Who can believe that men, many of them more than thirty years old,
would remember all the words unless they had been brought up in the
faith of their ancestors and still held it?

I could not help turning to look at them. In the light of the candles
their faces appeared to be wonderfully transfigured. Not one of them
expressed irony or even indifference. What a fine picture it would
have made for a Rembrandt! The bodies of the men were invisible in the
darkness of the nave, and their heads alone emerged from the gloom.
The effect was grand enough to fascinate the most sceptical of
painters; it soothed and charmed one and wiped out all the miseries
that the war had left in its wake. Men like these would be equal to
anything, ready for anything; and I myself should much have liked to
see a Monsieur Homais hidden away in some corner of that church.

Meanwhile the sacred Office was proceeding at the altar. At any other
time we might have smiled at the sight of that soldier-priest served
by choristers of thirty-five in uniform; at that ceremony it was
inexpressibly touching and attractive, and it was especially
delightful to see how carefully and precisely each performed his
function that the ceremony might not lack its accustomed pomp.

When the singing had ceased the Chaplain went up to the holy table. In
a voice full of feeling he tried to express his gratitude and
happiness to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him to be a
brilliant speaker at the best of times, but on that occasion the
worthy man was completely unintelligible. His happiness was choking
him. He tried in vain to find the words he wanted, used the wrong
ones, and only confused himself by trying to get them right. But