The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France, by
Henry Van Dyke, Illustrated by Frank E. Schoonover
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Title: The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
Author: Henry Van Dyke
Release Date: June 3, 2005 [eBook #15978]
Language: English
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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE***
THE BROKEN SOLDIER
AND
THE MAID OF FRANCE
Books by Henry Van Dyke
The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
The Americanism of Washington
The Christ Child in Art
The Lost Boy
The Mansion
The Story Of The Other Wise Man
Harper & Brothers,
New York
Established 1817
THE BROKEN SOLDIER
AND THE MAID
OF FRANCE
By
HENRY VAN DYKE
With Illustrations by
Frank E. Schoonover
New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers
MCMXIX
CONTENTS
THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND
THE MAID OF FRANCE
The Meeting at the Spring
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.
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.
He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"It must be the valley of the Meuse," said the
soldier. "My faith, but France is beautiful and
tranquil here!"
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.
"It is the guns," muttered the soldier, shivering.
"It is the guns around Verdun! Those damned
Boches!"
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.
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.
"Good morning, my son," he said. "You have chosen a
pleasant spot to rest."
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."
"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."
"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."
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.
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."
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?"
"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."
"I do not desire it," said the soldier, with a
frown.
"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."
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:
"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."
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."
"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?"
"A little," nodded the soldier. "I have learned in
the school. She was a famous saint."
"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!"
"I did not know that," said the soldier.
"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."
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.
"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."
The bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom
of the cup. The soldier sat still, his head in his
hands.
"No," he answered, heavily, "I cannot take it. I am
not worthy. Can a man take a sacrament without
confessing his sins?"
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your
heart."
The Green Confessional
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.
"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."
"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."
The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest
pronounced the sacred words. The soldier began his
confession:
"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."
"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am
waiting to hear. Be simple and very frank."
"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. Fichtre! 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. Bigre! what a fine joke!"
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.
"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful
confession—no sin yet. Continue, Pierre."
"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. Sapristi! 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
"L'Alouette," 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."
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."
"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. 'They shall not pass!
' And they did not pass!"
"Glorious!" cried the priest, drinking the story
in. "And you, Pierre? Where were you, what were you
doing?"
"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."
The priest leaned forward, his hands stretched out
around the soldier. "But you are a hero," he cried.
"Let me embrace you!"
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
brancardiers 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."
Pierre stopped for a moment and moistened his dry
lips with the tip of his tongue.
"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."
"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
'L'Alouette'—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
"L'Alouette" 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."
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.
"It was sweet at 'L'Alouette,' 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."
"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?"
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."
His voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy
looked at him gravely.
"But your farm is a part of France. You belong to
France. He that saveth his life shall lose it!"
"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?"
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?"
"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. Au revoir!' I went
down the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could
not help it."
"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."
"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."
"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!"
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."
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."
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 am
afraid of fear."
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."
"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."
The priest laid his hand gently on Pierre's
quivering shoulder. "Courage, my son!"
"I have none."
"Then say to yourself that fear is nothing."
"It would be a lie. This fear is real."
"Then cease to tremble at it; kill it."
"Impossible. I am afraid of fear."
"Then carry it as your burden, your cross. Take it
back to Verdun with you."
"I dare not. It would poison the others. It would
bring me dishonor."
"Pray to God for help."
"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?"
"Promise to go back to the army and fight as well
as you can."
"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."
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.
"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."
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."
"All things are possible to him that believeth.
Strength will come. Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will
help you."
"She would never speak to a man like me. She is a
great saint, very high in heaven."
"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."
"But I do not know enough about her."
"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?"
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."
"Now I must go my way. Farewell, my son. Peace in
war be with you." He held out his hand.
Pierre took it reverently. "And with you, Father,"
he murmured.
The Absolving Dream
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.
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.
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.
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 La Pucelle—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.
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.
"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."
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
"L'Alouette." 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.
"See, here is the bread-board between two timbers
where she cut the bread for the cro te-au-pot.
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."
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.
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.
"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 'une nature froide.' 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."
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.
"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."
"Well," said the younger man, "she sacrificed
herself and she saved France. That was the great
thing."
"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."
They put on their caps to go. Pierre rose and stood
at attention. They returned his salute with a friendly
smile and passed out.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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?"
She nodded and smiled. "That is my name," said she.
"Sometimes they call me La Pucelle, 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?"
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.
"Well, then," said he, "if you are a shepherdess
why are you here? There are no sheep here."
"But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to
seek you."
"Do you know me, then? How can I be one of
yours?"
"Because you are a soldier of France and you are in
trouble."
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."
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."
"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."
"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."
"Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not
wounded and broken."
"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."
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.
"God commands you," she cried. "It is for France.
Be of good cheer. Do not retreat. The fort will soon
be yours!"
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 Les Toutelles 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.
The figure on the horse turned away as if to
go.
"Do not leave me," he cried, stretching out his
hands to her. "Stay with me. I will obey you
joyfully."
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."
"But forgiveness? Can you give that to me—a
coward?"
"You are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a
brave man."
"And my wife? May I go back and tell her?"
"No, surely. Would you make her hear slander of the
man she loves? Be what she believes you and she will
be satisfied."
"And the absolution, the word of peace? Will you
speak that to me?"
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."
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.
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.
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.
"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!"
The Victorious Penance
T
never occurred to Pierre Duval, as he trudged those long
kilometers toward the front, that he was doing a
penance.
The joy of a mind made up is a potent cordial.
The greetings of comrades on the road put gladness
into his heart and strength into his legs.
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 "L'Alouette" a good deal. But not
too much. He thought also of the forts of Douaumont
and Vaux.
"Dame!" 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!"
At the little village of the headquarters behind
Verdun he found many old friends and companions. They
greeted him with cheerful irony.
"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?"
"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?"
"Nothing at all," was the joyous reply. "He tried
to swim in his own soup and he was drowned."
When Pierre reported to the officer of the day,
that busy functionary consulted the record.
"You are a day ahead of your time, Pierre Duval,"
he said, frowning slightly.
"Yes, sir," answered the soldier. "It costs less to
be a day ahead than a day too late."
"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."
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.
"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?"
"Something was broken, my General," responded the
soldier, gravely, "but it is mended."
"Good!" said the general. "Now for the front, to
beat the Germans at their own game. 'We shall get
them.' It may be long, but we shall get them!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Welcome!—But the fort?" he gasped.
"It is ours," said the priest.
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:
"Tell Josephine—love."
Father Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's
hand. "Surely," he said. "But now, my dear son Pierre,
I must prepare you—"
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."
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.
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