"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be
simple and very frank."

"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant
country of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My word, but that
is a pretty land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm
there is one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it is
small. It was hard to leave it when the call to the colors came,
two years ago. But I was glad to go. My heart was high and strong
for France. I was in the Nth Infantry, We were in the centre division
under General Foch at the battle of the Marne. _Fichtre!_ but
that was fierce fighting! And what a general! He did not know how
to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it 'victory.' Four times we went across
that cursed Marsh of St.-Gond. The dried mud was trampled full of
dead bodies. The trickling streams of water ran red. Four times
we were thrown back by the boches. You would have thought that was
enough. But the general did not think so. We went over again on
the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The Germans could not stand
against us. They broke and ran. The roads where we chased them
were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we caught three
officers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine
joke!"

Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his
recital. His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy
bent forward with shining eyes.

"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.
Continue, Pierre."