to hear all about it from the coiffeur when he came to the chateau to shave the gentlemen.  He played the big drum and thought the success of the whole thing depended on his performance.  He proposed to bring his instrument one morning and play his part for us.  We were very careful to be well dressed on that day and discarded the short serge skirts we generally wore.  All the La Ferte ladies, particularly the wives and sisters of the performers, put on their best clothes, and their feelings would have been hurt if we had not done the same.

In fact it was a little difficult to dress up to the occasion.  The older women all had jet and lace on their dresses, with long trailing skirts, and the younger ones, even children, had wonderful hats with feathers—­one or two long white ones.

It was a pretty, animated sight as we arrived.  All along the road we had met bands of people hurrying on to the town—­the children with clean faces and pinafores, the men with white shirts, and even the old grandmothers—­their shawls on their shoulders and their turbans starched stiff—­were hobbling along with their sticks, anxious to arrive.  We heard sounds of music as we got to the church—­the procession was evidently approaching.  The big doors were wide open, a great many people already inside.  We looked straight down the nave to the far end where the high altar, all flowers and candles, made a bright spot of colour.  Red draperies and banners were hanging from the columns—­vases and wreaths of flowers at the foot of the statues of the saints; chairs and music-stands in the chancel.  We went at once to our places.  The cure, with his choir boys in their little short white soutanes, red petticoats and red shoes, was just coming out of the sacristy and the procession was appearing at the bottom of the church.  First came the Mayor in a dress coat and white cravat—­the “Adjoint” and one of the municipal council just behind, then the banner—­rather a heavy one, four men carried it.  After that the “pompiers,” all in uniform, each man carrying his instrument; they didn’t play as they came up the aisle, stopped their music at the door; but when they did begin—­I don’t know exactly at what moment of the mass—­it was something appalling.  The first piece was a military march, executed with all the artistic conviction and patriotic ardour of their young lungs (they were mostly young men).  We were at the top of the church, very near the performers, and the first bursts of trumpets and bugles made one jump.  They played several times.  It didn’t sound too badly at the “Elevation” when they had chosen rather a soft (comparatively) simple melody.  The cure preached a very pretty, short sermon, telling them about Saint Cecile, the delicately nurtured young Roman who was not afraid to face martyrdom and death for the sake of her religion.  The men listened most attentively and seemed much interested when he told them how he had seen in Rome the church of St. Cecile built over the ruin of the saint’s house—­the sacristy just over her bath-room.  I asked him how he could reconcile it to his conscience to speak of the melodious sounds that accompanied the prayers of the faithful, but he said one must look sometimes at the intention more than at the result.