“I say!” said B., “did you smell it?  I believe it is cabbage soup, and if so, I shall take a second helping.”

“Just wait a bit,” I replied; “I’ll wager they are going to turn us out.”

From the other side of the door, by which the portress had just disappeared, we heard a voice calling: 

“Sister Gabrielle!...  Sister Gabrielle!...”

And a moment after, the same door opened, and another nun came in very quietly, and rather embarrassed, as it seemed to me.  She came towards us.

Sister Gabrielle, your modesty will certainly suffer from all the good I am going to say of you....  But I am wrong, you will not suffer, for you certainly will never read the pages I have scribbled during the course of this war, at odd times, as I could, in bivouacs and billets.  But I have vowed to keep a written record of the pictures which have charmed or moved me most during this campaign.  If I ever survive it, I want to be able to read them again in my latter days.  I want to have them read by those who belong to me, and to try to show them what kind of life we led during those unforgettable days.  And it is not always the battles which leave the most lively impressions.  How many delightful things one could relate that have happened outside the sphere of action!  What memories of nights passed in the strangest places, as the chances of the march decreed, nights of bitterness during the retreat, nights of fever during the advance, nights of depression in the trenches!  What kindly welcomes, what beautiful and what noble figures one might describe!

Sister Gabrielle, as you will never read this, and as your modesty will not suffer, let me tell the story of the welcome my friend B. and I received that evening at the Convent of Elverdinghe.

Sister Gabrielle came towards us.  How pretty she was, in the coif that framed her face!  How large her blue eyes looked!  They really were so, but a touch of excitement made them seem larger still.  Above all, she had an enchanting smile, a smile of such kindness that we at once felt at ease and sure of obtaining what we wanted.  She spoke in a sweet and musical voice, hesitating just a little in her choice of words, although she spoke French very correctly.

“The Sister Superior has sent me to you,” she said, “because I am the only one here who can speak French.... Messieurs les officiers, welcome.”

She said it quite simply, and stood quite straight in her black dress, her arms hanging beside her.  She might have been a picture of other days, an illuminated figure from a missal.  We looked at each other and smiled too, happy to find so unexpected a welcome.  B. was now quite self-possessed.

“Sister Gabrielle,” he said, “see what a wretched state we are in; our clothes covered with mud, our faces not washed since I don’t know when.  We have just gone four days without sleep, almost without food, and we have never stopped fighting.  Could you not take in two weary, famished soldiers for one night?”