We were quite a large party, as the house was full, and we brought all our guests with us, including an American cousin, who was much interested in the local festivities.  The Pompiers were drawn up in the court-yard of the Mairie, their beautiful new flag well to the front.  Almost all were in uniform, and those who had not yet been able to get one wore a clean white shirt and the Pompier’s red belt.  There was a cheer and a broad smile on all their faces when we drove up.  Francis got out, as he was to head the procession with the Mayor and the cure.  We went on to the church and stationed ourselves on the steps of the Infant School to see the cortege arrive.

It was quite a pretty sight as it wound up the hill:  first the banner of blue silk with gold cords, which was held proudly aloft by two tall young fellows, then Francis walking between the cure and the Mayor, the Pompiers immediately behind them, then the Municipal Council, the usual escort of children that always turns out on such occasions bringing up the rear.  We let the procession pass into the church and then took our places; a front pew was reserved for the family, but Francis and I sat on two arm-chairs inside the chancel, just behind the Pompiers.

The fine old church, which is rather large for such a small village, was crowded; they told me many people had come from the neighbouring hamlets.  The Montigny people had done their best to beautify their church; there were a few plants and flowers and some banners and draperies—­church property, which always figured upon any great occasion.  They told us with pride that the school-master had arranged the music.  I suppose the poor man did what he could with the material he had, but the result was something awful.  The chorister, a very old man, a hundred I should think, played the harmonium, which was as old as he was.  It groaned and wheezed and at times stopped altogether.  He started the cantique with a thin quavering voice which was then taken up by the school-children, particularly the boys who roared with juvenile patriotism and energy each time they repeated the last line, “pour notre drapeau, pour notre patrie.”

The sermon was very good—­short and simple.  It was preached by the Doyen of Neuilly—­a tall, strong, broad-shouldered man who would have seemed more at home in a dragoon’s uniform than in the soutane.  But he knew his business well, had a fine voice and very good delivery; his peroration and appeal to the men to “remember always that the flag was the symbol of obedience, of loyalty, of devotion, to their country and their God,” was really very fine.  I almost expected to hear cheers.  The French are very emotional, and respond instantly to any allusion to country or flag.  The uniform (even the Pompier’s) has an enormous prestige.  Then came the benediction, the flag held high over the kneeling congregation, and the ceremony was ended.

We stopped a few moments after the service to let the procession pass out and also to thank the preacher and one or two cures who had assisted on the occasion; they did not come to the “vin d’honneur.”