Surrounded by the gleaming bits of imprisoned sunshine, Jean Monneuze gazed with wide, unbelieving eyes at the yawning space in the façade. The thought took shape in his mind that this act of profanation could not be true, that it must be some hideous nightmare at which he would scoff in the morning, and he prayed aloud that the awakening would be soon, that he might be relieved of the torture he was undergoing. A voice at his elbow roused him.
“May God curse the Kaiser, and the rest of his breed, for this sacrilege!”
The old _vitrier_ turned quickly, the fury of a mother for her ravished young in his working face. “Amen!” he exclaimed harshly.
A group of people near him parted, and out of it Jean saw the archbishop slowly advance. The look of intense suffering on his face had driven away the peace that formerly rested there, but his countenance was untinged by venom or desire for revenge. His sunken eyes met the glass-maker’s, and Jean, a sob clutching at his throat, fell on his knees and began gathering up the gems of shattered glass that lay at his feet. He rose as the archbishop reached him, and held out the fragments to him. For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes without speaking, then a wistful little smile flitted across the archbishop’s face.
“The Lord hath given—the Lord hath taken away.” There was a pause while he waited for the response; but the old _vitrier’s_ chin had sunk on his breast, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were fastened on the gleaming bits of glass. Once more the archbishop’s voice fell on his ears:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” There was an accent of surprised reproach in the patient tones, but only pity shone on the gentle countenance as he noted the quivering face of the old man who, turning abruptly away, disappeared into the crowd.
A chorus of voices rose shrilly above the shrieking of the shells:
The words galvanized the archbishop into action.
“The wounded!” he exclaimed. “They will perish if they remain where they are!”
“Let ’em!” retorted a thick-set _ouvrier_. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “They deserve to die, and they’re not fit to live!” He turned brusquely away, and stared with sullen eyes at the smoking roof from which jets of flame were spurting.