The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France | Page 3

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
For 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,