Just
for a moment I almost forgot the secret burning in my heart. The proud
pile of historic stone brought to earth at last, like a soldier-king,
felled by an axe in his old age: the statue of Catherine thrown from its
pedestal, and replaced in mockery by a foolish manikin--this as a mean
revenge for what she did to the standard-bearer, most of Charles's men
in the siege being Germans, under Henry of Nassau.
"Toujours Francs-Peronnais
Auront bon jour,
Toujours et en tout temps
Francs-Peronnais auront bon temps,"
the girls used to sing in old days as they wove the wonderful linens and
tissues of Peronne, or embroidered banners of gorgeous colours to
commemorate the saving of the Picard city by Catherine: as Brian
repeated to Father Beckett wandering through the ruins redeemed last
spring for France by the British. And though Brian's eyes could not see
the rubbish-heap where once had soared the citadel he saw through the
mystic veil of his blindness many things which others did not see.
It seems that above these marshy flats of the Somme, where the river has
wandered away from the hills and disguised itself in shining lakes,
gauzy mists always hover. Brian had seen them with bodily eyes, while he
was a soldier. Now, with the eyes of his spirit he saw them again,
gleaming with the delicate, indescribable colours which only blind eyes
can call up to lighten darkness. He saw the fleecy clouds streaming over
Peronne like a vast, transparent ghost-banner.
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