At the same time we heard, quite close to us, strains of music which seemed to us celestial.  In the dim light I had not noticed the harmonium, but now I could distinguish the artist who was enchanting us by his skill in drawing sweet sounds from a poor worn instrument.  He was an artillery captain.  At once all eyes were turned towards him; we were all enraptured.  None of us dared to hope that we should lift our voices in the hymns.

The organist seemed unconscious of his surroundings.  The candle placed near the keyboard cast a strange light upon the most expressive of heads.  Against the dark background of the church the striking features of a noble face were thrown into strong relief:  a forehead broad and refined, an aristocratic nose, a fair moustache turned up at the ends, and, notably, two fine blue eyes, which, without a glance at the fingers on the keys, were fixed on the vaulted roof as though seeking inspiration there.

The Chaplain, turning to the congregation, then said: 

“My friends, we will all join in singing the O Salutaris.”

The harmonium gave the first notes, and I braced myself to endure the dreadful discords I expected from this crowd of soldiers—­mostly reservists—­who, I supposed, had come together that evening mainly out of curiosity.

Judge of my astonishment!  At first only a few timid voices joined the Chaplain’s.  But after a minute or so a marvel happened.  From all those chests came a volume of sound such as I could hardly have believed possible.  Who will say then that our dear France has lost her Faith?  Who can believe it?  Every one of these men joined in singing the hymn, and not one of them seemed ignorant of the Latin words.  It was a magnificent choir, under a lofty vault, chanting with the fervour of absolute sincerity.  There was not one discordant note, not one voice out of tune, to spoil its perfect harmony.

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.