is garden," murmured H., quoting
Voltaire as we made off down the road. And within a day or two we
again had an excellent proof of this axiom when we discovered that Abbe
L. still resided in his little home whose garden extended far into the
shadow of St. Jean des Vignes.

That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every moment that was not employed
in the exercise of his sacred functions to the joys of archaeological
research, and was carefully compiling a history of the churches in the
arrondissement of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. He had been our guest
at Villiers, and I remember having made for him an imprint of two
splendid low-relief tombstones which date back to the 15th century, and
were the sole object and ornament of historic interest in our little
village chapel.

This history was the joy and sole distraction of his entire existence,
and he never ceased collecting documents and photographs, books, plans
and maps, all of which though carefully catalogued, threatened one day
to take such proportions that his modest dwelling would no longer
suffice to hold them.

We found him comfortably installed behind a much littered kitchen table
in a room that I had heretofore known as his dining room. I was a bit
struck by its disorder, and the good man was obliged to remove several
piles of papers from the chairs before inviting us to be seated.

"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he begged, "but you see a
shell hit my study yesterday noon, and has forced me to take refuge in
this corner of the house which is certainly far safer."

"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he continued. "Our duties
are very slight these days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is
most propitious for pursuing the task I have undertaken."

"But, Monsieur l'Abbe," we cried. "What a paradox! And the
bombardment?"

"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered from it--except when that shell
struck the house the other morning. Of course, the whole edifice
shook, and at one time I thought the roof was coming through upon my
head. My ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled to the floor.
But Divine intervention saved my precious manuscript which I was in the
very act of copying, and although my notes and files were a bit
disarranged, they were easily sorted and set to rights. So you see
there was nothing really to deplore and God has graciously seen fit to
let me continue my work. It is such a joy to be able to do so."