In the space before the parish church it stands--a broken shaft, with an
unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions,
a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful
bad ambition. One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning
the people came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men
worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered
shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that
he had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule
and measure--an artisan's, a tombstone-cutter's labour. This was the
work of a man with the heart and mind of an artist. When the people came
to Mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the weeping of a woman was
heard, for among them were those whose sons and brothers were made
memorable by this stone.

That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke of it, and said at the
last: "That white shaft, dear brethren, is for us a sign of remembrance
and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for their love they
sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift and work of one
young like them, ardent and desiring like them, is for ever in our eyes
the crucifixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish aims.

"Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule us speak with
foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our peace and a mutual regard.
Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the
foolish. And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift may
find his thanks in our better-ordered lives, and that he may consecrate
his parts and talents to the redeeming actions of this world."

And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his ambition