And this man to whom everything that was not classical or the Gregorian chant was strange, who for twenty years of his life had taught successive generations Méhul, Gluck, Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, to whom Massenet, Delibes and Gounod seemed profane, surprised himself by pounding out on a badly-tuned piano and singing with all his might the refrains of “Viens Poupoule,” popular marches, and the ballads of the faubourg. The soldiers had quickly named him “Father Music” and this nickname pleased him immensely. * * * * * That night an order came from the commanding officer: “Two companies of machine guns will go with the utmost haste to Hill 174, northwest of Herbècourt, to stop the enemy which is trying to outflank our right.” At three o’clock in the morning we were at the position indicated. A small chapel with a cross was situated on the top of the hill. The open space in front commands the road which descends gradually toward the Méréaucourt woods where the enemy is concealed. We fortify our position in a few minutes. On both sides of the road a gun sweeps the slope and the approaches and guards the way out of the woods. In the little belfry which is shaped like a dove-cote another gun commands the woods and can disturb evolutions in the wood itself. We use the material at hand to fortify our emplacements—bits of benches, a door of a confessional, and the railings of the chapel. At our right across the road a company of riflemen also establish entrenchments, so well camouflaged that the enemy cannot see them until in its zone of fire, that is to say, too late. The officer, a young sub-lieutenant, asks us not to fire until he gives the signal. He has the idea—and a good one—to let the enemy advance and come up the road. Here he would be unable to execute a converging movement and our gun in the belfry would sweep the right side of the road and prevent his turning aside, the company of riflemen would protect the left, and his section of Grenadiers would attack on the road. We are confident of the strength of our positions and our means of resistance, and we wait for the launching of the attack without anxiety. “Father Music” has organized his dressing station in the chapel in the shelter of the altar and now wanders around the building. The church recalls familiar surroundings to him and he delights in looking at it. There are a few simple frescoes, pictures of the Crucifixion, where gigantic men stand out in relief against a background of microscopic mountains and Liliputian houses, and they interest him. He lets his fingers wander over the keyboard of the harmonium which lies forgotten in the choir. His comrades jeer, “‘Father Music’ is going to play our _De Profundis_.”