"The subject is old--it dates back to the first years of Christianity,
madame. The execution is modern."
"Is it the work of a celebrated artist?"
"No; it is the work of our clerical host."
The lady shook her head; she was uncertain whether Count Vavel was
making sport of her or of the pastor.
But she understood him when she entered the church. The house
consecrated to the service of God had become a hospital, and was crowded
with wounded French soldiers. The women of the village, as volunteer
nurses, were taking care of them, and performed the task as faithfully
as if the invalids were their own sons and brothers. The pastor himself
supplied the necessary medicines from his own cupboard; for no army
surgeon came here at a time when twenty thousand wounded Frenchmen lay
at Aspern, and twenty-two thousand at Wagram.
"Is it not an affecting tableau, madame?" said Count Vavel. "It would be
a suitable altar-piece for Notre Dame--and the name of its creator
deserves perpetuation!"
CHAPTER III
Monsieur le Capitaine Descourcelles rode an excellent horse, was a
capital rider, and was plainly very much in love.
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