The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France | Page 2

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 cure 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