On Sundays I would say Masses at six and eight for the troops, preaching in English. Assisting at the ten o'clock Missa, Cantata Parochialis was always a source of devotion and unusual interest. Promptly at 9:30 the tower bells, in triple chime, would ring out, echoing near and far, o'er meadow and hill. By path and trail and through the cobbled streets would come the people--old men and women, white with the snows of many winters; middle-aged women invariably clothed in the black of widowhood--France had then been bleeding and dying three years--fair-cheeked, dark-eyed modest maidens--type of Evangeline of Grand-Pre--handsome little boys and girls, the kind with which Raphael frames his Madonnas. Kneeling for a little prayer at the grave sides in the church yard--pleasantly exchanging with neighbors the "bon jour" and the "bonheur"--they make their way into the church, up the aisles chiseled by Time itself, to the pew generations of their name have worshiped in.
Mass is beginning. At the head of the procession, emerging from the Sacristy, marches the Master of Ceremonies, a venerable man of patriarchal mien, clothed in quaint cassock of black velvet, richly trimmed with silver braid, resonantly striking the stone pavement with official staff and responding in aged, yet pleasing voice to the Gregorian Chant of Celebrant and Congregation. Handsome little boys--all garcons are handsome--in acolytical splendor of purple and cardinal, with the daintiest of "calottes," come singing their way into your heart in a way to delight our own Father Finn of the Paulist choristers. The village cure--Monsignor of the Diocese of Sens--in those rich full tones that centuries of congregational singing have given to France, gives voice to the Ceremonial Beauty "ever ancient yet ever new." Very little need, there, for books; most young and old sing Introit, Credo, Preface and Agnus Dei from memory, artistically exact in pronunciation, expression and tempo.
If there was distraction for our troops at all, it was perhaps at the collection. Not that the giving of their centimes or francs was distracting, rather was it the manner of Collection à la Francais. It is taken up by the most handsome young ladies of the congregation--our American Tag Days were perhaps suggested by it. Marching before the Mademoiselles and striking sharply on the pavement with his staff, solemnly comes the aged Master of Ceremonies. No prayers so absorbing nor slumber so profound, but the anvil clang of his staff will arouse. A hand embroidered silken bag is handed to you in the most charming manner. What Buddie could resist such appeal?