux +hammered us. Our men fell like nine-pins. Our +lieutenant called to us to turn back. Just then a +shell tore away his right leg at the knee. It hung by +the skin and tendons. He was a brave lad. I could not +leave him to die there. So I hoisted him on my back. +Three shots struck me. They felt just like hard blows +from a heavy fist. One of them made my left arm +powerless. I sank my teeth in the sleeve of my +lieutenant's coat as it hung over my shoulder. I must +not let him fall off my back. Somehow—God knows +how—I gritted through to our redoubt. They took my +lieutenant from my shoulders. And then the light went +out."</p> + +<p>The priest leaned forward, his hands stretched out +around the soldier. "But you are a hero," he cried. +"Let me embrace you!"</p> + +<p>The soldier drew back, shaking his head sadly. +"No," he said, his voice breaking—"no, my father, you +must not embrace me now. I may have been a brave man +once. But now I am a coward. Let me tell you +everything. My wounds were bad, but not desperate. The +<i>brancardiers</i> carried me down to Verdun, at +night, I suppose, but I was unconscious; and so to the +hospital at Vaudelaincourt. There were days and nights +of blankness mixed with pain. Then I came to my senses +and had rest. It was wonderful. I thought that I had +died and gone to heaven. Would God it had been so! +Then I should have been with my lieutenant. They told +me he had passed away in the redoubt. But that +hospital was beautiful, so clean and quiet and +friendly. Those white nurses were angels. They handled +me like a baby. I would have liked to stay there. I +had no desire to get better. But I did. One day +several officers visited the hospital. They came to my +cot, where I was sitting up. The highest of them +brought out a Cross of War and pinned it on the breast +of my nightshirt. 'There,' he said, 'you are +decorated, Pierre Duval! You are one of the heroes of +France. You are soon going to be perfectly well and to +fight again bravely for your country.' I thanked him, +but I knew better. My body might get perfectly well, +but something in my soul was broken. It was worn out. +The thin spring had snapped. I could never fight +again. Any loud noise made me shake all over. I knew +that I could never face a battle—impossible! I should +certainly lose my nerve and run away. It is a damned +feeling, that broken something inside of one. I can't +describe it."</p> + +<p>Pierre stopped for a moment and moistened his dry +lips with the tip of his tongue.</p> + +<p>"I know," said Father Courcy. "I understand +perfectly what you want to say. It was like being lost +and thinking that nothing could save you; a feeling +that is piercing and dull at the same time, like a +heavy weight pressing on you with sharp stabs in it. +It was what they call shellshock, a terrible thing. +Sometimes it drives men crazy for a while. But the +doctors know what to do for that malady. It passes. +You got over it."</p> + +<p>"No," answered Pierre, "the doctors may not have +known that I had it. At all events, they did not know +what to do for it. It did not pass. It grew worse. But +I hid it, talking very little, never telling anybody +how I felt. They said I was depressed and needed +cheering up. All the while there was that black snake +coiled around my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter. +But my body grew stronger every day. The wounds were +all healed. I was walking around. In July the +doctor-in-chief sent for me to his office. He said: +'You are cured, Pierre Duval, but you are not yet fit +to fight. You are low in your mind. You need cheering +up. You are to have a month's furlough and repose. You +shall go home to your farm. How is it that you call +it?' I suppose I had been babbling about it in my +sleep and one of the nurses had told him. He was +always that way, that little Doctor Roselly, taking an +interest in the men, talking with them and acting +friendly. I said the farm was called +'<i>L'Alouette</i>'—rather a foolish name. 'Not at +all,' he answered; 'it is a fine name, with the song +of a bird in it. Well, you are going back to +"<i>L'Alouette</i>" to hear the lark sing for a month, +to kiss your wife and your children, to pick +gooseberries and currants. Eh, my boy, what do you +think of that? Then, when the month is over, you will +be a new man. You will be ready to fight again at +Verdun. Remember, they have not passed and they shall +not pass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So I went +back to the farm as fast as I could go."</p> + +<p>He was silent for a few moments, letting his +thoughts wander through the pleasant paths of that +little garden of repose. His eyes were dreaming, his +lips almost smiled.</p> + +<p>"It was sweet at '<i>L'Alouette</i>,' very sweet, +Father. The farm was in pretty good order and the +kitchen-garden was all right, though the flowers had +been a little neglected. You see, my wife, Jos phine, +she is a very clever woman. She had kept up the things +that were the most necessary. She had hired one of the +old neighbors and a couple of boys to help her with +the plowing and planting. The harvest she sold as it +stood. Our yoke of cream-colored oxen and the roan +horse were in good condition. Little Pierrot, who is +five, and little Josette, who is three, were as brown +as berries. They hugged me almost to death. But it was +Jos phine herself who was the best of all. She is only +twenty-six, Father, and so beautiful still, with her +long chestnut hair and her eyes like brown stones +shining under the waters of a brook. I tell you it was +good to get her in my arms again and feel her lips on +mine. And to wake in the early morning, while the +birds were singing, and see her face beside me on the +white pillow, sleeping like a child, that was a little +bit of Paradise. But I do wrong to tell you of all +this, Father."</p> + +<p>"Proceed, my big boy," nodded the priest. "You are +saying nothing wrong. I was a man before I was a +priest. It is all natural, what you are saying, and +all according to God's law—no sin in it. Proceed. Did +your happiness do you good?"</p> + +<p>Pierre shook his head doubtfully. The look of +dejection came back to his face. He frowned as if +something puzzled and hurt him. "Yes and no! That is +the strange thing. It made me thankful—that goes +without saying. But it did not make me any stronger in +my heart. Perhaps it was too sweet. I thought too much +of it. I could not bear to think of anything else. The +idea of the war was hateful, horrible, disgusting. The +noise and the dirt of it, the mud in the autumn and +the bitter cold in the winter, the rats and the lice +in the dugouts! And then the fury of the charge, and +the everlasting killing, killing, or being killed! The +danger had seemed little or nothing to me when I was +there. But at a distance it was frightful, +unendurable. I knew that I could never stand up to it +again. Besides, already I had done my share—enough +for two or three men. Why must I go back into that +hell? It was not fair. Life was too dear to be risking +it all the time. I could not endure it. France? +France? Of course I love France. But my farm, and my +life with Jos phine and the children mean more to me. +The thing that made me a good soldier is broken inside +me. It is beyond mending."</p> + +<p>His voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy +looked at him gravely.</p> + +<p>"But your farm is a part of France. You belong to +France. He that saveth his life shall lose it!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I know. But my farm is such a small part +of France. I am only one man. What difference does one +man make, except to himself? Moreover, I had done my +part, that was certain. Twenty times, really, my life +had been lost. Why must I throw it away again? Listen, +Father. There is a village in the Vosges, near the +Swiss border, where a relative of mine lives. If I +could get to him he would take me in and give me some +other clothes and help me over the frontier into +Switzerland. There I could change my name and find +work until the war is over. That was my plan. So I set +out on my journey, following the less-traveled roads, +tramping by night and sleeping by day. Thus I came to +this spring at the same time as you by chance, by pure +chance. Do you see?"</p> + +<p>Father Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to +speak in anger. Then he shook his head and said, +quietly: "No, I do not see that at all. It remains to +be seen whether it was by chance. But tell me more +about your sin. Did you let your wife, Jos phine, know +what you were going to do? Did you tell her good-by, +parting for Switzerland?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no! I did not dare. She would never have +forgiven me. So I slipped down to the post-office at +Bar-sur-Aube and stole a telegraph blank. It was ten +days before my furlough was out. I wrote a message to +myself calling me back to the colors at once. I showed +it to her. Then I said good-by. I wept. She did not +cry one tear. Her eyes were stars. She embraced me a +dozen times. She lifted up each of the children to hug +me. Then she cried: 'Go now, my brave man. Fight well. +Drive the damned Boches out. It is for us and for +France. God protect you. <i>Au revoir!</i>' I went +down the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could +not help it."</p> + +<p>"And you were a dog," said the priest, sternly. +"That is what you were, and what you remain unless you +can learn to help it. You lied to your wife. You +forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have done +the thing which you yourself say she would never +forgive. If she loves you and prays for you now, you +have stolen that love and that prayer. You are a +thief. A true daughter of France could never love a +coward to-day."</p> + +<p>"I know, I know," sobbed Pierre, burying his face +in the weeds. "Yet I did it partly for her, and I +could not do otherwise."</p> + +<p>"Very little for her and a hundred times for +yourself," said the priest, indignantly. "Be honest. +If there was a little bit of love for her, it was the +kind of love she did not want. She would spit upon it. +If you are going to Switzerland now you are leaving +her forever. You can never go back to Jos phine again. +You are a deserter. She would cast you out, +coward!"</p> + +<p>The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he +were dead. Then he rose slowly to his feet, with a +pale, set face. He put his hand behind his back and +drew out a revolver. "It is true," he said, slowly, "I +am a coward. But not altogether such a coward as you +think, Father. It is not merely death that I fear. I +could face that, I think. Here, take this pistol and +shoot me now! No one will know. You can say that you +shot a deserter, or that I attacked you. Shoot me now, +Father, and let me out of this trouble."</p> + +<p>Father Courcy looked at him with amazement. Then he +took the pistol, uncocked it cautiously, and dropped +it behind him. He turned to Pierre and regarded him +curiously. "Go on with your confession, Pierre. Tell +me about this strange kind of cowardice which can face +death."</p> + +<p>The soldier dropped on his knees again, and went +on, in a low, shaken voice: "It is this, Father. By my +broken soul, this is the very root of it. <i>I am +afraid of fear</i>."</p> + +<p>The priest thought for an instant. "But that is not +reasonable, Pierre. It is nonsense. Fear cannot hurt +you. If you fight it you can conquer it. At least you +can disregard it, march through it, as if it were not +there."</p> + +<p>"Not this fear," argued the soldier, with a +peasant's obstinacy. "This is something very big and +dreadful. It has no shape, but a dead-white face and +red, blazing eyes full of hate and scorn. I have seen +it in the dark. It is stronger than I am. Since +something is broken inside of me, I know I can never +conquer it. No, it would wrap its shapeless arms +around me and stab me to the heart with its fiery +eyes. I should turn and run in the middle of the +battle. I should trample on my wounded comrades. I +should be shot in the back and die in disgrace. O my +God! my God! who can save me from this? It is +horrible. I cannot bear it."</p> + +<p>The priest laid his hand gently on Pierre's +quivering shoulder. "Courage, my son!"</p> + +<p>"I have none."</p> + +<p>"Then say to yourself that fear is nothing."</p> + +<p>"It would be a lie. This fear is real."</p> + +<p>"Then cease to tremble at it; kill it."</p> + +<p>"Impossible. I am afraid of fear."</p> + +<p>"Then carry it as your burden, your cross. Take it +back to Verdun with you."</p> + +<p>"I dare not. It would poison the others. It would +bring me dishonor."</p> + +<p>"Pray to God for help."</p> + +<p>"He will not answer me. I am a wicked man. Father, +I have made my confession. Will you give me a penance +and absolve me?"</p> + +<p>"Promise to go back to the army and fight as well +as you can."</p> + +<p>"Alas! that is what I cannot do. My mind is shaken +to pieces. Whither shall I turn? I can decide nothing. +I am broken. I repent of my great sin. Father, for the +love of God, speak the word of absolution."</p> + +<p>Pierre lay on his face, motionless, his arms +stretched out. The priest rose and went to the spring. +He scooped up a few drops in the hollow of his hand. +He sprinkled it like holy water upon the soldier's +head. A couple of tears fell with it.</p> + +<p>"God have pity on you, my son, and bring you back +to yourself. The word of absolution is not for me to +speak while you think of forsaking France. Put that +thought away from you, do penance for it, and you will +be absolved from your great sin."</p> + +<p>Pierre turned over and lay looking up at the +priest's face and at the blue sky with white clouds +drifting across it. He sighed. "Ah, if that could only +be! But I have not the strength. It is +impossible."</p> + +<p>"All things are possible to him that believeth. +Strength will come. Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will +help you."</p> + +<p>"She would never speak to a man like me. She is a +great saint, very high in heaven."</p> + +<p>"She was a farmer's lass, a peasant like yourself. +She would speak to you, gladly and kindly, if you saw +her, and in your own language, too. Trust her."</p> + +<p>"But I do not know enough about her."</p> + +<p>"Listen, Pierre. I have thought for you. I will +appoint the first part of your penance. You shall take +the risk of being recognized and caught. You shall go +down to that village there and visit the places that +belong to her—her basilica, her house, her church. +Then you shall come back here and wait until you +know—until you surely know what you must do. Will you +promise this?"</p> + +<p>Pierre had risen and looked up at the priest with +tear-stained face. But his eyes were quieter. "Yes, +Father, I can promise you this much faithfully."</p> + +<p>"Now I must go my way. Farewell, my son. Peace in +war be with you." He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>Pierre took it reverently. "And with you, Father," +he murmured.</p> + +<center> +<img src="images/divider.GIF" height="8" width="125" alt=""> +<br> +<a name="3"></a> +<br> +<img src="images/transi.jpg" alt=""> +<br> +<br> +<h3><i>The Absolving Dream</i></h3> +</center> +<br> + +<p><img src="images/A_2.jpg" align="left" width=100 alt="">NTOINE +COURCY was one of those who are fitted and trained by +nature for the cure of souls. If you had spoken to him +of psychiatry he would not have understood you. The +long word would have been Greek to him. But the thing +itself he knew well. The preliminary penance which he +laid upon Pierre Duval was remedial. It belonged to +the true healing art, which works first in the +spirit.</p> + +<p>When the broken soldier went down the hill, in the +blaze of the mid-morning sunlight, towards Domr mey, +there was much misgiving and confusion in his +thoughts. He did not comprehend why he was going, +except that he had promised. He was not sure that some +one might not know him, or perhaps out of mere +curiosity stop him and question him. It was a +reluctant journey.</p> + +<p>Yet it was in effect an unconscious pilgrimage to +the one health-resort that his soul needed. For +Domr my and the region round about are saturated with +the most beautiful story of France. The life of Jeanne +d'Arc, simple and mysterious, humble and glorious, +most human and most heavenly, flows under that place +like a hidden stream, rising at every turn in springs +and fountains. The poor little village lives in and +for her memory. Her presence haunts the ridges and the +woods, treads the green pastures, follows the white +road beside the river, and breathes in the +never-resting valley-wind that marries the flowers in +June and spreads their seed in August.</p> + +<p>At the small basilica built to her memory on the +place where her old beech-tree, "Fair May," used to +stand there was an ancient caretaker who explained to +Pierre the pictures from the life of the Maid with +which the walls are decorated. They are stiff and +conventional, but the old man found them wonderful and +told with zest the story of <i>La Pucelle</i>—how she +saw her first vision; how she recognized the Dauphin +in his palace at Chinon; how she broke the siege of +Orleans; how she saw Charles crowned in the cathedral +at Rheims; how she was burned at the stake in Rouen. +But they could not kill her soul. She saved +France.</p> + +<p>In the village church there was a priest from the +border of Alsace, also a pilgrim like Pierre, but one +who knew the shrine better. He showed the difference +between the new and the old parts of the building. +Certain things the Maid herself had seen and +touched.</p> + +<p>"Here is the old holy-water basin, an antique, +broken column hollowed out on top. Here her fingers +must have rested often. Before this ancient statue of +Saint Michel she must have often knelt to say her +prayers. The cure of the parish was a friend of hers +and loved to talk with her. She was a good girl, +devout and obedient, not learned, but a holy and great +soul. She saved France."</p> + +<p>In the house where she was born, and passed her +childhood, a crippled old woman was custodian. It was +a humble dwelling of plastered stone, standing between +two tall fir-trees, with ivy growing over the walls, +lilies and hollyhocks blooming in the garden. Pierre +found it not half so good a house as +"<i>L'Alouette</i>." But to the custodian it was more +precious than a palace. In this upper room with its +low mullioned window the Maid began her life. Here, in +the larger room below, is the kneeling statue which +the Princess Marie d'Orl ans made of her. Here, to the +right, under the sloping roof, with its worm-eaten +beams, she slept and prayed and worked.</p> + +<br> +<center> +<img src="images/pilgrims.jpg" +alt="They also were pilgrims drawn by the love of Jeanne d'Arc"> +</center> +<br> + +<p>"See, here is the bread-board between two timbers +where she cut the bread for the <i>cro te-au-pot</i>. +From this small window she looked at night and saw the +sanctuary light burning in the church. Here, also, as +well as in the garden and in the woods, her heavenly voices +spoke to her and told her what she must do for the +king and her country. She was not afraid or ashamed, +though she lived in so small a house. Here in this +very room she braided her hair and put on her red +dress, and set forth on foot for her visit to Robert +de Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs. He was a rough man and +at first he received her roughly. But at last she +convinced him. He gave her a horse and arms and sent +her to the king. She saved France."</p> + +<p>At the rustic inn Pierre at thick slices of dark +bread and drank a stoup of thin red wine at noon. He +sat at a bare table in the corner of the room. Behind +him, at a table covered with a white cloth, two +captains on furlough had already made their breakfast. +They also were pilgrims, drawn by the love of Jeanne +d'Arc to Domr my. They talked of nothing else but of +her. Yet their points of view were absolutely +different.</p> + +<p>One of them, the younger, was short and swarthy, a +Savoyard, the son of an Italian doctor at St. Jean de +Maurienne. He was a skeptic; he believed in Jeanne, +but not in the legends about her.</p> + +<p>"I tell you," said he, eagerly, "she was one of the +greatest among women. But all that about her 'voices' +was illusion. The priests suggested it. She had +hallucinations. Remember her age when they began—just +thirteen. She was clever and strong; doubtless she was +pretty; certainly she was very courageous. She was +only a girl. But she had a big, brave idea which—the +liberation of her country. Pure? Yes. I am sure she +was virtuous. Otherwise the troops would not have +followed and obeyed her as they did. Soldiers are very +quick about those things. They recognize and respect +an honest woman. Several men were in love with her, I +think. But she was '<i>une nature froide</i>.' The +only thing that moved her was her big, brave idea—to +save France. The Maid was a mother, but not of a +mortal child. Her offspring was the patriotism of +France."</p> + +<p>The other captain was a man of middle age, from +Lyons, the son of an architect. He was tall and pale +and his large brown eyes had the tranquillity of a +devout faith in them. He argued with quiet tenacity +for his convictions.</p> + +<p>"You are right to believe in her," said he, "but I +think you are mistaken to deny her voices. They were +as real as anything in her life. You credit her when +she says that she was born here, that she went to +Chinon and saw the king, that she delivered Orleans. +Why not credit her when she says she heard God and the +saints speaking to her? The proof of it was in what +she did. Have you read the story of her trial? How +clear and steady her answers were! The judges could +not shake her. Yet at any moment she could have saved +her life by denying the voices. It was because she +knew, because she was sure, that she could not deny. +Her vision was a part of her real life. She was the +mother of French patriotism—yes. But she was also the +daughter of true faith. That was her power."</p> + +<p>"Well," said the younger man, "she sacrificed +herself and she saved France. That was the great +thing."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the elder man, stretching his hand +across the table to clasp the hand of his companion, +"there is nothing greater than that. If we do that, +God will forgive us all."</p> + +<p>They put on their caps to go. Pierre rose and stood +at attention. They returned his salute with a friendly +smile and passed out.</p> + +<p>After a few moments he finished his bread and wine, +paid his score, and followed them. He watched them +going down the village street toward the railway +station. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the +spring in the dell.</p> + +<p>The afternoon was hot, in spite of the steady +breeze which came out of the north. The air felt as if +it had passed through a furnace. The low, continuous +thunder of the guns rolled up from Verdun, with now +and then a sharper clap from St. Mihiel.</p> + +<p>Pierre was very tired. His head was heavy, his +heart troubled. He lay down among the ferns, looking +idly at the foxglove spires above him and turning over +in his mind the things he had heard and seen at +Domr my. Presently he fell into a profound sleep.</p> + +<p>How long it was he could not tell, but suddenly he +became aware of some one near him. He sprang up. A +girl was standing beside the spring.</p> + +<p>She wore a bright-red dress and her feet were bare. +Her black hair hung down her back. Her eyes were the +color of a topaz. Her form was tall and straight. She +carried a distaff under her arm and looked as if she +had just come from following the sheep.</p> + +<p>"Good day, shepherdess," said Pierre. Then a +strange thought struck him and he fell on his knees. +"Pardon, lady," he stammered. "Forgive my rudeness. +You are of the high society of heaven, a saint. You +are called Jeanne d'Arc?"</p> + +<p>She nodded and smiled. "That is my name," said she. +"Sometimes they call me <i>La Pucelle</i>, or the Maid +of France. But you were right, I am a shepherdess, +too. I have kept my father's sheep in the fields down +there, and spun from the distaff while I watched them. +I knew how to sew and spin as well as any girl in the +Barrois or Lorraine. Will you not stand up and talk +with me?"</p> + +<p>Pierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not +quite understand how to take this strange +experience—too simple for a heavenly apparition, too +real for a common dream.</p> + +<p>"Well, then," said he, "if you are a shepherdess +why are you here? There are no sheep here."</p> + +<p>"But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to +seek you."</p> + +<p>"Do you know me, then? How can I be one of +yours?"</p> + +<p>"Because you are a soldier of France and you are in +trouble."</p> + +<p>Pierre's head drooped. "A broken soldier," he +muttered, "not fit to speak to you. I am running away +because I am afraid of fear."</p> + +<p>She threw back her head and laughed. "You speak +very bad French. There is no such thing as being +afraid of fear. For if you are afraid of it, you hate +it. If you hate it, you will have nothing to do with +it. And if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot +touch you; it is nothing."</p> + +<p>"But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You +had no fear when you fought. You knew you would not be +killed."</p> + +<p>"I was no more sure of that than the other +soldiers. Besides, when they bound me to the stake at +Rouen and kindled the fire around me I knew very well +that I should be killed. But there was no fear in it. +Only peace."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not +wounded and broken."</p> + +<p>"Four times I was wounded," she answered, gravely. +"At Orl ans a bolt went through my right shoulder. At +Paris a lance tore my thigh. I never saw the blood of +Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still. I +was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or +fight. But I did it. What we must needs do that we can +do. Soldier, do not look on the ground. Look up."</p> + +<p>Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A +wondrous radiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid +the shepherdess. When it melted she was clad in +shining armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a +bare sword in her left hand.</p> + +<p>"God commands you," she cried. "It is for France. +Be of good cheer. Do not retreat. The fort will soon +be yours!"</p> + +<p>How should Pierre know that this was the cry with +which the Maid had rallied her broken men at Orl ans +when the fort of <i>Les Toutelles</i> fell? What he +did know was that something seemed to spring up within +him to answer that call. He felt that he would rather +die than desert such a leader.</p> + +<p>The figure on the horse turned away as if to +go.</p> + +<p>"Do not leave me," he cried, stretching out his +hands to her. "Stay with me. I will obey you +joyfully."</p> + +<p>She turned again and looked at him very earnestly. +Her eyes shone deep into his heart. "Here I cannot +stay," answered a low, sweet, womanly voice. "It is +late, and my other children need me."</p> + +<p>"But forgiveness? Can you give that to me—a +coward?"</p> + +<p>"You are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a +brave man."</p> + +<p>"And my wife? May I go back and tell her?"</p> + +<p>"No, surely. Would you make her hear slander of the +man she loves? Be what she believes you and she will +be satisfied."</p> + +<p>"And the absolution, the word of peace? Will you +speak that to me?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes shone more clearly; the voice sounded +sweeter and steadier than ever. "After the penance +comes the absolution. You will find peace only at the +lance's point. Son of France, go, go, go! I will help +you. Go hardily to Verdun."</p> + +<p>Pierre sprang forward after the receding figure, +tried to clasp the knee, the foot of the Maid. As he +fell to the ground something sharp pierced his hand. +It must be her spur, thought he.</p> + +<p>Then he was aware that his eyes were shut. He +opened them and looked at his hand carefully. There +was only a scratch on it, and a tiny drop of blood. He +had torn it on the thorns of the wild-gooseberry +bushes.</p> + +<p>His head lay close to the clear pool of the spring. +He buried his face in it, and drank deep. Then he +sprang up, shaking the drops from his mustache, found +his cap and pistol, and hurried up the glen toward the +old Roman road.</p> + +<p>"No more of that damned foolishness about +Switzerland," he said, aloud. "I belong to France. I +am going with the other boys to save her. I was born +for that." He took off his cap and stood still for a +moment. He spoke as if he were taking an oath. "By +Jeanne d'Arc!"</p> + +<center> +<img src="images/divider.GIF" height="8" width="125" alt=""> +<br> +<a name="4"></a> +<br> +<img src="images/transi.jpg" alt=""> +<br> +<br> +<h3><i>The Victorious Penance</i></h3> +</center> +<br> + +<p><img src="images/I.jpg" align="left" width=100 alt="">T +never occurred to Pierre Duval, as he trudged those long +kilometers toward the front, that he was doing a +penance.</p> + +<p>The joy of a mind made up is a potent cordial.</p> + +<p>The greetings of comrades on the road put gladness +into his heart and strength into his legs.</p> + +<p>It was a hot and dusty journey, and a sober one. +But it was not a sad on. He was doing that which +France asked of him, that which God told him to do. +Jos phine would be proud of him. He would never be +ashamed to meet her eyes. As he went, alone or in +company with others, he whistled and sand a bit. He +thought of "<i>L'Alouette</i>" a good deal. But not +too much. He thought also of the forts of Douaumont +and Vaux.</p> + +<p>"<i>Dame!</i>" he cried to himself. "If I could +help to win them back again! That would be fine! How +sick that would make those cursed Bodies and their +knock-kneed Crown Prince!"</p> + +<p>At the little village of the headquarters behind +Verdun he found many old friends and companions. They +greeted him with cheerful irony.</p> + +<p>"Behold the prodigal! You took your time about +coming back, didn't you? Was the hospital to your +taste, the nurses pretty? How is the wife? Any more +children? How goes it, old man?"</p> + +<p>"No more children yet," he answered, grinning; "but +all goes well. I have come back from a far country, +but I find the pigs are still grunting. What have you +done to our old cook?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing at all," was the joyous reply. "He tried +to swim in his own soup and he was drowned."</p> + +<p>When Pierre reported to the officer of the day, +that busy functionary consulted the record.</p> + +<p>"You are a day ahead of your time, Pierre Duval," +he said, frowning slightly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," answered the soldier. "It costs less to +be a day ahead than a day too late."</p> + +<p>"That is well," said the officer, smiling in his +red beard. "You will report to-morrow to your regiment +at the citadel. You have a new colonel, but the +regiment is busy in the old way."</p> + +<p>As Pierre saluted and turned to go out his eye +caught the look of a general officer who stood near, +watching. He was a square, alert, vigorous man, his +face bronzed by the suns of many African campaigns, +his eyes full of intelligence, humor, and courage. It +was Guillaumat, the new commander of the Army of +Verdun.</p> + +<p>"You are prompt, my son," said he, pleasantly, "but +you must remember not to be in a hurry. You have +been in hospital. Are you well again? Nothing +broken?"</p> + +<p>"Something was broken, my General," responded the +soldier, gravely, "but it is mended."</p> + +<p>"Good!" said the general. "Now for the front, to +beat the Germans at their own game. '<i>We shall get +them</i>.' It may be long, but we shall get them!"</p> + +<p>That was the autumn of the offensive of 1916, by +which the French retook, in ten days, what it had cost +the Germans many months to gain.</p> + +<p>Pierre was there in that glorious charge in the end +of October which carried the heights of Douaumont and +took six thousand prisoners. He was there at the +recapture of the Fort de Vaux which the Germans +evacuated in the first week of November. In the last +rush up the slope, where he had fought long ago, a +stray shell, an inscrutable messenger of fate, coming +from far away, no one knows whence, caught him and +ripped him horribly across the body.</p> + +<p>It was a desperate mass of wounds. But the men of +his squad loved their corporal. He still breathed. +They saw to it that he was carried back to the little +transit hospital just behind the Fort de Souville.</p> + +<p>It was a rude hut of logs, covered with sand-bags, +on the slope of the hill. The ruined woods around it +were still falling to the crash of far-thrown shells. +In the close, dim shelter of the inner room Pierre +came to himself.</p> + +<p>He looked up into the face of Father Courcy. A +light of recognition and gratitude flickered in his +eyes. It was like finding an old friend in the +dark.</p> + +<p>"Welcome!—But the fort?" he gasped.</p> + +<p>"It is ours," said the priest.</p> + +<p>Something like a smile passed over the face of +Pierre. He could not speak for a long time. The blood +in his throat choked him. At last he whispered:</p> + +<p>"Tell Josephine—love."</p> + +<p>Father Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's +hand. "Surely," he said. "But now, my dear son Pierre, +I must prepare you—"</p> + +<p>The struggling voice from the cot broke in, +whispering slowly, with long intervals: "Not +necessary … I know it already … The +penance … France … Jeanne d'Arc … It is +done."</p> + +<p>A few drops of blood gushed from the corner of his +mouth. The look of peace that often comes to those who +die of gunshot wounds settled on his face. His eyes +grew still as the priest laid the sacred wafer on his +lips. The broken soldier was made whole.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<hr class="full" noshade> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 15978-h.txt or 15978-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/9/7/15978">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/9/7/15978</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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