The rough hobble nails of our shoes rang alarmingly on the stone pavement as we made our way up the hallowed aisle. On our knees before the altar we literally cried our prayers.
Looking toward the lowly Tabernacle we felt that Jesus, the gentle Master there present, was pleased with us. He seemed to look approvingly upon us and to say, "My soldiers, rest here your weary head upon My Heart."
At the very railing where we knelt, Joan had made her First Communion. Just at our left on the Epistle side was the ancient font where she had been cleansed from original sin, made a Christian, a child of God, and heir to the Kingdom of Heaven. In the twilight, too, we could see the faded plaster statue of St. Catherine Martyr, for whom she had special devotion. We felt, in that holy hour, that Joan, high in heaven, was pleased even with us; for we, too, had fought and bled for the same holy cause, the cause of Truth and Justice in the world, for which she had with the Greater Love offered the sacrifice of her life. How often, in that hallowed long ago, had the sun of early morning or the twilight glow of eventide found Joan here at prayer. In this sanctuaried Garden of the Lord grew the fairest Flower of Chivalry. Here did she receive the Bread of Life, the Wine that maketh Virgins; here, by frequent confession, was her soul kept fair and pure as the lilies of Paradise.
Darkness had fallen over the village when we left the Church. A call at the Rectory informed us that Monsieur le Cure was absent, and would not return till a late hour. At the end of the street we found a dear old couple, living alone, who agreed to shelter us for the night. With what skill good Madame made ready that evening meal! Sitting in the square of light cast by the glowing fireplace, and with our shadows, to the tempo of crackling fagots, in rhythmic gyrations on the ancient walls, my driver and I watched her prepare it.
First there was the pommes de terre to be peeled, washed and sliced to the exact size of centuries old French fry. Monsieur was permitted to assist her in this, and wielded the keen bladed knife with precision. Then there was the salad and the seasoning of it to just that degree of the "delicieux" the palate revels in. With the art, as it were, of a magician, she drew from a huge cupboard the most inviting piece of beef and proudly flourished it before our devouring eyes. Here was the makings of a "filet de boeuf" fit for Epicurius himself. In the center of the table was next placed the great round loaf of bread, neither wheat nor oats nor rye, but a happy combination of all and delightfully toothsome. Crowning all, the liquid amber of cafe-au-lait, which Madame, timing our needs to a nicety, poured at just the right moment.