Henry Van Dyke

“ 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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ 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?" ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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?" ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”