A long silence followed this sentence, which seemed to plunge B. into despair.  The guns continued their ominous booming, making the windows rattle terribly.  I too thought now that it would be dreadful to leave the house, go and look for our troops in the dark, and put our men to the inconvenience of making room for us on their straw, so I too looked at Sister Gabrielle imploringly.  All at once she seemed to have decided what to do.  She began by opening one of the cupboards in the wall, took out of it two small glasses with long tapering stems, and placed them before us, with a goodly bottle of Hollands.  She had recovered her exquisite smile, and she hurried, for she seemed anxious to put her idea into execution.

“There, drink.  It’s good Hollands, ... and we give it to our poor old people on festivals.”

“Thank you.  Sister, thank you.”

But she had already run out of the room, and we were left there, happy enough, sipping our glass of Hollands, and enjoying the luxurious peace that surrounded us.  The guns seemed to be further off; we only heard a distant growling in the direction of Ypres.  Our eyelids began to droop, and it was almost a pleasure to feel the weariness of our limbs and heads, for now we felt sure that Sister Gabrielle would not send us away.

She came back into the room, with a candle in her hand.

“Come,” she said.

She was now quite rosy, and seemed ashamed, as though she were committing a fault.  We followed her, enchanted, and went back through the kitchen, now dark and deserted.  The flickering light of the candle was reflected here and there on the curves of the copper pots and glass bowls.  The house was sleeping.  We crossed the hall, and went up a broad wooden staircase, polished and shining.

What a strange party we were, the youthful Sister, going in front, treading so softly, and we two soldiers, dusty, tattered and squalid, trying to make as little noise as possible with our heavy hobnailed boots!  The nun’s rosary clinked at each step against a bundle of keys that hung from her girdle.

I was walking last and enjoying the curious picture.  The light fell only on Sister Gabrielle.  As she turned on the landing, the feeble ray from below threw her delicate features into relief:  her fine nose, her childish mouth, with its constant smile; our own shadows appeared upon the wall in fantastic shapes.  Certainly we had never yet received so strange and unexpected a welcome.

We passed a high oak door, surmounted by a cross and a pediment with a Latin inscription.  Sister Gabrielle crossed herself and bowed her head.

“The chapel,” she said in a low voice.

And she went quickly on to the accompaniment of her clinking rosary and keys.  As we began to go up the second flight of stairs B. resumed his monologue in a whisper: 

“Sister Gabrielle, ...  Sister Gabrielle, you are an angel from Paradise.  Surely God can refuse you nothing.  You will pray for me this evening, won’t you? for I am a great sinner.”