made one feel the cold less. This morning the church was empty, except for an old man and three
women at their prayers. There were a few benches on either side of the nave, for old people who could not stand during mass,
and the children slipped into one of these, sitting close together to keep warm.
“It’s been a long time since we were in here together,” Cécile whispered.
He nodded.
“But you come in to say your prayers, don’t you, every day?”
“I think so,” he answered vaguely.
“That is right. I like this church better than any other. Even in the chapel of the Ursulines I don’t feel so much at
home, though I used to be there every day when I was going to school. This is our own church, isn’t it, Jacques?”
He glanced up at her and smiled faintly. This child never looked very well. He was not thin, — rather chunky, on the
contrary, — but there was no colour in his cheeks, or even in his lips. That, Cécile knew, was because he wasn’t properly
nourished.
“You might tell me about some nice saint,” said Jacques presently. She began to whisper the story of Saint Anthony of
Padua, who stood quite near them, ruddy and handsome, with a sheaf of lilies on one arm and the Holy Child on the other.
It chanced that this one church in the Lower Town, near Jacques’s little world, where he and Cécile had so often made
rendezvous, was peculiarly the church of childhood. It had been renamed Notre Dame de la Victoire five years ago, after the
Count had driven off Sir William Phips’s besieging fleet, in recognition of the protection which Our Lady had afforded
Quebec in that hour of danger. But originally it was called the Church of the Infant Jesus, and the furnishings and
decorations which had been sent over from France were appropriate for a church of that name.
The charm of this old church was greatly spoiled by unfortunate alterations in the lighting, made in the autumn of
1929.
Two paintings hung in the Lady Chapel, both of Sainte Geneviève as a little girl. In one she sat under a tree in a
meadow, with a flock of sheep all about her, and a distaff in her hand, while two angels watched her from a distance. In the
other she was reading an illuminated scroll, — but here, too, she was in a field and surrounded by her flock.
The high altar was especially interesting to children, though it was not nearly so costly or so beautiful as the altar in
the Ursulines’ chapel with its delicate gold-work. It was very simple indeed, — but definite. It was a representation of a
feudal castle, all stone walls and towers. The outer wall was low and thick, with many battlements; the second was higher,
with fewer battlements; the third seemed to be the wall of the palace itself, with towers and many windows. Within the
arched gateway (hung with little velvet curtains that were green or red or white according to the day) the Host was kept.
Cécile had always taken it for granted that the Kingdom of Heaven looked exactly like this from the outside and was
surrounded by just such walls; that this altar was a reproduction of it, made in France by people who knew; just as the
statues of the saints and of the Holy Family were portraits. She had taught Jacques to believe the same thing, and it was
very comforting to them both to know just what Heaven looked like, — strong and unassailable, wherever it was set among the
stars.
Out of this walled castle rose three tall stone towers, with holy figures on them. On one stood a grave Sainte Anne,
regally clad like a great lady of this world, with a jewelled coronet upon her head. On her arm sat a little dark-skinned
Virgin, her black hair cut straight across the back like a scholar’s, her hands joined in prayer. Sainte Anne was noble in
bearing, but not young; her delicately featured face was rather worn by life, and sad. She seemed to know beforehand all the
sorrows of her own family, and of the world it was to succour.
On the central tower, which was the
women at their prayers. There were a few benches on either side of the nave, for old people who could not stand during mass,
and the children slipped into one of these, sitting close together to keep warm.
“It’s been a long time since we were in here together,” Cécile whispered.
He nodded.
“But you come in to say your prayers, don’t you, every day?”
“I think so,” he answered vaguely.
“That is right. I like this church better than any other. Even in the chapel of the Ursulines I don’t feel so much at
home, though I used to be there every day when I was going to school. This is our own church, isn’t it, Jacques?”
He glanced up at her and smiled faintly. This child never looked very well. He was not thin, — rather chunky, on the
contrary, — but there was no colour in his cheeks, or even in his lips. That, Cécile knew, was because he wasn’t properly
nourished.
“You might tell me about some nice saint,” said Jacques presently. She began to whisper the story of Saint Anthony of
Padua, who stood quite near them, ruddy and handsome, with a sheaf of lilies on one arm and the Holy Child on the other.
It chanced that this one church in the Lower Town, near Jacques’s little world, where he and Cécile had so often made
rendezvous, was peculiarly the church of childhood. It had been renamed Notre Dame de la Victoire five years ago, after the
Count had driven off Sir William Phips’s besieging fleet, in recognition of the protection which Our Lady had afforded
Quebec in that hour of danger. But originally it was called the Church of the Infant Jesus, and the furnishings and
decorations which had been sent over from France were appropriate for a church of that name.
The charm of this old church was greatly spoiled by unfortunate alterations in the lighting, made in the autumn of
1929.
Two paintings hung in the Lady Chapel, both of Sainte Geneviève as a little girl. In one she sat under a tree in a
meadow, with a flock of sheep all about her, and a distaff in her hand, while two angels watched her from a distance. In the
other she was reading an illuminated scroll, — but here, too, she was in a field and surrounded by her flock.
The high altar was especially interesting to children, though it was not nearly so costly or so beautiful as the altar in
the Ursulines’ chapel with its delicate gold-work. It was very simple indeed, — but definite. It was a representation of a
feudal castle, all stone walls and towers. The outer wall was low and thick, with many battlements; the second was higher,
with fewer battlements; the third seemed to be the wall of the palace itself, with towers and many windows. Within the
arched gateway (hung with little velvet curtains that were green or red or white according to the day) the Host was kept.
Cécile had always taken it for granted that the Kingdom of Heaven looked exactly like this from the outside and was
surrounded by just such walls; that this altar was a reproduction of it, made in France by people who knew; just as the
statues of the saints and of the Holy Family were portraits. She had taught Jacques to believe the same thing, and it was
very comforting to them both to know just what Heaven looked like, — strong and unassailable, wherever it was set among the
stars.
Out of this walled castle rose three tall stone towers, with holy figures on them. On one stood a grave Sainte Anne,
regally clad like a great lady of this world, with a jewelled coronet upon her head. On her arm sat a little dark-skinned
Virgin, her black hair cut straight across the back like a scholar’s, her hands joined in prayer. Sainte Anne was noble in
bearing, but not young; her delicately featured face was rather worn by life, and sad. She seemed to know beforehand all the
sorrows of her own family, and of the world it was to succour.
On the central tower, which was the
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