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Updated: June 29, 2025
And that evening, too, being the fête of Alincourt, a tiny neighbouring village across the river, the bell-mistress went up into the tower after dinner and played for an hour for the little neighbour hamlet across the river Lesse.
As always the little village looked upward and listened, pausing in its humble duties as long as their little bell-mistress remained in her tower. After the hymn she played "Myn hart is vol verlangen" and "Het Lied der Vlamingen," and ended with the delicate, bewitching little folk-song, "Myn Vryer," by Hasselt.
The airman nodded, went out into the street and spoke to a passing officer. He, in turn, signalled the driver of a motor omnibus to halt. The little bell-mistress entered the tavern, followed by two soldiers. In a few moments they came out bearing, chair-fashion between them, the crippled innkeeper.
"Now," whispered the airman, with a nod to the chauffeur. The little bell-mistress entered the car, her wooden gloves tucked under one arm. The airman followed with his packet and his sack of bombs. The chauffeur started his engine. The middle of the road was free to him; the edges were occupied by the retreating infantry.
Automobiles arrived two armoured cars and grey passenger machines in which there were officers. The airman laid his hand on Maryette’s arm. "Little bell-mistress," he said, "German officers are coming into the tower. I want them to find you in my arms when they come up into this belfry. Understand me, and forgive me." "I understand," she whispered. "Play your part bravely. Will you?" "Yes."
Then, seated on the bed’s edge beside the lighted candle, she began to read the messages written in ink on these frail, translucent tissue missives. Every bit of tissue bore a message; the writing was microscopic, the script German, the language Flemish. Slowly, with infinite pains, the little bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse translated to herself each message as she deciphered it.
The girl had nearly died of shyness during the ceremony, had endured the accolade with crimson cheeks, had stammered a whispered response to the congratulations of neighbors who had gathered to see the little bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse honoured by the country which she had served in the belfry of Nivelle.
"Will you tell me your name in exchange for mine?" "Maryette Courtray." "Oh," he exclaimed in quick recognition; "you are bell-mistress in Sainte Lesse, then! You are the celebrated carillonnette! I have heard about you. I suspected that you might be the little mistress of Sainte Lesse bells, because you wear the Legion " He nodded his handsome head toward the decoration on her blouse.
However, it was evidently perfectly plain to them what the high Excellenz was about in this vaulted room where wires led aloft to an unseen carillon on the landing in the belfry above. The airman nodded; they went. And when their clattering steps echoed far below on the spiral stone stairs, the airman motioned to the little bell-mistress.
But the west wind was the vital wind, flowing melodiously through the trees a clean, aromatic, refreshing wind, filling the sickened world with life again. Sometimes, too, it brought the pleasant music of the bells into far-away trenches, when the little bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse played the carillon.
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