From a distance the glistening gray roofs of Meaux were like a vast
crowd of dark-winged doves; but as we ran into the town it opened out
into dignified importance, able to live up to its thousand years of
history. There was no work for the Becketts there, we thought, for the
Germans had time to do little material harm to Meaux in 1914: and at
first sight there seemed to be no need of alms. But Jim had loved Meaux.
His mother took from her blue morocco bag his letter describing the
place, mentioning how he had met the bishop through a French friend.
"Do you think," she asked me timidly, "we might call on the bishop? Who
knows but he remembers our Jimmy?"
"He's a famous bishop," said Brian. "I've heard _poilus_ from Meaux tell
stories of how the Germans were forced to respect him, he was so brave
and fine. He took the children of the town under his protection, and no
harm came to one of them. There were postcard photographs going round
early in the war, of the bishop surrounded by boys and girls--like a
benevolent Pied Piper. It's kindness he's famous for, as well as
courage, so I'm sure we may call."
Near the beautiful old cathedral we passed a priest, and asked him where
to find the bishop's house. "You need not go so far; here he comes," was
the answer. We looked over our shoulders, almost guiltily, and there
indeed he was. He had been in the cathedral with two French officers,
and in another instant the trio would have turned a corner.
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