“Sister Gabrielle,” he said, “we have found a Paradise.”

But she had already shut the door, and we heard her in the kitchen stimulating the zeal of the other two nuns in Flemish.  We sat down, delighted.  What a long time since we had enjoyed such comfort!  Everything there seemed designed to charm our eyes and rest our minds.  There was no noise in the street, and the convent itself would have seemed wrapped in sleep had it not been for the voices in the next room.  But the distant roar of the guns still went on, and seemed to make our respite still more enjoyable.

We hardly heard Sister Gabrielle when she came in and put down the steaming soup before us.  The delicate perfume of the vegetables made our mouths water.  For many days past we had had nothing to eat but our rations of tinned meat, and all that time we had not been able to light a fire to cook anything at all.  So we fell to eagerly upon our well-filled plates.  B. even lost the power of speech for the moment.

Meanwhile the pretty little Sister, without appearing to look at us, was cutting bread, and then she brought a jug of golden beer.  What a treat it was!  Why couldn’t it be like this every day?  In that case the campaign would have seemed almost like a picnic.  Whilst I was eating I could not help admiring Sister Gabrielle; she looked so refined in her modest black clothes.  Her slightest movements were as harmonious as those of an actress on the stage.  But she was natural in all she did, and the grace of every movement was instinctive.  As she placed before us an imposing-looking omelette au lard, that rascal B., who had already swallowed two plates of soup and four large glasses of beer, began to maunder thus: 

“Sister Gabrielle, ...  Sister Gabrielle, I don’t want to go away to-morrow.  I want to end my days here with the old people you look after.  Look at me.  I am getting old too, and have been severely tried by life.  Why shouldn’t I stay where I am?  I should have a nice little bed in the old people’s dormitory, with nice white sheets, go to bed every evening on the stroke of eight, and you, Sister, would come and tuck me up.  I should sleep, and eat cabbage soup, and drink good beer—­your health.  Sister!—­and I shouldn’t think any more about anything at all....  How nice it would be!  No more uniform to strap you up after a good dinner; no more shako to squeeze your temples; no more bullets whistling past you; no more ‘coal-boxes’ to upset your whole system, and every evening a bed, ... a nice bed, ... and to think about nothing!...”

“Hush!  Listen,” said Sister Gabrielle with a finger on her lips.